CHAPTER 11

M onday morning, I awoke with the sun, too anxious to sleep. Not when I was hopeful of learning something important that day, and uneasy it might not be the news I wanted to hear. So I climbed from the immense four-poster bed which dominated the master bedchamber. Climbed being the optimal word, as it required a set of custom-made wooden steps to scale the mattress. It certainly wasn't to my taste, but then, most of the furniture in this Dublin townhouse was not, and being a temporary rental, it needn't be.

I turned to see that Sidney was still asleep. He was lying on his stomach, his arms thrown up around his pillow, the muscles in his back and shoulders displayed in impressive relief in the golden morning light as the silk sheets pooled down around his hips. The sight almost made me clamber back into the bed to trail my fingers over the lines and contours of his bared physique, shrapnel wound scars and all, but a glimpse at his face arrested me. He was relaxed, as he only truly ever was in deep slumber. His vigilance released, his full lips were slack, his heavy brow and high cheekbones smooth. Knowing that, I couldn't wake him. Even if he ultimately might have been edified by my early rousing.

Instead, I tiptoed into the dressing room to perform my morning ablutions, donning a butterscotch-yellow skirt and matching print blouse and a black straw hat. With a quick swipe of lip salve, I was out the door and bound for the tram to retrace our route from two days' prior. It being too early to visit Peter at the Wicklow, I instead decided to pay a call on Mr. Finnegan at the Bank of Ireland to deliver my latest report for C and discover if he had any news or confidential correspondence for us. The bright sunlight heralded the start to a warm summer day, and it lifted my mood. Surely something good would turn up today. It simply had to.

The talk on the tram was of the continued ambushes of RIC barracks in more rural areas of the country by the IRA, and the shooting of several police constables in the West Country. There had also been some local agitation among the unions about the ongoing munition and railway strikes, but I was becoming accustomed to such occurrences, and was determined not to let them deter my optimism.

Upon reaching the bank, I was immediately shown back to Mr. Finnegan's office where he greeted me with a strained smile. "Ah, Mrs. Kent. I was just thinking of you."

"Is that because you have information for me?" I asked, unsure what his demeanor meant.

He straightened from where he'd been leaning over his desk. "Of a sort." His gaze flickered toward the door left ajar by the clerk. Out of a sense of propriety, no doubt, but there was always the chance someone might be listening.

I moved a few silent steps closer, and Finnegan lowered his voice, speaking in his own sort of code.

"A mutual friend bade me inquire whether"—he cleared his throat uncomfortably—"there is a bird in the nest?"

For a moment, this oblique manner of speaking confused me. I deduced easily enough that our "mutual friend" was C, but my mind being on locating Alec or, barring that, the phosgene, I couldn't work out how either implication figured into birds or nests. It was the pale wash of color that crested Finnegan's cheeks as I stood staring at him in bafflement that finally directed my thoughts in the right direction.

My first reaction was surprise. "Well, that traveled with admirable speed."

I'd insinuated to Lieutenant Bennett that I was pregnant less than forty-eight hours ago. Yet, that information had been conveyed not only to his superior at Dublin Castle, but also on to Director Thomson in London, and then to C, and back to Finnegan in Dublin. Of course, British Intelligence wasn't hampered by the inability to use cables, albeit transmitted in code.

Finnegan's eyebrows lifted over his wire-rimmed eyeglasses, perhaps seeing this as confirmation. Something I swiftly disabused him of.

"The answer is no. There is not," I stated clearly. "It was a necessary ruse."

This last remark only made his eyebrows arch higher, and I couldn't tell if he was reluctantly impressed, or he disapproved. "Because if there is," he intoned warningly, definitely disapproving, "my instructions are to pack you up and . . . transfer your account back to London."

This, I had not expected. And from C of all men. Not after I'd worked faithfully for him for nearly four years of war, taking on increasingly more fraught and difficult duties and assignments. And what of the almost two years since and all the unofficial work I'd undertaken on his behalf? I was here, was I not, when formally I had no cause to be. Yet, one whiff that I was possibly expecting a child and that rendered me obsolete?

I inhaled sharply through my nose, struggling to restrain my temper. "There is not," I reiterated in crisp tones.

"Are you certain?"

Clearly, Finnegan harbored a death wish, for if looks could kill, my glare before he'd uttered those words would have singed him, and the one that followed would have incinerated him on the spot.

"Tell . . . our mutual friend ," I managed to ground out without raising my voice like I wanted to, "that the source of that rumor was Lieutenant George Bennett, and he will understand."

At least, he should.

If nothing else, C's reaction proved my ploy was successful in theory. As long as Bennett and the others continued to believe I was merely there in a support role to Sidney, who was there at the behest of Lord French or someone else equally as inconsequential in their eyes. And that all depended on C not undermining my deception.

Finnegan turned thoughtful, clearly having questions about this comment, but he kept them to himself. "Mr. MacAlister told me you were a stubborn one," he said, pulling a set of keys from his pocket as he pivoted toward a cabinet on his right and unlocked the top drawer. "That you'd never take the easy way out, even if it was handed to you."

I frowned, some of my anger cooling. "He spoke of me?"

"Aye." He pulled two missives from the top of the drawer before closing it and locking it again. "You seemed to be on his mind a great deal in the weeks just before he disappeared."

I passed him my report and glanced down at the letters almost absently as he passed them to me, my thoughts still concentrated on Alec.

Why had I been on his mind? Was it because he'd had a premonition of what was coming and that I'd be sent to look for him? But if so, then why hadn't he done whatever he could do to prevent it? Or perhaps he had and it simply hadn't been enough.

Dash it, Alec! What did you get yourself into?

I thanked Finnegan for the letters, tucking them inside my leather handbag as I began to back away.

"A word of advice, Mrs. Kent," he murmured, stopping me. From the set of his lips, I could tell he was reconsidering, and I braced myself to hear another insulting presumption. "It was clear to me—though he strove to hide it—that Mr. MacAlister cared for you a great deal. I feel fairly confident in saying that, if he were here now, his chief desire would be to see you safe. Don't let your stubbornness cloud your judgment. Particularly when those you seek to help would wish it otherwise."

I didn't respond to this speech, just glared at him and turned and left. On the one hand, I felt oddly emotional, while on the other I wanted to rage. So, in the end, I decided it was the better part of valor to say nothing.

I stumbled out into the bright sunshine, clutching my handbag close as I waited for the next tram. It was bound in the wrong direction, but I didn't mind. I simply wanted to sit and think for a time. So I took a seat next to the window, turning away from the other passengers to discourage conversation.

At first glance, it seemed strange that Finnegan's warning should affect me so strongly. After all, he was only reiterating the same message conveyed by the letter Alec had left for me in his safe deposit box. Finnegan hadn't been privy to its contents, so he hadn't known Alec had already made his wishes known. But while the letter had been troubling, it had at least been true to his disposition. On the other hand, it was so utterly unlike Alec to share such personal things with another person, let alone someone like Finnegan. It was true, as his handler, Finnegan was the only person in Dublin Alec might have felt he could trust. In a moment of extreme distress or weakness, he might have been driven to confide in him.

Yet, in his six years embedded with the German Army it didn't seem he'd ever done such a thing. Not even to me when we'd operated as cohorts and faux lovers. At least, not until we'd escaped Belgium and become lovers for one night in truth. Since then, he'd entrusted one or two things to me that I suspected he hadn't shared with anyone else. But Finnegan hardly seemed the type to inspire such trust.

I could be honest enough with myself to wonder whether part of my skepticism stemmed from jealousy that Alec might have relied on someone else in such a manner, but then dismissed it. I understood perhaps better than anyone what pressures he had been facing, for I'd undertaken similar assignments. He should have been able to trust his handler.

The problem was, I still hadn't decided if Finnegan was trustworthy. And since I hadn't made up my mind about him, I struggled with the notion that Alec had. Which meant that either I was wrong, or Alec had been fooled, and as much as I didn't want it to be the latter, I couldn't dismiss the possibility.

Dash it all, Alec! I mentally cursed him again. For coming here. For getting himself into trouble, undoubtedly because he'd been too rash. For leaving me infuriating messages. For making me care.

That was the crux of the matter, wasn't it? My life and his were too intertwined. Because of our history. Because we understood each other in ways others couldn't. Not even Sidney.

I loved Sidney. I was faithful to him and our marriage. Nothing was going to change that. But blast it all, I loved Alec, too. In a different way. But no less potent.

I couldn't walk away. And that wasn't pure stubbornness talking.

I blinked my eyes, refocusing my attention outside the window, and realized we hadn't traveled as far as I'd feared. We were somewhere along Dame Street, amidst the warren of narrow lanes that made up the Temple Bar area south of the Liffey. I'd gotten a bit lost amidst the ramshackle jumble of buildings—many of which had seen better days—the first time I'd ventured here during one of my strolls. Because of that, and the fact the area lay practically in the shadow of Dublin Castle, I hadn't yet been back. I'd reasoned that it was an unlikely place for any rebels like Collins and his men to linger. But a sight outside the tram's window made me revise this notion.

A tall man stood on the corner of one of the lanes, smoking a cigarette as he waited for another chap to catch up with him. He was rather lean, his clothes hanging on him as if he was little but a skeleton. Even from a distance there was something about him that captured my notice. As he turned with the other man to proceed down one of the streets leading toward the river, I realized why.

He was the man from Kidd's Back. The one who'd held the door for us. And I recognized now why he'd seemed so familiar to me even then. For I'd seen him once before. In London of all places. He'd been strolling along Horse Guards with none other than Michael Collins—Britain's public enemy number one.

Alec hadn't told me to take note of the two fellows strolling with Collins, but I had anyway. Force of habit. One of them had been named Fitzgerald, a man I'd heard little about. But the other had been Liam Tobin, who according to Alec's reports, operated as Collins's right-hand man.

I straightened, unable to stifle my surprise, and then scrambled to my feet, moving toward the doors to exit at the next stop. If those around me had taken note, I hoped they would assume I'd been caught daydreaming and feared I'd miss my stop. As I exited the tram and looked up, I realized I was in front of City Hall, at the very gates to Dublin Castle.

The City Hall had been built into the slope of Dame Street, so that part of its pedestal was taller than the other and the columned Portland stone fa?ade could be made level. But behind it lay the massive complex of buildings which made up Dublin Castle. I'd yet to enter, as Sidney and I were still waiting for word from Lord French that we would be allowed within. Security surrounding the seat of the British government in Dublin was understandably tight.

Striding back east, I turned to peer down Palace Street toward its main gate. DMP officers in their rounded hats as well as members of the military police flanked the arched entrance and a narrower door set into the stone to the left, examining the papers of those waiting to enter.

Yet, no more than a few hundred feet away, I'd spied one of the most wanted men in Ireland loitering calmly on a street corner. A quiver ran through me, not only at the rebel's courage and audacity—something I had to reluctantly admire—but also at the realization of what they were willing to risk.

Because I knew from experience how difficult it was to triumph over a people who were convinced of the justice of their cause, and whose spirit refused to be crushed. Had I not lived among the Belgians and French for part of the war, witnessing firsthand their resistance to German rule? Their readiness to suffer for freedom. Their resolve not to give up hope.

While doing my research before coming here, I had read a report evaluating the Irish character. While I'd not agreed with everything the analyst had written, for his Anglo-Protestant prejudice was transparent, I had been struck by what he'd described as a marked inclination toward martyrdom. How they believed that the glorious death of those who came before only furthered the cause of those who came after, carrying the torch forward, so to speak. They'd had hundreds of years to perfect this way of thinking. It was a legacy they carried espoused in their stories, poetry, and songs. A living, breathing reminder.

Seeing Tobin on that corner had driven this home for me. For how did one triumph over a people who were prepared to die for their convictions? How did one squash the spirit of their cause when for every rebel you killed, another two or three were inspired to take their place?

As I neared the corner where I'd seen Tobin disappear, I began to realize how foolish it had been for me to leap from the tram. What had I expected to do? Trail him in my fashionable attire?

In any case, he was now long gone, having disappeared into the labyrinth of medieval streets. I briefly considered crossing the street and trying to pick up his trail, but then I lost my nerve. Perhaps later I might return in my guise as Dearbhla Bell, an Irishwoman newly arrived to Dublin to search for her cousin, but attempting to follow a republican as Verity Kent was the opposite of discreet.

So I returned to College Green and boarded another tram, this time headed in the correct direction. By the time I returned home, Sidney was just finishing his breakfast.

"And where have you been so bright and early?" he asked, taking a drag from his Turkish cigarette as he finished his coffee.

"The bank," I replied, mindful that our maid, Ginny, was about. She'd met me near the door, taking my hat and gloves, and my order for breakfast.

"Planning to do some shopping?"

"Yes, I saw the most darling hat in a shop window the other day."

All of this was said purely for Ginny's benefit as she brought me some toast, an egg, and a fresh pot of tea. Mrs. Boyle had clearly anticipated my usual. I smiled at the maid in thanks as she bustled from the room.

"Would you let Nimble know I've a task for him?" Sidney told the lass before she could scurry out of sight.

She dipped her head in acknowledgment.

He waited until the count of three before leaning forward to stub out his fag in the pewter dish at his elbow. "That should keep her busy for a time. Now, what did you really withdraw?"

I'd not yet had a chance to examine the two missives, being distracted by Finnegan's remarks about Alec, and then too conscious of those who might be watching to extract them from my bag before arriving home. I did so now.

"One is from C, courtesy of Kathleen." Having already spoken with Finnegan, I could guess what the chief concern of that message was. I straightened at the sight of the handwriting on the second. "The other is from Max."

Sidney rounded the table to stand behind me as I unfoldedit.

Max had written in his usual conversational style, relaying anecdotes about mutual friends and acquaintances in London, as well as his sister, niece, and nephew. I smiled reflexively, able to see him seated at his desk in his study, his head bent over the paper, softly chuckling to himself. Finally he worked himself around to sharing the information we were most anxious to hear.

I'm sorry to say, Smith's file is missing.

Sidney muttered a curse behind me shortly after I'd read those words, letting me know he was keeping apace with me.

The clerk assisting me searched for it, but as of my writing to you, it has not been located. Either it was misfiled, misplaced, or removed entirely. I think we all know who the likely culprit is, but of course, there's no evidence to implicate him or anyone else.

"Ardmore must have known there was something compromising in Smith's file. Or at least, feared it." I uttered a curse myself. "I should have thought of it sooner. Maybe we could have nabbed it before Ardmore did."

Sidney grasped hold of my shoulders. "Or maybe the file has been missing for far longer than Smith has been dead. There's no point in berating yourself about it. None of the rest of us thought of it either. We assumed, like you, that his journal would tell us all we needed to know."

And it still might. If only we could decode it.

I sighed heavily, returning to the letter in hopes that Max had still been able to uncover something useful, but thus far his other inquiries into the man had proved fruitless. Even a visit to Detective Chief Inspector Thoreau, who had assisted us on a few cases in the past and was aware of our efforts to locate the missing phosgene cylinders, had yielded no results. So whatever file the police might have had on Smith—if they had any—had also been removed. A fact which would not be utterly surprising, as the director of intelligence was also head of Scotland Yard's Criminal Investigation Division.

However, Max, being the thorough individual he was, hadn't left matters there.

Given your present tasks, I've also taken it upon myself to adopt a greater interest in the issues surrounding that country at large, and speaking with my contacts within the Cabinet and Irish Office, I've learned some troubling things.

My interest piqued, I turned to the next page only to find a valediction, urging us to be safe and that he would write more soon, along with his signature. Blinking in surprise, I flipped back to the page before. A line at the bottom had been crossed out, but I'd thought that was Max self-editing. However, flipping through the pages of the letter again to see if they were out of order, or I'd skipped one, I began to come to a more startling realization.

"They redacted the contents of his letter," I stated, shuffling the papers once more, though I knew I hadn't missed anything. "They censored his words." I could hardly believe what I was saying, such was my shock and growing outrage. "Look here. The last page is even shorter than the rest, as if they cut off the top."

Sidney was quiet, but perhaps this discovery was less jarring for him. After all, as his company's commanding officer, one of his duties had been to censor his men's letters home from the front, to remove sensitive material.

But we were no longer at war. And Max was not some green soldier writing home and unwittingly giving away his battalion's position or sharing more gruesome details of trench life than the government wanted to become public knowledge. I was an intelligence agent, for God's sake! A distinguished veteran in my own right. Yet, they'd not only opened the mail I'd requested sent by confidential channels and read it, but censored it!

I was beyond angry, I was livid!

Had they censored Alec's correspondence as well? If so, maybe it was no wonder he'd stopped trusting his handler.

"We need to know what information Max discovered from his government contacts," I said, turning to look up at Sidney. "We need to know what they didn't want us to find out."

I could read in Sidney's eyes that he was thinking of the same thing I was. Those documents we'd uncovered in Belgium. The ones that had proven our government's culpability in prolonging the war. The ones C had been so anxious for me to destroy before I read them.

And here he was again, keeping information from me. Another of the already frayed threads of trust woven between us snapped.

Sidney nodded in solidarity. "Your alternate letterbox?"

"No. And not yours either," I insisted. "Those will still be couriered through official channels." I turned back toward Max's letter where it lay next to my untouched plate of breakfast. The telephone and telegraph would be no better, controlled as they were by the government and prone to interception. "I think we must risk the mail."

I knew that at times the IRA managed to seize the mail, but as long as we were conscious of that fact, the hazard could be mitigated.

Sidney sat in the chair next to mine. "We'll need a trusted go-between we don't think either side is monitoring."

Which eliminated my known friends and colleagues within British Intelligence, as well as any family and Sidney's former fellow officers.

"It has to be Etta," I whispered.

Not only was Etta Lorraine the best jazz singer this side of the Atlantic, but she'd acted as an informant for me during the war and since. Yet, I'd never shared her name with British Intelligence, knowing they might discount her reports, despite the fact they were some of the most accurate I received. She and Max were already well acquainted, and she sang at Grafton Galleries, a nightclub in Soho. As such, no one would find Max's visiting such an establishment or her speaking with the Earl of Ryde suspicious.

"But just to be safe, we'll have her address her letters here to Nimble," Sidney suggested, hearing as I did his valet's distinctive clumping footsteps on the stairs.

I nodded. "I'll write to Max and Etta immediately after breakfast." Which had now grown cold. My own fault.

Sidney's gaze dipped to C's letter, still untouched in my lap. "Maybe his missive explains."

I cast him a sharp look, doubting an adequate explanation existed. "I'll read it after breakfast."

He reached out a hand to clasp mine where it rested on the table, the empathy in his gaze enough to make maudlin tears threaten for the second time that morning. But I refused to give in to the urge, lifting my spoon to tap at the shell of my egg while Sidney spoke to Nimble.