Free Blind Arrows by Anthony Quinn

McAleer?’
    â€˜I’m highly sceptical about McAleer,’ said Isham dryly, ‘but at this stage I’m even more sceptical about the existence of Collins.’
    Thornton’s voice grew insistent. ‘I broke into the Dublin Life building last night. I’ve checked out all the rooms. There was a secret passageway leading to the office.’
    â€˜You’re sure it’s Collins’ lair?’
    â€˜I’m convinced. I’ve watched his bodyguards come and go during the day. And women carrying parcels.’
    â€˜Who are the women? ’
    â€˜I don’t know. They could be anything. His spies, his secretaries, his lovers.’
    â€˜What did you find in the office? Any guns or ammunition?’
    â€˜Just paper. Reams and reams of it. That’s all he keeps there. Files of pages detailing the IRA’s funds, the buying of weapons, payments to volunteers and their families, investments, travel and living expenses, even details of their secret bank accounts, all signed in his name.’
    â€˜What about his current whereabouts?’
    Thornton grinned. ‘We’re in luck. I found a diary, detailing his meetings and appointments. He’s due to visit the office tomorrow evening at 5 o’clock.’
    Isham moved his horse on in silence, thinking carefully.
    â€˜Have you passed these details to anyone else?’
    â€˜No, sir.’
    â€˜Good man, Thornton. You will be rewarded for your discretion .’
    In the distance, Isham heard the baying of the hounds grow louder. The groom was under strict instructions to keep them on a tight leash until he gave the signal. His throat grew dry with that special kind of anticipation that preceded a hunt. It was the expectation of a pleasure like no other.
    â€˜Stay close to me,’ he murmured to Thornton.
    He turned his mare back to Park House, and nudged the animal into a brisk walk. Thornton had to hurry to keep up. The increasing cold and darkness made the spy garrulous. He began talking at random about the freezing weather, Collins’ fondness for wearing business suits, his girlfriend’s illness and that distant time when he fought in the bloodiest trenches at Passchendaele.
    â€˜If war broke out again, I’d like to go back to the trenches, sir,’ he confided.
    â€˜What about the danger and the squalor?’ Isham pulled up his horse. ‘Don’t you remember the agony of death? Why would one want to go back?’
    â€˜For the glory, sir.’ There was a hungry, agitated look in the spy’s eyes.
    A flicker of annoyance ran through Isham. What did men like Thornton know about glory, apart from their selfish pursuit of ambition and notoriety? Glory was about military grandeur and that concept had been tarnished forever.
    The spy gripped Isham’s riding boot. His teeth were chattering. ‘Tomorrow evening when we raid the Dublin Life building, I want your permission to shoot Collins.’
    Isham urged his horse on, but Thornton held tight. The corporal felt something inside him recoil violently, as though the spy’s hands were a dirty set of claws raking his innards.
    â€˜I’d like to be the man who rids England of her greatest enemy.’ Thornton’s voice was thick with spittle. ‘I don’t care about the bounty. All I want is a taste of the glory.’
    â€˜You know I can’t grant you that.’
    â€˜Then I must act alone. This is my information, and I want the glory for it myself.’
    Isham saw that he no longer had any choice in the matter. He stared at the spy’s pinkish raw face, the Cockney eyes shining with a determined, dangerous light, the mouth that was almost drooling over his words. Isham lifted his whip in the air. The cold, rigid feeling in his body needed some form of expression.
    â€˜I’m sorry, Thornton, but I can’t allow you to add your ugly little flourish to history.’ He drove the whip across the