Free The South Lawn Plot by Ray O'Hanlon Page A

to you call Plaice,” he said. “Ask for a meeting. You'll go to see him, not at the station because that will be noticed and who knows how many coppers down there have contacts with the Sun or the Mirror . He'll agree to meet. Suggest a pub, he doesn't mind a sup. He won't necessarily lay it out for you. You'll have to work for it, tease it out of him. But he's a good sort and really doesn't have hang-ups about the press like some of them.”
    â€œAnd I tease out precisely what?” said Bailey.
    â€œThat some lunatic is popping padres.”
    As Henderson and Bailey were settling in for another evening of edgy proximity, Samantha Walsh was trying not to give into her dizzy spell. She had approached the edge of the bluff cautiously and with more than a little trepidation.
    She had never liked heights, nor lonely places. Now she was dealing with both. It was also a place of death, and to make matters worse, the daylight was dwindling. The only comfort was a mildness that bordered on warmth for the time of year and the cell phone she clutched in her right hand.
    She had been cautious in her approach to her mission in the village of Little Polden, about a mile away as the gulls flew. Her story for local consumption was that she was checking out property in the area, thinking about a small cottage close to the sea where she might find peace and quiet to write a book. It was perfect cover for asking not just about the area, but also coaxing the more talkative locals into discussing people and events, not just real estate.
    The sudden and shocking death of Father Jeffrey Dean had clearly been the biggest thing to happen around these parts in years, certainly the biggest since the German Heinkel had crashed in a field back in 1941. You could still see the rut in the ground that the doomed bomber had left, she was told by at least six villagers.
    But there were no Cornish voices now, and even the seabirds had settled in for the night. She had to walk to the edge nevertheless.

10
    P ENDER WIGGLED HIS TOES , flexed his fingers and tensed his back. The flight was number two for takeoff. The hop from Dublin to London would take about an hour. He thought of trying to sleep, but that would now be impossible. The Irish air had been a relief because Pender usually had difficulty staying more than four or five hours in a bed. He hadn't slept as well in years as he had the past few nights.
    But the present atmosphere was not the sharp and saturated stuff he had spent the past few days drawing gratefully into his lungs. This was the aircraft cabin recycled variety. Pender had traveled to every corner of the globe and was a connoisseur of air much in the same way that some were experts on wine. Ireland's air, he decided, was to be highly commended despite the tension evident in it as Manning bade final farewell to his father's lair.
    His host's obvious distraction had allowed Pender to observe without drawing too much attention. Manning did not appear to suspect a thing. He had clearly been simply doing his superior, the ambassador's, bidding.
    It had been clear that the Irishman was uncomfortable having the Englishman around, but he had done his best to disguise the fact. He would be equally reluctant but ultimately cooperative when Pender turned up in Washington.
    The aircraft turned at the end of the taxiway and faced down the runway. Somewhere in the distance there was a roar as the plane ahead lifted off. The pilot told Pender and his fellow passengers that they were now next in line and that the cabin crew should prepare for takeoff.
    Pender pressed his eyes shut. This he could never quite fathom. He was as cold as ice when required to assassinate a target. Yet he was a nervous flyer.
    The aircraft thundered down the runway and took off into a steep climb. It banked to its port side, and Pender pressed his eyes even more tightly shut. He concentrated his thoughts on Africa and the nights crouched around the rickety table