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  Connolly sat in the tiny downstairs living room, watching the street outside, waiting for the kettle to boil in the kitchen next door. He could hear Leeson moving around in the bedroom overhead. Twice he stumbled. Once there was a squeal of bedsprings. Then the slow clump-clump of footsteps downstairs, and the fumble of fingertips on the lock of the door of the ground-floor bathroom. Already, he sounded like an old man.

  Connolly glanced round. The place looked shabby and forlorn, smelling faintly of stale cheese. There were newspapers strewn haphazardly on the floor, circling the armchair where Leeson evidently spent most of his time. Connolly picked one up. It was in Spanish. Entitled La Prensa, it was datelined Buenos Aires, octubre 13, barely a month old. Two articles on the front page were ringed in heavy red Pentel. There was a picture of a naval admiral, and an advert for Marlboro cigarettes. Connolly replaced the paper on the floor. Beside the fireplace were a pair of slippers and a saucer of milk. The milk had pooled in lumps in the middle of the saucer and there were yellowing tide marks around the edge.

  Next door, in the kitchen, the kettle began to boil. Connolly stepped through. The draining board was littered with unwashed plates. Looking for sugar, Connolly found nothing but tins of cheap cat food and empty boxes of Anadin. Giving up on the sugar, he tore open two tiny catering sachets of instant coffee, loot from some distant hotel bedroom, and tipped the thin brown powder into two mugs. He was still stirring the boiling water when Leeson appeared at the door. He had a cheroot in one hand and a bottle of brandy in the other. He was wearing a red dressing-gown. Connolly recognized the stitch patterns on the quilted lapels, and the swirl of dragons as Leeson dismissed the coffee with a wave and led Connolly back into the living room.

  There were two glasses on the table, a crystal tumbler and a toothmug. Leeson waved the bottle wordlessly at Connolly. Connolly nodded. Leeson tipped the brandy into the crystal tumbler and nudged it towards. Connolly with his elbow. Connolly caught the tumbler before it fell onto the floor. He licked the splash of brandy off the back of his hand. Leeson filled the toothmug with brandy, holding it up to the light, examining the pale Armagnac through the smeared glass. Connolly could smell soap, something expensive, doubtless another souvenir from the same hotel bedroom. The man must have washed all over. Old habits die hard.

  “Well?” he said softly, tipping his own glass in salute.

  Leeson caught the invitation in his voice. He lifted his head a moment, narrowing his eyes, the gourmet diner contemplating the meal of his dreams.

  “Well?” he countered.

  Connolly swallowed a mouthful of Armagnac. The stuff hurt.

  “You were going to tell me,” he said, “about that lousy job you’ve got.”

  Leeson nodded. There was a long silence. Connolly pulled at the brandy again. The glass was already half empty. His eyes began to water. Leeson watched him carefully, and then smiled. The old routine. The long surrender. Connolly pulled the glass towards him. Mairead, he thought. Her smile. Her smell. The secrets that lay beyond her. Leeson reached for the bottle and tipped it carefully over Connolly’s glass. Connolly watched the glass fill, remembering the first time with Mairead, the only time with Mairead, how young her body was, how old the rest of her. Leeson corked the bottle, and pushed it to one side. After the third glass, as they both knew, nothing much would matter.

  “I’m flattered,” he said, “that you’re still interested.”

  “I am.”

  “Why?”

  “Because …” Connolly shrugged. “Does it matter?”

  “Yes,” Leeson nodded, “it does.”

  Connolly swallowed hard. He knew what Leeson wanted, some small intimation that he cared, a scrap of affection to garnish the next few hours. Always, between them, it had seemed a simple courtesy, the verbal equivalent of a good wash. Now, though, it clearly mattered. Connolly looked at him, saying nothing. In two years, the man had aged a decade. The hair was thinning. The eyes had sunk. He looked old, disappointed, worn out. His hands trembled slightly as he toyed with the toothmug. He’d cut his chin shaving, the blood still fresh. Connolly reached for his hand, hearing his own voice, surprised at the way words came out.

  “I care about you,” he said, “if that matters.”

  Leeson sat absolutely motionless. No physical response whatsoever.

  “It does,” he said, “a great deal.”

  Connolly nodded. “Then tell me what you want to tell me. I’m here to listen.”

  Connolly stayed for two days with Leeson, phoning Mairead from a call box on the first morning and asking her to contact the University.

  “Tell them I’m ill,” he said, “say I’ll be back next week.”

  “Are you ill?”

  “Yes. Sort of.”

  “What’s the matter?”

  “Nothing much. I get it from time to time. It’s nothing serious.”

  He said goodbye and put the phone down, savouring the small truth of his excuse.

  Back at Leeson’s house, he stored the quart carton of milk in the fridge and made a fresh pot of tea. Then he took the tea, and the copy of The Times he’d bought with the milk, up to Leeson’s bedroom. Leeson was lying on his side with his back to the door. Naked, the man was diminished even more, physically somehow slighter. Connolly had noticed it the previous evening. He’d lost the small folds of flesh around his midriff. His rib cage had begun to show, and his chest was purpled with a curious rash. His legs, once well muscled, were thinner. His libido had gone, too, the old appetites so easily sated that they’d both been asleep by midnight.

  Now, Connolly put the tea tray carefully onto the bed. Leeson grunted, reaching automatically for his glasses and rolling over onto one elbow. Connolly decanted tea into two mugs and gestured at the bag of sugar. Leeson nodded.

  “Please,” he said, yawning.

  Connolly spooned the sugar into Leeson’s tea. Then he uncapped the bottle of Anadin he’d found in the kitchen, and shook two onto the tray. Leeson swallowed them without a word, closing his eyes as he did so. The previous evening, before coming to bed, he’d talked at length about the Falkland Islands, a colonial relic off the coast of Argentina. Much of it was incoherent, and from time to time he’d lapsed into Spanish, scrabbling amongst the piles of La Prensa, indicating this article or that. Connolly had done his best to follow the argument, understanding at the very least that Leeson believed that trouble lay in store. Quite what shape this trouble would take was far from clear, but what became very evident was the gap between Leeson, his colleagues in the South American Department, and their political masters. Time and again, Leeson would break off a sentence, and shake his head, and nod at the newspapers scattered at his feet, a small gesture of despair. They don’t understand, he’d say. They have the facts, and they will not act.

  Later, in the darkened hall, one foot on the stairs, he’d paused. The real trouble, he said, was the political process. Whichever party, whatever government, the politicians will not act. He’d said it twice, inviting a response. Connolly had obliged.

  “Why not?” he’d said.

  Leeson had turned to him in the darkness, the expression on his face invisible. Then he’d laughed, a brisk, derisive bark of laughter, before resuming his way upstairs. None the wiser, Connolly had followed him. Before they’d put the light out, he’d heard Leeson’s cat, padding around on the newspapers in the living room, circling the bowl of rancid milk.

  The teapot empty, Leeson got carefully out of bed, shrugged his way into the red silk dressing-gown, and walked across to the window. He pulled back the curtains and gazed down at the street. Connolly watched him from the bed.

  “It’s Wednesday,” he pointed out. “Aren’t you going to work?”

  Leeson shook his head. “No.”

  “Why not? Are you on leave?”

  “No.”

  “Sick?”

  There was a long silence, then Leeson turned back into the room, letting the dressing-gown part as he did so. Connol
ly looked, at once understanding Leeson’s lack of verbal response. Sick or otherwise, the next few minutes were spoken for. For a moment, he wondered about saying no, about offering some excuse or other, about pleading some pressing appointment of his own, and then he remembered again about Mairead, about the neat little council house up in Andersonstown, and about the long slow years when nothing much seemed to matter, and how different it was now, now that he had something to believe in.

  He looked up and managed the beginnings of a smile, lying back in the bed as Leeson stepped out of the dressing-gown and pulled back the sheet. The last thing Connolly registered before he closed his eyes was the rash on Leeson’s chest. There was more of it than he’d thought. It had begun to cover his upper arms, too.

  They began to talk seriously that afternoon, on a bench in Battersea Park, Leeson clad in his thick camel-hair coat against a chill wind off the river. Connolly beside him, freezing.

  “You’ll know what ‘PV’ means,” Leeson said, “with that nice degree of yours.”

  Connolly shook his head.

  “No,” he said.

  “It means Positive Vetting. They ask you lots of questions. You tell them everything. It’s a Civil Service speciality.” He glanced across at Connolly. “It’s called Security. It’s meant to make you a very safe person to have around.”

  “And does it work?”

  “No. But that’s not the point.” He patted Connolly on the thigh and smiled. “There are various things, character traits, they don’t much like. One of them is this …” he nodded down at his hand, still circling Connolly’s thigh.

  Connolly nodded. “Why’s that?”

  Leeson shrugged. “They think it makes you a liability overseas. They worry about blackmail. Buggery’s strictly for the boys back home. We play it straight.”

  “So what happens if …”

  “They find out?”

  “Exactly.”

  Leeson smiled, and drew a gloved finger across his throat.

  “Out,” he said. “Finis. Terminé. Kaput.”

  “Really? Bit radical, isn’t it?”

  “Very.”

  “So what have you told them? So far?”

  “Nothing.”

  “But they have asked you?”

  “Of course.”

  “And you’ve lied?”

  “Every time.”

  “Is that wise?”

  Leeson smiled again. “It’s second nature,” he said, “you lie for your country. You lie for yourself.” He shrugged. “It becomes a habit.”

  Connolly frowned, trying to keep pace with Leeson’s logic. Leeson gazed at him, almost sympathetic.

  “For a history don, you’re remarkably naïve,” he said at last. “Diplomacy, my friend, relies on the selective suppression of the truth. We are, at bottom, deeply subversive. We smile a lot. We bend arms. And, on occasions, we lie. That’s what we’re paid for. That’s why we’re so good at it. And that’s why Positive Vetting is a joke.”

  “But they’ll know already, surely?”

  “About what? Precisely?”

  “You. Me.” Connolly shrugged. “Whoever else.”

  Leeson looked at him for a moment, the old opacity back in his eyes.

  “No,” he said at last, “they’ll know nothing.” He paused. “I’ve girlfriends, too, in case you’re wondering.” He glanced across at Connolly. “Does that disappoint you?”

  Connolly said nothing. There was a barge on the river, pushing upstream against the ebb tibe, shoulders of brown water folding back from the stubby bow. What Leeson was saying made perfect sense. He’d never felt able to enquire before, always taking his cue from the older man, his curiosity constrained by the years between them, but he’d always supposed that Leeson’s problem was sheer appetite. The man was simply greedy for it. Life was a game. Victor Ludorum conquers all, regardless of gender. He glanced across at the older man.

  “How often do they do this … PV?”

  “Every year or so. Routinely before the offer of an overseas posting.”

  “And?”

  Leeson was silent for a moment. The front half of the barge had disappeared beneath Battersea Bridge.

  “Next week,” he said at last. “They want to send me to Washington.”

  “Good move?”

  “Excellent move.” He paused. “The best.”

  Connolly nodded. “So what’s the problem?”

  Leeson pursed his lips, pondering the proposition. His face, pinched by the cold, had sagged even further. Abruptly, Connolly realized they’d reached the heart of it. The man wanted to go to Washington. His career had taken off. Yet something, by the look on his face, had gone terribly wrong. So here it was. The missing piece. The answer to Mairead’s prayers. He reached across and put his hand on Leeson’s. Instinctively, Leeson withdrew. Connolly mumbled an apology. Leeson shook his head, a gesture of mute irritation. There was a long silence. Finally he cleared his throat.

  “A year ago, I had a … little fling,” he began, “nothing serious. Lots of action. Very pleasant, in fact.”

  “And?”

  Leeson glanced across. “He was American. It lasted a couple of months. Sometimes here. Sometimes his place. New York.” He paused. “He phoned me last week.”

  “And?”

  “He’s had a mystery disease. Nothing the medics can identify. Nothing specific. But he thought it best I know.”

  Connolly frowned, thinking of the blotches again, the dry, persistent cough, the rheumy eyes.

  “Is it serious?” he said.

  “Yes.”

  “How is he?”

  “He’s dying.”

  “Ah …”

  Connolly looked away, not knowing quite what to say. Leeson was silent for a moment. Then he smiled, a thin cold smile.

  “This disease …” He glanced across at Connolly.

  “Yes?”

  “I understand it may be infectious.” He paused. “They’re calling it ‘gay plague’. Rather picturesque, don’t you think?”

  Connolly looked at him for a moment, feeling the chill steal towards his own heart. Then he looked away. The barge had quite gone.

  THREE

  Scullen met the Chief at the edge of Ballyliffin Strand, the tide half a mile out, not a soul on the long, lonely stretch of beach. The Chief had come down from Derry, slipping across the border on an unadopted road, accompanied by two bodyguards. He limped over the sand, and shook the older man by the hand.

  “Padraig,” he murmured.

  He’d known Scullen for a decade, the shadowed bony face, the carefully parted hair, the stiff, slightly awkward walk, the affection for dark suits and well-polished shoes, the grim – slightly morbid – sense of humour. Others in the movement said he was eccentric, a washed-up relic from an older Republicanism, but the Chief had immense respect for him, the brain on the man, his ideas, his originality, his uncanny knack of finding new answers to old problems. The Chief knew that the decision to offer him command of the England Department had been – in its way – a stroke of genius, and in two busy years Scullen had produced some remarkable results, the only currency that ever mattered.

  Now, the Chief pulled the thin anorak around him, stamping the chill from his feet. The weather in Donegal was rarely warm, but this morning was especially bleak. The wind blew in from the Atlantic, driving the sand ankle high across the beach. Even the seagulls looked miserable.

  Scullen blew into his cupped hands. An expensive Homburg, pulled low, hid most of his long pale face. He eyed the Chief.

  “You’re well?”

  “Fine.” The Chief nodded up at the cliffs, steep, black, dotted with birds’ nests. “We’re safe here?”

  Scullen nodded, a faint impatience. “Half a dozen men,” he said.

  The Chief peered round. The place looked as empty as ever.

  “Grand,” he said. “So why am I here? Fireworks, is it?”

  Scullen smiled at him, a rare event. The invitatio
n to Ballyliffin had come a week back. There’d been talk of a device, a demonstration. Scullen had recently gone hi-tech, encouraging a small circle of volunteers in Dundalk to adapt bits and pieces of domestic hardware – programming chips from video recorders, timers from washing machines – in the interests of a new kind of war. Scullen’s term for it was pre-emption. It depended on wit, and a certain technical virtuosity, and – above all – surprise. Surprise, he said, was the key to victory. Without surprise, the Brits would – in the end – stiff them all.

  Now, he pointed to a distant rock, standing alone, half a mile down the beach.

  “That,” he said to the Chief, “is her car.”

  The Chief nodded. He liked Scullen. The man had imagination.

  “Sure,” he said, “big fat Daimler.”

  Scullen smiled again, twice in one day. He produced a small black box, plastic, with a dial on the front. He peered closely at the figures on the dial, adjusted it slightly, and gave it to the Chief.

  “This,” he said, “is the fuse.”

  “Fuse?”

  “Blows up the Daimler.”

  “It does?”

  Scullen nodded, indicating a small yellow button below the dial.

  “You press that,” he said. “Bit of a treat.”

  The Chief looked at him a moment, then shrugged. He gazed out, along the beach, towards the rock. His gloved finger found the button. He pressed it. There was an explosion somewhere above and behind them, a serious bang, high on the cliff face. The Chief, no stranger to explosions, instinctively flinched. He looked up. There were seagulls everywhere, flying in high, wide circles. A large wedge of rock, ten, twenty tons, was detaching itself from the cliff face immediately above them, and toppling slowly down. The rock landed in a cloud of dust on the sand, about fifty yards away. Seconds later, he could still feel the ground shaking beneath them. Neither of the two men had moved.

  “Close,” the Chief remarked. “What happened to the Daimler?”

  Scullen nodded vigorously.