dry bracken set alight, consuming reason and perspective and the future. His life was a succession of immediate, vivid moments — the setting of one foot in front of another, the recognition of slopes and lines of the land, the smell of the sea, the rifle in his hand, the wetness of his trouser-legs, the images of Drummond sitting in kitchen or study or sitting-room — through which he moved like a shadow, impervious to larger, vaguer experiences or imaginings. He had even lost the capacity to judge what he was doing, to see it in any moral light. His one certainty was that Drummond had tried to kill him, which had spilled a corrosive desire for vengeance over brain-cells and bodily organs that made him hunger for destruction.
Drummond would expect him. Drummond was Irish enough to understand what he had started and how McBride would expect to end it. The farm would be under heavy guard. McBride bared his teeth, not with the effort of the slope but with anticipation. When he topped the gentle rise, the framework of hedges was suddenly clear in quick moonlight and in the centre of the maze-like pattern there was the white low farmhouse. And the patrols.
He slid into a hollow, ignoring the wet grass soaking his buttocks and back, and watched. Before the moon disappeared behind more distressed cloud, he counted six guards, all Germans in uniform — in three pairs, moving like figures from some ornamental clock, round and round the garden and the vegetable plot and the drive that surrounded the house. They were contained, it seemed, by the pattern of hedges and small trees, as if they required the protection of the lights from the farmhouse and the proximity of its walls. They were small, ineffectual creatures, hardly any protection at all for Drummond. He slipped out of the hollow after checking the progress of the cloud across the moon's face, and made his way carefully down the slope to the shelter of another hedge. The nearest patrol was a hundred yards away, moving across his line of sight, skirting the fruit trees at the bottom of the garden. He clicked the bolt of the Lee Enfield as gently, lovingly as he could. It made the smallest noise, but he held his breath. He could hear, on the breeze, the quiet conversation of the patrol, even the sound of machine-pistol against bayonet once or twice, one of them clearing his throat, spitting.
He watched them, surrendering to the omnipotence of the moment, looking up at the moon, tensing as the edge of its disc slid from behind the cloud, then lining up the rifle-sight. The backsight needed some fine adjustment, and he attended to it like a conscientious workman. Then he aligned the foresight with the two shapes a hundred yards away. He selected one of them who moved for a moment slightly away from his companion, inhaled, then squeezed the trigger with the gentlest touch. He heard the noise of the rifle in his ear, saw the German topple slowly over, and then the components of the scene moved feverishly as he snicked back the bolt, resighted and fired again as a light in the farmhouse went out and the second German, startled but already moving, was flung forward onto his face. Two huddled, moonlit shadows like sleeping animals beneath the fruit trees.
McBride got to his feet and began running along the hedge, following it as it angled towards the farmhouse. He could hear doors opening and banging shut, and the shouting of orders in German. He drew the Mauser from his waistband without pausing in his stride.
Walsingham himself decided to enter the country house that had been converted into a hotel on the outskirts of Cheltenham, after they traced Goessler's hire car to the hotel's residents' car park and checked the register. The receptionist was helpful but bemused. Two German businessmen, yes — Herr Muller and Herr Schmitt, was there anything the matter?
Exton showed her only the CID card he carried, and then asked to speak to the manager. Only the manager's wife was available, and Exton explained simply that the two men were suspected of currency illegalities and that he would cause as little disturbance as possible and he was sorry but it couldn't be postponed and he'd be grateful if the matter could be concluded immediately.
While he talked at the desk, Walsingham stood where he could see into the lounge bar without himself being seen. He located Goessler and Lobke, enjoying their after-dinner coffee and brandies, and the moment welled in him like a hot, indigestible lump. He had found them, had them in his hand, and they were unaware of his presence. His plan for the two Germans stretched before him as easily and entirely as
Exton came over to him.
'Everything satisfactory, Exton?'
'Sir. They don't like it, but they won't argue — as long as we do it discreetly, sir.' Exton smiled thinly.
'With panache and taste always, Exton. Let's go and ask Herr Goessler to accompany us.'
Walsingham crossed the half-empty lounge bar swiftly, with a youthful step. As Goessler looked up at him, there was a recognition in his eyes that was not of an individual but a type. A kindred spirit. Lobke, startled and panicked, reached inside his coat but Goessler arrested the movement with his own hand. The barman watched as he dried a pint glass, and one or two of the customers looked up, then down again as Walsingham greeted Goessler familiarly.
'Klaus, my dear fellow, how good to see you again!' He held out his hand, and Goessler took it in his own dry grip. Walsingham admitted the man's coolness, the sense of amusement that lingered in his eyes. Lobke's eyes were already darting towards doors, other people, windows.
'My assistant, Rudi Lobke,' Goessler said disarmingly.
'And mine — ah,
'Will you sit down, gentlemen — Charles. Walsingham was slightly taken aback, then nodded acknowledgement.
'Of course.' Walsingham's secret amusement at Goessler's behaviour increased as he saw the fat man relax, already make assumptions of diplomatic immunity, envisaging only deportation as a final solution, the ultimate weapon possessed by Walsingham. How wrong he was — 'No, I think we'd all better get off straight away, don't you?'
Goessler shrugged. 'As you wish — our luggage?'
'It will be taken care of.'
'Good. Is it a long drive?'
'No. You'll not get cold. Shall we go?'
He gestured towards the door. Lobke appeared dangerously nervous, and Goessler touched his hand with a feminine reassurance that made Walsingham embarrassed.
'It's all right, Rudi — don't be foolish,
Outside, the night was fine and chilly, high stars pale above the halo of light from the hotel's floodlighting. Hard white light that seemed to distress Lobke. Perhaps he was picking up some kind of emitted signal from Exton or himself, Walsingham wondered, and waited until Goessler registered the absence of police cars. Just the one Granada, parked by their own Ford, with two men leaning against it but coming to alertness as they saw the party emerge from the hotel. Goessler turned to Walsingham.
'A quiet and exclusive party, yes?'
'Indeed, Herr Goessler. This way, please.' He directed them to the car, and Exton, removing Lobke's gun from his shoulder-harness, pushed the young man into the back seat. The driver and his companion waited for Walsingham's orders. 'Driver, you take us — and you, Peters, bring up the Ford. Keys, Professor?'
Goessler seemed to be reassured by another close appraisal of Walsingham's face, and handed over the keys to Walsingham, who tossed them almost carelessly to Peters, then gestured to the open rear door of the Granada. Goessler shrugged and got in. Exton squeezed in beside the two Germans. Walsingham sat next to the driver, nodded, and the Granada pulled away from the harsh floodlighting out of the car park onto the A40 towards Andoversford. For a moment, Goessler experienced the acute fear that they had already located Moynihan, the woman and their prisoner, but he had to close his face against the expression of relief when Walsingham said:
'Now, Professor, where are you keeping young McBride and his IRA friends?' Walsingham half-turned in his
