Northern Spy(55)

She hugs me, and I feel myself shaking. Tears stand in my eyes. “You’ll be fine,” she whispers. “Damian would never hurt you, I promise. You don’t need to be scared of him.”

“How do I tell Eamonn?”

“I’ll send him a message,” she says. “Do you have a charger?”

“No.”

She places hers in the bag. “Eamonn will be able to track your phone.”

She finishes packing for me, and then we are moving down the stairs. Damian is already outside, and he sets our bags in the boot.

We drive toward the Westlink, past murals glossed with rain. Our seats are very close together. I don’t know what to do with my legs in the footwell—they look strange straight, but also crossed, and every movement sounds loud in the quiet car. Ahead of us, a traffic light changes to red, and I try to decide whether to get out and run. I can’t drive into the countryside with him, with an IRA sniper.

Damian clears his throat. “I fancy your sister.”

I turn to him, astonished, and he laughs. “Have you told her?”

“Not yet.”

“I had a suspicion, actually.”

“Did you?” he says, pleased, and I don’t tell him that I hope it’s not mutual.

We drive south. Dark veils of rain blow over the hills in the distance. This storm is a disaster. Glenarm would have been better, more intricate, easier to sabotage. I don’t know how MI5 can intervene now. If Maitland doesn’t appear outdoors, it will seem like he was warned, and Marian and I will be under suspicion.

At the border, soldiers circle the car. I will them to find the sniper rifle hidden in the door panel, but they wave us through into the republic.

The rain stops in Monaghan, and for the rest of the journey we drive under a blanket of white cloud. We cross Kildare and Waterford, and I feel myself to be passing out of a realm of protection, as if I’m not under the security service’s jurisdiction anymore. I’m on my own.

Once we drive over the Knockmealdown Mountains, the thread seems fully to snap. We’re far south, in a part of the republic I’ve never visited before. The satnav loses signal, and I watch the blinking dot of our car moving through a blue space without marked roads.

The satnav returns outside the village of Cappoquin. We’re in the Blackwater valley now, and turn west along the river, following it toward Mallow.



* * *



—

Our host at the hotel explains that the house, Ballyrane, has been in his family for three centuries. Five of the other bedrooms are occupied, and we will dine with the other guests tonight.

We follow him through rooms with broad oak floors and hand-painted wallpaper, striped silk sofas and ottomans piled with art books and tea trays. Ballyrane is similar to Maitland’s friend’s castle, though with paying guests, so not similar at all.

I watch the other guests move quietly around the house, sometimes breaking into laughter. None of us are careless with it. None of us expect this experience to be repeated at our will. An older woman and her adult daughter sit beside the large fireplace in the main room, showing each other pictures from the house’s ancient copies of Tatler. They joke softly, and I like them, and the air they have of taking the situation with a good deal of irony.

Our room has one queen-size bed. Damian gestures at the chaise under the window and says, “I’ll sleep there.”

I nod, setting down my bag. On the dresser is a wicker hamper with a half bottle of wine, biscuits, and sweets. Damian starts to open a packet of chocolates. “Are those free?”

He smiles. “Are you worried Seamus will be angry about the minibar?”

“Will he?”

“Not if this works.”

“What if it doesn’t?”

“He’ll lose his fucking head.”

Tomorrow, according to Seamus’s plan, we will run two miles through the woods and wait across the river for Maitland to appear. Damian will kill him with a single sniper shot, and then we will return here.

The police will be out on the roads after the murder, but they won’t search for the killers here. The guests are too wealthy, they wouldn’t be involved. Seamus was excited with this plan, the cleverness of having us stay in place instead of running, hiding in plain sight. “He reads Agatha Christie,” says Damian. “He’s fucking delighted.”



* * *



—

The hotel has an honesty bar by the back door. I peer at the dozen different bottles of spirits, vermouth, and bitters, the brass cups of lemon twists, green olives, and cherries.

I fix a gin and tonic and carry it into the garden. The light has started to change, and low, swift clouds move over the sky. The fruit trees in the walled garden are centuries old, massive figs, damsons, and quinces, an espaliered tree of bronze pears. My body seems to be reassembling itself after the past seven hours, winging back together. I take a long swallow of my drink.

Black crows fly up from behind the garden wall, like something I’ve seen before and forgotten. The atmosphere has turned dense, expectant. I stop with my hand resting on the wall, my ears pricked.

I’m desperate for someone to announce herself to me. MI5 might already be here. None of the other guests seem like spies, though that would be the point. The older woman and her daughter might be counter-terrorism officers. It would be such a relief for someone to say, “Tessa, hello, we’ve been expecting you, how are you, do you have any questions for us?”