The South Lawn Plot

by Ray O'Hanlon

  Walsh smiled. “Eat your dinner or you will,” she said.

  But before Bailey could again attack his steak and kidney pie, Walsh reached across the table and placed her hand on his left arm.

  “But right after you do clean your plate,” he said, “I want you spit out what has been going through your mind ever since we left Ayvebury. You saw something there, I can tell.”

  Bailey, his mouth full, began to speak but Walsh shook her head. “Eat,” she commanded.

  And he did; she, too. They splurged, ordered a bottle of wine to follow the ale, had desserts, and traded stories from each other's childhood.

  To anyone's gaze they were lovers but in truth they were both still holding back. Each, however, could sense the other's growing confidence while a sense of trust, though still in its infancy, was opening doors to other things.

  “Aren't you going to have a cigarette?” said Walsh as they finished the last of the wine.

  “Gave them up,” replied Bailey, examining the wine bottle label.

  “Since when?”

  “Today.”

  “Oh, Christ,” said Walsh, “I'm spending the night with a junkie going through cold turkey. Maybe we should get a second room.”

  It was a little after ten when they adjourned to a room that was modestly furnished, clean and warm. It had a television but they ignored it. Both were exhausted and it was a race into bed. They lay in each other's arms, saying nothing and forgoing lovemaking by a silent agreement that was almost as intimate.

  It was well after midnight when he heard it. Bailey shot up in the bed. Walsh, her back to him, was sleeping soundly. He gave her a nudge, then more of a Push, and she stirred.

  “Somebody's in trouble,” Bailey said. “Jesus, someone's being murdered.”

  “Relax for God's sake,” said Walsh, turning and half sitting up. “It's a fox.”

  “What?”

  “A fox,” Walsh repeated. “I used to spend time in the country when I was a child. My mother's cousin had a farm. They make noises like that, and you're right, sounds like someone is being murdered, but trust me, it's a fox.”

  The sound pierced the night again. “Are you sure?” Sounds like someone is giving up the ghost.”

  “Go back to sleep, Nick. We're not going to have much time for any when we get back to London.”

  Bailey tried, but even after the fox wandered off into a more distant corner of its territory and could not be heard again, he lay awake, his mind turning over various versions of a story beginning with four dead priests, an equally deceased prince of the church, and a rambling old house in the country in which, he was certain, there were answers. The only problem was, he was still only at the stage of formulating the questions.

  He had not been in the least surprised to discover Sydney Small in one of the framed photographs in the part of Ayvebury that served as a wood-paneled gallery of yesteryear filled with pictures of old boys, now much older in life or long gone. Small had told him about his flirtation with Holy Orders during their meeting at the pub. In the photo, which was of a cricket eleven, Small had been seated on the left of the front row. The quality of the photograph had not been great to begin with, and it had faded as a result of years of direct sunlight through a nearby window.

  Bailey wondered if Small might be in mortal danger, like the priests clearly were up until the moment that death snuffed out all things mortal. Perhaps, he thought, Small was already dead. Apart from the letters, there had not been any word from the man since they had talked over drinks. Bailey shuddered at the idea. Unlike his companion, now apparently asleep, he was not a police officer, a paid professional investigator of murderous deeds. Investigating homicidal deaths could, sooner or later, bring a reporter into close proximity to killers.

  Nevertheless, he wasn't a danger freak, and the idea of being a gangland or war correspondent had never appealed. When it came to reporting death, Bailey preferred the accidental kind, better again the celebrity version, obituary writing and the like. Murder most foul was quite something else. He was, he easily admitted to himself in the fox-free stillness, a bit of a coward.

  Walsh stirred and her hand fell across Bailey's face. Gently, he lifted her arm and folded it across her stomach. She was asleep on her back. There was an outdoor light over the door of the inn that had two wings at right angles to one another. It was at the far end of the other wing but it cast its light far enough to penetrate the bedroom through a gap where the window curtains failed to quite meet. It was just enough to make out Samantha Walsh's form. He could hear her breathing. It was slow-paced and rather deep.

  She was physically fit, in far better shape than he was. Already, he was feeling a little self-conscious about his physique, or lack of it. It had been the reason that he had decided to give up the smokes, though right now he was craving one.

  Nicotine craving, was, as much as the mysteries of Ayvebury, the reason why he was now wide awake, his mind turning over hard questions, crazy theories and some scary possible answers. And as he turned them all over, Bailey finally managed to turn the real world into dreams. But those dreams were all too like the real world again, and, when he woke up with a start, it was still dark, though less silent. The wind had picked up and a hard rain was beating against the window.

  “Get up,” Bailey said in a loud whisper. He was shaking Walsh who had turned on her side, her back now turned towards him.

  She protested with a groan and a muttered question about the time. Bailey persisted.

  “We've got to get back,” he said, this time with full voice.

  “But it's still the middle of the night,” Walsh replied, emphasizing the last word.

  Bailey, sitting up, rubbed his eyes and tried to make sense of it. He wasn't sure if it had come to him in a dream, or as he lay awake. But the idea was holding firm now that he was most assuredly awake. He was thinking back to the day before, to Ayvebury. He was seeing the photo again. The face, not quite in full view because the photographer had badly framed the shot, was still there. He could see it when he shut his eyes, indeed more clearly when he did so.

  He looked at the bedside digital clock, its numbers illuminated. It was just gone four. Dawn was still an hour away at least, and the room was just a blend of dark and darker. He closed his eyes and saw the face again.

  Walsh was sitting up now, waiting for him to insist that she get dressed. Bailey said nothing but dropped his feet to the floor and stood up, tense and rigid.

  He turned.

  Walsh, too, was now standing and reaching for clothes that she had tossed on the floor in her hurry to get into bed. The light was sufficient to illuminate her taut physique. It was a figure for the beach as much as the beat, Bailey thought.

  Bailey busied himself getting dressed. He had precipitated the end of the night's slumber but already it was clear that Walsh would be ready to vacate The Ruff and Reeve before he would be.

  “Jesus,” he muttered. He could not find one of his socks.

  Ten minutes later the two, both clutching coffees from the all night pot in the entrance lobby, threw themselves and their overnight bags into the car. The landlady, apparently an insomniac, had been up and sitting at the front desk. She seemed unsurprised that another young couple had suddenly reawakened to the fact that the reality of a new day was entirely different to the fuzzy romance of the evening before.

  She took the sudden departure in her stride. “Mind yourselves,” she said, as Walsh and Bailey bundled out the door. She sighed and returned her gaze to the pages of a well-thumbed cookery magazine.

  “Are you sure?” Walsh demanded of Bailey as she turned the key in the ignition, switched on the headlights and wipers and turned the car to exit the forecourt.

  “I'm sure. And I'm sure that it's the reason that Sydney Small wanted to see me. The man was afraid. He tried to hide it but he was afraid of something, or someone. And now I think I know who it was, though not what it was all about.”

  “Yes, but h
ow does it all fit together? How does he fit into this?”

  “I don't know,” said Bailey. They had reached the end of the narrow lane leading from the inn to the junction with the road that would take them to the motorway. The rain was by now close to torrential.

  “Ayvebury or London?” said Walsh. She was revving the engine, trying to rid it of the pre-dawn dampness even as she took large gulps of black coffee from her plastic cup.

  “Save me yours,” she said, pointing at Bailey's cup. “Where to?”

  “London,” Bailey commanded. “And drive like a bloody copper!”

  44

  AT ABOUT THE SAME MOMENT that Walsh and Bailey were grinding to a halt on a rain soaked London outer ring road, Cleo Conway punched a selection of numbered buttons that opened the door into the petri dish.

  As he stepped into the room behind Conway, Hochberg glanced around and made some quick calculations.

  “It's a good thing that we have the CIA after all,” he muttered.

  Conway ignored him.

  “Senator, welcome to Globescan. I know it's not much to look at but there's a lot in here that can't be seen, or immediately assessed in the usual way.”

  “Like a clean desktop,” Hochberg growled.

  Conway was already walking towards a long desk where two of the room's five occupants were seated. One was staring at a screen, the other at a newspaper that looked like it had been used as the lining for an old packing trunk. The room was dominated in its center by a four rectangular tables pulled together. It was covered in books and sheets of paper. An extension cord running from the table to the floor indicated the presence, somewhere, of a telephone.

  The walls of the room, which was lit by irregularly spaced desk lamps, were fronted by additional desks which were covered with more books, loose document sheets and discarded paper cups and plates.

  “Senator, I would like you to meet Greg and Steve, while over there we have Lynn, Dave and Josh.”

  Lynn, Dave and Josh, all staring intently at monitors, simply raised their hands. Greg and Steve, by contrast, stood and offered theirs.

  “Welcome, Senator. Must be finally getting warmer in North Dakota,” said Greg.

  “Depends on what you mean by warm, son,” Hochberg replied.

  “Never been there myself but I've always wanted to see the Badlands,” said Steve, a wide smile on his boyish face.

  “That's South Dakota,” Hochberg responded in a tone suggesting that this was not the first time he had to straighten people out on their Dakotas geography.

  Steve continued smiling. He seemed oblivious to the correction. In fact he knew exactly where the Badlands were but he had been curious to see how, or if, the big wheel from the Hill would pounce on his error.

  “Greg and Steve specialize in South Asia senator,” said Conway. “That newspaper Steve is reading is in Urdu, I believe. And that website, looks like some sort of jihad hothouse, am I right, Greg?”

  “Absolutely,” said Greg. “If the wish list on this baby was to come true none of us would be standing here.”

  “Sorry about the mess, Senator,” Conway interjected. “I know it doesn't give a great first impression.”

  “Not that big a deal,” Hochberg replied. “When our country's security is the business of the day I don't care too much about appearances. No windows, views, distractions. Question is, though, how good is the view of the world in here?”

  “Well, Senator,” said Conway, “we didn't have much choice on location. We set up where the powers put us, not that we were exactly expecting a view of the Potomac. But the perspective on global events is pretty good. We've been able to predict a couple. In one recent case we beat the CIA to the punch by at least a week.”

  “That's great, Cleo, but it's no guarantee of continued funding. Beating the CIA to something can just as easily piss off people who have friends on Appropriations. You might be able to stay in business for a little longer, but unless you pull of something spectacular you won't be able to simply hide behind a wall of jihad bullshit.”

  “Hiding's not our business, Senator,” Conway retorted, a sharper edge to her voice. “I have the fullest confidence in the people working here. I know we're going to come up with results, big results.”

  Hochberg lowered his eyes and looked directly at Conway. He smiled.

  “Again, I just heard your father speak,” he said.

  “But as I said, national security is one of those absolutes, and the safety of the president is a super-duper absolute. The hawks and doves alike will not hesitate in loading it on your little menagerie if something happens. That said, you, and I mean all of you, are relatively unknown, almost innocent compared to the rest of them. Right now your best chance of keeping this little operation on the go is not being noticed. The money might just pass this way in one of those lines that slip in to bills at the last minute.”

  Hochberg winked to make his point, but did not wait for a response.

  “Sure, we might learn something new about the nefarious affairs of terrorists in faraway places because your people can speak the local lingo. Just make sure they don't get bored, and for Pete's sake don't send the big boys on any wild goose chases. That's the beauty of this set-up, Cleo; a bunch of crazies in a back office who can be thrown to the wolves if there's another September Eleven.

  “I don't believe that is why Globescan was set up, Senator,” Conway said, folding her arms.

  “I wouldn't necessarily use the term set-up,” Hochberg said.

  “I'm relieved that you're moving out of here, but I understand that this, well, operation, has been your baby and you want it to keep ticking over after you head for the big show. But from where I'm standing, you're going to need a big scoop.

  Conway smiled now. Hochberg had said his piece, and now she could say hers. She was aware that Greg and Steve were merely pretending to go about their business and were listening intently to the senator. The same was true for the other three on the far side of the tables. The rule of thumb inside their little world door was find secrets, share secrets, no secrets.

  Nodding towards her colleagues, Conway allowed the smile to fade and be replaced by a more serious, almost conspiratorial look.

  “We predict rather than react, Senator, and we won't be afraid to stick our necks out. We have no problem remaining in the background, and we'll be dull and boring if need be, but it must be understood that we might just come with something really big that all the others miss. These guys have what it takes.”

  “I understand what you're saying, Cleo,” Hochberg cut in.

  “I'm happy you do, Senator. As I said before, we're an intelligence agency in the purest sense. We're dealing in the most rarified intangibles. We might never know the effects of our work. We can't arrest people and get our name on the evening news. And unlike, say, the CIA, we can't be at least partly our own judges. We have neither the power nor the independence for that. But I sincerely believe that everyone working here can make a real contribution to the safety of our country and our president.”

  “Okay, Hochberg responded. “You want someone to explain to the unenlightened, the dull and the ignorant the nature of your service, its importance and its results, even if there are no obvious results to see. And you're in a hurry because your bag is packed.”

  “That's about it.”

  “All right,” said Hochberg, “So you have come up with some interesting predictions and so far haven't made fools of yourselves. But, and I'll reiterate, you need a big score, lady.”

  Conway said nothing. She was staring around the walls of the room. Her eyes came to rest on a map of the United States with colored pins stuck in it. One pin, a green one, was in North Carolina, where the helicopter carrying her father had crashed.

  Hochberg sensed her thoughts. “Let's go,” he said, “I have a few people to meet. Let me mull this over.”

  The farewells were as perfunctory as the greetings. This time, however, Lynn, Dave and Josh stood. They
had spotted Conway's thumb making the upwards motion.

  Outside in the hallway Hochberg stopped and tapped his foot on the floor.

  “Usually when I walk into a room people sit up and take notice,” he said. “This crowd, Chip and Dale and the gruesome threesome didn't seem to be especially bothered that the ranking member of their lifeline committee had come for a visit. I guess I can only assume that they are deep into their work, and that's fine by me. Look, Cleo, I'm sure your people are dedicated, but up on the Hill this place will, over time, become a harder sell. The budget is being squeezed from all angles. But with solid results we can hold back all your competitors and those that would see you go the way of Custer. At least for a while and until you're totally immersed in protecting the president.”

  “Doesn't sound like much time, Senator. I'm out of here in a couple of weeks,” Conway said.

  “It's no time at all. I don't have to tell you that these days, even now, every day is September Tenth. Anyway, I've got to get back for a vote, but I'll try to keep you up on what's coming your way, good, bad and indifferent. Just try to keep cover for the moment, okay? Like I said, I owe your dad, but he's not around to collect. You are.”

  “Thank you, Senator,” Conway said. “These guys, the ones here today and the rest of them, might not look the part but they are good. Trust me.”

  “I'll see myself out,” Hochberg replied.

  A full minute after Hochberg had left, Conway had not moved. Her head turned slightly as Dave came out of the office with a single sheet of paper.

  “Got some goodies here,” he said. “Oh, is the big guy gone? Pity. I could have given him a hot-off-the-presses briefing on the next civil war in central Africa, about three days away now, I'd guess. Not to mention a few other odds and ends other than Taiwan, but I know we've been told to keep our noses out of that one.