“And her clothes came in handy, didn’t they?” Maggie countered. “I think we’ve got more important things to concentrate on than Holly’s twelve suitcases. She’ll pull her own weight, Ian, I know that much. I don’t have any such guarantees about you.”
“I beg your pardon?” He tossed back the rest of his Scotch, highly affronted.
“I think you’re wasting too much time and energy fretting about Holly’s luggage and not enough on what we’re going to do next if they can’t find anything out at the gaming club.”
“I don’t need to fret, I know,” he said grandly. “We’ll go to Northern Ireland. There’s a man named O’Banion who’s been known to work with Flynn. He’s a lesser member of the local branch of the IRA, and I’ve been told he’s a reasonable man.”
“Where’d you get that information?”
“I have my contacts,” he replied in a lofty tone.
“The same contacts that told you Holly was living with Flynn? I can’t say I think much of them.”
He had the grace to look uncomfortable. “No informant is infallible. Besides, I got this from someone I’ve used a little bit more. It’s someone I knew when I was stationed in Ireland, and I’d trust him with my life.”
“You were stationed in Northern Ireland? Don’t you think it might be a little difficult for you to ferret around among the IRA looking for Flynn? For some reason I don’t think people are going to want to cooperate with you.”
He smiled then, and Maggie immediately revised her opinion of their unwilling partner. He wasn’t completely lacking in appeal. She wondered how Holly would react if he ever directed that beautiful smile in her direction.
“That’s where you come in,” he said. “You and Carter should do very well tracking him down.”
“What do you mean, me and Carter? What about Holly and Carter? I think she’ll do just as good a job—”
“No. I’m not going to tell you how to find O’Banion unless you promise me you’ll do it. I don’t want that painted doll messing up my one solid lead.”
“And if I don’t promise?”
“Then all bets are off and I’ll find him on my own. And if he doesn’t feel like cooperating with a member of British Army Intelligence, I’m certain I’ll be able to work my way around to convincing him.”
Maggie shook her head. “I don’t think we should draw any attention to our search. Beating up people might get a bit untidy.”
“Then you and Randall will have to do it neatly,” Ian replied.
“I suppose … Good God, what was that?” The dark London sky was lit with a ball of flame halfway across the city, and the windows of the old hotel rattled ominously with a sympa
thetic tremor.
Ian was by her side, his face lit with the incendiary glow. “Looks like a bomb,” he said grimly. “I’ve seen enough of them in my time.”
A cold knot of dread began to form in Maggie’s heart. “Where do you think it is?”
He turned to look at her, and his wonderful green eyes were bleak. “I wouldn’t know.”
“You can’t even make an educated guess?” Her voice was deceptively calm.
“It would be a waste of time. You’re already jumping to enough conclusions for both of us,” he said. “I’ll go downstairs and see what I can find out. Why don’t you pour us both another drink while you’re waiting?”
“If Holly and Randall are dead another drink won’t help matters.”
“It won’t hurt either,” he replied, grabbing his shabby tweed jacket and patting his pocket assured that his gun which Maggie had returned to him was there. He also checked his ankle holster for his knife. Satisfied, he headed for the door. “Unless you want to come with me.”
Maggie stared at him. “I’ll wait here.”
The door shut behind him silently enough. Maggie moved with studied calm, pouring herself a second, stronger glass of Scotch and downing it with one gulp. She looked down at her hand and was amazed to see no tremor at all. She picked up the phone, requested an outside line, and dialed the number Randall had left. No one at Champignons deigned to answer the phone—if Champignons was still standing.
She set the phone down quietly, moving back to the window. It looked as if an entire block was in flames, and the snowflakes drifted down, silhouetted by the orangey brightness. Holly was too damned young to die, she thought, her face set and grim. She couldn’t lose Sybil and Holly all in a matter of days. Life was cruel, but it simply couldn’t be that cruel. A small, helpless moan came from somewhere in the room, and she realized with a start that it emitted from her own tight throat.
She didn’t know how long she stood there, staring out into the night. The fire spread to a second block before it was brought under control, and she watched, mesmerized, wondering how many bodies were cremated in that funeral pyre that could have only been Champignons.