Emerald Decision

now.'

'For God's,sake!' Walsingham began, then cut off his blame. 'Anything else?'

'No, I don't know anything else!' The voice was plaintive and broken. Then the connection was severed and the receiver buzzed in Walsingham's ear. He slammed it down. He had no doubt, immediately, that Claire Drummond and the man Moynihan already had McBride. He picked up the receiver again to dial London, and recollected, with a chill, personal feeling of anxiety that created no outward-moving ripples, his first meeting with Churchill concerning Emerald in late November 1940.

* * *

McBride lay on the crumpled, unmade bed in the small double room of the private hotel in Haywards Heath, Sussex, his eyes still bandaged with a wet cloth, apparently asleep at last. Claire Drummond, rubbing her strained arm, watched him intently, as if feeding off his helplessness. She had turned inland from the coast, gone to earth in Haywards Heath instinctively, and summoned Moynihan to follow her from Eastbourne. Now, it was early afternoon and he still had not arrived.

Her arms and shoulders still ached from the frantic effort needed to drag the body across the car park, lift it and tip it over the wall down into an enclosed, unfrequented courtyard behind the multi-storey car park. Then the additional effort of moving the blinded, stunned McBride over to the passenger seat of the Nissan so that she could drive.

When they arrived at the hotel the previous evening and she parked the car behind the converted private house in a quiet residential street built at the turn of the century, McBride was still in the identical, retreated state; as if time had stopped for him, or he was suffering some catatonic epilepsy. She fitted him with her sunglasses, walked him to the stairs, and locked the door of their room thankfully behind them. Now she was worried, hungry, and frightened — though she would not admit any recognition of the last sensation. McBride's eyesight should have returned to normal by now, he should be awake. Like this, he was useless—

Where was Moynihan? Where?

When he knocked on the door, a little after two-thirty, and called her name softly, she pounced to the door like an animal, afraid of her own nerves, and let him in. She took in immediately the evidence of his sleepless night, and the healing scar on his cheek.

'Making sure I wasn't going to be picked up?' she asked with mustered contempt, looking at her watch. He nodded.

'No point in us both going down, is there? I'm not wanted for murder. You are.'

'What?' Her hand fluttered round her mouth like a wounded bird.

'Don't worry, there's nothing in the papers yet. But they'll guess you did it, darling, won't they now?' His eyes moved to take in McBride for the first time. 'What's the matter with him?'

'His eyes — he was blinded by the shots. And he's in shock—' Moynihan appeared disturbed by the information. 'Don't worry. He'll come out of it.'

'He'd better.'

'Where do we take him, now we've got him?' She glanced at the bed again. McBride still appeared to be asleep, but she lowered her voice. McBride, stretched on the bed, shoeless but otherwise fully dressed, was an object, an implement. She did not even recollect their sexual encounters. She felt weary, afraid, and yet cleaner, more honest in the daylight.

'Chelmsford, Braintree, Brentwood — they're all out.' Moynihan ticked them off on his fingers. He wanted to keep the woman on edge, not in full control. 'We'll take him straight to the Cheltenham place.'

'No!'

'Yes. We'll have to risk the long drive. There's more chance of the pigs picking us up if we try to head back into London, or along the coast. Cheltenham.'

'Very well.' The woman seemed subdued to Moynihan, worn down beyond anything other than token resistance. He luxuriated in his new superiority. 'When will he be ready to travel?'

'In the boot? Any time.' She smiled. 'You watch him while I go and get something to eat.' She glanced at the closed window of the room. 'I could smell fish and chips two hours ago — I closed it. It was driving me up the wall.' Moynihan smiled even though he suspected she was ingratiating herself before some further attempt to take command of the situation. 'You've had food, I take it?' He nodded. 'Watch him carefully — and hire a new car. One with a big boot.'

She went out, tugging on her coat as she did so. Moynihan watched the door for a time after it had slammed behind her, then went to inspect the sleeping McBride, lifting the wet bandage. Black scorch marks, and ingrained powder in the skin round the eyes and across the cheeks like black pepper or the stubble of a beard. It was unlikely McBride was blind, but it wasn't his eyes they wanted anyway. He strolled over to the window, and watched the quiet street until he was certain there was no one interested in his parked car or the walking woman. A Volvo, he thought, should satisfy her demand for a large boot to stow McBride for the journey. Stupid woman — there was no telephone in the room. He'd have to wait until her return.

Behind him as he looked out of the window, McBride could see his shadow against the light from the window. The image was wet and underwater and indistinct, but he was profoundly grateful that he wasn't blind. He went on watching Moynihan from the corner of the wet bandage that the Irishman had not properly replaced until his turning from the window caused McBride to close his eyes again. The returning darkness terrified him. Like a recent nightmare, he could not shake it off or diminish its impact.

* * *

'Rudi, my dear fellow, do stop fidgeting and sit down,' Goessler said with an affability that was half- assumed. 'Our good fortune in the sudden death of Mr Gilliatt has now been balanced by your misfortune in losing Moynihan and the Herr Professor and his mistress.'

Lobke resented the implicit blame with a pout, and an insolent slumping of his frame into the hotel room's other armchair. The room seemed to have been partially commandeered by their mutual shopping, piled in one corner and in front of the wardrobe and on the second bed. Goessler was drinking a cold beer from the room's icebox, and masking his irritation and fears behind the rim of the glass. Outside, it was raining as evening came on. Lobke's arm was still in a sling. Flying glass from the Eastbourne explosion had sliced through his jacket and sweater and his flesh. He'd spent hours in hospital casualty before Goessler was able to take him back to London. He'd sat on the pavement clutching his bleeding arm while McBride and the Drummond woman headed for the car park, helpless and angry and in pain.

'But what do we do?' he asked plaintively.

'When you have recovered your strength and your temper, Rudi, we will take a trip to Cheltenham. That is where they will take him now, I'm certain. We must meet Professor McBride just once more, I think, to ensure that Moynihan and that damned woman have not jumped the gun.' He waved his arms expansively round the room. 'I'm certain there is nothing to worry about. McBride should be quite ready to talk to the newspapers about his discoveries—' He broke off to finish the glass of lager. He smacked his full lips loudly. 'I do not think even the Provisional IRA can now make a mess of our scheme, Rudi. At least, I hope not. Guthrie will have resigned by the end of next week, and American pressure on Britain will raise an outcry that could even lead to demands for the total withdrawal of troops from the province. American pressure could be sustained for years. And where America leads, many follow. Ulster will be more of a running sore than it has ever been.' He inspected his empty glass like a jewel or fine crystal, holding it delicately. 'A quite satisfactory conclusion, I think — don't you, Rudi?'

* * *

He'd had to appear awake eventually, to avoid suspicion. As soon as he stirred, he registered that Moynihan ducked back out of his vision. The woman gave him two sleeping pills almost immediately, and he groggily accepted them, pretending to swallow both of them but keeping one under his tongue until she and Moynihan were satisfied that he had gone to sleep once more, and left the room together to order and sign for the hire car, locking him in.

He sat up, and spat out the second tablet. His head ached dully and his neck was stiff. His eyeballs still felt peeled and bald and naked, but he could see clearly now and they no longer ached intolerably. His face felt gritty and raw with the powder burns. He groaned, stifling the sound, as he stood up and his whole body protested. Slowly, each step a new and uncertain quest for balance, he crossed to the window and looked down into the street. Some passing traffic but not much, and only a few people about. Some children playing shrill, unskilled