“Here in London.”
“And who else part-owns it?”
“Two chaps from my battalion who-”
“Fine. It’s about time the Bureau had the use of a car. Tell them it’s being repaired in Scotland. Any questions?”
A bit dazed, P asked: “Are you going to show these letters to Major Dagner, sir?”
“What letters? I haven’t seen any letters. But . . . you won’t be much use to us until you learn not to get into trouble that’s going to catch up with you.”
In other words, solve life’s greatest problem by teatime tomorrow. Oh well . . . he had a feeling that Dagner might take the whole thing too seriously. And the Commander? He just couldn’t tell.
But it all added up to a long day and when he finally got down to the flat, he ignored the sherry and poured himself a serious whisky. He hadn’t even finished Personal weapons. But that was something he should consult O’Gilroy about, anyway.
O’Gilroy hadn’t meant to lose his followers. Not quite – just make it difficult for them. But they had obeyed only half his order to “stay back and think ahead” and missed the gap in the Piccadilly traffic that let him cross safely and unsuspiciously. So now . . . But it wasn’t, he told himself, something he could be absolutely sure about. Maybe they had suddenly got the hang of it, become invisible and were still shadowing him. So he had to play the game out. He kept going, but headed north from Piccadilly Circus to explore some Soho streets he didn’t know himself.
He was used to cities and their abrupt boundaries that let you go from high fashion to crumbling poverty in the length of a breath. The few steps that took him into Soho were like that, but different. Entering Soho, he seemed to have gone from England to Europe: here he was being jostled by French-speakers, Germans, Italians and politely avoided by Chinese. But no student spies. Past episodes of being a wanted man had given O’Gilroy an acute sense of when he was being followed, and there was no sign of . . .
But there was somebody.
A slightly shorter man in a wide cloth cap, hands thrust deep into the pockets of a donkey jacket. Turning a corner confirmed that he was following, and glancing both ways before crossing the street gave a glimpse of his face. O’Gilroy knew him: Patrick, Patrick something, from down Broad Lane way in Cork. And definitely one of the ‘boyos’ whom Ranklin had feared. Moreover, making no attempt at subtlety, but grimly plodding along behind.
O’Gilroy still had choices: he could run. Or just just hurry back to Piccadilly and hail a taxi. But perhaps it was best to try and bluff it out, settle the matter with a lie, and if that didn’t work, well, it was just one man and smaller than himself. But one choice he didn’t have was killing Patrick. He couldn’t have explained why, but would have thought anyone who asked for an explanation very odd indeed.
A few yards further was a narrow alleyway leading to a courtyard behind the buildings. O’Gilroy turned in, and waited in the deepest shadow, so Patrick would be outlined against the bright street behind.
Patrick stumped around the corner, stopped and said: “Good day to ye, Conall O’Gilroy – or did ye change yer name along wid the colour av yer soul?”
This, O’Gilroy realised, is going to need one hell of a lie. “Have ye got a message for me?” he demanded.
He couldn’t see if Patrick was surprised, since his face was shadowed, but he paused. Then he said: “We have that,” and glanced back as another, larger, figure turned into the alley behind him. “Me and Eamon. Right here in our pockets.”
How in hell did I miss the second one? But he knew just how: over-confident once he’d spotted Patrick’s open following, he hadn’t thought of Eamon moving less conspicuously, well back and on the other side of the street. Yet it was a trick he’d been teaching the two recruits half an hour ago. Now he longed for a miracle in which they found him again in the nick of time – but an angel swooping down to carry him off was more likely. Far more likely, if you believed the priests.
Patrick took out a short knife. “Mebbe ye’ll take a message yerself-” Behind him, Eamon made the same movement.
His only luck seemed to be that they weren’t carrying guns, but neither was he. Legally he could have done so, particularly since he was now a ‘gentleman’ at least by trade, but London had seemed safe enough, and a gun in the pocket was suspicious. All he had was his walking-stick.
“To yer dead nephew Michael-”
To Ranklin a stick was just a gentleman’s accountrement like a pair of gloves; he had never even thought of including it among ‘personal weapons’. But at least O’Gilroy had. His wasn’t a sword-stick or loaded in any way; like a pistol, such things could arouse suspicion. So it was just an ordinary silver-knobbed stick except that where the brass ferrule had worn and split he hadn’t closed the jagged break.
“-yez can tell him rest easy. He’s been revenged.”
Now O’Gilroy gripped the stick across his body, one hand at each end. It almost touched the walls at either side, leaving no room for sideways swipes. But that was why he hadn’t run for the unknown but certainly more open courtyard behind. Here there was no room for the two to come at him together; one had to lead and it was Eamon, the big one. He probably wasn’t a knife-fighter, just a knife-killer, but there was no stagey overhead stuff, either: he held the blade properly flat and underhand as he edged forward.
O’Gilroy let go with his left hand and jabbed towards Eamon’s midriff. Eamon didn’t bother with his knife, just tried to grab the stick with his free hand, and almost got it. He moved fast for a big man.
O’Gilroy took a step back and resumed his two-handed grip. Eamon feinted a lunge to test O’Gilroy’s response: he just pushed the stick forward to block. Eamon lunged further, expecting to hit the stick and slash sideways along it to cut O’Gilroy’s left hand. But O’Gilroy let go with his right, flipped the knife further aside, then stepped in and banged his right palm into Eamon’s face.
The big man bounced against the wall, blinking angrily – but didn’t drop the knife. And seeing an opening, Pat scurried past him, ducked as O’Gilroy threw his back to the wall and slashed with the stick, and went right on past.
Now O’Gilroy was surrounded.
He jabbed with the stick to keep Eamon unbalanced, and charged at Pat before he got into his stance, holding the stick like a lunging sword. It missed, he felt the knife slash and catch in his jacket, then he sprawled over Pat, flattening him.
Maybe Pat was winded, certainly he was slowed. O’Gilroy twisted onto his knees, slashed the jagged ferrule across Pat’s forehead, then grabbed for his knife arm. Pat screeched and let go the knife. O’Gilroy fumbled for it as he looked up for Eamon, cut his hand but had it before the bigger man reached them.
“Move an inch and I cut his fucking head off!” He tried to snarl it, but it came out panting.
Eamon stopped. “And yer own wid it.”
By now O’Gilroy had his left forearm across Pat’s throat from behind, soaking his sleeve in the man’s dripping blood. “Mebbe. But I’m done fighting the both of yez. If yer still want to kill me, it’s with him dead, and that’s plain sense.”
Pat wriggled, O’Gilroy tightened his grip and jabbed the knife right on the edge of Pat’s cheekbone, an inch from his eye. One push, two inches deep, and . . . Pat went very still, breathing fast and very shallow.
Eamon took a heavy breath himself. “Let him loose and I swear on me mother’s grave-”
“Shut up.” O’Gilroy eased from a crouch to a bend and began slowly dragging Pat backwards. “And stand yer ground,” he added as Eamon followed.
After perhaps three yards, the alley opened into a long cobbled yard, overlooked by the backs of two dozen small buildings, but with nobody in sight. Just a stack of old timber and a couple of hand-carts.