Blackest of Lies by Bill Aitken Page B

end of Britain as far as the war’s concerned and we’ll squeeze even more out of it when the country gets to know that their own Government lied through their teeth at them. It’ll wreck the political landscape and bring the Government down.  We’ll wipe out morale at home and Government control at the Front.”
    MacNeill grunted and leaned forward to stub out his cigarette, bringing his face momentarily into the pale light of a low-wattage bulb. He looked up without moving his head.  “What about you, Iain?  You’re our tame newspaper editor.”
    Iain Devlin’s involvement with extremists was an open secret in journalistic circles and, privately, he revelled in the smell of danger that hung around men like MacNeill as long as he didn’t come too close to it.  This was too close to it.  He sat, hunched up, with his elbows on his knees, head down.  “I don’t agree, Eoin.  I think the more time you give to Special Branch to think something up, the more chance there is of losing the advantage.  It’ll always be harder to announce our involvement after the news becomes public.  But if we can be the first to spread the news, no-one can deny it was us.”  He looked up.  “What about Casement and his boys?  I still have a couple of my lads standing by to get the story about Kitchener and his boyfriends from Dan Bailey.  He was supposed to be coming over from Germany with Roger but now that Gallagher’s going to kill the ould bastard, what’s the point of running the story?”
    MacNeill sighed with impatience.  “You just don’t get it, do you?  The point, Iain, is that we don’t just want to kill Kitchener.  We want to destroy him!  So, when Dan gets to Dublin, you run the story at the same time as we announce Kitchener’s execution.  And, in any case, we don’t give a tinker’s cuss about Casement.  If he had his way, there would have been no Easter Rising and he would have had nothin’ to do with Bailey’s ‘revelations’ so he’s not the man for us.  Not any more.  Gallagher will kill Kitchener for us and then we’ll have some fun.”
    “Have you heard from Sean yet?”
    MacNeill leaned back in the chair and darkness closed over his face once more.  “No.  It was supposed to be some time this weekend.  So unless something has come up, we should hear in the next few hours.”
    “How will he get in touch, then?”
    MacNeill looked sharply at the other man and said quietly, “That’s none of your business, Iain.  Leave that sort of stuff to people like me and Sean.  Don’t you go worrying your head about it, so.  Y’hear?”
    Devlin gabbled something in excuse but MacNeill ignored him.  “I like the idea of hitting the Brits twice for the same operation.  Maximise the effect.  It’s good economics.”  He paused and mulled the matter over for a few minutes, while the others kept their silence in the gloom.  “OK, we’ll go for the double whammy, as the Yanks would call it.”
    Chesney grinned quietly at Devlin until MacNeill leaned forward once more, lowering the front legs of his chair on to the floor.  The faint light filtering through the torn blinds glittered in his dead eyes.  “But Padhraig,” he said, “be right.”
    **********
    In the end, Hubert drove down the following morning.  The events of the previous day and his fragile, early-convalescent health had proved more than he was yet able to bear.  Kell, uncharacteristically, insisted Hubert got himself a good night’s rest before setting off.  The situation at Broome was well-enough in hand now and there was nothing to be gained from Hubert collapsing before sorting out this Farmer idea.
    Arriving at Farnham House, Hubert had the driver stop the car at the foot of the long gravel sweep.  It was early Sunday morning and he had slept most of the journey up from Kent.  He got out and walked forward to speak to him.  “OK, Tom, make yourself scarce for a couple of hours.  Back here at eleven