Читать книгу Confessional - Jack Higgins, Justin Richards - Страница 9

In Dublin, it was raining, driving across the Liffey in a soft grey curtain as the cab from the airport turned into a side street just off George’s Quay and deposited Fox at his hotel.

The Westbourne was a small old-fashioned place with only one bar-restaurant. It was a Georgian building and therefore listed against redevelopment. Inside however, it had been refurbished to a quiet elegance exactly in period. The clientele, when one saw them at all, were middle-class and distinctly ageing, the sort who’d been using it for years when up from the country for a few days. Fox had stayed there on numerous occasions, always under the name of Charles Hunt, profession, wine wholesaler, a subject he was sufficiently expert on to make an eminently suitable cover.

The receptionist, a plain young woman in a black suit, greeted him warmly. ‘Nice to see you again, Mr Hunt. I’ve managed you number three on the first floor. You’ve stayed there before.’

‘Fine,’ Fox said. ‘Messages?’

‘None, sir. How long will you be staying?’

‘One night, maybe two. I’ll let you know.’

The porter was an old man with the sad, wrinkled face of the truly disillusioned and very white hair. His green uniform was a little too large and Fox, as usual, felt slightly embarrassed when he took the bags.

‘How are you, Mr Ryan?’ he enquired as they went up in the small lift.

‘Fine, sir. Never better. I’m retiring next month. They’re putting me out to pasture.’

He led the way along the small corridor and Fox said, ‘That’s a pity. You’ll miss the Westbourne.’

‘I will so, sir. Thirty-eight years.’ He unlocked the bedroom door and led the way in. ‘Still, it comes to us all.’

It was a pleasant room with green damask walls, twin beds, a fake Adam fireplace and Georgian mahogany furniture. Ryan put the bag down on the bed and adjusted the curtains.

‘The bathroom’s been done since you were last here, sir. Very nice. Would you like some tea?’

‘Not right now, Mr Ryan.’ Fox took a five pound note from his wallet and passed it over. ‘If there’s a message, let me know straight away. If I’m not here, I’ll be in the bar.’

There was something in the old man’s eyes, just for a moment; then he smiled faintly. ‘I’ll find you, sir, never fear.’

That was the thing about Dublin these days, Fox told himself as he dropped his coat on the bed and went to the window. You could never be sure of anyone and there were sympathizers everywhere, of course. Not necessarily IRA, but thousands of ordinary, decent people who hated the violence and the bombing, but approved of the political ideal behind it all.

The phone rang and when he answered it, Ferguson was at the other end.

‘It’s all set. McGuiness is going to see you.’

‘When?’

‘They’ll let you know.’

The line went dead and Fox replaced the receiver. Martin McGuiness, Chief of Northern Command for the PIRA, amongst other things; at least he would be dealing with one of the more intelligent members of the Army Council.

He could see the Liffey at the far end of the street, and rain rattled against the window. He felt unaccountably depressed. Ireland, of course. For a moment, he felt a distinct ache in the left hand again, the hand that was no longer there. All in the mind, he told himself, and went downstairs to the bar.

It was deserted except for a young Italian barman. Fox ordered a Scotch and water and sat in a corner by the window. There was a choice of newspapers on the table and he was working his way through The Times when Ryan appeared like a shadow at his shoulder.

‘Your cab’s here, sir.’

Fox glanced up. ‘My cab? Oh, yes, of course.’ He frowned, noticing the blue raincoat across Ryan’s arm. ‘Isn’t that mine?’

‘I took the liberty of getting it for you from your room, sir. You’ll be needing it. This rain’s with us for a while yet, I think.’

Again, there was something in the eyes, almost amusement. Fox allowed him to help him on with the coat and followed him outside and down the steps to where a black taxicab waited.

Ryan opened the door for him and said, as Fox got in, ‘Have a nice afternoon, sir.’

The cab moved away quickly. The driver was a young man with dark, curly hair. He wore a brown leather jacket and white scarf. He didn’t say a word, simply turned into the traffic stream at the end of the street and drove along George’s Quay. A man in a cloth cap and reefer coat stood beside a green telephone box. The cab slid into the kerb, the man in the reefer coat opened the rear door and got in beside Fox smoothly.

‘On your way, Billy,’ he said to the driver and turned to Fox genially. ‘Jesus and Mary, but I thought I’d drown out there. Arms up, if you please, Captain. Not too much. Just enough.’ He searched Fox thoroughly and professionally and found nothing. He leaned back and lit a cigarette, then he took a pistol from his pocket and held it on his knee. ‘Know what this is, Captain?’

‘A Ceska, from the look of it,’ Fox said. ‘Silenced version the Czechs made a few years back.’

‘Full marks. Just remember I’ve got it when you’re talking to Mr McGuiness. As they say in the movies, one false move and you’re dead.’

They continued to follow the line of the river, the traffic heavy in the rain and finally pulled in at the kerb half-way along Victoria Quay.

‘Out!’ the man in the reefer coat said and Fox followed him. Rain drove across the river on the wind and he pulled up his collar against it. The man in the reefer coat passed under a tree and nodded towards a small public shelter beside the quay wall. ‘He doesn’t like to be kept waiting. He’s a busy man.’

He lit another cigarette and leaned against the tree and Fox moved along the pavement and went up the steps into the shelter. There was a man sitting on the bench in the corner reading a newspaper. He was well dressed, a fawn raincoat open revealing a well-cut suit of dark blue, white shirt and a blue and red striped tie. He was handsome enough with a mobile, intelligent mouth and blue eyes. Hard to believe that this rather pleasant-looking man had featured on the British Army’s most wanted list for almost thirteen years.

‘Ah, Captain Fox,’ Martin McGuiness said affably. ‘Nice to see you again.’

‘But we’ve never met,’ Fox said.

‘Derry, 1972,’ McGuiness told him. ‘You were a cornet, isn’t that what you call second lieutenants in the Blues and Royals? There was a bomb in a pub in Prior Street. You were on detachment with the Military Police at the time.’

‘Good God!’ Fox said. ‘I remember now.’

‘The whole street was ablaze. You ran into a house next to the grocer’s shop and brought out a woman and two kids. I was on the flat roof opposite with a man with an Armalite rifle who wanted to put a hole in your head. I wouldn’t let him. It didn’t seem right in the circumstances.’

For a moment, Fox felt rather cold. ‘You were in command in Derry for the IRA at that time.’

McGuiness grinned. ‘A funny old life, isn’t it? You shouldn’t really be here. Now then, what is it that old snake, Ferguson, wants you to discuss with me?’

So Fox told him.

When he was finished McGuiness sat there brooding, hands in the pockets of his raincoat, staring across the Liffey. After a while, he said, ‘That’s Wolfe Tone Quay over there, did you know that?’

‘Wasn’t he a Protestant?’ Fox asked.

‘He was so. Also one of the greatest Irish patriots there ever was.’

He whistled tunelessly between his teeth. Fox said, ‘Do you believe me?’

‘Oh, yes,’ McGuiness said softly. ‘A devious bloody lot, the English, but I believe you all right and for one very simple reason. It fits, Captain, dear. All those hits over the years, the shit that’s come our way because of it and sometimes internationally. I know the times we’ve not been responsible and so does the Army Council. The thing is, one always thought it was the idiots, the cowboys, the wild men.’ He grinned crookedly. ‘Or British Intelligence, of course. It never occurred to any of us that it could have been the work of one man. A deliberate plan.’

‘You’ve got a few Marxists in your own organization, haven’t you?’ Fox suggested. ‘The kind who might see the Soviets as Saviour.’

‘You can forget that one.’ Anger showed in McGuiness’s blue eyes for a moment. ‘Ireland free and Ireland for the Irish. We don’t want any Marxist pap here.’

‘So, what happens now? Will you go to the Army Council?’

‘No, I don’t think so. I’ll talk to the Chief of Staff. See what he thinks. After all, he’s the one that sent me. Frankly, the fewer people in on this, the better.’

‘True.’ Fox stood up. ‘Cuchulain could be anyone. Maybe somebody close to the Army Council itself.’

‘The thought had occurred to me.’ McGuiness waved and the man in the reefer coat moved out from under the tree. ‘Murphy will take you back to the Westbourne now. Don’t go out. I’ll be in touch.’

Fox walked a few paces away, paused and turned. ‘By the way, that’s a Guards tie you’re wearing.’

Martin McGuiness smiled beautifully. ‘And didn’t I know it? Just trying to make you feel at home, Captain Fox.’

Fox dialled Ferguson from a phone booth in the foyer of the Westbourne so that he didn’t have to go through the hotel switchboard. The Brigadier wasn’t at the flat, so he tried the private line to his office at the Directorate-General and got through to him at once.

‘I’ve had my preliminary meeting, sir.’

‘That was quick. Did they send McGuiness?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Did he buy it?’

‘Very much so, sir. He’ll be back in touch, maybe later tonight.’

‘Good. I’ll be at the flat within the hour. No plans to go out. Phone me the moment you have more news.’

Fox showered, then changed and went downstairs to the bar again. He had another small Scotch and water and sat there, thinking about things for a while and of McGuiness in particular. A clever and dangerous man, no doubt about that. Not just a gunman, although he’d done his share of killing, but one of the most important leaders thrown up by the Troubles. The annoying thing was that Fox realized, with a certain sense of irritation, that he had really rather liked the man. That wouldn’t do at all, so he went into the restaurant and had an early dinner, sitting in solitary splendour, a copy of the Irish Press propped up in front of him.

Afterwards, he had to pass through the bar on the way to the lounge. There were a couple of dozen people in there now, obviously other guests from the look of them, except for the driver of the cab who’d taken him to meet McGuiness earlier. He was seated on a stool at the end of the bar, a glass of lager in front of him, the main difference being that he now wore a rather smart grey suit. He showed no sign of recognition and Fox carried on into the lounge where Ryan approached him.

‘If I remember correctly, sir, it’s tea you prefer after your dinner and not coffee?’

Fox, who had sat down, said, ‘That’s right.’

‘I’ve taken the liberty of putting a tray in your room, sir. I thought you might prefer a bit of peace and quiet.’

He turned without a word and led the way to the lift. Fox played along, following him, expecting perhaps a further message, but the old man said nothing and when they reached the first floor, led the way along the corridor and opened the bedroom door for him.

Martin McGuiness was watching the news on television. Murphy stood by the window. Like the man in the bar, he now wore a rather conservative suit, in his case, of navy-blue worsted material.

McGuiness switched off the television. ‘Ah, there you are. Did you try the Duck à l’Orange? It’s not bad here.’

The tray on the table with the tea things on it carried two cups. ‘Shall I pour, Mr McGuiness?’ Ryan asked.

‘No, we can manage.’ McGuiness reached for the teapot and said to Fox as Ryan withdrew, ‘Old Patrick, as you can see, is one of our own. You can wait outside, Michael,’ he added.

Murphy went out without a word. ‘They tell me no gentleman would pour his milk in first, but then I suppose no real gentleman would bother about rubbish like that. Isn’t that what they teach you at Eton?’

‘Something like that.’ Fox took the proffered cup. ‘I didn’t expect to see you quite so soon.’

‘A lot to do and not much time to do it in.’ McGuiness drank some tea and sighed with pleasure. ‘That’s good. Right, I’ve seen the Chief of Staff and he believes, with me, that you and your computer have stumbled on something that might very well be worth pursuing.’

‘Together?’

‘That depends. In the first place, he’s decided not to discuss it with the Army Council, certainly not at this stage, so it stays with just me and himself.’

‘That seems sensible.’

‘Another thing, we don’t want the Dublin police in on this, so keep Special Branch out of it and no military intelligence involvement either.’

‘I’m sure Brigadier Ferguson will agree.’

‘He’ll bloody well have to, just as he’ll have to accept that there’s no way we’re going to pass across general information about IRA members, past or present. The kind of stuff you could use in other ways.’

‘All right,’ Fox said, ‘I can see that, but it could be a tricky one. How do we co-operate if we don’t pool resources?’

‘There is a way.’ McGuiness poured himself another cup of tea. ‘I’ve discussed it with the Chief of Staff and he’s agreeable if you are. We use a middle-man.’

‘A middle-man?’ Fox frowned. ‘I don’t understand?’

‘Someone acceptable to both sides. Equally trusted, if you know what I mean.’

Fox laughed. ‘There’s no such animal.’

‘Oh, yes there is,’ McGuiness said. ‘Liam Devlin, and don’t tell me you don’t know who he is.’

Harry Fox said slowly, ‘I know Liam Devlin very well.’

‘And why wouldn’t you. Didn’t you and Faulkner have him kidnapped by the SAS back in seventy-nine to help you break Martin Brosnan out of that French prison to hunt down that mad dog, Frank Barry.’

‘You’re extremely well informed.’

‘Yes, well Liam’s here in Dublin now, a professor at Trinity College. He has a cottage in a village called Kilrea, about an hour’s drive out of town. You go and see him. If he agrees to help, then we’ll discuss it further.’

‘When?’

‘I’ll let you know, or maybe I’ll just turn up unexpected, like. The one way I kept ahead of the British Army all those years up north.’ He stood up. ‘There’s a lad at the bar downstairs. Maybe you noticed?’

‘The cab driver.’

‘Billy White. Left or right hand, he can still shoot a fly off the wall. He’s yours while you’re here.’

‘Not necessary.’

‘Oh, but it is.’ McGuiness got up and pulled on his coat. ‘Number one, I wouldn’t like anything to happen to you, and number two, it’s a convenience to know where you are.’ He opened the door, and beyond him, Fox saw Murphy waiting. ‘I’ll be in touch, Captain.’ McGuiness saluted mockingly, the door closed behind him.

Ferguson said, ‘It makes sense, I suppose, but I’m not sure Devlin will work for us again, not after that Frank Barry affair. He felt we’d used him and Brosnan rather badly.’

‘As I recall, we did, sir,’ Fox said. ‘Very badly indeed.’

‘All right, Harry, no need to make a meal of it. Phone and see if he’s at home. If he is, go and see him.’

‘Now, sir?’

‘Why not? It’s only nine-thirty. If he is in, let me know and I’ll speak to him myself. Here’s his phone number, by the way. Take it down.’

Fox went along to the bar and changed a five pound note for 50p coins. Billy White was still sitting there, reading the evening paper. The glass of lager looked untouched.

‘Can I buy you a drink, Mr White?’ Fox asked.

‘Never touch the stuff, Captain.’ White smiled cheerfully and emptied the glass in one long swallow. ‘A Bushmills would chase that down fine.’

Fox ordered him one. ‘I may want to go out to a village called Kilrea. Do you know it?’

‘No problem,’ White told him. ‘I know it well.’

Fox went back to the phone booth and closed the door. He sat there for a while thinking about it, then dialled the number Ferguson had given him. The voice, when it answered, was instantly recognizable. The voice of perhaps the most remarkable man he had ever met.

‘Devlin here.’

‘Liam? This is Harry Fox.’

‘Mother of God!’ Liam Devlin said. ‘Where are you?’

‘Dublin – the Westbourne Hotel. I’d like to come and see you.’

‘You mean right now?’

‘Sorry if it’s inconvenient.’

Devlin laughed. ‘As a matter of fact, at this precise moment in time I’m losing at chess, son, which is something I don’t like to do. Your intervention could be looked upon as timely. Is this what you might term a business call?’

‘Yes, I’m to ring Ferguson and tell him you’re in. He wants to talk to you himself.’

‘So the old bastard is still going strong? Ah, well, you know where to come?’

‘Yes.’

‘I’ll see you in an hour then. Kilrea Cottage, Kilrea. You can’t miss it. Next to the convent.’

When Fox came out of the booth after phoning Ferguson, White was waiting for him. ‘Are we going out then, Captain?’

‘Yes,’ Fox said. ‘Kilrea Cottage, Kilrea. Next to a convent apparently. I’ll just get my coat.’

White waited until he’d entered the lift, then ducked into the booth and dialled a number. The receiver at the other end was lifted instantly. He said, ‘We’re leaving for Kilrea now. Looks like he’s seeing Devlin tonight.’

As they drove through the rain-swept streets, White said casually, ‘Just so we know where we stand, Captain, I was a lieutenant in the North Tyrone Brigade of the Provisional IRA the year you lost that hand.’

‘You must have been young.’

‘Born old, that’s me, thanks to the B Specials when I was a wee boy and the sodding RUC.’ He lit a cigarette with one hand. ‘You know Liam Devlin well, do you?’

‘Why do you ask?’ Fox demanded warily.

‘That’s who we’re going to see, isn’t it? Jesus, Captain, and who wouldn’t be knowing Liam Devlin’s address?’

‘Something of a legend to you, I suppose?’

‘A legend, is it? That man wrote the book. Mind you, he won’t have any truck with the movement these days. He’s what you might call a moralist. Can’t stand the bombing and that kind of stuff.’

‘And can you?’

‘We’re at war, aren’t we? You bombed the hell out

of the Third Reich. We’ll bomb the hell out of you if that’s what it takes.’

Logical but depressing, Fox thought, for where did it end? A charnelhouse with only corpses to walk on. He shivered, face bleak.

‘About Devlin,’ White said as they started to leave the city. ‘There’s a tale I heard about him once. Would you know if it’s true, I wonder?’

‘Ask me.’

‘The word is, he went to Spain in the thirties, served against Franco and was taken prisoner. Then the Germans got hold of him and used him as an agent here during the big war.’

‘That’s right.’

‘The way I heard it, after that, they sent him to England. Something to do with an attempt by German paratroopers to kidnap Churchill in nineteen forty-three. Is there any truth in that?’

‘Sounds straight out of a paperback novel to me,’ Fox said.

White sighed and there was regret in his voice. ‘That’s what I thought. Still, one hell of a man for all that,’ and he sat back and concentrated on his driving.

An understatement as a description of Liam Devlin, Fox thought, sitting there in the darkness: a brilliant student who had entered Trinity College, Dublin, at the age of sixteen and had taken a first class honours degree at nineteen, scholar, writer, poet and highly dangerous gunman for the IRA in the thirties, even when still a student.

Most of what White had said was true. He had gone to Spain to fight for the anti-fascists, he had worked for the Abwehr in Ireland. As to the Churchill affair? A story whispered around often enough, but as to the truth of it? Well, it would be years before those classified files were opened.

During the post-war period, Devlin had been a Professor at a Catholic seminary called All Souls just outside Boston. He’d been involved with the abortive IRA campaign of the late fifties and had returned to Ulster in 1969 as the present troubles had begun. One of the original architects of the Provisional IRA, he had become increasingly disillusioned by the bombing campaign and had withdrawn active support to the movement. Since 1976, he had held a position in the English Faculty at Trinity.

Fox had not seen him since 1979 when he had been coerced, indeed, blackmailed, by Ferguson into giving his active assistance in the hunting down of Frank Barry, ex-IRA activist turned international terrorist for hire. There had been various reasons why Devlin had gone along with that business, mostly because he had believed Ferguson’s lies. So, how would he react now?

They had entered a long village street. Fox pulled himself together with a start as White said, ‘Here we are – Kilrea, and there’s the convent and that’s Devlin’s cottage, set back from the road behind the wall.’

He turned the car into a gravel driveway and cut the engine. ‘I’ll wait for you, Captain, shall I?’

Fox got out and walked up a stone flagged path between rose bushes to the green painted porch. The cottage was pleasantly Victorian with most of the original woodwork and gable ends. A light glowed behind drawn curtains at a bow window. He pressed the bell-push. There were voices inside, footsteps and then the door opened and Liam Devlin stood looking out at him.