Emerald Decision

seat. The old man's profile was aquiline beyond the suggestion of a mere garden bird. This one preyed on meat. Lobke's leg, pressed against his on the bench seat, was throbbing with nerves, and Goessler patted the young man's thigh in warning and comfort.

'I'm sorry, Herr Walsingham — these people — McBride? — strangers, I'm afraid.'

'You don't deny you are a senior officer in the East German intelligence service, I hope?'

Exton, as if on cue, drew the Heckler & Koch VP-70 Parabellum from inside his coat, and laid it in a parody of innocence across his lap. Lobke was supremely aware that the gun contained eighteen cartridges in its magazine. Goessler smiled without apparent effort. Walsingham's eyes watched the lights of the Ford Escort behind them, then focused on Goessler again.

'I am covered, of course, by diplomatic immunity.'

'Naturally — under ordinary circumstances. But, it is of the utmost importance — as you well understand — that I locate Professor Thomas McBride and anyone else who may have shared his information. You understand the — urgency of the matter, I'm sure. Therefore, I'm sure you will understand that the ordinary rules do not apply.' Walsingham shrugged, declaring innocence and necessity and threat at the same moment. Goessler controlled the fading of the smile from his face, in the oncoming headlights of a car. Dark woods rushed by the Granada, and the half-caught gleam of a thin ribbon of reservoir water. Goessler knew they were still heading towards Andoversford.

'I'm sure I don't understand you, Herr Walsingham.'

'You will. Where are they, Goessler — or perhaps little Rudi would like to tell us?' He reached back and lifted Lobke's face by the chin. 'Well, young man?' Exton dug the pistol into Lobke's side, making him gasp with pain. Lobke shook his head. 'I see.'

'This is foolish,' Goessler said.

'Turn here,' Walsingham snapped, and the driver slowed, came level with an unmarked track, and turned into its darkness. The lights of the Escort jiggled behind them as it, too, turned off the main road. The water of the reservoir gleamed through the trees to their left. Goessler felt chilly, aware of his thin woollen suit, the silk shirt, his underwear, and the fragility and slowness of the old body beneath the clothes. The big Ford bumped and wallowed along the rutted track, puddles hissing against the underside, thin branches slashing at the windows. It unnerved Goessler, though a fatness of mind remained complacent despite the reactions of his body. 'Pull over here.'

The Granada slid between trees, down towards the gleam of the reservoir. Then it stopped well within the trees of Dowdeswell Wood, the place Walsingham had selected. He already knew that they would not volunteer the information he required. Gloucestershire Constabulary were poised to begin a search of the area at dawn, under the direction of the Assistant Chief Constable who would liaise directly with Walsingham. Army units from Cirencester were also on stand-by. It would simply be much easier if Goessler would tell them. Walsingham was certain he knew.

'Very well, Goessler,' he said in the silence after the engine was switched off. 'I wish to know where we can find McBride, Claire Drummond, and anyone else who may be connected with this little operation of yours. I do not have a great deal of time, as you know only too well, and therefore I am impatient. Do you intend to tell me?'

'I'm sorry, Herr Walsingham. I must ask to be allowed to contact my embassy—'

'Forget the diplomatic niceties, you bloody fool!' Walsingham barked, making the driver next to him twitch with shock. 'You're going to die out here, in these woods, if you don't tell me. Understand? You are expendable — at least to me.'

Goessler, visibly disconcerted, managed to say: 'Then, as they say, you will never find out what you wish to know.'

'Take him!' Walsingham snapped, accelerating the scene through its emotional progression, creating vivid shock on Lobke's face, nervousness around Goessler's eyes. Exton dragged Lobke out of the car, across the moonlit clearing to where the Escort remained in deep shadow. Its driver, Peters, flicked on a torch. Lobke's face was white and strained.

'What—?' Goessler began, then closed his mouth round an unpalatable reality.

'You know what comes next.' Walsingham wound down the window and rested his arm on the sill. The driver now covered Goessler with a gun, a Walther. 'I shall kill your sweetheart unless you tell me what I wish to know.'

'You can't kill us!'

'Oh, but I can. Indeed, one scenario would suggest I must — and blame McBride. A trade-off, his freedom for his silence. Mm?' Walsingham, in the emotional turbulence, wondered whether he had not miscalculated in revealing the scenario he intended to use, just as a threat. If Goessler really believed, then he might not open his mouth anyway— He added: 'Of course, he could just be blamed for Hoskins' murder. We could manage that. Now, tell me.'

'No. No, I'm afraid you are bluffing.' Goessler's throat was small and tight, but the words emerged calmly.

'Be afraid.' He raised his voice. 'Very well, Exton.'

Exton opened the door of the Escort, and pushed Lobke into the back of the car. Then he began screwing a silencer into place on the VP-70, his hands allowing both Lobke and Goessler to see what he was doing. Goessler opened his mouth to protest, then clamped his lips tight. Both men heard Lobke's gasp of fear across the tiny clearing. Goessler exhaled raggedly. Walsingham ignored Goessler, staring at the Escort with a riveted, blank-faced attention. Exton had completed fitting the silencer. He raised the gun, pointing it through the open door of the Escort. He waited.

'Well?' Walsingham asked.

For seconds, Goessler remained silent, then said simply: 'No.'

'Kill him!' Walsingham snapped, and Exton fired twice into the back of the Escort. Lobke's body twitched like a wired rabbit, his white blob of a face visible for a moment as meaningless as a rabbit's scut caught in a car's headlights, before the corpse slid down out of sight. Exton slammed the door of the Escort with suitable finality. Goessler uttered one dry, racking sob before he spoke.

'Now, Herr Walsingham, we know how far you will go to protect yourself, the author of Emerald.' His voice quavered with emotion, with grief and fear and defiance. Even as he listened, Walsingham, unable to interrupt, knew that Goessler would not tell him where they were hiding McBride. He had miscalculated. Goessler might not even want to live — the trouble with queers was one always underestimated their emotional involvement, saw luridly in imagination only the handclasps, the kisses, the sodomy — or he might know the only chance for his operation was to keep his secret. Perhaps he knew his own death was now inevitable. Whatever—

'Yes, Herr Walsingham. You will be ruined by the disclosures that Professor McBride will make, and so will David Guthrie. It was a very clever and subtle scheme, as I'm sure you appreciate. I shall not tell you where they are, because it would not save my life. Besides, I cannot allow the English all the heroics. You must do as you intend, and shoot me. Unless you can find McBride, you will have no trade, as you put it. Once McBride talks, no one will believe he is also a murderer.'

'Get him out of the car!' Walsingham snapped, facing the windscreen, angry and humiliated by a fat German. The driver got out, dragged Goessler out of the back of the Granada. 'Wait!' He looked up at Goessler, composed even though he was shivering with cold. With thicker underwear, Walsingham thought, he could die a brave man — and that's what it all amounted to, heroic death. Keeping the chill off with warm underwear. Michael McBride had died bravely, no doubt, so had all the Germans and all the Irish who had died. Even Lobke hadn't cried out much — now Goessler. 'Well?' he said. Goessler did not even deign to answer his question. 'Kill him!'

Walsingham shuddered at the two soft plops of the silenced shots after the crackling footsteps across the clearing and the moment of silence. The door of the Escort slammed shut again. Walsingham rubbed his face with quivering hands. He felt oppressed and driven. He loathed what he was doing, and in the same moment knew that the self-loathing would pass swiftly.

Even before Exton returned to the Granada, he was studying a map of the area on which were already marked the dispositions for the police search the following morning. McBride would not get away. And now he had his trade-off — two dead queers in their last embrace in the rear of a Ford Escort. He forced himself to shrug in amusement at the image, thereby cleansing it of all personal effect.