Leon Uris (73 page)

Caroline Hubble never came down from her bedroom without looking the best she could look on that given day. She was attired in a pale blue dressing gown and wore her hair long. She poked through a stack of legal and business work in the solarium of the Merrion Square townhouse as Rory made a late morning appearance.

“Good morning, Prince Charming,” she greeted him.

“I didn’t realize that dancing was so much exercise.”

Caroline rang for the butler. She smiled as Rory laid on a sheepman’s breakfast for himself. “…And a rasher of bacon, Adam.” Turning to Rory, she said, “It’s unnatural to simply sit down, ring a bell, give an order, and there it is.”

Rory sensed a very subtle shift in Caroline’s demeanor, a bit of firmness, a new aspect to her otherwise constant sweet nature. She poured herself a cup of tea, chewed into her toast, and adjusted her glasses.

“I say if it looks like a kiwi, runs like a kiwi, quacks like a kiwi, and lays eggs, then it’s a kiwi.”

“I’m a kiwi all right. Question is, have I laid an egg?”

She found the paper she wanted. “Canterbury District, the South Island between Oxford and Kowai Bush. The Landers farm was purchased by Liam Larkin, proprietor of Ballyutogue Station in 1907.”

Be cool, lad, he told himself. Across the table sat someone who could be as dangerous as a hangman.

“Am I under arrest?” he said at last.

“If you want to know how I got this, Jeremy wrote to me. I’ve known from the minute you walked into Rathweed Hall.”

“That’s not true, Caroline. Jeremy would not break a trust.”

“You believe that?”

“I know it,” Rory said. “You might not like the next line, Caroline. Jeremy intended to become a republican.”

It confirmed her suspicions. Jeremy was born with that soft Irish nature and Conor Larkin was his god. His disaster with Molly, his hatred for his father, his inability to set in comfortably with his own caste all pointed to it. Still, on hearing it, it rocked her, even though she had suspected as much.

“What’s your story, Mr. Larkin?”

“I was underage, pissed at my father, and passionate to get to Ireland from the instant I learned of Conor’s death. A funny thing happened along the way called…Gallipoli. You sort out your troubles in a hurry in a place like that. I almost made the terrible mistake of not writing to my father to forgive him. Thank God, I didn’t die and leave him with that hanging around his neck. Maybe Ireland was none of my business then. It is now.”

“Conor played my father for a fool and that’s what you did to me,” she continued.

“All depends on how you look at it, about who is playing who for what. That’s a mighty fine organization you run. A hell of a lot better than British intelligence. How are you playing this now, Caroline?”

“That all depends on whether you give me straight answers or not.”

“Seeing that the situation is highly in your favor, I’ll do my best.”

“Are you certain that Llewelyn Brodhead isn’t setting you up so he can make you spill the name of every Brotherhood man left in Ireland when they get you on the torture rack?”

“It’s crossed me mind. However, I’ve got to go with instinct. I don’t think he’s that smart.”

“How smart was he commanding seven divisions of infantry?”

“From the beginning?”

She nodded.

“In Egypt it seemed that he was a little less uppity than most career pommy officers. We were
his
Anzacs and we were going to be the best troops in the expedition. He demonstrated, on numerous occasions, he’d go to bat for us. He got us the equipment and animals we needed by taking on the theatre commander. He overlooked a lot of…naughty adventures, say, in Cairo, including Chris at the Aida Hotel.

“He was a brutal disciplinarian in getting the troops ready. Some medical people say he put as many men into the hospital with his training as he left standing.

“In my opinion, considering what we were going into, I think he did the right thing. A lot of men wouldn’t have survived Gallipoli otherwise. But that was just good standard British Army training. Well, you know his history with Chris before the war,” Rory said.

“You mean the gunrunning and the mutiny at Camp Bushy?”

“Aye. Chris had to really swallow ten tons of crap to get that mule corps shaped up. What Chris did with our battalion was to make something work. It would have been a disaster without the mules. Brodhead knew it. Chris was all man about it. In fairness to the General, he went on record with the War Office against the entire Gallipoli expedition. Once assigned to the Anzacs, however, he played the good soldier. He lived and moved among the men, shared our hardships. Maybe he got a better brand of booze than we were stilling and had better rations, but his hole and my hole looked pretty much the same. He was fairly popular with the officers and men.”

“So, you don’t fault him,” Caroline said.

“I didn’t say that. The rest of it is fucking sad.”

“All right, once again, how smart was he in commanding seven divisions of infantry?”

“Bearing in mind Napoleon and Caesar wouldn’t have had a chance—”

“I’m speaking about Llewelyn Brodhead,” she demanded.

Rory’s voice dipped low. “He was a lousy general. The planning for this campaign guaranteed a disaster. On those things he had say, he was somewhat less than no good. Nothing worked, from the landing site to the most simple communications. Naval gunfire was a disaster, and in six months they couldn’t get it straightened out. We were badly underequipped, underfed. Evacuation plans were nonexistent. Medical facilities were beyond primitive…but that wasn’t the half of it, Caroline….”

Rory hung his head and took time to get control of himself. “War is war and any man who aspires to be a general must steel himself against losses. He was from some century long ago,” Rory said harshly. “He thought he owned the Anzacs. He made blunders that were real pissers, but the worst of it was, he didn’t give a big rat’s ass. I was with the man time and again after we’d taken terrible casualties and never once saw him blink an eye. He had no conscience. Troops were his for the slaughter, no more, no less. His tactics were archaic, often mad…he was born without tears to shed.”

Some of the iron had drained from Caroline. Fear of her next question hung over both of them.

“All right,” she said, eyes tearing, “you know what I want to know.”

“The short version or the long version? The Aussie charge over the Nek was a suicide mission with no tactical purpose. Llewelyn Brodhead simply lost his head.”

“You did not read the Commission of Inquiry’s first report, did you?” she asked.

“One of those nice blue ladies in the hospital read it to me.”

“Well?”

“Brodhead lied to cover his ass. As one incompetent general in a pot of a dozen other incompetent generals, he was able to ooze his way past the bitter truth.”

“And Chunuk Bair?” Caroline asked.

“We arrived at the top at daybreak after a most dangerous all-night march and climb. Shortly thereafter the Suvla Corps landed but stopped on the beach without even attempting to make contact with us. We were only a battalion strong with no chance to thwart a Turkish counterattack. Some forty to fifty thousand British soldiers just sat there on the beach.

“Brodhead should have ordered us off Chunuk Bair immediately. Instead, he did the opposite. He sent Colonel Markham up to us with orders to remain there seven hours after we should have evacuated. The New Zealander, Colonel Malone, refused to stay any longer and he and Markham got into an argument.

“Brodhead, by phone, ordered Chris to arrest Colonel Malone. Chris refused. Brodhead was expecting eight hundred of us on totally exposed ground to stand off thirty to fifty thousand Turks.

“Anyhow, Malone ordered the evacuation. As it started, he and Markham were killed by a shell.”

“Where were my sons?”

“The Turks were inching up on us. Chris and Jeremy went out to our perimeter and charged into several nests of machine guns to try to buy us time to get off the hill.”

“You heard all of this between Malone and Markham?”

“Yes.”

“Do you know that Brodhead has testified that it was he who ordered the evacuation?”

“Yes, he lied…and he’s asked me to lie as well.”

They sat there, chalk-faced.

“How did my sons die?”

Rory wept a bit and continued shaking his head.

“How did my sons die?”

“By British naval gunfire!” Rory said. “Now fucking leave me alone!”

“What are your intentions now, son?”

“When I know yours,” Rory answered. He dried his tears and gave a hardy blow of the nose.

“Brotherhood?” she asked.

“Maybe.”

“They’ll want you to stay in Dublin Castle. You can’t carry that off for too long.”

“We all know that.”

“How far will you go?” she asked.

“How far will
you
go?” he retorted.

“How many more villages does he plan to tumble?” she asked.

“As many as it takes to crush the Irish spirit…. Your flirtation with Brodhead?”

“I wasn’t positive. I am now.”

“Lure him?”

“To his death. Seems that we’ve been thrown together, Rory. Of course, you have no choice but to trust me.”

“I do trust you.”

“I’ve been wondering all along if I could really do it,” she said. “Even as a general in battle, he killed my sons needlessly through his incompetence and panic. Is that right?”

“Yes,” Rory said.

“I am the daughter of Freddie Weed and all that inplies. Father and daughter are a paradox. Freddie longs to die but he cannot die until Brodhead is assassinated. I long to live but I cannot live until the same thing happens. He killed my sons and now he plans to kill Ireland. I’m not a republican, Rory, but I have learned from the executions that I am an Irishwoman…and I love hearing myself say it. You can’t take out Brodhead by yourself, Rory. Suspicion will fall immediately on his staff, and you can’t stand too much scrutiny. On the other hand, I can do it, but I need an ally, be it the Brotherhood or yourself, alone.”

“There’s some talk about making a move if they sentence Roger Casement to death.”

“I’ve always adored Roger Casement,” Caroline said. “Is vengeance wrong? It would be wrong knowing what Llewelyn Brodhead will do to Ireland, having the means to stop him, and not doing it-that would be wrong. Sometimes a man or woman has to stand up and take responsibility for thousands who can’t. Is it wrong to kill a killer to stop him from further killing?” she cried.

“I came here wondering what I could possibly do in Ireland…. Now I know,” Rory said.

When the Tara Street Railroad Station was planned and built in the last century, two sets of architects had worked on it. The firm in London engineered the tunnel and tracks from the central depot, while a firm in Dublin produced the blueprints for the terminal building.

Only problem was, either the tracks or the building was on the wrong side of Tara Street. After due discussion, arbitration, and court action, the net result was seventy-five feet of abandoned tunnel, which was boarded up on both ends.

The Brotherhood gained secret access to this abandoned stretch of line and, using it as a starting point, charted a labyrinth of sealed rooms, hidden ladders, movable sections of flooring and roofing, over rooftops that ultimately led to a garret three stories up over Poolbeg Street, an area of general commerce near the river.

If you were looking for the safest hideaway in Ireland, look no further. It had been crafted over a six-month period by Conor Larkin, took a half-hour to reach once one entered the tunnel, and it never came close to coughing up its final destination.

Furthermore, it was airtight because the location was known only to Conor, Dan Sweeney, Seamus O’Neill, and Atty. Only Atty survived the Lettershambo Raid and only then shared the secret with Theo.

Over time its larder was stocked with nonperishable food including essential liquids. It sported a small turf fire and a secure phone line. It was now reopened as the rendezvous for Rory, Theo, and Atty.

Rory followed Theo down from the roof, remarking about the incredibility of the place. Theo removed the ladder and with a long handle, slid the roof shut.

“Hello, Mother.”

Atty Fitzpatrick was waiting on a well-worn settee.

“Hello, Rory lad,” Atty said. “This is where we meet from now on. There will only be the three of us. Needs a bit of dusting and some new supplies. I’ll bring them up. The telephone still works. Never pick it up until you hear five full rings, a stop, then a redial.”

Rory surveyed the place. A small dormer brought up sounds and smells of steel-ringed wheels on cobblestones and the omnipresent Dublin aroma of ales from no lack of nearby public houses.

As the sky darkened and the town blinked on in waves of twinkling lights, low roofs made a fairyland silhouette. Even curtains, Rory thought. He let them fall together.

“Kind of rare up here,” Rory said.

Atty had a bittersweet reaction to the place. She checked the cupboards, stopped here and again by returning memories.

Theo trailed after her, shaking empty bottles and chucking them. At last! A keeper.

Atty became all business. “Theo and I will be your only contacts. No one else in Ireland knows we’re getting information out of the Castle. Your name is nonexistent. We still have a Supreme Council, although, as you can imagine, communicating and meeting is a very dicey proposition these days. Theo and I are gong to take much of the responsibility and make plans and decisions until we can form a cohesive group again. Is that all right with you?”

“Yes, that’s fine with me.”

“How is it going in the Castle?” Theo asked.

“Some of the security is really sloppy,” Rory said. “I might have a crack at some informers’ lists.”

“That’s good, but we have to be very careful. First of all, you aren’t the only Brotherhood man working inside the Castle. Secondly, there are double agents playing both sides. Thirdly, they may plant a list with several false names on it to trap someone like you in their midst. Anything you touch, do it with suspicion,” Atty instructed.

Rory blew a breath and nodded, acknowledging her years and skills at the game and also realizing the thin ice he himself was skating on.

“I’ve got one thing,” Rory said. “Brodhead is planning a series of setups. The Army or the Constabulary is going to plant a few cases of rifles or bombs in various locations around the country, then go through the pretense of a raid, find the arms, and tumble the building as they did at Clonlicky. Kilorglin is first, during the Puck Fair in August.”

“Bastards,” Theo said. “If we alert anyone in Kilorglin the Brits will suspect someone in the Castle tipped them off.” He smacked his fist into his palm. “We might just have to let them level the place to keep our source secure.”

“Bad show,” Rory said.

“August,” Atty said. “That’s about the time we’ll be getting a decision on Sir Roger Casement. Brodhead’s subtle way of turning the screws.”

“So?” Rory asked.

“So?” Atty echoed.

“So,” Theo said, “it all seems to add up to one thing, doesn’t it?”

“Brodhead has to be assassinated,” Rory said.

“So say we all,” Theo said.

“No,” Atty said, “I’m afraid of British reprisals.”

“Mother, he’s going to murder countless Irishmen and rip down all of the country he can get his hands on. Will reprisals be that much worse?”

“On the other hand, Brodhead’s being killed or disappearing just might cause the British to reflect for a moment
or two. It could have the opposite effect. It could just put a stop to the wanton destruction and killing,” Rory said.

“Rory might be right, Mom. It’s a calculated risk we have to take.”

“Jesus, I hate assassinations,” Atty said.

“If there is any such thing as a righteous one, Brodhead is it,” Theo said.

“If Brodhead is killed, suspicion comes your way very quickly, Rory. You are Conor Larkin’s blood,” she said. “He was the most courageous man I’ve ever known, but he had a terminal problem about not being able to execute anybody, one on one. It’s one thing to kill Turks in battle. Have you ever put a pistol to a man’s head and shot him?”

Rory’s mind went back to a hot day in a dry stream bed in Gallipoli…reaching for his pistol as Dr. Calvin Norman lay prostrate from the heat…leveling the gun at the man’s temple. His Uncle Conor had come to him in that instant and told him not to do it.

“You see, Rory, close as you are to Brodhead, you can’t do it without walking to the gallows, yourself. The only alternative is life on the run for the rest of your days. In fact, I’m on edge every day you stay in the Castle.”

They sipped their tea, Rory and Theo loudly, and Atty as though drinking from an empty cup on the stage, lady-like.

“Get a grip,” Rory said, abruptly coming to his feet. “We’ve an ally who knows who I am and is just as anxious to see Brodhead dead—in fact, even more anxious. She has access to him, can get him alone, anywhere. She will be the shooter. She needs an ally to dispose of the body. This will give us the opportunity of having Brodhead simply disappear from the face of the earth, making it more difficult for the British to justify reprisals.”

“Who is she?” Atty asked, expecting a spurned mistress out for revenge. Too much could go wrong with that sort of person.

“It’s Caroline Hubble,” Rory said.

“Are you mad?” Atty cried. “She can’t be trusted!”

“If she can’t be trusted, why hasn’t she picked up the telephone and turned me in?” Rory said. “She had me cold from our first meeting.”

“Because she wants to set you up to force you to give the entire Brotherhood away.”

“Mom…now, Mom…you are being emotional, and ridiculous,” Theo said softly.

“Me? Ridiculous? Weed and Hubble are ridiculous.”

“Mom, she wants Brodhead dead for some very obvious reasons.”

“And some not so obvious, Atty,” Rory said. “This woman is not her husband or her father.”

“Are you telling me she has become a republican?”

“She has always been politically independent of both her father and her late husband. She did extraordinary work on behalf of Catholic education in Derry. She lives with an Irish rogue, Gorman Galloway. She’s turned Weed Ship & Iron into a public company, recognized the union, and she is now giving away large tracts of the Earldom to her peasant farmers…just like you did, Mom. Mom…love…we may have struck gold.”

“Vengeance for her sons?” Atty asked.

“It’s killing her,” Rory said. “You can believe this or not, Atty, but she is convinced Brodhead will return Ireland to the Middle Ages. The Brits can’t send anyone worse, but they can sure send someone better. The risk is worth taking.”

“I can’t bring myself to making an alliance with the daughter of Frederick Weed.”

“Conor never made love to her!” Rory shot out, hard and abruptly. The effect was resounding. When the silence had settled down into the tattered rug, eyes were no longer meeting eyes.

“You make the call, Mother,” Theo said. “I’m overdue for a meeting with Lord Cornelius. He may have a message on some of our prisoners.”

Theo, not the most graceful of men, stumbled up the ladder onto the roof. Instead of roaring with excitement over the budding plans, Atty seemed almost mean-spirited.

“How would you know about Conor and Caroline Hubble?” she asked.

“Conor told me the first part of their story when he was in New Zealand. Jeremy told me the rest of it, including the rumors about yourself and Conor.”

Rory was in the shadows near the window frame. It was a sight she’d relished and longed for, and it startled her. For that instant it was Conor standing there. This had been their place for over four years. Oh, the lovings and free-flowing danger of it all! And young Rory, his head working like Conor’s, a master of the game.

Rory peered down to the street, brain dinnlin’, same courage, same daring. Like Conor, he was now fixed on his mission. In this gray world things could go wrong so quickly. One day in Dublin Castle and the next on the run and all that that rotten life entails.

“Don’t do it, Rory,” she said. “Once you’re in you never get out. After a time you lose count of all the bombings and knee-cappings and killings and years of rotting behind bars.”

“You two found a world, right in this room,” Rory said. “Would you change any of that?”

“This is
our
country. You’ve a land of your own.”

“I’ll go when it’s my time to go,” he said.

“Goddamn you, you didn’t hear a word I said,” she spouted angrily.

“I need to be here,” Rory said. “Don’t ask me to go again. I didn’t swim all the way from New Zealand to this safe room to slink off. You seem to forget, Brodhead killed my brother Jeremy with his fucking stupidity. Think I can live a rich full life by tucking tail and fleeing? I’ve got to finish this, Atty, I’ve got to finish this.”

Atty was fumbling her lines and her thoughts. Seeing him up here had derailed her mourning, sparked a
springtime. She never thought it would come again. And Lord, she didn’t want it from him.

They stood on either side of the bed until the mattress became a third party. Don’t even think about it, you bastard, she thought.

“We seem to have a real talent for antagonizing each other. Either mutual repulsion or mutual attraction.”

“And a silver tongue to go with it,” she said. “I’ve seen that leer from the lads all my life. You do it better than most.”

“By God, Atty, you’re afraid of me,” Rory said. “Or is it that you’re afraid of yourself? Don’t count yourself totally innocent. I know the look, too.”

“I’m old enough to be your mother.”

“You’re afraid of me, Atty. You’re afraid I’m going to make you enjoy it. You don’t want to enjoy it. You want to live forever wrapped in martyrdom.”

“God, Rory, you’re a real bastard, aren’t you? Am I not allowed to be shocked by your resemblance? Are you that damned arrogant?”

“Arrogant to what? Give me one more come-on and I’ll forget I’m a British officer and a gentleman.”

Yes or no, Atty girl? He looks through you the same way Conor did. It’s highly unlikely he doesn’t know how to take care of a woman.

Atty played her next lines to slice his throat. “I don’t want an imitation Conor Larkin. I had the real thing, and one dead Conor is worth a dozen live Rorys.”

Rory reflexively grabbed her arm with unquestioned power and shook her.

“Well,” she said, “excuse me for making any comparison. The difference between you and Conor is already quite clear.”

He let her go. “I’ll be back here Sunday at three o’clock. Make your decision. If you have any fucking brains you’ll put your claws in and make an alliance with Caroline Hubble. I can make the way out without help.”

Atty lit another candle and held on, then flung herself on the bed, pounding the pillows with her fists and cursing Rory Larkin for arousing her. Oh, he was the Larkin, all right; she was totally intimidated by him. Her lifelong game of wilting men before her eyes didn’t work on a few of them, and he and Conor were two.

How dirty wrong would it be to have one more breath of Conor? How scummy would I feel afterward? But, to hell! I’m not a widow! I’m not lying alongside him in Ballyutogue! Did not Conor find a life with me after Shelley’s death? Am I forbidden? Conor! Conor, lad, what should I do, now? What should I do?