The South Lawn Plot

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Authors: Ray O'Hanlon
Tags: Contemporary
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said Manning. He was beginning to feel cold. The damp was working deeper into his bones. It was always better to keep moving here than just stand still.
    Burdin, sensing his companion's discomfort, reached into a pocket and pulled out a silver flask.
    â€œNot Irish, I'm afraid, but it's rather good Scotch,” he said offering Manning the container. It had an etching of a fly fisherman on it and a couple of dents in the metal. It had seen service.
    â€œNo thanks,” said Manning. “I had better get back. Pender will be expecting to be fed.”
    â€œYour man Michael will be seeing to that, won't he?”
    Manning fixed his eyes on the Englishman. To look at him he didn't appear to be the kind of man who made his living as an intelligence agent. He might have been on her majesty's secret service, but he was no James Bond. Nevertheless, Manning had long come to know that you did not judge an individual's capabilities purely by mere outward appearance or physique.
    â€œHow did you know about Michael? How long have you been watching the house?”
    A slight smile crossed Burdin's long and narrow face, even as his eyes remained fixed on the distant house.
    â€œIt doesn't really matter what I know, or how I come to know it. What is important for you, Eamonn, is that you help us as we try to find out more about your present and future guest.”
    Manning frowned. “Future guest? What do you mean?”
    â€œYour ambassador will be asking you to accommodate Mr. Pender for a few days in Washington. She will ask the favor of you when you get back tothe embassy. Don't let on you know, of course, because that wouldn't do at all. But you will naturally comply with the request, even as you feign surprise.”
    â€œJesus, Burdin, have you got her office bugged?” said Manning in a tone more resigned than angry.
    â€œGoodness no, well at least not that I'm aware of. But you know your ambassador. Lovely woman, of course, but she likes to talk, and she's rather chummy with our man in Washington. Indeed there's been some gossip.”
    Manning just about stopped himself from letting loose with a loud guffaw. Here he was half perished on top of an Irish mountain being patched into the diplomatic blather in Washington D.C., three thousand miles and a lot of rain to the west.
    â€œSo he ends up staying in my place. I'm sure you people have one or two operatives on punishment duty in Georgetown. You can keep an eye on him yourself.”
    â€œOf course we can, Eamonn. But we've long appreciated your very singular skills, and we'll try to make this pill a little easier to swallow. As you will recall, our arrangement does have its little quid pro quos, and I'm going to give you one right now.”
    Manning turned and faced Burdin. “I'm all ears,” he said.
    In fact he was anything but. Burdin launched himself into a series of what he presented as revelations about British Embassy tactics in the never-ending game of diplomatic one-upmanship in Washington. Mannings’ eyes narrowed, and he stifled a yawn. The air hereabouts, as always, was good for sleeping, even while standing on top of a mountain.
    He caught the occasional word and phrase. Burdin interchanged Sinn Féin with the sobriquet “shinners” and sought occasionally to secure common ground with his presumed listener by making jibes at the Americans.
    As if sensing that his companion was lost somewhere in the dampness, Burdin brought his lecture to a screeching halt with a firm admonition.
    â€œAnd be careful of what you say to Fitzhugh.”
    The Irishman's eyes opened wider again, his eyebrows rising.
    â€œMortimer Fitzhugh?”
    â€œYes, your counterpart at our embassy, that Fitzhugh.”
    â€œThere are no other contenders,” said Manning. “But don't tell me he's MI6 too and that I should be careful of what I say to the man. We figured that one out already Roger.”
    â€œHe's not MI6,” Burdin

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