CHAPTER 5

T he next morning, we took the tram to College Green and the Bank of Ireland, which was housed in Parliament House, where the parliament of Ireland had met until the Act of Union in 1800. It was an impressive structure with rounded walls of Ionic columns and a central colonnaded entrance within a quadrangle enclosed on three sides. The portico above the entrance was topped with three statues representing Hibernia, Fidelity, and Commerce.

We had visited the bank upon first arriving in Dublin, having established an account there for our purposes while we were in Ireland. However, the main reason for our patronage was the presence of Tobias Finnegan. Part Irish, part English, and wholly loyal to C, he had served as Alec's handler. A few chosen branches of the Bank of Ireland had also acted as his letterboxes, where Alec could drop off letters and reports that Finnegan would ensure reached C safely.

Finnegan was to have the same arrangement with me and, despite my qualms, I couldn't deny that from the outside it seemed sound. There was nothing suspicious about Sidney or I visiting the bank, particularly the Bank of Ireland, which had significant ties with Britain. They also had representatives regularly traveling back and forth to London who could act as couriers.

But all of these assets would prove moot if the person at the helm could not be trusted. The question had to be entertained. Had Alec severed communications with his handler and letterbox on purpose? Were they compromised? Or at the very least, had Alec believed they were?

I wasn't sure. And until I was, I'd decided our interactions with Finnegan should be handled gingerly.

He hadn't been in Dublin the first time we'd visited the bank, but we'd scheduled this appointment with him for his return. Upon our arrival, we were ushered swiftly through the space which had once housed what was supposed to have been a particularly magnificent House of Commons but had since been divided up into a series of offices, and into a larger office with tall ceilings. Light filtered down from windows positioned high on the wall, illuminating the room and the tall, angular man with round glasses.

In some ways Finnegan reminded me of éamon de Valera, the Dáil's president, who was currently in the United States, campaigning for support from its government and the large population of Irish-Americans living there, as well as raising funds for the rebels' regime. In others, he did not. For one, Finnegan's face was smooth where de Valera's was craggy. For another, his nose wasn't as beaklike. But they both possessed a smile that I instinctively mistrusted. Fortunately, it was fleeting, for he seemed far more likable when sober.

"Mr. and Mrs. Kent, my apologies for not being here to greet you on your last visit. I was in London on business. I'm sure you can appreciate that," he told us genially, gesturing to the two Windsor armchairs before his desk and nodding to the young woman who had escorted us to his office to close the door behind her.

Indeed, we could, as well as grasping the implication that at least part of that business had included some sort of contact with C. Had we known he would be in London, we might have delayed our departure and met with him in even greater secrecy there, but we'd not discovered this detail until too late.

"Now," he declared as he settled in his large leather chair, interlacing his fingers before him. "I understand you're interested in an account opened by a Mr. MacAlister."

Apparently, we were to speak in veiled code, though I couldn't tell if this was because we were in danger of being overheard or an odd whim of the man before us. I did know that MacAlister had been the code name Alec had settled upon before coming to Dublin. Given the fact Alisdair was a form of Alexander, I supposed it was fitting.

"Yes. As I understand it, he was a regular client of yours," I replied, playing along.

"Indeed. Quite a regular depositor."

"Until recently."

Mr. Finnegan arched his eyebrows. "Just so." His gaze shifted to Sidney and back. "His last deposit was nearly ten weeks ago."

My stomach went cold at the pronouncement, though I already knew how long it had been since he'd dropped out of contact. "How regular were his deposits before that?"

"Sometimes almost daily, but never longer than a week to ten days." He sank back in his chair, adjusting his glasses. "Though we discussed the possibility that his transactions might become less punctual as his position within the company changed." He tilted his head to the side, dropping some of his pretense. "There was also some concern he was being followed."

"By whom?" I asked, speaking in a similar hushed and somber tone.

"He didn't know."

For Alec, an experienced and highly trained operative, not to be able to catch whoever was tracking him must mean they were equally experienced and well trained.

"I know what you're thinking," Finnegan said. "But I must caution you that the men Collins selected for his elite squad of assassins were well chosen. The Twelve Apostles know this city and all its twists and turns and alleys and byways like the back of their hand. They could find their way anywhere by the shortest route in the dark. They also know who's friendly in each house and business. Against that, MacAlister's training didn't mean much."

I swallowed, suddenly conscious of what we—the British—were up against.

"The Twelve Apostles?" Sidney queried.

One corner of Finnegan's mouth quirked upward. "That's the irreverent Irish sense of humor for you."

Alec must have fit in quite easily then, for I'd often chastised him for his impertinent remarks.

"Did he say how his position was changing?" I asked, returning to the other matter Mr. Finnegan had mentioned.

His amusement faded. "Not specifically. But our last meeting was brief. There wasn't time for him to elaborate."

"But he'd made contact with Collins?" I murmured softly.

"Oh, yes."

I inhaled past the tightness in my chest. This was something I'd also already known from reading Alec's decrypted reports, but to hear it directly from his handler was somehow more unsettling. Perhaps because every British agent who thus far had connived their way into the Big Fellow's sphere had ended up dead. Which was the reason C had asked Alec to attempt it without the knowledge of Thomson and the Secret Service at large. They'd suspected that in many cases those agents had been compromised by information provided from Collins's spies, who seemed to have thoroughly penetrated the ranks of the DMP and all but paralyzed them, as his murder gangs had killed any officers who dared to move against the republicans. And Collins's agents appeared to be making inroads at the Castle as well. But if no one at the DMP or the Castle knew about Alec, then he wasn't vulnerable to exposure from those sources.

I couldn't help but agree with C's strategy. The best, and perhaps only, way to penetrate the rebels' ranks and Collins's inner circle was to send an agent whose very presence and identity was kept secret from even the British intelligence services within Ireland.

Yet, Alec had still gone missing. Had he been compromised after all? Had he fallen victim to these Twelve Apostles? Keeping his assignment clandestine from the rest of British Intelligence might have shielded him from possible exposure from within, but it had also left him vulnerable and without ready assistance should he need it.

A situation Sidney and I now found ourselves in. And like Alec, our only contact within Ireland was the man before us. A man I wasn't sure could be trusted.

It was enough to give any seasoned agent pause.

I scrutinized Finnegan carefully. "What do you think happened to him?" It was a broad, open-ended question, and I was curious how he would answer it.

"Well, as I'm sure you're already aware from my reports, I've done everything I feasibly can to uncover his whereabouts without hopelessly compromising him. It seems unlikely he was detained by Crown Forces, even if he used an alias. There have been no unclaimed bodies from victims of violence that match his description. And in any case, Collins and his squad prefer to make an example of spies and informants, leaving letters decrying their role as touts for the British. Their assassinations are quite public, too. Makes it easier for them to blend into the crowd and escape."

"And no one questions them or stops them," Sidney retorted, not so much in disbelief as disapproval.

"Rarely. But ye understand it's not so much that the public sanctions these killings as accepts them as a necessity. If they're not outright republicans, then they're in sympathy with them or at least determinedly neutral. There's very little to be gained by interfering, and too much to lose."

"Then they'd rather be controlled by a bunch of armed gunmen and a man with a Christ complex than the police?"

Finnegan's taut smile was patronizing if not outright condescending. Something that I knew would infuriate Sidney. Though to be fair, my husband was oversimplifying an extremely complicated issue. "With the gunmen, the public is left alone to go about their business as long as it doesn't interfere with the republican cause; while the police are part of the Crown Forces who raid and ransack their homes, impose curfews, execute blockades and searches, make false arrests, and generally disrupt their lives. Not to mention these reprisal killings." His voice became tinged with sarcasm. "Yes, it's difficult to see why they would prefer the gunmen."

Sidney's brow lowered as he eyed Finnegan with suspicion. "You sound sympathetic."

"No, but I can appreciate the average Dubliner's mindset," Finnegan replied, unruffled. "As could MacAlister. He wouldn't have lasted as long as he did if he hadn't."

"Then you think he's what? Dead?" I asked, sensitive to his choice of words.

He turned to look at me, seeming to consider his words with care. "I honestly don't know. Perhaps he's been sent to a different county. Somewhere in the West Country. We do know that men from Dublin have been sent to other parts of the country to train their IRA leadership and recruits. Perhaps he had no choice but to go, or he believed there was something important to be learned there."

Such as the location of the phosgene cylinders Ardmore had contrived to have smuggled into Ireland. Ardmore's former lackey, Lieutenant Smith, had told us as he was dying that they were taken to Dublin, but that didn't mean they hadn't since been moved.

Finnegan's voice softened. "But I can't deny that death is a distinct possibility."

I nodded, having already acknowledged this, but I wasn't prepared to accept it as truth without proof. Swallowing the lump that had formed in my throat, as delicately as possible I broached the question that I'd wanted to ask since we'd arrived. "Could he have believed your role as his handler or that of the bank were compromised? Could he have severed contact for a different reason?"

A frown creased his forehead. "Maybe." It was difficult to tell if he'd taken offense or if the manner in which his fingers drummed against his large oak desk was simply an indication that he was seriously considering the question. "But there were other contingencies in place. Other ways he might have contacted C to inform him of his suspicions. Ways that are unknown to even me. From what I've been told, he didn't utilize those either." His pale gaze turned direct. "I'm sure you were given similar contingencies."

Sidney turned to me in surprise, and I had to dig my fingernails into my palm to fight a telltale blush—a curse of my auburn-hued hair I'd had to find creative ways to circumvent. For Mr. Finnegan was correct. There was a librarian in Capel Street I could call upon—but only under the direst of circumstances—and a seemingly innocuous address near Hampstead Heath outside London I could post a letter to. Truthfully, I'd considered the idea of attempting to convince this librarian to act as a letterbox for certain messages so that they need not all go through Finnegan and the Bank of Ireland, but I'd not yet decided whether that course of action was either feasible or for the best.

Regardless, I'd not informed Sidney of either. Not because I didn't trust him, but because it had been impressed upon me that these were instructions for me alone. Which had led me to believe Sidney had been issued similar separate instructions. But perhaps I'd been wrong.

In any case, I couldn't refute Finnegan's assertion. Alec's failure to contact C in any other way was not an encouraging sign. Even if he'd been sent to another county he might have managed to post a letter.

Or maybe not. After all, he might have been sent to a rural area with nothing but small towns, where everyone knew each other's business, including that of strangers. If he posted a letter to England from such a backwater, everyone would know about it, and that would instantly place him under suspicion.

I felt frustration bubbling up inside me. "Then you have no better idea where he is than we do."

He began to shake his head, as a thought occurred to me.

"Do you have the address where he was lodging?"

"I have an address," Finnegan qualified, and then squashed any hopes I held. "But it's doubtful he's stayed there since the early days of his arrival in Dublin. Not regularly anyway. Many of the members of the IRA and Sinn Féin, particularly their leaders, move about frequently, catching sleep where they can. Those who don't either risk arrest or are among the more moderate members of their movement. As such, they're perfectly aware that the government allows them to remain free in hopes their influence will curb the radicals' more extreme impulses."

Finnegan looked from me to Sidney and back again, his mouth pursing in displeasure. "Frankly, I don't know why you were sent here."

I frowned, startled by his bluntness.

"I don't see how there's anything you can do. You're certainly not going to take up MacAlister's efforts, and you're too well-known to be of much use gathering intelligence."

Though I was tempted to make some acerbic comment, I bit my tongue. He wasn't the first person to underestimate me, and it was doubtful he would be the last. And in the end, their foolish disregard always worked to my advantage. Let him believe what he wished. He would soon learn better.

But Sidney wasn't so accustomed to being underrated. "Well, now, that's not your purview, is it?" Sidney remarked drolly, though his dark blue eyes glinted with irritation. "So why don't you let us worry about that, and you focus on"—he glanced to the side dismissively—"whatever it is you do here."

If Finnegan had taken offense, he didn't show it, but as we began to gather ourselves to go, he halted us. "There is one more thing." From the twist of his lips and the manner in which he scrutinized me, I could tell that whatever it was didn't exactly please him. "I believe Alec left you a message."

I sat upright.

"Why didn't you say anything sooner?" Sidney demanded.

"I was working my way around to it," he said.

We both scowled as he rose from his chair and crossed the room toward a set of file cabinets. Reaching into his pocket, he extracted a set of keys which he used to unlock one of the drawers. He extracted something before closing and relocking the drawer. When he returned to his desk, he set a small metal box before me. Affixed to its front were four dials with numbers. If spun to the right number combination, the box would open. A combination that, presumably, I was supposed to know.

I looked up at Mr. Finnegan in question, for surely, he had more instructions for me.

He sank into his chair, his jaw set in stern lines. "MacAlister said to tell you that the combination is the date you first saw Collins."

I heaved an aggravated sigh. The cheeky blackguard! I could have cheerfully strangled Alec right about then. Leave it to him to word his clue so that it would stir up trouble for me. He could have simply said it was the date we'd last met, but apparently that wasn't controversial enough. No wonder Finnegan was eyeing me with mild censure, and the manner in which Sidney's right knee jogged up and down communicated how displeased he was to discover yet one more fact I'd failed to share with him.

But I didn't defend myself to either man. Not then. Not when doing so would just make me look guiltier. Instead, I lifted the box into my lap to input the date in late October when Alec and I had seen Collins striding away from Downing Street with two of his intelligence officers, up to some sort of mischief, no doubt. I had been attired in my fashionable garb, and Alec had rightly pointed out that I was too conspicuous, so he'd set off to tail Collins and his men through the streets of London alone. But not before ensuring I noted all three men, particularly Collins. At the time, I'd thought it peculiar that Alec was so insistent. As if he'd believed someday I would need to identify him. Now, it seemed alarmingly prescient, and not a little unsettling. Especially since that was the last time Alec and I had spoken.

The lock snicked open, and I lifted the lid, staring down in bafflement at what was inside. Sidney leaned closer to see, but Mr. Finnegan waited for me to lift the key from the box to show him. A sensation of déjà vu settled over me, and I realized this was the second time Sidney and I had unearthed a key from a metal box, though this time the unearthing was merely metaphorical. Last time, we had literally dug a battered golf ball tin from the ground in Norfolk to find a key Max's father, the late Lord Ryde, had buried there for him to find. We had yet to discover what that key was for, but the fact it had been found during a hunt to find the proof Lord Ryde had hidden of Lord Ardmore's perfidy, a hunt that had led us to one of the barrels of phosgene cylinders Ardmore had endeavored to have smuggled to Ireland, led us to believe it was important.

Alec had also been there in Norfolk when we'd uncovered the key, I recalled. Which was where he'd gotten the notion for this little ploy, no doubt. Except I hadn't the foggiest idea what this key opened either.

Fortunately, Finnegan did. "If I'm not mistaken, that is the key to Mr. MacAlister's safe deposit box," he informed us with a puzzled frown.

I could tell he was entertaining the same question I was. Why the complexity? Why two locked boxes when surely one would have served? Unless he hadn't trusted his messenger.

Finnegan's frown deepened and he rose again from his chair. "Come with me."

He led us back through the labyrinth of offices and down into the depths of the building where the space around us echoed with our footsteps. With a nod and a word, he guided us past a guard and into a room lined with walls of little doors, each one affixed with a gold-plated number and two slots for keys. Most of the boxes appeared rather shiny and new, but there was one section on the right that looked tarnished and rather old. The metal was more ornate but scratched in places, and the key holes were larger.

"We've recently upgraded our boxes," Mr. Finnegan explained, noting my interest. "Though we've retained a few of our older boxes for loyal customers who have not yet come into the bank to move their belongings to a new one." He swiveled to look at me. "MacAlister's would be among the new boxes. There should be a number inscribed on the key which corresponds to the correct box."

Locating this, I read the numbers aloud.

Finnegan approached the bank of boxes in the far-left corner and slid what appeared to be a master key of sorts into one of the slots. "You'll need to insert yours in the other slot."

I did so, finding the key slid easily into place, and then I turned it.

Finnegan stepped forward to open the door, sliding the lock box from inside. Then he swiveled to set it on the table behind us.

This was not the first time I'd used a safe deposit box, so I knew it was protocol for the bank employee to withdraw in order for the patron to view or retrieve their items in privacy. I suspected Finnegan prided himself on his professionalism, and yet I could read the indecision on his face. He wanted to remain, to discover what Alec had concealed inside. In the end, his professionalism won out.

His nostrils flared as he stepped back from the table. "I shall leave you to it." Then he turned away and strode quickly from the room, almost as if fleeing the devil himself.

"Had he been in the Garden of Eden in place of Adam, I don't think he would have taken the fruit," Sidney quipped, apparently having also noticed how tempted Mr. Finnegan had been.

I elbowed him lightly in the ribs. "With a remark like that, you'd fit right in with the irreverence of those Twelve Apostles."

He rubbed his side as if I'd actually injured him and I shook my head, turning my focus to the box before me. All I needed to do was lift the lid to see what was inside, but for some reason I hesitated. It being Alec who'd deposited the contents, it really could be anything. Though I had to think there was a good reason for his secrecy.

In my mind, I could see Alec on that last day in London when we'd parted ways, he to shadow Collins and his men—as he'd been doing in one way or another since—and me to return to Sidney. His dark eyes had burned with an uncomfortable intensity, as if searing my features into his memory as I'd told him to be safe. I'd wondered then, as I wondered now, if he'd believed our goodbye might be permanent. And if so, how permanent?

I inhaled a shallow breath, trying to remove the notion from my thoughts, but it clung like a burr.

"Just open it, Ver," Sidney coaxed gently.

I nodded, deeply grateful for his solid presence at my back.

The lid opened with a click that seemed overloud in the silent chamber. Just as the safe deposit box seemed overlarge when I looked inside to discover naught but a small, folded piece of foolscap. I lifted it out, my heart rising into my throat as I gingerly unfolded the paper to read Alec's near illegible scrawl.

I knew if I disappeared they would send you after me. Just as I knew that you would come.

Go home, Verity. This isn't Belgium. If I'm missing, then I'm dead or as good as. So go home. Forget me. Live your life and be happy. That's all I want. If you feel guilty, name your firstborn son after me, and we'll call it even.

But don't get involved. This isn't your fight. And catching Ardmore isn't worth your life.

Kent, make her go.

Reading over my shoulder, Sidney snorted, presumably at the firstborn son part, but I could find little humor in the missive. Not when even Alec seemed to believe that whatever his fate had been, it was dire. It was all I could do not to weep.