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and closed his eyes. He was tired. His breath tightened and he felt the return of the familiar chest pain. He would have welcomed the dark immersion of sleep but his mind was too active, the ache in his chest too stubborn. He rose from his bed. Using a chair, he opened a trapdoor in the ceiling and slid from the darkness Merrin’s leather bound file. The damp air of the attic had swollen its size. He untied the cover and carefully lifted out the pages. He laid them on his bed and studied the rows of numbers and dates. He tried to work out what Dublin Castle had found interesting about them, and why Mick Collins was so eager to have them back. He was able to track some of the figures, sums of money paid to an Italian furniture maker, a further amount for shipping the goods, payments to harbour men that might have been bribes, the entire operation looking very like a gun-smuggling operation.
    Money and war, he thought. The rebels and the banks shaping a new Ireland. Trade and power, a world far removed from the hushed hansom cab and the harried woman who had given him the file in the first place. Where was she now? He fervently hoped that she had not become another victim of this country’s painful history.

SIX
    The pine forest lay before the horseman and his companion, impenetrably dark against the whiteness. It had just stopped snowing and the laden trees were brimming with an icy stillness. The horse, a grey mare, swung too close to the branches, setting off ripple-effect cascades of falling snow, which the man walking had to skip sideways to avoid. The rider steered the horse deeper into the trees, making his companion curse. It was getting darker and the only habitation for miles was the nearby mansion Park House, from which they could hear the frenzied baying of hounds.
    â€˜Why meet here?’ complained Thornton, who was on foot. ‘You’re not planning a picnic in the snow?’
    â€˜I enjoy the twilight,’ replied Isham. ‘The way the light lingers through the winter trees. It almost makes me sentimental.’ He ducked his head to avoid the overhanging branches.
    â€˜Those bloody hounds. They’re giving me the creeps.’
    â€˜I’ve ordered the groom not to feed them at the weekend. Keeps their appetites sharp for the hunt.’
    Thornton trudged unhappily alongside the corporal, slipping deeper and deeper in the fresh snow.
    â€˜I need new boots,’ he complained. ‘This is a terrible winter. I need something with a lining to keep out the cold.’
    Isham knew Thornton’s type well. A veteran of the Great War but at heart a rough-and-tumble street thug, an opportunist always looking for a hand-out. After being demobbed in 1918, Thornton might have easily joined the shadowy swarms of pickpockets and petty swindlers on the streets of London, but like hundreds of others, had b oarded the first boat to Dublin. There was a hierarchy in spying, as in everything, and Thornton belonged to the lowest levels. Isham could see it in his constant uneasiness, the mix of fear and dependency that ran through all his relationships, even with the enemy.
    They followed the path through the forest with its twists and turns, skirting the heavier branches, which constantly threatened to inundate Thornton with fresh snow.
    â€˜What progress have you made searching for Collins?’ asked Isham. ‘You’ve been dropping hints that you have good news for me.’
    Thornton’s eyes shone in the dim light.
    â€˜Progress, yes. I’ve discovered he’s operating under the alias of a business man called Jack McAleer.’
    â€˜What sort of business man?’
    â€˜One with numerous bank accounts and offices dotted about the city. His headquarters are on Leeson Street. A secret office that can only be accessed through a hidden door in the Dublin Life Assurance building.’
    â€˜Forgive me for being sceptical.’
    â€˜About the existence of