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

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?”

When I told him about Glenarm, Eamonn told me not to worry, that with our information they would stop the attack. He told me that their presence would be invisible. I need a message from him that everything is still going to plan, that we will emerge from this unharmed.

The loneliness and homesickness overwhelm me. I left Finn only this morning, but it feels like I haven’t held him in weeks. When we said goodbye, I blew him a kiss and Finn tried to imitate me. He pressed his hand to his ear and pulled it away, making a kissing sound.

—

Damian and I spend the hour before dinner reading in armchairs by the fireplace. Other guests come in and either wander out again or join us. They understand us to be a couple. We don’t need to hold hands, thank god, or even speak to each other.

Damian has some scotch, and I watch him carefully note down each of his drinks in the ledger. He’s planning to murder someone tomorrow, but he won’t steal drinks from an honesty bar.

A gong is rung to announce dinner. We have chicken with plums and cognac, roast potatoes, and celeriac. Bottles of red wine are handed down the length of the table and poured into cut-crystal glasses. After the main course, we’re served a chocolate chestnut pavlova, then cheese and fruit.

Past the dining-room windows is a deep, countryside darkness. I feel every mile separating me from my home. The control required to accurately pitch my voice and expressions is about to desert me. I can feel it going, can feel myself starting to plunge.

A grandfather clock chimes in the hall. I remind myself that Finn is in his crib now at his father’s house. It’s easier to be away from him during the hours when he is asleep.

Some of the other guests are English or American. English and American tourists don’t come to the north anymore, but apparently they’ve been coming here, all this time. When the woman next to me learns where I’m from, she expresses astonishment that the postage is the same to mail a letter from her house in Oxford to London as to Belfast. “Well, we’re part of the same country,” I say, and she smiles politely.

Her husband turns to Damian. “How is the situation in the north?”

Damian pauses, finishing his mouthful of food. The whole table waits. “We’ve been lucky,” he says, placing his hand on mine. “The conflict really hasn’t affected either of us.”

The Englishman looks pleased, like Damian has supplied the right answer. He says, “Ordinary people stay out of that mess.”

“That’s right,” says Damian. “Very few people are actively involved.”

“Every place has some bad apples,” says the Englishman, and Damian smiles. “What’s your line of work?”

“Private investment,” says Damian.

“Oh, what sort?”

“Futures trading.”

—

Once the bedroom door closes behind us, Damian calls Seamus. “Did you talk to the ghillie?” he asks. There is a pause, then he says, “Grand,” and cradles the phone against his shoulder while writing down a note. Seamus says something on the other end, and Damian laughs. “Well, say a prayer.”

“What’s a ghillie?” I ask.

“A fishing guide,” says Damian. “Maitland’s group has been using one all week, and we know where he’s taking them tomorrow. Seamus paid him a grand. He said he wanted to pap Maitland.”

“Pap?”

“Photograph. Royal paparazzi pay for tips all the time.” Damian sounds disdainful, like photographing Maitland would be more degrading than killing him.

The ghillie will bring the group to a certain point on the Blackwater, where the river broadens and underwater boulders form a natural pool, to catch brown trout. Lord Maitland will be exposed. And the sound of the river, the light on its surface, will distract him. He will be standing up to his thighs in water, and from the opposite bank Damian