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the cab had been so sudden, her intimacy so agile and disconcerting, she had rendered him defenceless. He was a war correspondent, and had survived months as an outlaw at the front lines, sending back uncensored reports while shells exploded around him and soldiers’ smoking bodies disintegrated into the French mud. He should have been immune to her touch, not dazzled like a lovesick 16-year-old.
    A prolonged silence among the members of the Crow Club wrenched him from his reverie. He had only been daydreaming a moment or two, and was unsure of when the atmosphere in the group had changed. Somehow, he had missed the glance or word that had stopped the discussion.
    The general broke the silence with a hoarse voice: ‘While you are still spies in the pay of the British Crown you must obey the rules of the intelligence game.’
    â€˜And what are those rules?’ asked Isham.
    â€˜Whatever I damn well please.’
    The men of the Crow Club looked at each other gloomily. Their eyes shifted in the glare of Stapleton’s anger.
    â€˜Your job as agents of the Crown is to collect information and bring it to Dublin Castle. There your commanders will analyse it and make the correct political decisions.’
    â€˜A good agent should make his own decisions,’ snapped Isham. ‘He should carry out his own plans. We operate at the centre of extremely dangerous events.’
    â€˜None of you is entitled to influence the future of this country to that degree. Your actions are subordinate to a political course that has been chartered in advance. ’
    â€˜Then the danger is Dublin Castle will be overwhelmed with an abundance of information,’ said Isham. ‘An intelligence agent should be allowed to find the most expedient solution when a problem or opportunity presents itself.’ He lifted his empty glass and waved it at a waitress.
    The general looked at him with a wary expression.
    â€˜What do you mean?’
    By now, the spies had turned their attention to Isham, their cautious, ingratiating faces like cats around a saucer. Thornton, a Cockney ex-soldier, leaned forward.
    â€˜We should be given permission to kill Collins,’ he hissed.
    The general squinted at him. ‘I’ve already made it clear that Collins should be arrested, preferably without injury to his person. Certainly not killed.’
    â€˜Let us embark in combat with Collins, sir,’ pleaded Thornton. ‘We are at the end of our tethers, collecting snippets of information and feeding them back to Dublin Castle. By the time your department organises a raid or search party Collins and his men have long flown the nest.’
    â€˜I echo his complaint,’ said Isham. ‘My men are itching to shoot the IRA leader on sight. And every one of his murderous accomplices. Give us the go-ahead, otherwise, prepare for us to stay here forever, and send us a bottle of whiskey each for the duration.’
    Isham grinned and the table of spies added their guffaws. It was hard to tell whether it was the suggestion of free alcohol or Collins’ murder that had induced their good humour.
    Thornton’s throat grew thick with spittle. ‘I’d like to slip into Collins’ bedroom at night with a knife between my teeth and stick him like a pig.’
    â€˜I’d kill him with a bomb,’ said a hollow-faced Scot called Riley. ‘Like Alexander the Russian king.’ A rush of exhilaration animated his pale face.
    â€˜That’s a clumsy and savage means of assassination,’ said Isham. ‘But even the world’s greatest escapologist would have trouble crawling out of a crater filled with rubble.’ He turned to the bar. Shaking his empty glass , he shouted, ‘Can a gentleman not get a drink?’
    â€˜What kind of man slays his enemy with a bomb?’ The general’s eyes flashed at the table of spies. ‘Can you imagine the political scandal if the explosion harmed