The Time Roads

He lifted a crumpled sheet from the stack of otherwise neat pages. Underneath it, he found two more. All three were nearly illegible—stained by rusty brown splotches and creased through and through. Even more puzzling, each paragraph looked as though a different person had written it. In one, the script lurched across the page, while the next consisted of neat cramped lines.

But it was the contents that intrigued him the most. This was not the usual field agent’s report. One page contained a list of names and occupations. The names were Montenegrin or Serbian, he noted. Another, labeled Meetings, gave dates and locations. The third page contained only a few paragraphs, but Ó Deághaidh recognized what had to be drop points and exchange signals. Here the name Kiro Delchev was repeated several times, along with references to a larger group of Éireann sympathizers, which Delchev represented.

Again he felt an inward tilt, as if a godlike hand had unbalanced the world. But, no. This was no case of time misremembered. He knew he had not overlooked these papers the night before. He also knew he had locked his rooms before meeting with Ó Luain, and that he had found the packets exactly as he left them.

Someone wishes me to know about Montenegro and Kiro Delchev. And they do not wish to tell me openly.

So, it was with some curiosity he went to his next interview.

Lord Ó Breislin’s office was crowded with books, exotic carvings, and framed samples of illuminated text. A scent of incense hung in the air, mingled with tobacco, reminders of his time abroad. He had spent his early years as a diplomat in the East, with posts ranging from the Turkish States, to the various kingdoms in the Indian subcontinent, to the Chinese Empire. After running the embassy in Constantinople for six years, and establishing a network of agents, he had returned to Court to serve as an adviser for those affairs. He greeted Ó Deághaidh with a firm handshake and an offer of coffee or whiskey.

“Coffee, if you please,” Ó Deághaidh said. “I would like to keep my wits about me.”

“Wise choice. Roibeárd, give us two cups and then y

ou may go.”

An aide poured two cups of thick black Turkish coffee and withdrew. Ó Breislin added a lump of sugar to his cup and stirred. “You would think I’d had enough of this goop, as Mac Gioll calls it, when I lived abroad, but it seems that familiarity has bred a great love and no contempt.”

“You spent fifteen years in Constantinople, I understand, my lord.”

Ó Breislin glanced at Ó Deághaidh from hooded eyes. “Near enough. Ten years rattling about Turkey. Six more in the embassy. If you know that much, you should know the rest.”

Ó Deághaidh tilted his hand outward in recognition of the shot. “It comes from my background, my lord. It makes me indecently curious. Did you ever have cause to investigate the Balkans during that time?”

The other man raised his eyebrows. “As events required, yes.”

“Did you ever come across a man named Kiro Delchev?”

“No.” A pause. A sip from the cup. “Wait, I have. There was a Doctor Delchev in Montenegro. A professor at the old university in Cetinje sometimes called in to advise Prince Danilo on international matters. I don’t know anything more than the name, however. I’m sorry. You’ll have to ask Ó Cadhla about the man.”

Ó Deághaidh finished his coffee, but slowly, as he considered this reply. Either Ó Breislin truly did not know, or had prepared himself for direct questions. He turned the conversation to the most recent succession wars in the Turkish States. There Ó Breislin showed no lack of opinions, and the next few hours passed in animated discussion about the recent assassinations, and what might ensue, once a particular faction took firm control of the throne.

When Ó Deághaidh returned to his rooms that evening, after a late supper with Ó Breislin and Ó Luain, he locked the door and built up a fire before collapsing onto the sofa.

He could make nothing of the clues so far. Ó Luain was competent, if dull. (Though Ó Deághaidh had not forgotten that flash of keenness at the last.) Ó Breislin and Mac Gioll appeared exactly as one would expect—shrewd, practical men. Capable of advising the queen well, equally capable of manufacturing a complex scheme that could throw Éire into confusion. But to what end?

He sighed and poured himself a whiskey. He was reaching conclusions ahead of his data. He had another day, and two more interviews. No, three. He would surely see Áine one last time before he departed.

* * *

“Of course, Commander. I will relay your wishes to the queen.”

“Please do. I understand I am being irregular—”

“Not at all. The queen was quite explicit. We were to satisfy you on all counts.”

No doubt the queen’s secretary had a large staff to carry messages. Nevertheless, he had answered Ó Deághaidh’s summons himself, despite the early hour, and assured Commander Ó Deághaidh he would personally relay his messages to the queen and her ministers at once.

“Oh, and please make certain these letters are delivered to Lords Ó Luain, Mac Gioll, and Ó Breislin,” Ó Deághaidh added, handing over three sealed envelopes. Inside were messages, asking for clarifications on several points discussed during their interviews.

Again the secretary bowed. “You may be certain of it, Commander.”

Within an hour, Ó Deághaidh had replies from all five members of the inner Council. He set aside those from Ó Luain, Ó Breislin, and Mac Gioll to examine later. The answers themselves were unimportant. However, he was curious how De Paor and Ó Cadhla might answer such a seemingly impetuous request to change the hour and order of their interviews.

As you wish, Ó Cadhla wrote. Short and matter-of-fact.

De Paor’s reply was longer, but also expressed his willingness to accommodate Commander Ó Deághaidh.