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The truth was that sometime during 1919, he had grown tired of the ordinary reporter’s life he had returned to in London. He wanted to remain a journalistic outlaw, an in-between, not quite committed to the daily routine of work and family life. He wanted to come and go as he pleased in a mood of subterfuge, adopt a new name, a fictitious past, a cover story to avoid being discovered by hidden enemies, and what better place to do it than in the Dublin of 1919, a city that had become the settling pond for the dregs of the Great War.
    There was nothing new in the Crow Club’s discussion that night. The same rumours and suspicions about the IRA and the whereabouts of its leader Michael Collins that had been floating in the air since winter began. Evidence of the search for Collins, whom the British had branded the most wanted man in Europe, was everywhere in Dublin, the reward posters flapping at every train station, the news of his latest exploits shouted by newspaper vendors and filling column after column of leaded type, sweeping to the back pages news of war and famine, Russian revolutions and presidential elections. Collins’ details had been circulated among the country’s entire population of policemen and soldiers . It should have been impossible to escape the scouring attention of so many loyal and armed men.
    â€˜I’ve been studying your reports,’ the general gruffly told the Crow Club. ‘As a result of your tip-offs in the last month, m y men have raided 27 boarding houses, and arrested 18 individuals suspected of belonging to the IRA. I’ve counted them all up. Not one of them has brought us any closer to catching Collins.’
    â€˜We’ve turned Dublin’s hotels and boarding houses into bus y hives of spies and informers,’ explained Isham, ‘but as soon as we find any trace of Collins, he vanishes.’
    â€˜Then does it upset you , corporal, that a Cork gombeen has made your mission a regular farce?’ asked the general.
    Isham caught Stapleton’s grey eyes. ‘What do you think? ’ His voice grew taut. ‘Collins has made his life an enigma and fools of us all.’
    For the Crow Club, finding the IRA leader was proving more difficult than trapping the invisible particles of air. He appeared to be made from an element that was undetectable to the eyes of Isham and his fellow Englishmen. He was the mystery they could not fathom; the plot they could no t penetrate. He might even be among the clientele in the bar below; however, they did not know the secret signs that would reveal his whereabouts.
    â€˜What else can we do?’ asked Isham. ‘My men have pulled in all the suspicious looking fellows from the street. We’ve combed the boarding houses, cleared out the slum tenements, raided the bars and watering holes.’ The dark rings beneath his eyes were evident in the dim light. ‘We have been carrying out our duties to the best of our abilities in spite of the severe constraints.’
    For the next half an hour, they discussed the hunt for Collins. Kant could not find a way into the conversation. He was lost for something to say. Instead, he found himself transfixed by the sight of the snowflakes falling against the window, their lengthening streaks against the darkness. He felt a cold draught penetrate the air, and it seemed to him that the flakes were seeping through the glass, drifting towards him. A familiar pain rose in his chest. Suppressing a coughing fit, he sank back into his seat, seeking comfort in the memory of the mysterious woman who had kissed him with such desperation in the hansom cab. Slowly, the coarseness and anger of the Crow Club began to dissolve, and a warm darkness folded itself around him, full of her breathless presence, her fingers and lips seeking him out, her body leaning across the heavy belt of his greatcoat, her touch warming the nape of his neck.
    He sighed to himself. Her appearance in