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

pressed to my neck. I don’t want to put him down in his crib. Instead, I make a wall of pillows down the side of the bed, and sleep curled around his body. In the night, he sometimes flings a small, warm hand against my face.

—

A sound wakes me before dawn. Rain is falling on the roof. I can hear it pattering on the tiles and the downpipes. In the kitchen, I switch on the radio for the weather. It’s Thursday, I’m meant to leave for Glenarm this morning. Seamus plans to assassinate Lord Maitland on Saturday, detonating the bomb as soon as he sails his boat out into the harbor.

The forecast comes on, and I listen with a hand at my heart. “A storm will bring heavy rain and strong wind across Northern Ireland, causing storm surges in coastal areas and flooding on low-lying roads. A travel advisory has been issued through the weekend, with weather conditions expected to worsen.”

The center of the storm is somewhere over the Atlantic, hundreds of miles away. This rain is only its opening salvo, and it will strengthen over the coming days. Seamus calls me to the safe house in west Belfast for an emergency meeting. When I arrive, Damian, Niall, and Marian look miserable. The safe house feels damp, despite the gas heater.

“They’re calling it a hurricane,” says Damian.

“It won’t be a hurricane,” says Marian.

“It might as well be.”

“Cillian would like us to proceed anyway,” says Seamus, and the rest of us turn to him.

“That’s mad. Maitland’s not after going sailing in a hurricane,” says Niall.

“No. We don’t know if he will come north at all, but we do know where he is today and tomorrow, so we’ll go to him.”

“How are we meant to cross the border?” asks Marian.

“You’re not,” says Seamus. He points at me and Damian. “They are.” My head drains, like I’ve stood up too fast. “Neither of you is known to the police. You’ll be a couple having a weekend away.” Seamus has already made a reservation for us at Ballyrane, a country house hotel near Mallow. “We know that Maitland’s group is going to be trout fishing.”

“In the rain?” asks Marian.

“It won’t be raining there. The storm’s coming across the north.”

“And what are we meant to do?” asks Damian.

“A sniper attack,” says Seamus, and I feel myself sink. Seamus turns over his watch. “It’s a long drive, you should leave now. Marian can lend you clothes, can’t she?”

I follow Marian upstairs, where she takes down a bag and begins to fold in jeans and a jumper. Through the open door, the others are talking downstairs. I grab Marian’s wrist. “I can’t do this.”

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