The train drew to a shuddering halt beside one of Grand Central’s subterranean platforms at precisely 9.30 in the morning, and McColl lingered in his seat for a few moments, wondering how best to make his exit, in the midst of a sheltering swarm or out in the open where a prospective assailant would find it harder to surprise him. Deciding it was six of one, half a dozen of the other, he joined those squeezing out through the vestibule, and stepped down onto the platform.

At least he didn’t have Caitlin to worry about. Unspecified family members were waiting to welcome her home, and McColl had gladly gone along with her wish to introduce him at some later date. It was bad enough being British – putting her loved ones in the line of German fire was unlikely to win him any kudos as a potential suitor. If that was what he was.

He walked slowly up the platform, scanning the moving crowd for signs of hostile intent. With the grip of his suitcase in one hand and the butt of his pocketed gun in the other, he was approaching the ticket barrier when a familiar smile came into view.

It was Jed, wearing a smart new fedora with the suit he had bought from Li Ch’ün.

McColl smiled back, but didn’t relax his guard. Once through the barrier he urged his brother across the cathedral-like concourse, until they both had their backs to the baggage checking room wall. ‘I don’t want to sound too dramatic, but there may be another killer waiting for me,’ McColl said quietly in explanation.

Jed’s instinctive laugh lasted a few split seconds. ‘You’re kidding! But –’

‘Unfortunately not. And yes, there are things I have to tell you. But let’s get out of here first. A cab, I think. And keep your eyes open. Shout if you see anyone coming towards us.’

‘Jesus!’

‘Anyone but him.’

Jed shook his head – in wonder, not refusal. ‘The cabs are that way,’ he said, pointing out two flights of steps on the far side of the concourse.

As they walked across, it seemed to McColl that the cavernous grandeur of the place was made for drama. An assassination here would certainly make the front pages.

But no one came at them with knife, gun or bomb as they wove their way through the thinning crowd. Outside the sky was grey, the cabs queuing up for custom. With one look back, McColl clambered into the first in line and breathed a little easier.

‘Thirty-sixth and Fifth,’ Jed told the cabbie, who looked Italian. ‘I thought you’d like to see the showroom, and then go on to the hotel. But …’

McColl was staring back over his shoulder as they pulled out onto Forty-second Street. As far as he could see, there was no other cab in pursuit. ‘I’ll explain it all to you and Mac,’ he told his brother. ‘Tonight, when we’re alone,’ he added quietly, with a nod towards their apparently oblivious driver.

Jed laughed and shook his head again. ‘What have you got yourself into?’

It was clearly a rhetorical question. McColl sat back and reacquainted himself with New York City, which he’d last seen almost five years earlier. There were many more automobiles competing for road space with the streetcars, buses and traditional horse-drawn traffic, and the sidewalks seemed even more choked with pedestrians than he remembered. The noise was tremendous – those not shouting were pressing on their car horns. America’s premier city combined London’s modernity with almost Oriental bustle.

The buildings seemed taller, though that might just be his memory playing tricks.

They drove past the impressive Public Library, which had still been under construction on his last visit, and which Caitlin had told him she often used for research. Two stone lions stood guard outside the entrance.

The showroom in which Jed and Mac had rented space was a few blocks further south on Fifth Avenue. It was twice the size of the one in San Francisco, and McColl couldn’t fault the location. He could just make out the bottle-green Maia through the left-hand window, cloaked as it was by a line of admiring spectators.

Mac was busy giving a young and rich-looking couple a guided tour of the automobile, which still looked in gleaming good shape, considering the time spent in freighter holds and box cars. ‘We’re showing her off until two, and using the rest of the afternoon for trial drives,’ Jed explained. ‘This is only our third day, and we’re full up till Wednesday.’

‘Wonderful,’ McColl said. He was pleasantly surprised. Maybe the market in one-off luxury automobiles would last longer than he thought.

After booking the young couple an appointment, Mac came over to shake his hand. ‘Good trip?’

‘He’s still got people trying to kill him,’ Jed said in a low voice. He was trying to sound flippant, but McColl could hear the anxiety.

‘I’ll talk to you both tonight,’ he promised. ‘But right now, I need a bath. Where’s our hotel?’ Jed had cabled him the name – the Aberdeen - but not the address.

‘It’s four blocks south, on Thirty-second Street. They’re expecting you.’

‘Great. I’ll see you both back there.’

He could have walked or taken a streetcar, but another cab seemed the prudent option, and only took a couple of minutes. The hotel looked fairly new, the lobby laid out and furnished in the modern style. He collected his key from reception, and followed the bellboy into the elevator for the ride to the fourth floor. His room was at the front, and came with a spotless bathroom. He decided not to worry about how much it was costing.

He’d been soaking in the bath for about twenty minutes when a rap on the outer door had him reaching for the gun that he’d left on the wash-stand. He sat there in the water, ears straining for any indication that someone was trying to get in, but all he could hear was the traffic outside.

Somewhat belatedly, he realised that he hadn’t checked the wardrobe.

He was putting the wind up himself, he thought. He climbed out, wrapped himself in a towel, and went to investigate.

The wardrobe was empty, but someone had pushed an envelope under his outer door. Presumably a bellboy had rapped on the door, hoping for a tip.

‘The coffee shop downstairs,’ the note inside the envelope read. ‘The old man couldn’t make it.’

It was the first half of the password which he’d received by cable. McColl dressed, put the letter copies in his inside pocket, and went down in the elevator. The coffee shop had a line of wooden booths with leather cushions arranged along one wall, beneath a mural depicting an Arcadian wilderness. There were people in most of the booths, but only one hand was beckoning him over.

‘Jack!’ the man said. ‘I’m afraid the old man couldn’t make it.’ The accent was American enough, but it wasn’t from New York City.

‘I’ll be seeing him at the weekend,’ McColl replied, completing the exchange of passwords and sliding into the opposite seat. The man across the table was about his own age, wiry, with dark bushy hair and a dark moustache which failed to conceal a slightly crooked mouth. He still had his winter coat on, but his hat was on the seat beside him.

‘Coffee?’ he asked, and raised a hand to call the waitress over. She looked about sixteen, but took their order with the air of someone who’d been there forever.

Once she’d gone, his contact offered a cigarette and introduced himself. ‘I’m Kensley, Nathan Kensley.’ He took a quick look over his shoulder, presumably to make sure that no one else was in earshot. ‘I’m in charge of the network here, such as it is.’

‘And you report directly to Cumming?’ McColl asked. The way the various intelligence organisations had evolved over the last few years, it was often hard to identify a chain of command.

‘And no one else,’ Kensley confirmed, as if he understood only too well why the question had been asked. The coffee arrived, along with the napoleon Kensley had ordered for himself. He took a large bite, then wiped the cream from his lips and moustache with a napkin. ‘So, no problem at Grand Central.’

‘You were there?’

‘I was keeping an eye. Cumming has had a word with a German friend of his, an old contact from his Navy days who still has some clout in Berlin. He asked him to use his influence to get the dogs called off.’ Kensley shook his head in apparent wonder. ‘Cumming seems to think that this is just a few rogue operatives exceeding their authority, that their superiors are still willing to play the game the way gentlemen should.’

‘But you don’t?’

‘Oh, he may be right, if only because the Germans know that their operatives are as vulnerable as ours in a free-for-all. But I doubt it. I’d say they’re beginning to pursue intelligence work with the seriousness it deserves, and we should do the same.’

‘So I shouldn’t stop looking over my shoulder?’

‘No. Or not yet anyway. Now, where are these letters?’

McColl handed the copies over, and sipped at his coffee while the other man skimmed through them.

‘Interesting,’ Kensley said reflectively, once he’d finished. ‘I’ll send these off to Cumming this afternoon. How, exactly, did you get hold of them?’

McColl went through the circumstances, from the young Palou’s camera catching Father Meagher outside the Ghadar office to his own nefarious activities on the Overland Limited.

‘Okay,’ Kensley said when he was finished. ‘And I got the message about the priest staying over in Chicago. But you didn’t say how many days.’

‘He never said, and asking might have made him suspicious. He’s that kind of man.’

‘Not to worry – I’ll have someone check with the railroad. But I’ll want you with me at Grand Central when he does get in – he may be the only priest on the train, but if there’s a whole convention I’ll need you to finger him.’

‘Fine,’ McColl agreed. ‘Just let me know when.’

‘Will do. Now, one other question – what’s left of your cover? The Germans obviously know you work for us, but who else?’

McColl thought about it for a moment. ‘I had no actual contact with any of Har Dayal’s people in San Francisco, and I used a false name when I hired the private detective to keep watch on them, so I’ve no actual reason to believe that the Indians would recognise me, or even my name. And the same goes for the Irish. There was no mention of me in de Lacey’s letter to Devoy, and Father Meagher obviously didn’t know who I was, or he’d have watched me like a hawk. So it’s just a matter of who the Germans have told. And since they don’t seem to have shared their knowledge with their allies on the West Coast, we can only hope that they’re equally tight-lipped here.’

Kensley asked if they had access to a photograph.

‘Not that I know of. There was one in the Shanghai paper, but it was dark and blurred – my mother would have had trouble recognising me.’

The American looked relieved. ‘Okay. So how long are you staying? Do you have your passage home booked yet?

‘No. My boss in London is expecting me back by the end of the month, but a few days here or there won’t make much difference.’

Kensley raised an eyebrow. ‘Business must be good, to stay in a place like this.’

McColl sighed. ‘Not that good. My colleagues made some sales in Chicago without me, and they got a bit carried away.’

‘Still …’

‘Oh, I’m not complaining. Or moving. How long have you been in New York?’

Kensley hesitated, as if weighing up whether to answer. ‘About five years. I came down from Toronto in 1909. I was a policeman there.’

‘A Mountie?’

Kensley grimaced. ‘A detective.’

‘Of course. So how do we keep in touch?’

Kensley took a card from his pocket and passed it over. ‘If you ever need to speak to me, ring that consulate number and leave a message for me. Say that Jack called. I’ll leave messages for you at the hotel reception. Or I may just turn up in the lobby. If you see me, just walk on by, and meet me here in the coffee shop a few minutes later. Okay?’

‘Okay.’

Kensley slid himself out of the booth, stood up, and raised a hand in farewell as he turned to leave. As the Canadian pressed his hat down over his bushy hair, McColl was reminded of someone trying to close the lid of an over-full suitcase.

But the man seemed intelligent, which boded well.

McColl went back up his room, and had almost finished unpacking when someone else rapped on his door. He took his gun from the suitcase, stood to one side, and asked: ‘Who is it?’

‘Your brother,’ Jed said loudly.

McColl put the gun back under a pillow and opened the door. ‘How did it go?’

‘Not bad. One definite, and three probables, I’d say.’

‘Great.’

‘So Mac and I thought we could all celebrate with dinner and a show. If you don’t have anything else planned?’

‘Sounds wonderful. When are we leaving?’

‘Soon as you’re ready.’

It proved an enjoyable evening, once the elephant in the room had been wheeled out and discussed. McColl knew that Cumming would disapprove – to put it mildly – of his revealing anything of his Secret Service activities, but as long as Jed and Mac were also in the line of fire they deserved some sort of explanation. He didn’t tell them everything by any means, but he did admit to working, on a part-time basis over several years, for a government organisation.

‘It started when I went to Russia in 1909,’ he went on, once they’d secured a table in a Broadway restaurant and ordered roast turkey with all the trimmings. ‘An old acquaintance from Oxford looked me up a few weeks beforehand, and said that a friend of his had a proposition which might interest me. So I went to see this friend, who knew more about my upcoming Russian trip than I did. He had a short list of Russians whom he wanted me to get in touch with – men he and his superiors thought they could count on to support England in an international crisis.’ The spoken appeal had been to his patriotism, but he had eventually come to realise that Cumming had deliberately seduced him with the unspoken promise of adventure.

‘I won’t go into details,’ he continued. ‘You get the general idea. This man – the one who sent me – was willing to pay me a small amount for doing this, to cover expenses and supply a little profit on the side, but he was very insistent that I should see such work primarily as a means of serving my country. And I did. I do. I went to Tsingtau for him – I’m sure you can guess what for – and I ended up having to make a run for it. The man with the knife in Shanghai was almost certainly hired by the Germans to make an example of me. There was another attempt in San Francisco which you don’t know about – another man with a knife waiting in my wardrobe …’

‘What?’ Jed exclaimed.

‘Yes, I know. But I was luckier second time around – someone warned me there was an intruder in my room, and the British consul called the federal police in to deal with him. The reason I’m telling you both all this is that the Germans may have another go, and it’s possible – not likely, but possible – that they’ll try again when the three of us are together. So keep your eyes open whenever you’re with me.’

‘But there was no one waiting at the station when you arrived,’ Mac said hopefully.

‘No, and there’s a chance a deal has been done between London and Berlin – a sort of gentlemen’s agreement to let each other be. But we can’t count on it, so be careful.’

‘And I don’t suppose you’re taking questions?’ Jed asked perceptively.

‘I’d rather not.’

‘Okay, but surely you can tell us what happened with Caitlin.’

McColl looked at the two of them. ‘Why, have you got bets on the outcome?’

‘No!’

‘We travelled on the same train. But she hasn’t seen her family for months, so I don’t suppose I’ll see her for a few days.’

‘And then?’ Jed asked, with the bluntness of youth.

‘And then what?’

‘Will you be staying on here, or will she be coming to England?’

So that was how they saw it, McColl thought. He could hardly blame them. ‘Neither for now, but we’ll see,’ was all he could think to say, and was saved from further questions by the arrival of their food.

The roast was excellent, and so was the only show they could find with empty seats. A two-hour rollercoaster of music and comedy put them in high spirits, which they soon found they shared with most of the city, if the Friday night revellers thronging Broadway were anything to go by. With work the following morning, they restricted themselves to a couple of drinks, and walked happily back to the hotel. As far as McColl could tell, his earlier revelations had not made his two companions overly nervous. Should he be pleased that he hadn’t spoilt their fun, or alarmed that they hadn’t taken the situation seriously enough?

Mac’s insistence that they all check McColl’s wardrobe eased his mind somewhat, and while the two of them were doing so, he pocketed the latest note the staff had slipped under his door.

Once the wardrobe had been declared safe, and his companions had disappeared, he tore the envelope open and read the message. ‘Meagher arrives Grand Central at ten on Sunday morning,’ Kensley had scrawled. ‘See you at 9.30 outside the barber shop.’

They all spent Saturday morning in the showroom, either talking to prospective buyers or, in Jed’s case, passing comment on each New York princess that walked past their window. After lunch, McColl left the two of them to handle trial drives and walked back to the hotel, hoping to find a message from Caitlin. There was none. He reminded himself that she would be fully engaged catching up with family and friends, but he couldn’t quite still the mean little voice in the back of his mind telling him it was over, and that a cold but beautifully written note would soon arrive laying out all the reasons why they couldn’t go on.

There was nothing he could do about it, other than turn up unannounced at the family house in Brooklyn, loudly declare his undying love, and insist that she do the same. Something he had no intention of doing. Not yet anyway.

He found a lunch room serving meat loaf, mashed potatoes and two veg for fifteen cents, then took a long walk, heading east into a world of dirty streets and yellow brick tenement buildings whose only decoration was a latticework of fire escapes. As good as lost, he was accosted by an enterprising urchin, who offered to sell him the way back to ‘safety’. The neighbourhood reminded McColl of Glasgow, and he half-suspected he was safer there among the tenements than he ever would be on Fifth Avenue, but he handed over his dime in exchange for some very basic directions – ‘See that tall building? That’s the Woolworth Building. It’s the tallest building in the world. Just walk towards it, and you’ll end up on Broadway.’

That evening he went out again with the others, and this time they drank rather more, so much so that they ended up chorusing Al Jolson’s recent hit ‘You Made Me Love You – I Didn’t Want to Do It’ with sufficient volume to warrant an in situ lecture from one of New York’s finest.

McColl felt distinctly hung-over next morning, but managed to reach Grand Central Station on time. Kensley seemed in little better shape, and the two of them smoked their cigarettes in silence until a third man arrived. ‘Jack, Andrew,’ was the extent of Kensley’s introduction. Andrew was probably around McColl’s age, thin as Kensley but with fairer hair and moustache.

At 9.45 the three of them took up position within sight of the platform egress, and only seconds later the first passengers from the 20th Century Limited were streaming past. Three priests appeared before Father Meagher, who eventually emerged, resplendent in cassock and biretta, trailing a porter and trolley piled with the familiar suitcases.

‘That’s him,’ McColl told the others.

They watched the priest lead his porter across the concourse and into the waiting room opposite, then followed as far as the entrance. Kensley turned to McColl. ‘He knows you, so keep your face turned away. Andrew, what’s he doing?’

‘He’s telling the porter where he wants the suitcases. Now he’s paying him. And now he’s sitting down, with his back to the door.’

McColl risked a look over his shoulder, just in time to see a man approach the priest.

‘He’s talking to someone,’ Andrew said. ‘An Indian by the look of it. And the Indian’s picking up one of the suitcases.’

‘The newspapers,’ McColl guessed.

‘You’d better follow him,’ Kensley told Andrew.

The latter watched for a few seconds more, then walked swiftly after his quarry.

‘Meagher’s not moving,’ Kensley murmured.

‘More business?’ McColl wondered.

They didn’t have long to wait. According to Kensley the priest’s second visitor was ‘older, clean-shaven, wearing a slate grey suit and hat’.

‘They’re talking,’ Kensley told McColl. ‘And Meagher’s handing over an envelope. One of your letters. Okay,’ he said reluctantly; ‘since Meagher knows you by sight you’d better take this guy. But for God’s sake don’t lose him.’

‘Can I turn round?’ McColl asked.

‘You don’t need to. He’s coming our way.’

The man passed within a few feet of them, and McColl slipped into his wake. The courier – if that’s what he was – still had the envelope in his hand, but he stowed it away in an inside pocket as he started down the ramp to the subway platforms. A train was thundering in, and McColl’s sudden realisation that he might not have the nickel required induced a few moments of panic, but a frantic scramble through his pockets proved successful, and he made it through the barrier in time to step aboard. The man in the grey suit was at the other end of the car, examining the subway map.

Which might be good news, McColl thought. It suggested a local knowledge no better than his own.

He hung onto the strap as the train stormed and clattered its way through the tunnel. Thirty-third Street, Twenty-eighth, Twenty-third, and soon they were into the names – Astor Place, then Bleecker. It was a fairly shoddy suit that the man was wearing, McColl thought; there were clear signs of wear at the cuffs and elbows. It was the sort of suit an ageing errand boy might wear.

Like a lot of others, he got off at Fulton, and McColl followed him up and out. They emerged onto Broadway, two blocks down from the towering Woolworth Building. His quarry crossed at the lights and walked in that direction, turning left down Barclay Street towards the Hudson. McColl kept some forty yards behind him, but had the feeling he was being overly cautious. The man hadn’t looked back since leaving Grand Central, another indication that he was just hired help.

Beyond West Street, a long line of piers butted out into the river. The one opposite Barclay was host to the Hoboken ferry, and this, it transpired, was the man’s objective. McColl followed him on board, and took a seat a few rows behind him. The ferry was soon underway, and as it ploughed a diagonal course across the mile-wide river, McColl stared back at Manhattan, and the low clouds brushing the peak of the Woolworth Building.

The big British shipping lines all used Manhattan piers, but their German equivalents were here on the New Jersey shore. McColl and his unwitting guide had already walked past the North German Lloyd terminal when the man turned in through the gates of its Hamburg America rival. He ignored the passenger terminal building, headed round the side of the enormous quayside warehouse, and walked into what looked like an accompanying suite of offices. McColl hesitated, and decided against following him inside. If the man didn’t come out in a few minutes, then perhaps …

Five minutes later he did come out, counting out green dollar bills with his thumb. His fee, McColl assumed, but he supposed he ought to make sure – Hamburg American wouldn’t be going anywhere.

It didn’t take him long. Rather than return to the ferry, the man walked away from the river and into Hoboken. A bar, McColl guessed, and sure enough, after zigzagging his way through several blocks, the man pushed his way through the doors of the Lorelei Beerhouse. Considering the time of day, it could only just have opened, a deduction soon confirmed within by the absence of other patrons. His quarry gave McColl a quick glance, and went back to admiring the golden schnapps flowing from bottle to glass.

McColl ordered a cup of the ready-brewed coffee and settled down to eavesdrop. ‘I did a job for Johann,’ the man was telling the barman. ‘He knows I’m reliable, and he gives me work when he can.’

The barman managed an ‘uh-huh’ or two, but only from politeness. McColl sat with the coffee for a few minutes, then walked back to the Hamburg America pier. It seemed obvious that the letter had changed hands in the warehouse offices. Did Herr Rieber work there? McColl could hardly just walk in and ask.

Then again – why not? The sign by the door said this was the freight handling office, so why not invent some freight to handle? Automobiles, he told himself, stick to what you know. He worked for a small firm in the old country, which was interested in starting an export business. And since he was over here looking at premises, he thought he’d investigate rates and timings. He’d already been to North German Lloyd.

He explained all this to the woman on reception, who told him he needed to see Mr Fromm.

Five minutes later, he was offering the same spiel to a middle-aged, balding German American. Tables for weight-cost ratios were produced and studied, along with the additional costs of rail transportation in Germany. The Hamburg America Line had already acquired considerable experience in the shipping of automobiles, and Mr Fromm was ready to guarantee delivery in New Jersey within a fortnight of collection. At what he swore was a highly competitive price.

McColl agreed that it was. He would recommend Hamburg America to his partners, and Mr Fromm would almost certainly be hearing from them shortly. In the meantime, ‘I believe my old friend Rieber works here. Can you point me in the direction of his office?’

Fromm looked surprised, but not suspicious. ‘Erich Rieber?’

‘That’s him.’

‘He’s on the second floor. I’ll get someone to show you the way.’

‘No, don’t worry. I’ll find him.’ He offered Fromm his hand. ‘Until next time.’

He climbed the stairs and walked down the passage, checking names on doors. Rieber’s was the fourth he came to. McColl stared at the sign for a few seconds, considering his next move. Was seeing Rieber’s face worth letting the German see his own?

Deciding it was, he abruptly turned the knob, and stepped across the threshold.

The man looking up from his desk was still in his twenties. He was clean shaven, with a handsome chiselled face and striking blue eyes. McColl was probably being fanciful, but his first impression was one of cruelty.

The single sheet of Reischach’s letter lay on one side of the desk, as if saved for future rereading.

‘Gee, I’m sorry, wrong room,’ McColl drawled, backing out into the corridor and clicking the door shut behind him. He wouldn’t forget that face, he thought, as he walked down the stairs and out onto the quay. And he had the feeling that Rieber would remember his. But at least he could now point him out to the others, and if Kensley wanted to know where the German lived, one of them could follow him home.

It started to rain as he walked to the terminal, and was falling in sheets by the time the ferry reached midstream, blurring both Manhattan and Jersey shorelines. Matters hadn’t improved when they docked, so he lunched at a café in the Barclay Street terminal, and sat watching a Cunard liner inch up the river until the sky began to brighten. As he headed for Broadway to catch a trolley home, the upper quarter of the Woolworth Building slowly dropped out of the clouds.

When he reached the Aberdeen, Kensley was sitting in the lobby, ostensibly reading the New York Times. McColl continued on up to his room, thinking to change his damp trousers before joining the Canadian in the coffee shop, and found yet another note had been pushed under his door. It was from reception – a Miss Hanley had rung, and would do so again at 5 p.m.

He felt his heart lift, and almost danced down the corridor to the elevator.

Kensley was in the same booth, and might have been stirring the same cup of coffee. He sat with interlinked fingers in front of his mouth as McColl delivered his report, and then offered a brief ‘Good work’ when he was finished. ‘I’ll get someone onto Rieber,’ he decided. ‘It’s interesting that he has an office at Hamburg America. All the Germans we’ve dealt with until now have worked out of their embassy. The controllers, I mean. They use local German Americans for the small jobs, like your man in the grey suit. Tell them it’s their patriotic duty.’

‘Maybe the Germans are making more use of people like me,’ McColl guessed.

‘Maybe. Or maybe someone’s decided to set up a whole new organisation outside official channels.’

‘How did you get on?’ McColl asked.

‘Oh, Meagher went straight to Devoy’s house, where he doubtless delivered the letter. He only stayed a few minutes though, and Devoy was in. Which suggests that the letter was more important than anything Father Meagher might have to say. I’d lay odds he’s just a courier.’

‘So we’re left with the arms shipment and the action on enemy soil.’

‘Yes. And I’m waiting to hear how Cumming wants to proceed.’ He looked up at McColl. ‘He might ask you to help out here for a few weeks. Could you do that?’

‘Maybe. I’d like to know what he has in mind.’ A plan to foil Irish-German plots which didn’t involve the destruction of his relationship with Caitlin would be a good start.

Kensley went off to meet Andrew, and to find out where the copies of Ghadar had ended up. McColl asked reception where he could find a bookstore, walked to the one recommended, and purchased Conan Doyle’s latest story, The Poison Belt. He started reading in the hotel lounge, and by ten to five was wondering how the creator of Sherlock Holmes could have sunk so low.

He took Caitlin’s call in a booth behind the lobby. ‘How are you?’ she asked. ‘How’s the hotel?’

‘Fine. And your family?’

‘Oh, they’re all fine.’

‘Did they like their presents?’

‘I think so. Colm liked his map, and Orla hasn’t taken the shawl off since I gave it to her, but Jack, I can’t talk for long, and I can’t really talk, if you know what I mean.’

He pictured her in the hall of the family home, surrounded by open doors. ‘I understand. When can we meet?’

‘Not tomorrow, I’m afraid. I have so many people to see, and an interview out in Queens. But Tuesday – are you free for dinner? I could meet you downtown.’

‘Why don’t you come to the hotel?’

‘For hors d’oeuvres?’

‘Something like that.’

‘I’ll be there at six.’

‘I can’t wait.’

‘Neither can I.’

The next forty-eight hours were uneventful. He took one man for a trial drive and wished he hadn’t – the potential customer could hardly drive, and McColl had to commandeer the steering wheel on several occasions to avert collisions with pedestrians and other vehicles. When the man announced that he was ordering a Maia, McColl felt like posting a city-wide warning.

He heard nothing from Kensley, and suffered no apparent attention from Rieber or his friends. Perhaps Cumming’s entreaty to play the game had struck a chord with his Prussian counterparts. Or perhaps he was low on their list of priorities.

It was a minute past six when Caitlin rapped on his door. ‘This is a refreshingly progressive hotel,’ she said, taking off her coat. ‘They had no objection to my coming straight up, especially when I let slip that I was a journalist.

‘The power of the press.’

‘Indeed. And speaking of that, I have something to show you.’ She started to unbutton her blouse. ‘Remember I told you I had someone to interview this afternoon. Her name’s Mary Phelps Jacob. She’s younger than I am, and look what she’s invented.’

Caitlin’s breasts were covered by the lightest of garments, with no sign of metal stays or stiff lacing.

‘Mary calls it a brassiere. It’s basically two silk handkerchiefs and a few lengths of ribbon. And you wouldn’t believe how much nicer it is to wear. I feel like I’ve been set free. And so will millions of other women.’

‘That’s wonderful,’ McColl said.

‘And it’s so much easier to take off,’ she added, releasing a knot in the ribbon, and snuggling into his arms.

Their lovemaking showed no sign of growing stale; their physical passion for each other seemed, if anything, even more intense than before. Afterwards, they lay entwined in joyous exhaustion until his rumbling stomach forced them to contemplate dinner. As they went past the reception desk McColl made sure to mention how much he’d enjoyed the interview.

They walked to an Italian restaurant she liked, ordered olives, bread and wine, and caught up on each other’s last few days. Hers had been full, and she’d loved every minute. Her various employers had nothing but praise for her pieces on China, and seemed to be falling over themselves to commission more. The brassiere girl had been a delight, and Caitlin had just discovered that during her absence a woman had been appointed commissioner of the New York City Department of Correction. ‘The first woman ever to head a municipal agency,’ Caitlin insisted. ‘That’s another wall down.’

Her eyes positively shone, and McColl found himself thinking how lucky he was to have met her.

‘You know, sometimes I despair for my country,’ she said. ‘When I see children virtually starving not five miles from Fifth Avenue. And when I see how desperate people are to turn a blind eye. Ch’ingling and I once hired a man in Macon to drive us out into the countryside. We both cried for days over what we had seen, and the other girls just laughed at us.’ She shook her head. ‘But sometimes, like this week, I feel almost drunk on the possibilities. And I have to keep reminding myself that most people think I’m crazy. Even those who love me.’

He asked how her family was treating her.

‘Like a homecoming queen. But what have you been doing?’

‘Not much, compared to you. Jed and Mac had arranged everything by the time I got here, and they seem so proud of how professional they’ve both become that I’ve more or less left them to it. I’ve been doing a lot of walking – I even got lost the other day.’

‘In Manhattan?’

‘Well, I expect I’d have found my way home, but a six-year-old sold me directions for a dime.’

She laughed. ‘Have you taken the Staten Island ferry? That only costs a nickel, and it’s a lovely ride. When I go away, it’s usually the first thing I do when I come back. Like I’m saying hello to the city.’

‘I’ll do it tomorrow.’

‘Oh, and Central Park. You have to walk from one end to the other – it’s about three miles. But pick a nice day.’

‘Maybe we could do that together.’

‘I’d love to, when I have some time to spare. Now I have something to ask you. My aunt invites you to lunch next Sunday – will you come?’

‘Oh. Of course. I’d love to,’ he added, though his emotions were actually mixed. He welcomed what the invitation implied about her feelings, but couldn’t help worrying over how Cumming and Kensley might seek to exploit it.

‘Didn’t you think you’d be meeting my family?’ she asked.

‘I wasn’t sure how you’d feel about that.’

She took his hand. ‘Much as I like being ravished in luxury hotel rooms and train compartments, I think it’s time we brought our romance into the open.’

‘You’re not going to announce that we’ve been enjoying intimate relations since Shanghai?’ he asked, more than slightly alarmed.

She laughed. ‘At the dinner table, you mean? No, I don’t think so. But I’d like you to meet my family, and I’d like them to know that you and I are … are fond of each other.’

‘Have you told them anything about me? About us?’

‘Just my Aunt Orla. What you do, where you come from, how we met. That we like each other.’

‘Will they all be there? At dinner, I mean.’

‘Maybe not Fergus, but everyone else. And there’s a young man from Ireland who’s staying with us for a few weeks.’

‘Will I have need of the Scottish accent?’

‘Just a touch, perhaps.’

McColl had cause to visit Central Park earlier than he expected.

The note on his carpet the following morning was brief and to the point: ‘59th and 5th at 10 a.m., NK’. He saw the others off to the showroom, lingered over a second coffee in the hotel restaurant, and took the Elevated on Sixth up to the Fifty-eighth Street terminus. It was a fine spring day; above the soaring buildings the sun was playing hide-and-seek in a forest of white clouds.

Kensley was waiting on the specified corner, wearing the usual clothes and smoking the usual cigarette.

‘Why the change of venue?’ McColl asked, as they dodged across the busy street towards the park entrance.

‘It always pays to keep them guessing,’ Kensley said. ‘And my girlfriend tells me I need the exercise.’

They walked down a wide pathway, a small expanse of water off to their left. McColl had recently read a newspaper article lamenting the state of the park, but it didn’t look too neglected.

Kensley stopped to light a new cigarette from the butt of the old. ‘Cumming has a proposition for you,’ he announced.

‘Yes?’

‘A full-time job with the Service.’

‘I see.’ It was what he had wanted, but what would Cumming want in return? ‘And how would that work?’ he asked warily.

‘What do you mean?’

He wasn’t going to do Kensley’s work for him. ‘Well, I’d need a new cover story for a start.’

The Canadian grunted. ‘Well, you wouldn’t be much use with an automobile permanently in tow. So yes, you would. But I’ve no idea what Cumming has in mind – something diplomatic, perhaps.’

‘Not a permanent posting somewhere?’

‘I doubt that very much. He tells me you speak nine languages, and I expect he intends making use of them all.’

They were on a bridge across a transverse road, and Kensley stopped to watch a bright red Ford pass underneath. ‘I had a look at your Maia the other day. How much would that cost me?’

‘Almost three thousand dollars.’

‘Pity I don’t have a grandmother to sell,’ was the Canadian’s reply. He tossed the cigarette over the parapet and set off again. ‘Your first job would be here,’ he went on, almost too casually. ‘And you’re not a fool – I’m sure you can guess what Cumming wants from you.’

‘Why don’t you spell it out?’

‘Okay. He wants you to use your relationship with Caitlin Hanley to infiltrate Republican circles here in New York. To find out how and when they plan to ship the arms, and what de Lacey’s “joint operation” is, assuming it even exists.’

They walked a while in silence, McColl wondering if Kensley had checked that he and Caitlin were still seeing each other, or had simply taken it for granted. The former, most likely.

‘We’re assuming she doesn’t know that you’ve been working for the Service?’

‘No, of course not.’ Though he’d been tempted to tell her more than once.

‘Well, in that case …’

It was McColl’s turn to stop. ‘So since I’m already lying to her, I might as well betray her completely?’

Kensley ignored the anger. ‘There’s no suggestion that she has any part in any of this. Or her father, come to that. From what we can gather, his activist days are over.’

‘And her brother Colm?’

‘Not even him,’ Kensley insisted, setting them in motion once more. ‘You wouldn’t be targeting the Hanleys, just making use of their contacts.’

They were passing a statue of Columbus, which seemed strangely appropriate – the Italian explorer had never had more than the foggiest idea of where he was actually going. McColl knew he shouldn’t blame Cumming, who could hardly ignore such an obvious opportunity.

‘And Cumming asked me to tell you this,’ Kensley went on. ‘That your country is facing its greatest challenge for a century, and that this business you’ve uncovered could make a huge difference to whether or not it survives.’

‘The stakes are high then,’ McColl murmured sardonically. He sighed. ‘I find it hard to believe that a few Irish exiles in New York City could do any serious damage to the British Empire.’

‘The world’s a much smaller place than it used to be,’ Kensley retorted. ‘And trouble tends to spread more quickly.’

‘Maybe,’ McColl conceded. Rather than swap more bland assertions, he changed the subject. ‘Where I come from, a job offer usually comes with a figure attached.’

‘I suspect you can more or less name your own.’

‘Which means Cumming hasn’t?’

‘No, but I do know the Admiralty has increased his budget. Their lordships are worried too.’

McColl put up a hand. ‘Look, I’ll have to think about it. I’d love a full-time position, but this particular business … I don’t know.’ How could he justify spying on her?

‘This business doesn’t exactly suit serious relationships.’

McColl looked at him. ‘That sounded heartfelt.’

‘When I moved to New York, my wife stayed in Toronto. The job had already done for us.’

‘Ah.’

‘Have you met her family yet?’

‘No.’ He almost told Kensley he was meeting them on Sunday, but something held him back.

‘Okay. You think it over. In the meantime, we’ll be tackling the German end. We’ve confirmed that Rieber works for Hamburg America, but what position he holds is far from clear. It’s probably a shell job. He doesn’t seem connected to their embassy in any way, and Cumming thinks it’s possible that the Germans have set up a secret service like ours, one even more independent of the military than we are. Rieber lives in a very nice apartment uptown on the West Side, so someone’s plying him with funds. He might lead us straight to his Irish contacts here, but they’re probably using a cut-out, and it might be easier to make the connection from the Irish side.’

And perhaps through the Hanleys, McColl thought. ‘And the GF in the letter,’ Kensley was saying. ‘There’s a Geli Furtwangler who works in the San Francisco consulate, but she’s only nineteen, and seems an unlikely prospect. Of course GF could be Irish …’

‘If I run into a Gerry Flynn, I’ll let you know.’

After leaving Kensley at the park entrance, McColl took the subway south to the end of the line, and sought out the ferry to Staten Island. He needed a place to sort through his options, and the rail of a ship criss-crossing New York harbour seemed as good as any.

The day was getting even nicer, and as the ferry struck out for the distant shoreline he spent a few minutes just enjoying the view. A sudden awareness of movement to his rear had him twisting around, but it was only a boy in pursuit of a rubber ball. The mother gave McColl a ‘What’s the matter with you?’ look, and walked on towards the stern.

Was he getting careless? He found it hard to imagine the Germans sanctioning his murder in such a public place, particularly one which offered the killer no hope of escape.

He could see the Statue of Liberty now, and away to the right the huge immigration building on Ellis Island, which looked from a distance like a cross between the Tower of London and a railway terminus. The Ellis Island wharves were lined with small boats, which had presumably ferried would-be immigrants from their transatlantic ships. Most would be welcomed, but some, after all that hope and effort, would be sent back to Europe. Compared to theirs, his problems were small.

But real enough. Why did he want to work for the Service? Because, until Caitlin had appeared, working for Cumming had been the one thing in his life which had allowed him to feel good about himself. Speaking a multitude of tongues had always made him feel a bit of a freak, more like a performing animal than the master of a real craft, and learning he had a talent for something else had pleased him immensely. It was dangerous work, but he rather enjoyed danger, as long as he had some measure of control over the situation. It wasn’t like being in the Army, where you could end up buried in a trench on the say-so of some moronic general you had never met. And if worse came to worst a full-time post in the Service would presumably exempt him from ever being at that sort of idiot’s mercy again.

If Caitlin had never appeared, he would have jumped at the offer.

But she had, and, as he was willing to admit to himself, he had come to love her. Had, in fact, loved her almost from the day they met. So how could he justify spying on her family, and deceiving her in order to do so? Loving someone should involve some sort of honesty.

This felt like the moment he had to choose, but was it that simple? Given a choice between life with her and life with Cumming, he wouldn’t have needed to think about it. But if a few more hours of hotel passion and a sad goodbye was all that she was offering, then the scales began to tip. Whatever they’d had certainly bowled him over, but that didn’t mean it was built to last. Once they brought everything out in the open, would it all just crumble away? People said that sexual passion always cooled eventually, and how did he know the two of them had anything more? If it turned out they didn’t, he would have given up the life he wanted for a few weeks of romanticised lust.

What would happen if he refused Cumming’s request? Someone else would be found to investigate the Hanleys, someone much less sympathetic. And if her father or her brother ended up in prison, his own role in the chain of events would probably be revealed, and his refusal would count for nothing.

What if he said yes? He had bristled at Kensley’s unspoken suggestion that a betrayal had already occurred, but only because it contained more than a few grains of truth. He had certainly deceived her, and although he didn’t believe he had betrayed her in any real sense, he knew that she would think he had. In this regard, he had nothing left to lose.

If Kensley was right, and not just sugarcoating the pill when he said that the Hanleys were not really implicated, then perhaps there was a way. If they were only stepping stones, could he not step lightly across, and leave them none the wiser? If it turned out that they were implicated, then the question would be – in what? If father and sons were up to their necks in plots against the Empire then he would just have to play God and decide for himself how big a threat they posed. A German alliance, a bombing campaign in London, a plot to kill the King – any of those and he would have to give them up, and no doubt lose her in the process. But despite de Lacey’s letter, he found anything that ambitious hard to imagine. Irish Americans had been making anti-English noises for decades, but what had they actually done? They were still celebrating the Fenian triumph of 1867, which as far as McColl could make out had been a catastrophic failure.

And if all that the Hanleys were involved in was running a few guns to Ireland, then good luck to them. Everyone on God’s earth seemed hell-bent on arming themselves, so why not the Irish Catholics? He would simply tell Kensley and Cumming that he hadn’t found anything out.

Whatever dark secrets the Hanleys had, he would be the one to uncover them, and the one who decided which to pass on. He would not betray her if he could possibly avoid it, and maybe, at some point in the future, the moment would come when he could tell her the truth, and perhaps even earn her forgiveness. It didn’t sound the likeliest outcome, but stranger things had happened, and what other hope did he have?

As the ferry steamed back towards Manhattan, his relief at reaching some sort of decision was tempered by a sudden flash of memory – his mother in the kitchen at Fort William, talking to his grandmother about his father, and saying, with a striking blend of bitterness and awe: ‘That man could forgive himself for anything.’

He spent most of the next three days with Jed and Mac, working by day and making the most of New York’s entertainment industries by night. A couple of hours on the Friday afternoon were all he spent with Caitlin, and there was no fresh word from Kensley or Cumming. They had probably decided that further persuasion would be counter-productive, and McColl, for his part, was in no hurry to announce acceptance of the proffered job.

At noon on Sunday he found himself standing across the street from the Hanley family’s four-storey Brooklyn brownstone. A twitch of the front parlour curtains told him he had been spotted, and he started across the street. He hardly had time to let go of the iron knocker when the door swung open to reveal a thin young girl wearing a maid’s cap and plain working shift. Behind her in the hall, a small elderly woman was waiting to greet him, Caitlin at her shoulder.

‘I’m Orla McDonnell,’ the woman said, offering a hand. She seemed older than McColl had imagined, well into her sixties. Stern features were softened by warm brown eyes, and her long grey hair was coiled in a loose bun. Her short slim figure was encased in a wine-red dress of heavy fabric with a high, military-style collar.

‘Jack McColl,’ he replied, presenting the bouquet of daffodils he had bought on Prospect Avenue.

‘They’re lovely,’ she said, with more than a trace of Irish accent. ‘Thank you kindly. Mary, find a vase and put these in water. Mr McColl, please come through.’

‘Jack, please.’ He followed her into the front parlour, giving Caitlin’s hand a brief squeeze as he went past her.

The man within was probably seventy. He put aside his newspaper, rose from his chair with less than perfect ease, and advanced to shake McColl’s hand. ‘This is Caitlin’s father,’ Orla announced, ‘my brother, Ronan.’

Ronan Hanley was several inches taller than his sister, and stocky without being fat. His grey hair was slicked back from his forehead, above – and there was no other word for it – twinkling green eyes. After everything Caitlin had told him about her father – and much that she hadn’t – McColl had been expecting a man to dislike, but his first impression was quite the opposite. He reminded himself how amazed acquaintances of his own family had been whenever they heard him criticise his father.

There were two others in the room. Caitlin’s sister, Finola, had neatly curled light brown hair and big green eyes; she was the prettier of the two, but not, in McColl’s estimation, the more beautiful. Her husband Patrick was dark and almost insultingly handsome, but he seemed friendly enough.

They all sat down. Caitlin’s father asked McColl a couple of questions about automobiles and their possible future, and then seemed content to let his sister dictate the conversation. She was more interested in McColl’s gift for languages, and ticked all nine off with her fingers. ‘What do you do – learn a new one each year?’

‘Nothing so deliberate. I’ve travelled a lot, and I just seem to pick them up.’ On the wall behind Orla there was a painting of a woman who looked remarkably like Caitlin, and was presumably her mother.

‘I understand your elder son is a lawyer,’ McColl said to Caitlin’s father, after Orla and Caitlin had excused themselves to check on lunch.

‘Yes, he’s at his wife’s parents’ today. I have two children with sense, Mr McColl – Fergus and Finola here. And then there’s Caitlin and Colm – I expect the boy’ll be down when the mood takes him. Orla tells me I shouldn’t complain – that once upon a time I was a bit of a rebel myself – but these days the young don’t seem to know when to stop.’ He looked at McColl. ‘But then I suppose you’re of a mind with Caitlin and her radical friends, or you wouldn’t be taking up with her.’

‘I agree with a lot of her ideas,’ McColl said cautiously. ‘Though I sometimes think she expects too much too quickly.’

The sound of feet racing down stairs had them turning towards the doorway. Two young men came in, followed by Caitlin, who introduced them. ‘This is my younger brother Colm,’ she said, introducing the taller of the two. He was almost lanky, and seemed slightly uncoordinated, as if he hadn’t quite learned how to work his limbs. He had a shock of floppy brown hair, the same green eyes as his sisters, and the sort of face that better suited smiling than the frown it was wearing now.

‘And this is Seán Tiernan,’ Caitlin said. ‘He’s visiting from the old country.’

Tiernan was equally thin, with a pale, sharp-featured face. His black hair was brushed straight back from a high forehead, and worn slightly long at the back and sides. The brown eyes were slightly hooded, and brimming with intelligence.

Both men shook hands with McColl, but not with any friendliness. There was something close to resentment in Colm’s eyes, and a colder watchfulness in Tiernan’s. The Irishman was probably in his late twenties, and wearing a suit a couple of sizes too large for him. They would all have gone to mass that morning, McColl guessed, and Tiernan had borrowed the suit from Colm.

‘Lunch is served,’ Orla announced from the doorway.

The dining room was at the back of the house, its table set for eight. There was a tree visible through the window, and two landscapes on one wall. McColl recognised the Cliffs of Moher, but not the town nestling by the sea. ‘It’s Lahinch,’ Caitlin said, following his eyes. ‘My father’s family came here from Clare.’

She put him between herself and Patrick, sitting opposite Finola, Colm and Tiernan. A plate of carved roast chicken and several vegetable dishes were passed around, and, rather to McColl’s surprise, Caitlin’s father produced a bottle of Bordeaux for the men to share. The women were offered only lemonade.

They ate in silence, resuming conversation between courses. ‘Where is your home, Jack?’ Orla asked him, as the first plates were taken away.

‘I rent a flat – an apartment – in London at the moment, but I’m hardly ever there. My mother and father live in Glasgow now, but we came from the West Highlands originally. A place called Fort William.’ There were more questions about his family, which he answered as briefly as politeness allowed. From what Caitlin had told him, Ronan Hanley had little sympathy for his own father’s socialist views.

The talk turned to China, and the warm reception accorded Caitlin’s newspaper pieces. Orla was clearly immensely proud of her niece, and annoyed that the male members of the family hadn’t even read most of her articles. ‘She’ll be a famous journalist, you mind my words. Just so long as she follows her star.’

She was looking at Caitlin as she spoke, but McColl had the distinct feeling that the words were also aimed at him.

‘And when are you returning to England?’ Orla asked, as if to confirm his suspicions.

‘I’m not sure,’ he told her.

‘But you are going back?’

‘Eventually. And when are you returning to Ireland?’ he asked Tiernan, intent on changing the subject.

‘In a few weeks. I’m not certain.’

‘And where in Ireland are you from?’

‘I’m from Cork, but I live in Dublin now.’

‘Oh, what part?’

‘Do you know Dublin?’

‘Not that well,’ McColl acknowledged.

Tiernan allowed himself a smile. ‘Well, fitting as it sounds, I live on Cork Street.’ He allowed himself a slight smile. ‘The district has the name of Dolphin’s Barn, and it’s not so bad.’

‘Colm fell in love with Dublin when he came to stay with you,’ Caitlin said, smiling at her brother.

‘As much as you can love an occupied city,’ Colm said without smiling back.

He was a deeply angry young man, McColl thought. And anger allied to a righteous cause, as someone had said, made for a dangerous combination.

The Irish issue had been broached, and once the women had left the table, Ronan Hanley took it up in earnest: ‘So Jack, how are you seeing the future of Ireland?’

McColl felt four pairs of eyes swinging his way. ‘The next step is Home Rule,’ he replied. ‘After that …’ He shrugged.

‘They’ve promised Home Rule before,’ Ronan said. ‘So what makes you think they mean it this time?’

‘It’s as good as done. I can’t see anything stopping it.’

‘A European war,’ Tiernan suggested, in his soft and almost menacing brogue.

‘That might delay things, but –’

‘Ah, we’ve waited long enough,’ Ronan said, almost wistfully.

‘And what about Ulster?’ Colm asked with more than a trace of belligerence.

‘That may take a bit longer,’ McColl conceded. ‘The last I heard there were plans to let the Ulstermen opt out for five or six years, until they got used to the idea.’

Tiernan was having none of that. ‘They never will get used to it, and they’re bringing in guns. And if your government in London orders your Army to coerce them, then our information is that the Army will refuse.’

‘A mutiny?’

‘It won’t be called that. I doubt it’ll see the light of day. The politicians will just bring their promises back into line with what they can deliver, which won’t include Home Rule for the whole island.’

‘And that’s the least we could accept,’ Ronan added with a sigh. ‘And that only as a stepping stone to full independence.’ He seemed almost resigned to missing his dream’s fulfilment.

‘Then maybe I’m being over-optimistic,’ McColl said. He was wondering who Tiernan’s ‘our’ was, but risking a direct question felt unwise. ‘How did people here feel about the Dublin lock-out?’ he asked Caitlin’s father, hoping that the question would draw out the others.

Ronan grunted. ‘A side-show. Ireland needs rid of the English, not a socialist revolution.’

‘Ireland needs rid of English capitalism,’ Colm disagreed, looking to Tiernan for support, ‘or nothing will really change.’

Ronan shook his head. ‘Now don’t give me any of that IWW drivel, not in my own house.’

Tiernan looked down at the table, a slight smirk on his lips, but said nothing. Colm opened his mouth, but closed it again when Caitlin reappeared. ‘Before you get trapped in a century-long discussion on Ireland’s future,’ she told McColl, ‘I’m taking you to see Coney Island.’

He got to his feet, pleased at the chance of time alone with her, a tad frustrated that the conversation had been cut short. He thanked her father for his hospitality, shook hands with the other men, and went to say goodbye to Orla and Finola. Caitlin’s aunt seemed genuinely pleased to have met him, but perhaps she’d been reassured by confirmation of his eventual departure.

He and Caitlin walked down to West Street and joined those waiting for a Culver Line streetcar. ‘So what did you think of my family?’ she asked, the look in her eyes belying the lightness of tone.

‘I liked them,’ he said simply. Which was mostly true. They had certainly seemed a far cry from Reginald Fairholme’s ‘family to give London nightmares’. ‘Your aunt’s lovely, and your father was less frightening than I expected.’

‘He was on his best behaviour.’

‘Patrick doesn’t say much, but he and Finola seem nice enough.’

‘They are. And Colm?’

‘He’s incredibly angry.’

‘About the state of the world? He has cause.’

‘I’m sure he does.’ McColl paused, choosing his words with care. ‘But that’s not where the anger comes from. Or not all of it.’

He half-expected her to bite his head off, but she didn’t. ‘I don’t like Seán Tiernan,’ she said, as if he was the cause of her brother’s ire. ‘He’s been the perfect guest, and I’ve nothing against the IWW – quite the contrary – but there’s something about him.’

‘I know what you mean.’

‘Do you? I’m glad. And here comes our streetcar.’

The journey took about twenty minutes, and continuing their conversation proved impossible amid the hubbub of excited children. It felt as if half the residents of Brooklyn were heading for the beach, and some for the first time. ‘But what does the ocean look like?’ one small child kept asking her mother.

Some of the families looked desperately poor to McColl, the children sallow and very thin, wearing clothes and shoes that bore signs of repeated repair, their parents tired-eyed, and looking older than their children suggested they should be.

When the car reached Coney Island the beach was less crowded than McColl expected, and only a few brave souls had taken to the water. Caitlin led him eastward along the line of sideshows and rides, many still closed for the winter. The Spiderboy and Four-Legged Girl were pulling them in at Dreamland Circus, but Caitlin had something else in mind.

‘We’ve only just had lunch,’ McColl protested, staring up at the Giant Racer roller coaster.

‘That was hours ago,’ Caitlin insisted, pulling him toward the ticket queue.

Ten minutes later they were sharing the front seat of a car slowly ratcheting its way up an extremely steep pair of rails. As they neared the summit, McColl heard the Italian-American girl behind him lauding the view of the Long Island coastline, and then her partner’s sardonic response. ‘I wouldn’t get too attached to the view, sweetheart,’ he drawled, concluding this warning, with wonderful comic timing, at the moment the world dropped away beneath them.

Several long minutes and heart-stopping plummets later, their car grated to a blissfully permanent halt on planet earth. McColl climbed gingerly out, and wondered if kissing the ground was in order. Caitlin took one look at him and laughed. ‘Wasn’t that wonderful!’ she exclaimed

‘Let’s walk along the beach,’ McColl suggested, before she demanded a second ride.

‘All right,’ she agreed, her eyes still full of laughter.

They wove their way through sandcastle builders and softball games to where the Atlantic waves were gently rippling ashore. The sea was warm to the touch, and considering its urban neighbour looked surprisingly clean. They walked hand in hand along the water’s edge, in silence for quite a while, until Caitlin announced, out of the blue, that Tiernan was in New York to find recruits.

‘Recruits for what?’ McColl asked, almost in spite of himself. She was doing Cumming’s work for him, and if she ever found out, he doubted she would forgive him for her own naivety.

‘I don’t know,’ she replied. ‘I just overheard him and Colm talking. The Republican movement, I suppose. Or some part of it.’

‘Has he recruited Colm?’

‘I hope not, but I wouldn’t be at all surprised.’

‘What does Colm do?’ he asked her. ‘Does he have a job?’

‘Oh yes. When he decided he didn’t want to go to college, Father told him that was fine, but he shouldn’t expect to sponge off the family. And he hasn’t. He’s working in a bar at the moment, but he’s had lots of different jobs.’

‘He and your father don’t seem to get on.’

‘No. They used to, when Colm was still a child. But these days …’ She sighed. ‘It seems worse than it was before I went to China. I think Colm will move out soon, and find a room somewhere. It’ll be better for both of them.’ She looked at McColl. ‘He’s not a bad boy. Really.’

A sister’s intuition, he wondered, or wishful thinking? ‘He’s young,’ was all he said. In the distance a large liner was heading out into the Atlantic, grey smoke pumping from all three funnels.

‘When Aunt Orla asked when you were leaving …’ she began.

‘After warning me not to derail your career,’ he wryly interjected.

‘Oh, you noticed that …’

‘It was hard to miss. Not that I blame her.’

‘She wants what’s best for me. But was it true? Do you still not know when you’re going?’

‘Yes, it was. And no, I don’t. Jed and Mac are sailing on Tuesday, but I’ve still got some business to wrap up.’ Being with her, he thought, and spying on her family.

‘So not long then?’

‘A couple of weeks, I expect. Are you keen to see the back of me?’

‘No,’ she said, taking the question more seriously than he’d intended. ‘But I have so much work this coming week, and I’m off to Paterson on Saturday morning.’

‘Why? And where exactly is it, come to that?’

‘It’s in New Jersey, about an hour’s ride on the train. I told you about the strike there last year – most of the silk workers were out for more than six months. I interviewed a lot of the wives in the first few weeks, and the paper I was working for then wants me to go back and do a catch-up piece. There’s a rally planned for next Sunday, so it seemed a good time to go.’

‘Could I come with you?’

She looked surprised, then grinned. ‘Why not? You should find it interesting. But I’ve arranged to stay with one of the strikers’ families on Thursday night, so you’ll be alone in your hotel.’

‘And Friday night?’

‘I think that might be possible. Ah. But I should tell you – Colm and Tiernan are both coming along.’

‘Why?’

‘It’s an IWW event. The IWW more or less ran the strike last year.’

‘Well, I’m happy to spend a couple of days with the two of them. Unless your brother has a violent objection to my sleeping with his sister.’

‘I suppose he might. But if he does, he’ll have me to deal with.’

That night McColl telephoned the number Kensley had given him, and left a message requesting a meeting the following morning. On his way back from Brooklyn he had decided that the Hanleys had little to fear from his professional attentions, and that he could take Cumming’s job with a reasonably clear conscience. Ronan Hanley was obviously past it, and Caitlin, while quite possibly a threat to patriarchy, was only a passive foe of the British Empire. Colm and his friend Seán Tiernan were actively involved in something with an Irish dimension, but whatever it was seemed much more likely to involve international socialism than German intelligence.

He told Kensley as much when they met next day. ‘No one mentioned the Germans, or the fact that a European war might provide the Irish Republicans with an opportunity. All the Hanleys want an Irish Republic that includes Ulster, but Colm and his friend Seán Tiernan want a socialist revolution as well, and I can’t see them regarding the Kaiser as a suitable ally.’

‘People take guns wherever they can get them,’ Kensley observed. He had suggested the two of them talk as they walked, and they were now zigzagging their way uptown. ‘I take it you’re accepting Cumming’s offer of permanent employment?’

‘I suppose I am.’

‘Without knowing the salary?’ Kensley asked, sounding amused.

‘I can always demand a raise when I get back to London.’ Riches were all very well, but lately an interesting life seemed more important.

‘Fair enough,’ Kensley said. ‘So where were we?’

‘People needing guns not caring where they come from,’ McColl reminded him.

‘Oh yes. Well, if the Germans offer Seán Tiernan and Colm Hanley guns to fight Ulster,’ Kensley continued, ‘I can’t see them refusing.’

‘Mmm, maybe.’

‘We do know that some of these Irish bastards are in bed with the Germans.’

‘If de Lacey’s rumour wasn’t just that. I take it you’ve had no luck with Rieber.’

‘Not yet,’ Kensley admitted, ‘and it is possible that de Lacey was imagining things. But I still don’t think so.’ He paused as they crossed a road. ‘Seán Tiernan is a new name to me,’ he said, when they reached the other side. ‘I’ll ask Cumming to check him out with Kell – that’s his opposite number in the Security Service. If Kell’s people don’t know the man, then they’ll have to go looking. Ireland’s their responsibility.’

‘He normally lives in Dublin, on Cork Street,’ McColl offered.

‘Good. Do you know when he’s going back?’

‘He said a few weeks when I asked him, but I wouldn’t count on it. He’ll be in Paterson this weekend, him and Colm Hanley. There’s an IWW rally, something to do with last year’s strike. Caitlin will be there too, interviewing wives.’

‘And you?’

‘Yes, I’m going. What can you tell me about the IWW? It’s just another union, isn’t it?’

Kensley shook his head. ‘It’s more than that. Their idea is a giant union that includes all the workers, and is powerful enough to see off any employer. With no one allowed to make profits we’ll all live happily ever after.’

‘You’re not a believer, then.’ They were walking past the entrance to a block of luxury apartments, where a black man in a brass-buttoned suit was helping a resident with her latest shopping.

‘They have some decent people – Eugene Debs is a man who’s hard to dislike – and they’ve won a few battles, but there’s no way they’re going to overthrow the whole goddamn system, and I think they’re beginning to realise it. So these days they seem to spend most of their time arguing among themselves about what to do next. Debs and his friends think politics is part of the answer, but men like Big Bill Haywood are still clinging to the original big union idea. And, as in any losing game, you’ll always find a few bright sparks who are willing to up the stakes, especially when it’s other people’s lives that they’re gambling with.’

‘Tiernan strikes me as that kind of man.’

‘Handle him with care, then. And watch out for yourself in Paterson – trouble’s more likely than not, and they don’t mess about in this country. Neither the owners nor the unions. They’ll both be out for blood.’

‘An area like this,’ McColl said, casting his eyes over one colonnaded, greystone mansion, ‘and you can see why. If you have a house like that, you’re not going to give it up. And if you don’t have one, you hate the man who does.’

On Tuesday afternoon, McColl accompanied Jed and Mac to Pier 59, where the White Star Line’s Olympic was loading for departure. The ship looked much like her sister Titanic, but none of the boarding passengers seemed overly concerned that history might repeat itself. As Mac wryly noted, icebergs never struck twice in the same place.

Earlier that day they had all said goodbye to the bottle-green Maia, which a Yale professor had driven away after drawing the lucky short straw. The other New York buyers would have a few months’ wait while theirs were built and shipped.

‘So, what shall I tell Ma?’ Jed asked his brother, once Mac had ascended the gangplank. ‘About when you’re coming home.’

‘Nothing,’ McColl told him. ‘I’ll write to her tonight, and tell her you’re on your way. And that I’ll be home soon.’

‘You will?’

‘I will. I can’t stay here forever, can I?’

‘I suppose not. But for God’s sake be careful while you are. After everything that’s happened, it isn’t that easy just leaving you here on your own.’

‘What, alone in the big city?’

‘You know what I’m talking about.’

‘Of course I do. But I’m pretty sure that danger’s past.’ And he was. Keeping an eye out for trouble had become almost second nature, but since their arrival in New York he’d noticed nothing untoward, and had never had the feeling of being watched or followed.

‘I hope you’re right,’ Jed was saying.

‘So do I, but let’s talk about something else. Are you heading straight back to Glasgow?’

‘I have to. They’re expecting me at the Prudential a week tomorrow. April Fools’ Day,’ he added bitterly. ‘It’s going to be so boring after all of this. I’m almost hoping for a war to liven things up.’

‘Don’t say that,’ McColl said. ‘Not even in jest.’

‘Who was joking?’

McColl couldn’t help laughing. A few minutes later he watched his brother board, exchanged final waves, and walked off down the quay towards the city. The ship wouldn’t leave for an hour or so, but it felt like they were already gone, and despite his earlier teasing of Jed, he did feel alone without them. They had spent the best part of six months together, and he had grown accustomed to their silly jokes and ridiculous bravado.

Jed’s comment that a war might save him from boredom came back to McColl. His younger brother was a fool in so many ways, but he loved him dearly. Caitlin’s Colm was also a fool, and in ways that might prove much more damaging, but she would love her brother every bit as much.