Northern Spy by Berry, Flynn (free ebooks for android .TXT) 📕

“Why?” asks Damian.

“His charity,” says Seamus. Lord Maitland is an aristocrat, with a vast Palladian manor in the Cotswolds. He’s in line for the throne, technically, mounted somewhere in the order of succession.

Seamus says, “He has a holiday home here. He told Newsnight he has a soft spot for Ireland.”

Niall snorts. And the statement does sound disingenuous. Not this Ireland, presumably. Not this bar, this neighborhood, these people. He means the countryside, the glens, the Cliffs of Moher.

“Jesus, how long has he been coming here?” asks Damian. “Why didn’t we know?”

They talk about targeting Maitland, and I listen without any sense of alarm. He seems so far outside their sphere of activity. A seventy-six-year-old man, an earl. They aren’t about to cross paths. Someone with that much money and privilege is unreachable.

I’m much more worried about the police officers in Saintfield. They’re under a credible threat, Maitland isn’t, and they will have to evade it without taking refuge in a gated manor in England, or a team of private bodyguards.

“Where’s his holiday home?” asks Damian.

“I don’t know,” says Seamus.

Damian says, “I’ll find out what he told Colette.”

The rim of my glass cracks against my teeth. Marian’s eyes move to mine, willing me not to speak. “Colette McHugh?” she says quickly, covering for me, drawing the table’s attention. “I thought she wasn’t political.”

“Everyone’s political,” Seamus muses. “Saying you’re not political is political.”

He might not answer the question. Under the table, out of sight, I press both hands against my stomach. Colette is one of my best friends. She has been the makeup artist at the BBC since I started. We’ve seen each other every day for years, we’ve spent hours on tea breaks together, or at lunch, or at the pub around the corner.

“She’s in D company,” says Damian through a mouthful of smoke. “Ballymurphy.”

Looking at me, Seamus says, “We have Broadcasting House sorted.”

“Are there others?” I ask, and Seamus winks, lifting his pint.

Almost every major politician has passed through Colette’s studio. And they talk to her. Their protection officers always wait outside, it’s the one place where they’re left alone. Most of the politicians seize the chance to have a normal chat with Colette. She says that having their faces touched or their hair brushed makes them trust her. And, she says, people are embarrassed. They point to their bad skin or the dark circles under their eyes, and then offer an explanation.

I wonder how many blackmailings and assassinations over the years have been based on information from her.

Colette will have seen to Lord Maitland before his appearance on Newsnight. She will have sponged makeup onto his soft, jowly face, tilting him toward the light. She will have instructed him to close his eyes, and he will have talked to her, blindly, while she worked.

“Can you go talk to Colette now?” asks Seamus. “I want to know how long Maitland is in Ireland.”

Damian drains his pint and leaves. Soon the rest of us have finished our drinks, and Marian says, “I’ll walk you to your car.”

Outside on the wet street, I say, “How could you not tell me about Colette?”

“I didn’t know.”

“But Damian did.”

“Other units borrow him sometimes.”

“Is there anyone else? Nicholas? Tom? Our mam? Can you just tell me all of them now?”

She says, “I’m sorry. I know you were close.” I fold my arms, and she says, “The IRA didn’t send me to pose as an informer, I promise. I swear on Finn’s life.”

“But you would say that, wouldn’t you?” I say, without knowing if I mean it or only want to hurt her.

“Stop it, Tessa,” she snaps. She’s furious with me, I realize, and hurt. “We need to stay together now, okay? You need to believe me.”

She sounds more like herself, in this moment, than she has for months. “I believe you.”

—

Eamonn curses when I tell him about Colette. “We have to leave her in place,” he says. “Or the IRA will know our information came from you and Marian.”

“Colette can’t be left there. Do you know how easily she could kill someone in that room?”

That might be their endgame, to wait until the prime minister is in her studio, or the home secretary.

Eamonn says extra security measures will be used. The studio will be bugged, presumably, and the lock will be disabled, so Colette can’t bolt it from inside.

—

When my burner phone rings early the next morning, I don’t want to answer. I want to fling it against the wall. Seamus says, “Did I wake you?”

“No.”

He did wake Finn, though, and I hold the phone against my shoulder while lifting him from his crib.

“Colette learned that Maitland will be at his friend’s house in Mallow this week,” he says, and I feel vindicated. Maitland is already gone, swept away by his power and connections, out of reach. Mallow is in the republic, five hours south of us. “But he’ll be spending the weekend at his holiday home in Glenarm. He told Colette he wants to sail one last time before putting his boat in dry dock for the winter. We’re going to bomb the boat.”

Seamus describes the harbor, the sailboat, and the location of Maitland’s home, on a hill above the village. “We need you in Glenarm starting on Thursday for surveillance.”

“Of course.”

Afterward, I hold Finn closer, blinking across the room above the top of his head. They want me to help them plant a bomb.

I remember talking with Marian by the lough this summer, when she first asked me to pass messages to Eamonn. “You won’t need to do anything yourself,” she said.

This is my own fault. I should have left with Finn that night.

—

Today Lord Maitland is with his friends in Mallow, where, he told Colette, they will be fishing in the River Blackwater, having long suppers, and playing charades. That is the part I keep returning to. This old man, with his plummy voice, acting out a charade, while my sister and I work to save his life.

His