Northern Spy Berry, Flynn (books for 9th graders .TXT) 📖

She’s an asset for the British Crown. “Are they paying you?” I ask, and she nods. “How?”

“They’re depositing money in a Swiss bank account.”

“Do you not find that problematic?”

Marian twists her mouth to the side. IRA members aren’t meant to be interested in money, as a point of pride. They tell stories about being offered a suitcase full of cash by the government to turn informer and laugh.

“It’s practical,” she says. “I might have trouble finding work after this.”

I open my mouth to argue, then stop myself. I’ve no call to criticize Marian for not upholding the IRA’s code of ethics.

“The detective who’s looking for you came to my office. He asked if I’ve ever transported explosives.”

“Oh, christ,” says Marian. “I’m sorry.”

For the past two days, I’ve been waiting for the detective to interrupt our news meeting, or appear in the canteen during my tea break, this time with uniformed constables, to bring me in for questioning, to make my humiliation complete.

“What’s he like?” she asks.

“He’s nice. You two should have coffee sometime.”

The odd thing is, I do think they would like each other. They’d respect each other. He doesn’t appear to respect me, but, then, he thinks I’m a liar.

The bus curves along the lough, past sodden meadows. Marian says, “Did you meet with Eamonn?”

“Yes.” She starts to speak, but I cut her off. “You could at least look surprised.”

Marian smiles. “I knew you would.”

“I’m not doing this to impress you,” I snap. “I haven’t forgiven you. Whatever you’re doing now doesn’t make up for it.”

Marian stiffens, then says, “I need you to tell Eamonn the name Charles Cavil. My unit’s doing surveillance on him this week.”

“Who is he?”

“A financier. He’s friends with the prime minister, their families go on holiday together. The IRA wants to bring him in. We’re looking for material to blackmail him.”

“Have you done that before?” I ask, which she doesn’t answer. We’re almost at Greyabbey, and I reach past her to signal for the stop.

“Can I see Finn?” she asks.

“No.”

“Please, Tessa. I miss him.”

“It’s not fair of you to ask me.”

Anything could happen to her, in her position. It could happen tonight, it could happen a few hours from now. Marian moves aside and I brush past her, with my head down, my eyes stinging. This might be our last conversation, her pleading and me leaving her alone on a bus.

—

On the beach in the morning, I drop onto the crest of sand and wait for Eamonn. The rising sun casts a path of shining light on the water, and I stare at it for long enough to see spots when I look away.

From the far end of the cove, Eamonn and the dog are coming toward me. The signal worked, then. Last night after leaving Marian, I stopped at Spar and bought a Mars bar with Eamonn’s gift card. I was starving but didn’t consider eating it. It was a signal, not actual food.

The collie bumps her head against my chest, and I lean forward, breathing in the comforting smell of her wet fur. Eamonn has on a blue marled sweatshirt with two white laces hanging from its hood.

“Is she really your dog?” I ask.

“Yes,” he says, which is good. I want something in this to be real.

I tell him about the plan to blackmail Charles Cavil. “What are you going to do?”

If Cavil disappears from the province, the IRA will know there’s a mole.

“Whatever we do, it won’t lead back to Marian, I promise.”

I want to talk to his other informers. I want to know where they are now, if they’re still alive, if they’d do it again.

“Can I ask you something? Why didn’t MI5 help convict Cillian Burke?” Cillian’s trial collapsed earlier this week, as predicted. He’s a free man.

“We had reason,” says Eamonn.

“What?”

“The greater good.”

“Do you even care what happens here? Is this a training ground for you?”

“No, Tessa,” he says. “I’m not training.” He looks over his shoulder at the gray sea. “Is it cold?”

“Yes.” I start to untie the knot on my leggings and to pull off my jumper, undressing to my swimsuit. Eamonn hasn’t moved. “Is there anything else?”

He shakes his head, and I step around him to walk down to the water. I gulp in air, then duck under the surface.

—

Every night after work, I stop at an ATM and withdraw four hundred pounds. At home, I roll up the bills and hide them in an empty tube of sun cream. I’ll need the cash if things go wrong, if we have to leave suddenly.

I find my passport in the bottom of a filing cabinet and place it in my jewelry box, along with Finn’s birth certificate, and a scan of his NHS card and vaccination records. I move my canvas holdall to the front of the closet and run through what to bring—nappies, wipes, blankets, bottles, warm clothes—but don’t pack them. If the IRA ever searches my house, they can’t find a go bag.

On Saturday, Sophie drops Poppy off for a playdate. I set both babies in their high chairs and return with two jars of fruit purée. They watch me with wide eyes, bibs around their necks.

“Right, who’s hungry?” I ask, surprised at how easy it is to act like a normal person, like someone who doesn’t have two thousand pounds in cash hidden in her bathroom cabinet.

20

When I open the snaps on Finn’s sleepsuit, his chest is covered in bright red spots. My hands freeze. “Oh, god.” The spots look like measles. He had an MMR vaccine recently, but the virus might have already been in his system. Finn frowns at me from the changing mat, then starts to cry. I duck forward to kiss him, angry with myself for scaring him, for not having better instincts, and gently loosen his arms from his sleeves. The spots have spread to his back, too.

I lift Finn to my shoulder and step into the