At the Edge of the Sun

  She heard the key in the lock, but she didn’t dare turn. She couldn’t bear to see the sorrowful expression on Ian’s face. She didn’t know him well enough to share the suddenly unbearable emotions that were threatening to strangle her, and she clenched her fists, her short nails digging into her palms, waiting for the deadly words.

  They were prosaic enough. “Shouldn’t you be in bed?” Randall’s unmistakable voice pierced through her fog of despair. “We’re booked on a plane to Northern Ireland tomorrow morning and you’ve probably still got a hell of a case of jet lag.”

  It took her a moment to school her features. She kept her back to him, her face turned to the plate-glass window as the first waves of relief and joy washed over her. She shuddered, then turned, her face calm and unmoved.

  “Where’s Holly?”

  “Down in the bar with Ian, filling him in on what little we found out.”

  “Then it was Champignons,” she said in a weary little voice, unable to contemplate what she had almost lost. “Do you want to tell me?”

  Randall shut the door behind him, moving across the room so that he was standing much too close to her. He didn’t touch her, he didn’t need to. His very closeness was an unwanted embrace. “We got caught in the world’s worst traffic jam. We were three blocks away when the bomb blew.” He shrugged. “We were lucky.”

  “Was it Flynn?”

  Randall smiled, his cold, wintry smile. “Who can tell? Anybody who worked in the club, who would have seen him, has been blown to hell and back. I think it would be a reasonable assumption.”

  “Reasonable,” Maggie agreed coolly. “Is Holly all right?”

  “A little shaken. Andrews isn’t half bad, you know. He took one look at her pale face and immediately began to insult her. She perked right up. Last I saw them they were squabbling over brandy and chips.”

  “Brandy and chips?” Maggie said faintly. “Better her than me. What time is our plane?”

  “Not till eleven.” His voice was curiously gentle. “Are you all right?”

  “Why wouldn’t I be?” She summoned up a trace of belligerence.

  “Maybe you were worried about the bombing?” he suggested.

  “I was worried about Holly,” she corrected. “I could give a damn about your fate, Randall.”

  His smile was faintly skeptical. “Really? I hate to tell you this, Maggie, but I could see your reflection quite clearly in that plate-glass window. You were damned glad to see me. Almost tearful, as a matter of fact.”

  She didn’t bother to deny it. “That’s because I knew your presence, no matter how unwelcome, meant that Holly was all right. Nothing more than that.”

  “I can accept that,” he said, his voice suddenly intent. “If you’ll tell me why you suddenly decided to hate me. If you feel like imparting that piece of information I’d appreciate it.”

  She stared at him for a long moment, contemplating. On impulse she spoke. “How well did you know Bud Willis?”

  His eyes narrowed. “Too well. Why?”

  “Did you ever hire him to do anything for you? Anything of a personal nature?” Hell, she thought, why don’t you just come right out and ask him?

  Randall was standing very still, and a mask had shuttered his features. “What makes you ask that?”

  “Idle curiosity. Are you going to answer me?”

  “No.”

  She waited. “No, you’re not going to answer me or no, you never hired him?”

  “No, I’m not going to answer your question. It’s none of your damned business, Maggie.” His temper flared. “The past is the past, and raking over old mistakes is a waste of time when it’s too late to change any of it. If you don’t like the way I’ve run my life that’s your problem, not mine.”

  Maggie nodded, her face cool and still. “You’re absolutely right. And I’ll take care of it, sooner or later. That’s a promise.”

  “It sounds like a threat,” he said wearily.

  Maggie managed a distant smile. “Take your pick, Randall.”

  Timothy Seamus Flynn chuckled softly, flipping the morning paper over and dropping it beside his half-empty coffee cup as he surveyed the Dublin morning. He was pleased—no, more than pleased. He was absolutely delighted with the results of his gerry-rigged device. The stuffy lords of Champignons wouldn’t look down their aristocratic noses at the likes of Tim Flynn again. And that snotty British bitch was missing in the rubble, that honorable miss whoever who’d been so shocked when he’d grabbed her arse. Serve the bloody cunt right, he thought, grinning.

  “More coffee, sir?” The waitress had reappeared at his elbow.

  “No, love. This is enough for now. I’ve got a plane to catch.”

  And the waitress forgot her sore feet and miserable cold and smiled back at that engaging grin.

  five

  It was a cold night in Northern Ireland. Colder than London, colder than New York, with a chill wind that blew right through the thick woolens and into one’s backbone. Maggie leaned against the rough side of the building, huddling in the heavy cape she’d borrowed from Holly, and wondered whether the cold was all on the outside. Part of her wanted to run back to the carefully hidden rental car, part of her wanted to be back in her austere apartment in New York. But she was made of sterner stuff than that.

  “This is the place,” Randall said. He was only a tall shadow in the darkness beside her, his elegant suit traded for rumpled corduroys and a thick fisherman’s sweater. He had an uncanny ability to take on protective coloration. She could remember the time they’d spent in Eastern Europe, more than six years ago. In Gemansk he’d donned the persona of an Eastern Bloc factory worker when he’d taken on the rough clothing their contact, Vasili, had brought him. Tonight he looked like any number of Irish workers they’d passed on their long hike to this remote little corner of County Down, a little taller than most, a little quieter than most, but nothing remarkable.

  Maggie only wished she felt as anonymous as Randall. Her faded jeans and thick rust-color sweater would have been at home anywhere, and the thick green cape was as Irish as the cold North wind around her. But with her wheat-color hair, turquoise eyes, and Nordic face there was no way she could blend in with the Celts around her. So like Ian had on his arrival in Ireland, she kept her head down, allowing herself only furtive glances.

  Andrews and Holly were safe and warm, miles away in a small hotel in the heart of Downpatrick. Neither of them could be trusted to find Rory O’Banion—their faces were too well known. Holly was on the current cover of Queen, splashed all over newstands from Land’s End to northern Scotland. And Andrews, with his usual taciturn brevity, announced that his face was not unknown to local members of the IRA.

  Randall had nodded, looking at Maggie, and she’d had no choice. So here she was, out in the middle of nowhere with the man she least trusted in the world, with the knowledge that her life might depend on him before the night was through.

  Of course, with her efficient little Colt 380 tucked under her sweater, she could well take care of herself. If they got into trouble she could even manage to let off a stray bullet that might accomplish whatever revenge she still wished to take. But no, she couldn’t do that. Last night’s conversation had been unsettling. She couldn’t take her revenge until she forced a complete admission from Randall. And now wasn’t the time to worry about it. If they were going to get through this and find Tim Flynn, she couldn’t waste her energies on Randall’s guilt or innocence. For the time being she had to put all thought of it out of her mind.

  It was a noble resolution, easier said than done when Randall moved next to her. “Do you want to come in with me?”

  “What do you think?” Neither the cold nor her fear made her voice tremble, it was smooth and calm in the chilly night air. Maggie could smell the scent of the sea, the strong salt tang carried on the night air, and she wished to God she was somewhere warm, by the blue Pacific, and not standing in a lonely village buffeted by North Atlanti
c winds.

  “I think you’re coming with me,” Randall said. “You know what I like about you, Maggie?”

  “I don’t give a damn.”

  She could have saved her breath. “I like your bravery in the face of danger,” he continued.

  “Randall,” she said, unable to help herself, “I’m scared shitless.”

  “I know, Maggie,” he said gently. “That’s what makes you so brave. Let’s go find this O’Banion.”

  It was a small pub, dark and crowded, the noise and smoke and smell of peat and beer and sweat almost overpowering. The rich Irish voices filled the room, and for a moment Maggie knew a moment of pleasure in the lilting accents. Until the noise quieted suddenly and a score of suspicious faces turned their way as they moved as unobtrusively as possible over to the bar. The level of noise rose a bit, nowhere near the previous din, as Maggie and Randall ordered large, warm glasses of Guinness.

  “Yuch,” Maggie whispered to Randall.

  He smiled at her. “Don’t you like warm beer?”

  “It reminds me of The Barretts of Wimpole Street. Sybil starred in a remake as Elizabeth Barrett Browning. Her father used to torment her, and one of his favorite tricks was to force her to drink mugs of stout. I never realized what torture it was.” She took another sip and shuddered.

  “You have a brown foam mustache on your upper lip,” he whispered. “If this were any other place and time I’d lick it off.”

  “If it were any other place and time I’d kick you in the balls like I did four months ago.”

  “Don’t push your luck, Maggie,” he said. “Once is the only time you’re going to get away with it.”

  She licked the foam off her lip by herself, took another sip, and once more shivered. And then looked up into the most gorgeous pair of blue eyes she’d ever seen.

  “I take it the little lady doesn’t care for our local brew,” the man said, his voice a rich lilt. He had come up beside them, a welcoming smile on his face, and Randall smiled back, an easy grin that was as phony as Sybil Bennett’s raven hair. The newcomer was a handsome man, with shaggy brownish-red hair, a beard, and a wiry, well-knit body that was just above medium height.

  “Beer has never been my thing,” Maggie said, putting the mug down on the polished walnut bar.

  “Then you’re missing a treat,” he assured her, and his eyes suddenly made her wish she hadn’t eschewed makeup entirely. His look was flattering enough—she only wished she felt she deserved it. “My name’s Rory O’Banion,” he continued in that rich, Irish voice. “And I’m wondering what it is I can be doing for you?”

  “What makes you think we’d want you to do anything for us?” Randall replied, and his stormy eyes had grown colder as they moved between O’Banion and a temporarily entranced Maggie.

  O’Banion laughed. “This is a small country and a small town. American tourists, no matter how well they blend in, would only be coming to see me. Especially when they have the dangerous look about them that you two do.”

  Maggie was flattered. “I look dangerous?”

  “That you do, lady,” O’Banion assured her. “If it weren’t those gorgeous eyes of yours it would be that splendid mouth just made for—”

  “We were looking for you,” Randall interrupted. “A friend of a friend sent us.”

  “Why’d you stop him, Randall?” Maggie objected. “It was just getting interesting.”

  “Your mouth is made for gagging,” he replied shortly.

  “Randall, is it?” O’Banion had picked right up on the name, and Maggie could have bit her tongue. Randall was right—she should have been gagged. “Would you be Randall Carter, then?”

  Randall nodded. “You were expecting us?”

  O’Banion looked mysterious. “I’d had word,” he said. “You’re wanting to find Flynn.”

  “Exactly. Can you help us?”

  O’Banion shrugged his lean shoulders. “Could be. We can’t talk here—he has too many friends around here. Can you meet me?”

  “Name the place and time.”

  “There’s a pub in Kerrydown called the Swan’s Liver. A lot of the British soldiers hang out there, along with people less picky in their politics.” His self-deprecating grin took the sting out of the words. “Run along there and I’ll meet you around midnight.”

  “And how do we know we can trust you?” Randall inquired in the most charming of voices. “Why should you want to help us find Flynn?”

  “Tim Flynn’s forgotten his people,” O’Banion replied, a note of grimness in his voice. “He made a lot of money in the States, and he’s already gambled half of it away. He’s not even in Ireland—last I heard he was heading for the Middle East. If we see a penny of his latest earnings then I’m Saint Patrick himself.” O’Banion laughed his hearty laugh. “Besides, it’s scum like himself that give the IRA a bad name. There are a great many of us who are working for a peaceful settlement of the troubles. The best thing that could happen to Tim Flynn is if someone puts a stop to his bloody career. I’ll be counting it a favor if you could do that.”

  Maggie knew Randall well enough to see the distrust beneath his polite words. “We’ll be there.”

  “Both of you, I’m hoping,” O’Banion said, turning the full force of his dazzling smile in Maggie’s direction.

  And like a besotted fool, she smiled back.

  “I don’t trust him.”

  Maggie glared at her companion. “You just don’t trust anyone with charm.”

  “Maggie, you may not recognize it, but I’m accounted to have a certain amount of charm myself,” Randall drawled. “You just happen to be immune to it.”

  “And maybe you’re immune to O’Banion’s.”

  “Maybe. But I don’t like this wild goose chase all over the hills of County Down. Why couldn’t we meet someplace else? I don’t think walking into a pub full of occupying forces is the safest thing to do.”

  “O’Banion wouldn’t have suggested we meet there if it was dangerous,” Maggie insisted.

  “Wouldn’t he? I’m not convinced of that.”

  Maggie sighed, a long-suffering exhalation of breath. “If you’re not certain then why don’t we head back to the hotel rather than wander all over the Irish countryside in the dead of night? My feet are killing me, I’m half frozen, and I want a large glass of Irish whiskey to wash away that disgusting warm beer.”

  “You can go back if you want, Maggie. The car’s still parked by the trees back there.”

  “And leave you to take care of everything? No way, Randall. I’m sticking to you like glue.”

  He looked down at her. “Promises, promises,” he muttered under his breath.

  “What?”

  “Never mind,” Randall said with a weary sigh. “Come on, Maggie. Miles to go before we sleep.”

  “Miles?” she echoed unhappily.

  “Miles.”

  “And we can’t drive?”

  “It wouldn’t be wise,” he said.

  Maggie stopped complaining. There was a heavy fog lingering over the hills and valleys as they tramped in silence. The dampness crept beneath the cape and sweater, and Maggie shivered in the darkness. She’d been fool enough to wear her new leather boots, and her feet hurt like hell. Next time she’d stick with her Nikes.

  In complete silence she followed Randall down the deserted roadways, the mist clinging to them like a malevolent ghost. Several times she opened her mouth to complain, to challenge, to break through the still night air. Each time she closed it again, trudging onward in silence.

  They were approaching a town—the lights glowed eerily through the fog and the muffled sounds came and went, bouncing off the thick mist. Randall had come to an abrupt halt, and through the shifting light and shadows Maggie could see the pub not more than a hundred yards away. The door opened, and noise and light and laughter spilled out for a moment, then disappeared like the closing of a tomb.

  Maggie ignored the shiver of apprehension that swept over
her. She wanted that light and warmth, not the cold, deadly darkness around her. “What the hell are we waiting for, Randall?” she demanded in a heavy whisper. “It must be after midnight by now. Let’s go in and find O’Banion.”

  “Not yet.” His voice was low, emotionless, and brooked no possibility for argument. Maggie once more contemplated bloody vengeance as she stood behind Randall in the alleyway.

  “You want to tell me what you’re waiting for, Randall?” she inquired with ironic courtesy. “Or am I just supposed to stand here all night and freeze to death while you decide whether it’s safe or not?”

  “Stop bitching,” he whispered, not bothering to glance in her direction. “I may be saving your life.”

  “You may be giving me pneumonia. What—” Her voice stopped abruptly, not even needing his sudden, furtive gesture. She could hear it as well as he could, the sound of booted feet moving stealthily down the cobbled roadway.

  She edged closer to him, forgetting for the moment her distaste at his nearness. In the cold damp air his body heat was curiously comforting, and she didn’t even notice when he put an arm around her, half in restraint, half in protection.

  He was intent, listening, and she tilted her face up to his, curious. The footsteps drew closer, and in the shadowy night she could see the silhouettes of half a dozen men edging toward the pub. And then, through the darkness, came an eerie clicking noise. The sounds of weapons being readied. She watched with horror as they moved in on the pub, and she opened her mouth to scream a warning to the people in the pub. A warning that never came.

  six

  Randall slammed her back against the side of the building, hard, and his hand crushed her open mouth. The scream died to a gurgle in her throat as she kicked at him, struggling as he subdued her. From the corner of her eye she could see the light once more flood the dark street, hear the noise and laughter. And then there was no sound but the thunder of machine guns, drowning out everything, drowning out screams and pleas and weeping. As suddenly as it began, it was over, and there was silence once more, silence and darkness. Any light in the pub had been smashed by the storm of bullets.