Confessional

Confessional Jack Higgins A KGB-trained IRA assassin has gone rogue and is hellbent on killing the Pope. The IRA, KGB and British Secret Service are all after him, but can Liam Devlin get there first? Classic Jack Higgins for the new generation.Operating in Ireland to keep the cycle of violence between the IRA and British Intelligence at a fever pitch, hit man Cuchulain targets the pope as his ultimate victim, and two enemies become the only people who can stop him.The third book in the Liam Devlin series, hero of The Eagle has Landed. JACK HIGGINS CONFESSIONAL FOR MY CHILDREN Sarah, Ruth, Se?n and Hannah Table of Contents Cover (#uda6b0342-b622-5e08-9a6b-ff75ad2e3085) Title Page (#u8d0cf947-e0dd-5212-ab32-24a1df389d0d) PROLOGUE (#u751d9fc0-cda9-508e-9e39-e31a78274da5) 1982 (#u7d68a719-e612-567a-8ff5-6c2595f1de4a) 1 (#u243cd7f7-a3c9-5516-8c4b-207dcfe76c1b) 2 (#u5040c628-1651-55d0-83fa-3152028df1a7) 3 (#u25e96e8f-8f33-59c8-9403-0c0b086e719d) 4 (#u18a8bc79-fdfe-5ef5-9eaa-b1a2cbeae14b) 5 (#litres_trial_promo) 6 (#litres_trial_promo) 7 (#litres_trial_promo) 8 (#litres_trial_promo) 9 (#litres_trial_promo) 10 (#litres_trial_promo) 11 (#litres_trial_promo) 12 (#litres_trial_promo) 13 (#litres_trial_promo) 14 (#litres_trial_promo) 15 (#litres_trial_promo) EPILOGUE (#litres_trial_promo) About the Author (#litres_trial_promo) ALSO BY JACK HIGGINS (#litres_trial_promo) Publisher Note (#litres_trial_promo) Copyright (#litres_trial_promo) About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo) PROLOGUE 1959 (#ulink_87ee895e-fd24-5d65-818e-267fe353835a) When the Land Rover turned the corner at the end of the street, Kelly was passing the church of the Holy Name. He moved into the porch quickly, opened the heavy door and stepped inside, keeping it partially open so that he could see what was happening. The Land Rover had been stripped down to the bare essentials so that the driver and the two policemen who crouched in the rear were completely exposed. They wore the distinctive dark green uniforms of the Royal Ulster Constabulary, Sterling submachine guns held ready for instant action. They disappeared down the narrow street towards the centre of Drumore and he stayed there for a moment, in the safety of the half-darkness, conscious of the familiar odour. ‘Incense, candles and the holy water,’ he said softly and his finger reached to dip in the granite bowl beside the door. ‘Is there anything I can do for you, my son?’ The voice was little more than a whisper and, as Kelly turned, a priest moved out of the darkness, an old man, in shabby cassock, his hair very white, gleaming in the candlelight. He carried an umbrella in one hand. ‘Just sheltering from the rain is all, Father,’ Kelly told him. He stood there, shoulders hunched easily, hands thrust deep in the pockets of the old tan raincoat. He was small, five feet five at the most, not much more than a boy, and yet the white devil’s face on him beneath the brim of the old felt hat, the dark brooding eyes that seemed to stare through and beyond, hinted at something more. All this the old priest saw and understood. He smiled gently, ‘You don’t live in Drumore, I think?’ ‘No, Father, just passing through. I arranged to meet a friend of mine here at a pub called Murphy’s.’ His voice lacked the distinctive hard accent of the Ulsterman. The priest said, ‘You’re from the Republic?’ ‘Dublin, Father. Would you know this Murphy’s place? It’s important. My friend’s promised me a lift into Belfast. I’ve the chance of work there.’ The priest nodded. ‘I’ll show you. It’s on my way.’ Kelly opened the door, the old man went outside. It was raining heavily now and he put up his umbrella. Kelly fell in beside him and they walked along the pavement. There was the sound of a brass band playing an old hymn, Abide with Me, and voices lifted, melancholy in the rain. The old priest and Kelly paused, looking down on to the town square. There was a granite war memorial, wreaths placed at its foot. A small crowd was ranged around it, the band on one side. A Church of Ireland minister was conducting the service. Four old men held flags proudly in the rain, although the Union Jack was the only one with which Kelly was familiar. ‘What is this?’ he demanded. ‘Armistice Day to commemorate the dead of two World Wars. That’s the local branch of the British Legion down there. Our Protestant friends like to hang on tight to what they call their heritage.’ ‘Is that so?’ Kelly said. They carried on down the street. On the corner, a small girl stood, no more than seven or eight. She wore an old beret, a couple of sizes too large, as was her coat. There were holes in her socks and her shoes were in poor condition. Her face was pale, skin stretched tightly over prominent cheekbones, yet the brown eyes were alert, intelligent and she managed a smile in spite of the fact that her hands, holding the cardboard tray in front of her, were blue with cold. ‘Hello, Father,’ she said. ‘Will you buy a poppy?’ ‘My poor child, you should be indoors on a day like this.’ He found a coin in his pocket and slipped it into her collecting tin, helping himself to a scarlet poppy. ‘To the memory of our glorious dead,’ he told Kelly. ‘Is that a fact?’ Kelly turned to find the little girl holding a poppy timidly out to him. ‘Buy a poppy, sir.’ ‘And why not?’ She pinned the poppy to his raincoat. Kelly gazed down into the strained little face for a moment, eyes dark, then swore softly under his breath. He took a leather wallet from his inside pocket, opened it, extracted two pound notes. She gazed at them, astonished, and he rolled them up and poked them into her collecting tin. Then he gently took the tray of poppies from her hands. ‘Go home,’ he said softly. ‘Stay warm. You’ll find the world cold enough soon enough, little one.’ There was puzzlement in her eyes. She didn’t understand and, turning, ran away. The old priest said, ‘I was on the Somme myself, but that lot over here,’ he nodded to the crowd at the Cenotaph, ‘would rather forget about that.’ He shook his head as they carried on along the pavement. ‘So many dead. I never had the time to ask whether a man was Catholic or Protestant.’ He paused and glanced across the road. A faded sign said Murphy’s Select Bar. ‘Here we are, then. What are you going to do with those?’ Kelly glanced down at the tray of poppies. ‘God knows.’ ‘I usually find that He does.’ The old man took a silver case from his pocket and selected a cigarette without offering one to Kelly. He puffed out smoke, coughing, ‘When I was a young priest I visited an old Catholic church in Norfolk at Studley Constable. There was a remarkable medieval fresco there by some unknown genius or other. Death in a black hood and cloak, come to claim his harvest. I saw him again today in my own church. The only difference was that he was wearing a felt hat and an old raincoat.’ He shivered suddenly. ‘Go home, Father,’ Kelly said, gently. ‘Too cold for you out here.’ ‘Yes,’ the old man said. ‘Far too cold.’ He hurried away as the band struck up another hymn and Kelly turned, went up the steps of the pub and pushed open the door. He found himself in a long, narrow room, a coal fire burning at one end. There were several cast-iron tables and chairs, a bench along the wall. The bar itself was dark mahogany and marble-topped, a brass rail at foot level. There was the usual array of bottles ranged against a large mirror, gold leaf flaking to reveal cheap plaster. There were no customers, only the barman leaning against the beer pumps, a heavily built man, almost bald, his face seamed with fat, his collarless shirt soiled at the neck. He glanced up at Kelly and took in the tray of poppies. ‘I’ve got one.’ ‘Haven’t we all?’ Kelly put the tray on the table and leant on the bar. ‘Where is everyone?’ ‘In the square at the ceremony. This is a Prod town, son.’ ‘How do you know I’m not one?’ ‘And me a publican for twenty-five years? Come off it. What’s your fancy?’ ‘Bushmills.’ The fat man nodded approvingly and reached for a bottle. ‘A man of taste.’ ‘Are you Murphy?’ ‘So they tell me.’ He lit a cigarette. ‘You’re not from these parts.’ ‘No, I was supposed to meet a friend here. Perhaps you know him?’ ‘What’s his name?’ ‘Cuchulain.’ The smile wiped clean from Murphy’s face. ‘Cuchulain,’ he whispered. ‘Last of the dark heroes.’ Murphy said, ‘Christ, but you like your melodrama, you boys. Like a bad play on television on a Saturday night. You were told not to carry a weapon.’ ‘So?’ Kelly said. ‘There’s been a lot of police activity. Body searches. They’d lift you for sure.’ ‘I’m not carrying.’ ‘Good.’ Murphy took a large brown carrier bag from under the bar. ‘Straight across the square is the police barracks. Local provision firm’s truck is allowed through the gates at exactly twelve o’clock each day. Sling that in the back. Enough there to take out half the barracks.’ He reached inside the bag. There was an audible click. ‘There, you’ve got five minutes.’ Kelly picked up the bag and started for the door. As he reached it, Murphy called, ‘Hey, Cuchulain, dark hero?’ Kelly turned and the fat man raised a glass toasting him. ‘You know what they say. May you die in Ireland.’ There was something in the eyes, a mockery that sharpened Kelly like a razor’s edge as he went outside and started across the square. The band were on another hymn, the crowd sang, showing no disposition to move in spite of the rain. He glanced over his shoulder and saw that Murphy was standing at the top of the steps outside the pub. Strange, that, and then he waved several times, as if signalling someone and with a sudden roar, the stripped Land Rover came out of a side street into the square and skidded broadside on. Kelly started to run, slipped on the damp cobbles and went down on one knee. The butt of a Sterling drove painfully into his kidneys. As he cried out, the driver, who he now saw was a sergeant, put a foot hard on Kelly’s outstretched hand and picked up the carrier bag. He turned it upside down and a cheap wooden kitchen clock fell out. He kicked it, like a football, across the square into the crowd which scattered. ‘No need for that!’ he shouted. ‘It’s a dud!’ He leaned down, grabbing Kelly by the long hair at the back of the neck. ‘You never learn, do you, your bloody lot? You can’t trust anybody, my son. They should have taught you that.’ Kelly gazed beyond him, at Murphy, standing on the steps outside the bar. So – an informer. Still Ireland’s curse, not that he was angry. Only cold now – ice cold and the breath slow, in and out of his lungs. The sergeant had him by the scruff of the neck, up on his knees, crouched like an animal. He leaned, running his hands under the armpits and over the body, searching for a weapon, then rammed Kelly against the Land Rover, still on his knees. ‘All right, hands behind you. You should have stayed back home in the bogs.’ Kelly started to get up, his two hands on the butt of the Browning handgun he had taped so carefully to the inside of the leg above the left ankle. He tore it free and shot the sergeant through the heart. The force of the shot lifted the sergeant off his feet and he slammed into the constable standing nearest to him. The man spun round, trying to keep his balance and Kelly shot him in the back, the Browning already arcing towards the third policeman, turning in alarm on the other side of the Land Rover, raising his submachine gun, too late as Kelly’s third bullet caught him in the throat, driving him back against the wall. The crowd were scattering, women screaming, some of the band dropping their instruments. Kelly stood perfectly still, very calm amidst the carnage and looked across the square at Murphy, who still stood at the top of the steps outside the bar as if frozen. The Browning swept up as Kelly took aim and a voice shouted over a loudspeaker in Russian, booming in the rain, ‘No more, Kelly! Enough!’ Kelly turned, lowering his gun. The man with the loudhailer advancing down the street wore the uniform of a colonel in the KGB, a military greatcoat slung from his shoulders against the rain. The man at his side was in his early thirties, tall and thin with stooped shoulders and fair hair. He wore a leather trenchcoat and steel-rimmed spectacles. Behind them, several squads of Russian soldiers, rifles at the ready, emerged from the side streets and doubled down towards the square. They were in combat fatigues and wore the flashes of the Iron Hammer Brigade of the elite special forces command. ‘That’s a good boy! Just put the gun down!’ the colonel called. Kelly turned, his arm swung up and he fired once, an amazing shot considering the distance. Most of Murphy’s left ear disintegrated. The fat man screamed, his hand going to the side of his head, blood pumping through his fingers. ‘No, Mikhail! Enough!’ the man in the leather overcoat cried. Kelly turned towards him and smiled. He said, in Russian, ‘Sure, Professor, anything you say,’ and placed the Browning carefully down on the bonnet of the Land Rover. ‘I thought you said he was trained to do as he was told,’ the colonel demanded. An army lieutenant moved forward and saluted. ‘One of them is still alive, two dead, Colonel Maslovsky. What are your orders?’ Maslovsky ignored him and said to Kelly, ‘You weren’t supposed to carry a gun.’ ‘I know,’ Kelly said. ‘On the other hand, according to the rules of the game, Murphy was not supposed to be an informer. I was told he was IRA.’ ‘So, you always believe what you’re told?’ ‘The Party tells me I should, Comrade Colonel. Maybe you’ve got a new rule book for me?’ Maslovsky was angry and it showed for he was not used to such attitudes – not from anyone. He opened his mouth to retort angrily and there was a sudden scream. The little girl who had sold Kelly the poppies pushed her way through the crowd and dropped on her knees beside the body of the police sergeant. ‘Papa,’ she wailed in Russian. ‘Papa.’ She looked up at Kelly, her face pale. ‘You’ve killed him! You’ve murdered my father!’ She was on him like a young tiger, nails reaching for his face, crying hysterically. He held her wrists tight and suddenly, all strength went out of her and she slumped against him. His arms went around her, he held her, stroking her hair, whispering in her ear. The old priest moved out of the crowd. ‘I’ll take her,’ he said, his hands gentle on her shoulders. They moved away, the crowd opening to let them through. Maslovsky called to the lieutenant, ‘Right, let’s have the square cleared.’ He turned to the man in the leather coat. ‘I’m tired of this eternal Ukrainian rain. Let’s get back inside and bring your prot?g? with you. We need to talk.’ The KGB is the largest and most complex intelligence service in the world, totally controlling the lives of millions in the Soviet Union itself, its tentacles reaching out to every country. The heart of it, its most secret area of all, concerns the work of Department 13, that section responsible for murder, assassination and sabotage in foreign countries. Colonel Ivan Maslovsky had commanded Department 13 for five years. He was a thickset, rather brutal-looking man, whose appearance was at odds with his background. Born in 1919 in Leningrad, the son of a doctor, he had gone to law school in that city, completing his studies only a few months before the German invasion of Russia. He had spent the early part of the war fighting with partisan groups behind the lines. His education and flair for languages had earned him a transfer to the wartime counter-intelligence unit known as SMERSH. Such was his success that he had remained in intelligence work after the war and had never returned to the practice of law. He had been mainly responsible for the setting up of highly original schools for spies at such places as Gaczyna, where agents were trained to work in English-speaking countries in a replica of an English or American town, living exactly as they would in the West. The extraordinarily successful penetration by the KGB of the French intelligence service at every level had been, in the main, the product of the school he had set up at Grosnia, where the emphasis was on everything French, environment, culture, cooking and dress being faithfully replicated. His superiors had every faith in him, and had given him carte blanche to extend the system, which explained the existence of a small Ulster market town called Drumore in the depths of the Ukraine. The room he used as an office when visiting from Moscow was conventional enough, with a desk and filing cabinets, a large map of Drumore on the wall. A log fire burned brightly on an open hearth and he stood in front of it enjoying the heat, nursing a mug of strong black coffee laced with vodka. The door opened behind him as the man in the leather coat entered and approached the fire, shivering. ‘God, but it’s cold out there.’ He helped himself to coffee and vodka from the tray on the desk and moved to the fire. Paul Cherny was thirty-four years of age, a handsome good-humoured man who already had an international reputation in the field of experimental psychology; a considerable achievement for someone born the son of a blacksmith in a village in the Ukraine. As a boy of sixteen, he had fought with a partisan group in the war. His group leader had been a lecturer in English at the University of Moscow and recognized talent when he saw it. Cherny was enrolled at the University in 1945. He majored in psychology, then spent two years in a unit concerned with experimental psychiatry at the University of Dresden, receiving a doctorate in 1951. His interest in behaviourist psychology took him to the University of Peking to work with the famous Chinese psychologist, Pin Chow, whose speciality was the use of behaviourist techniques in the interrogation and conditioning of British and American prisoners of war in Korea. By the time Cherny was ready to return to Moscow, his work in the conditioning of human behaviour by the use of Pavlovian techniques had brought him to the attention of the KGB and Maslovsky in particular, who had been instrumental in getting him appointed Professor of Experimental Psychology at Moscow University. ‘He’s a maverick,’ Maslovsky said. ‘Has no respect for authority. Totally fails to obey orders. He was told not to carry a gun, wasn’t he?’ ‘Yes, Comrade Colonel.’ ‘So, he disobeys his orders and turns a routine exercise into a bloodbath. Not that I’m worried about these damned dissidents we use here. One way of forcing them to serve their country. Who were the policemen, by the way?’ ‘I’m not sure. Give me a moment.’ Cherny picked up the telephone. ‘Levin, get in here.’ ‘Who’s Levin?’ Maslovsky asked. ‘He’s been here about three months. A Jewish dissident, sentenced to five years for secretly corresponding with relatives in Israel. He runs the office with extreme efficiency.’ ‘What was his profession?’ ‘Physicist – structural engineer. He was, I think, involved with aircraft design. I’ve every reason to believe he’s already seen the error of his ways.’ ‘That’s what they all say,’ Maslovsky told him. There was a knock on the door and the man in question entered. Viktor Levin was a small man who looked larger only because of the quilted jacket and pants he wore. He was forty-five years of age, with iron-grey hair, and his steel spectacles had been repaired with tape. He had a hunted look about him, as if he expected the KGB to kick open the door at any moment, which, in his situation, was a not unreasonable assumption. ‘Who were the three policemen?’ Cherny asked. ‘The sergeant was a man called Voronin, Comrade,’ Levin told him. ‘Formerly an actor with the Moscow Arts Theatre. He tried to defect to the West last year, after the death of his wife. Sentence – ten years.’ ‘And the child?’ ‘Tanya Voroninova, his daughter. I’d have to check on the other two.’ ‘Never mind now. You can go.’ Levin went out and Maslovsky said, ‘Back to Kelly. I can’t get over the fact that he shot that man outside the bar. A direct defiance of my order. Mind you,’ he added grudgingly, ‘an amazing shot.’ ‘Yes, he’s good.’ ‘Go over his background for me again.’ Maslovsky poured more coffee and vodka and sat down by the fire and Cherny took a file from the desk and opened it. ‘Mikhail Kelly, born in a village called Ballygar in Kerry. That’s in the Irish Republic. 1938. Father, Sean Kelly, an IRA activist in the Spanish Civil War where he met the boy’s mother in Madrid. Martha Vronsky, Soviet citizen.’ ‘And as I recall, the father was hanged by the British?’ ‘That’s right. He took part in an IRA bombing campaign in the London area during the early months of the Second World War. Was caught, tried and executed.’ ‘Another Irish martyr. They seem to thrive on them, those people.’ ‘Martha Vronsky was entitled to Irish citizenship and continued to live in Dublin, supporting herself as a journalist. The boy went to a Jesuit school there.’ ‘Raised as a Catholic?’ ‘Of course. Those rather peculiar circumstances came to the attention of our man in Dublin who reported to Moscow. The boy’s potential was obvious and the mother was persuaded to return with him to Russia in 1953. She died two years later. Stomach cancer.’ ‘So, he’s now twenty and intelligent, I understand?’ ‘Very much so. Has a flair for languages. Simply soaks them up.’ Cherny glanced at the file again. ‘But his special talent is for acting. I’d go so far as to say he has a genius for it.’ ‘Highly appropriate in the circumstances.’ ‘If things had been different he might well have achieved greatness in that field.’ ‘Yes, well he can forget about that,’ Maslovsky commented sourly. ‘His killing instincts seem well developed.’ ‘Thuggery is no problem in this sort of affair,’ Cherny told him. ‘As the Comrade Colonel well knows, anyone can be trained to kill, which is why we place the emphasis on brains when recruiting. Kelly does have a very rare aptitude when using a handgun, however. Quite unique.’ ‘So I observed,’ Maslovsky said. ‘To kill like that, so ruthlessly. He must have a strong strain of the psychopath in him.’ ‘Not in his case, Comrade Colonel. It’s perhaps a little difficult to understand, but as I told you, Kelly is a brilliant actor. Today, he played the role of IRA gunman and he carried it through, just as if he had been playing the part in a film.’ ‘Except that there was no director to call cut,’ Maslovsky observed, ‘and the dead man didn’t get up and walk away when the camera stopped rolling.’ ‘I know,’ Cherny said. ‘But it explains psychologically why he had to shoot three men and why he fired at Murphy in spite of orders. Murphy was an informer. He had to be seen to be punished. In the role he was playing, it was impossible for Kelly to act in any other way. That is the purpose of the training.’ ‘All right, I take the point. And you think he’s ready to go out into the cold now?’ ‘I believe so, Comrade Colonel.’ ‘All right, let’s have him in.’ Without the hat and the raincoat Mikhail Kelly seemed younger than ever. He wore a dark polo-neck sweater, a jacket of Donegal tweed and corduroy slacks. He seemed totally composed, almost withdrawn, and Maslovsky was conscious of that vague feeling of irritation again. ‘You’re pleased with yourself, I suppose, with what happened out there? I told you not to shoot the man Murphy. Why did you disobey my orders?’ ‘He was an informer, Comrade Colonel. Such people need to be taught a lesson if men like me are to survive.’ He shrugged. ‘The purpose of terrorism is to terrorize. Lenin said that. In the days of the Irish revolution, it was Michael Collins’s favourite quotation.’ ‘It was a game, damn you!’ Maslovsky exploded. ‘Not the real thing.’ ‘If we play the game long enough, Comrade Colonel, it can sometimes end up playing us,’ Kelly told him calmly. ‘Dear God!’ Maslovsky said and it had been many years since he had expressed such a sentiment. ‘All right, let’s get on with it.’ He sat down at the desk, facing Kelly. ‘Professor Cherny feels you are ready to go to work. You agree?’ ‘Yes, Comrade Colonel.’ ‘Your task is easily stated. Our chief antagonists are America and Britain. Britain is the weaker of the two and its capitalist edifice is being eroded. The biggest thorn in Britain’s side is the IRA. You are about to become an additional thorn.’ The colonel leaned forward and stared into Kelly’s eyes. ‘You are from now on a maker of disorder.’ ‘In Ireland?’ ‘Eventually, but you must undergo more training in the outside world first. Let me explain your task further.’ He stood up and walked to the fire. ‘In nineteen fifty-six, the IRA Army Council voted to start another campaign in Ulster. Three years later, and it has been singularly unsuccessful. There is little doubt that this campaign will be called off and sooner rather than later. It has achieved nothing.’ ‘So?’ Kelly said. Maslovsky returned to the desk. ‘However, our own intelligence sources indicate that eventually a conflict will break out in Ireland of a far more serious nature than anything that has gone before. When that day comes, you must be ready for it, in deep and waiting.’ ‘I understand, Comrade.’ ‘I hope you do. However, enough for now. Professor Cherny will fill you in on your more immediate plans when I’ve gone. For the moment, you’re dismissed.’ Kelly went out without a word. Cherny said, ‘He can do it. I’m certain of it.’ ‘I hope so. He could be as good as any of the native sleepers and he drinks less.’ Maslovsky walked to the window and peered out at the driving rain, suddenly tired, not thinking of Kelly at all, conscious, for no particular reason, of the look on the child’s face when she had attacked the Irishman back there in the square. ‘That child,’ he said. ‘What was her name?’ ‘Tanya – Tanya Voroninova.’ ‘She’s an orphan now? No one to take care of her?’ ‘Not as far as I know.’ ‘She was really quite appealing and intelligent, wouldn’t you say?’ ‘She certainly seemed so. I haven’t had any dealings with her personally. Has the Comrade Colonel a special interest?’ ‘Possibly. We lost our only daughter last year at the age of six in the influenza epidemic. My wife can’t have any more. She’s taken a job in some welfare department or other, but she frets, Cherny. She just isn’t the same woman. Looking at that child back there in the square made me wonder. She might just fit the bill.’ ‘An excellent idea, Comrade, for everyone concerned, if I may say so.’ ‘Good,’ Maslovsky said, suddenly brightening. ‘I’ll take her back to Moscow with me and give my Susha a surprise.’ He moved to the desk, pulled the cork from the vodka bottle with his teeth and filled two glasses. ‘A toast,’ he said. ‘To the Irish enterprise and to …’ He paused, frowning, ‘What was his code name again?’ ‘Cuchulain,’ Cherny told him. ‘Right,’ Maslovsky said. ‘To Cuchulain.’ He swallowed the vodka and hurled his glass into the fire. 1982 (#ulink_195978ab-c487-580d-8425-42c4c9d03d39) 1 (#ulink_fc85345a-b0f9-5533-a7ef-f55c60b9619c) When Major Tony Villiers entered the officers’ mess of the Grenadier Guards at Chelsea Barracks, there was no one there. It was a place of shadows, the only illumination coming from the candles flickering in the candelabra on the long, polished dining-table, the light reflected from the mess silver. Only one place was set for dinner at the end of the table, which surprised him, but a bottle of champagne waited in a silver ice bucket, Krug 1972, his favourite. He paused, looking down at it, then lifted it out and eased the cork, reaching for one of the tall crystal glasses that stood on the table, pouring slowly and carefully. He moved to the fire and stood there, looking at his reflection in the mirror above it. The scarlet tunic suited him rather well and the medals made a brave show, particularly the purple and white stripes of his Military Cross with the silver rosette that meant a second award. He was of medium height with good shoulders, the black hair longer than one would have expected in a serving soldier. In spite of the fact that his nose had been broken at some time or other, he was handsome enough in a dangerous kind of way. It was very quiet now, only the great men of the past gazing solemnly down at him from the portraits, obscured by the shadows. There was an air of unreality to everything and for some reason, his image seemed to be reflected many times in the mirror, backwards into infinity. He was so damned thirsty. He raised the glass and his voice was very hoarse – seemed to belong to someone else entirely. ‘Here’s to you, Tony, old son,’ he said, ‘and a Happy New Year.’ He lifted the crystal glass to his lips and the champagne was colder than anything he had ever known. He drank it avidly and it seemed to turn to liquid fire in his mouth, burning its way down and he cried out in agony as the mirror shattered and then the ground seemed to open between his feet and he was falling. A dream, of course, where thirst did not exist. He came awake then and found himself in exactly the same place as he had been for a week, leaning against the wall in the corner of the little room, unable to lie down because of the wooden halter padlocked around his neck, holding his wrists at shoulder level. He wore a green headcloth wound around his head in the manner of the Balushi tribesmen he had been commanding in the Dhofar high country until his capture ten days previously. His khaki bush shirt and trousers were filthy now, torn in many places, and his feet were bare because one of the Rashid had stolen his suede desert boots. And then there was the beard, prickly and uncomfortable, and he didn’t like that. Had never been able to get out of the old Guards’ habit of a good close shave every day, no matter what the situation. Even the SAS had not been able to change that particular quirk. There was the rattle of a bolt, the door creaked open and flies rose in a great curtain. Two Rashid entered, small, wiry men in soiled white robes, bandoliers crisscrossed from the shoulders. They eased him up between them without a word and took him outside, put him down roughly against the wall and walked away. It was a few moments before his eyes became adjusted to the bright glare of the morning sun. Bir el Gafani was a poor place, no more than a dozen flat-roofed houses with the oasis trimmed by palm trees below. A boy herded half a dozen camels down towards the water trough where women in dark robes and black masks were washing clothes. In the distance, to the right, the mountains of Dhofar, the most southern province of Oman, lifted into the blue sky. Little more than a week before Villiers had been leading Balushi tribesmen on a hunt for Marxist guerrillas. Bir el Gafani, on the other hand, was enemy territory, the People’s Democratic Republic of the South Yemen stretching north to the Empty Quarter. There was a large earthenware pot of water on his left with a ladle in it, but he knew better than to try to drink and waited patiently. In the distance, over a rise, a camel appeared, moving briskly towards the oasis, slightly unreal in the shimmering heat. He closed his eyes for a moment, dropping his head on his chest to ease the strain on his neck, and was aware of footsteps. He looked up to find Salim bin al Kaman approaching. He wore a black headcloth, black robes, a holstered Browning automatic on his right hip, a curved dagger pushed into the belt and carried a Chinese AK assault rifle, the pride of his life. He stood peering down at Villiers, an amiable-looking man with a fringe of greying beard and a skin the colour of Spanish leather. ‘Salaam alaikum, Salim bin al Kaman,’ Villiers said formally in Arabic. ‘Alaikum salaam. Good morning, Villiers Sahib.’ It was his only English phrase. They continued in Arabic. Salim propped the AK against the wall, filled the ladle with water and carefully held it to Villiers’ mouth. The Englishman drank greedily. It was a morning ritual between them. Salim filled the ladle again and Villiers raised his face to receive the cooling stream. ‘Better?’ Salim asked. ‘You could say that.’ The camel was close now, no more than a hundred yards away. Its rider had a line wound around the pommel of his saddle. A man shambled along on the other end. ‘Who have we got here?’ Villiers asked. ‘Hamid,’ Salim said. ‘And a friend?’ Salim smiled. ‘This is our country, Major Villiers, Rashid land. People should only come here when invited.’ ‘But in Hauf, the Commissars of the People’s Republic don’t recognize the rights of the Rashid. They don’t even recognize Allah. Only Marx.’ ‘In their own place, they can talk as loudly as they please, but in the land of Rashid …’ Salim shrugged and produced a flat tin. ‘But enough. You will have a cigarette, my friend?’ The Arab expertly nipped the cardboard tube on the end of the cigarette, placed it in Villiers’ mouth and gave him a light. ‘Russian?’ Villiers observed. ‘Fifty miles from here at Fasari there is an airbase in the desert. Many Russian planes, trucks, Russian soldiers – everything!’ ‘Yes, I know,’ Villiers told him. ‘You know, and yet your famous SAS does nothing about it?’ ‘My country is not at war with the Yemen,’ Villiers said. ‘I am on loan from the British Army to help train and lead the Sultan of Oman’s troops against Marxist guerrillas of the D.L.F.’ ‘We are not Marxists, Villiers Sahib. We of the Rashid go where we please and a major of the British SAS is a great prize. Worth many camels, many guns.’ ‘To whom?’ Villiers asked. Salim waved the cigarette at him. ‘I have sent word to Fasari. The Russians are coming, some time today. They will pay a great deal for you. They have agreed to meet my price.’ ‘Whatever they offer, my people will pay more,’ Villiers assured him. ‘Deliver me safely in Dhofar and you may have anything you want. English sovereigns of gold, Maria Theresa silver thalers.’ ‘But Villiers Sahib, I have given my word,’ Salim smiled mockingly. ‘I know,’ Villiers said. ‘Don’t tell me. To the Rashid, their word is everything.’ ‘Exactly!’ Salim got to his feet as the camel approached. It dropped to its knees and Hamid, a young Rashid warrior in robes of ochre, a rifle slung across his back, came forward. He pulled on the line and the man at the other end fell on his hands and knees. ‘What have we here?’ Salim demanded. ‘I found him in the night, walking across the desert.’ Hamid went back to the camel and returned with a military-style water bottle and knapsack. ‘He carried these.’ There was some bread in the knapsack and slabs of army rations. The labels were in Russian. Salim held one down for Villiers to see, then said to the man in Arabic, ‘You are Russian?’ The man was old with white hair, obviously exhausted, his khaki shirt soaked with sweat. He shook his head and his lips were swollen to twice their size. Salim held out the ladle filled with water. The man drank. Villiers spoke fair Russian. He said, ‘He wants to know who you are. Are you from Fasari?’ ‘Who are you?’ the old man croaked. ‘I’m a British officer. I was working for the Sultan’s forces in Dhofar. Their people ambushed my patrol, killed my men and took me prisoner.’ ‘Does he speak English?’ ‘About three words. Presumably you have no Arabic?’ ‘No, but I think my English is probably better than your Russian. My name is Viktor Levin. I’m from Fasari. I was trying to get to Dhofar.’ ‘To defect?’ Villiers asked. ‘Something like that.’ Salim said in Arabic. ‘So, he speaks English to you. Is he not Russian, then?’ Villiers said quietly to Levin, ‘No point in lying about you. Your people are turning up here today to pick me up.’ He turned to Salim. ‘Yes, Russian, from Fasari.’ ‘And what was he doing in Rashid country?’ ‘He was trying to reach Dhofar.’ Salim stared at him, eyes narrow. ‘To escape from his own people?’ He laughed out loud and slapped his thigh. ‘Excellent. They should pay well for him, also. A bonus, my friend. Allah is good to me.’ He nodded to Hamid. ‘Put them inside and see that they are fed, then come to me,’ and he walked away. Levin was placed in a similar wooden halter to Villiers. They sat side-by-side against the wall in the cell. After a while, a woman in a black mask entered, squatted, and fed them in turn from a large wooden bowl containing goatmeat stew. It was impossible to see whether she was young or old. She wiped their mouths carefully, then left, closing the door. Levin said, ‘Why the masks? I don’t understand that?’ ‘A symbol of the fact that they belong to their husbands. No other man may look.’ ‘A strange country,’ Levin closed his eyes. ‘Too hot.’ ‘How old are you?’ Villiers asked. ‘Sixty-eight.’ ‘Isn’t that a little old for the defecting business? I should have thought you’d left it rather late.’ Levin opened his eyes and smiled gently. ‘It’s quite simple. My wife died last week in Leningrad. I’ve no children, so no one they can blackmail me with when I reach freedom.’ ‘What do you do?’ ‘I’m Professor of Structural Engineering at the University of Leningrad. I’ve a particular interest in aircraft design. The Soviet Airforce has five MIG 23s at Fasari, ostensibly in a training role, so it’s the training version of the plane they are using.’ ‘With modifications?’ Villiers suggested. ‘Exactly, so that it can be used in a ground attack role in mountainous country. The changes were made in Russia, but there have been problems which I was brought in to solve.’ ‘So, you’ve finally had enough? What were you hoping to do, go to Israel?’ ‘Not particularly. I’m not a convinced Zionist for one thing. No, England would be a much more attractive proposition. I was over there with a trade delegation in nineteen thirty-nine, just before the war started. The best two months of my life.’ ‘I see.’ ‘I was hoping to get out in nineteen fifty-nine. Corresponded secretly with relatives in Israel who were going to help, then I was betrayed by someone I had thought a true friend. An old story, I was sentenced to five years.’ ‘In the Gulag.’ ‘No, somewhere much more interesting. Would you believe, a little Ulster town called Drumore?’ Villiers turned, surprise on his face. ‘I don’t understand?’ ‘A little Ulster town called Drumore in the middle of the Ukraine.’ The old man smiled at the look of astonish ment on Villiers’ face. ‘I think I’d better explain.’ When he was finished, Villiers sat there thinking about it. Subversion techniques and counter-terrorism had been very much his business for several years now, particularly in Ireland, so Levin’s story was fascinating to say the least. ‘I knew about Gaczyna, where the KGB train operatives to work in English and so on, but this other stuff is new to me.’ ‘And probably to your intelligence people, I think!’ ‘In Rome in the old days,’ Villiers said, ‘slaves and prisoners of war were trained as gladiators, to fight in the arena.’ ‘To the death,’ Levin said. ‘With a chance to survive if you were better than the other man. Just like those dissidents at Drumore playing policemen.’ ‘They didn’t stand much chance against Kelly,’ Levin said. ‘No, he sounds as if he was a very special item.’ The old man closed his eyes. His breathing was hoarse and troubled but he was obviously asleep within a few moments. Villiers leaned back in the corner, wretchedly uncomfortable. He kept thinking about Levin’s strange story. He’d known a lot of Ulster market towns himself, Crossmaglen for example. A bad place to be. So dangerous that troops had to be taken in and out by helicopter. But Drumore in the Ukraine – that was something else. After a while, his chin dropped on to his chest and he too drifted into sleep. He came awake to find himself being shaken vigorously by one of the Rashid tribesmen. Another was waking Levin. The man pulled Villiers to his feet and sent him stumbling through the door. It was afternoon now, he knew that from the position of the sun. Much more interesting was the half-track armoured personnel carrier. A converted BTR. What the Russians called a Sandcruiser, painted in desert camouflage. Half a dozen soldiers stood beside it wearing khaki drill uniforms, each man holding an AK assault rifle at the ready. Two more stood inside the Sandcruiser, manning a 12.7mm heavy machine gun with which they covered the dozen or so Rashid who stood watching, rifles cradled in their arms. Salim turned as Levin was brought out behind Villiers. ‘So, Villiers Sahib, we must part. What a pity. I’ve enjoyed our conversations.’ The Russian officer who approached, a sergeant at his shoulder, wore drill uniform like his men and a peaked cap and desert goggles that gave him an uncanny resemblance to one of Rommel’s Afrika Corps officers. He stood looking at them for a while, then pushed up the goggles. He was younger than Villiers would have thought, with a smooth unlined face and very blue eyes. ‘Professor Levin,’ he said in Russian, ‘I’d like to think you lost your way while out walking, but I’m afraid our friends of the KGB will take a rather different point of view.’ ‘They usually do,’ Levin told him. The officer turned to Villiers and said calmly, ‘Yuri Kirov, Captain, 21st Specialist Parachute Brigade.’ His English was excellent. ‘And you are Major Anthony Villiers, Grenadier Guards, but rather more importantly, of the 22nd Special Air Service Regiment.’ ‘You’re very well informed,’ Villiers said. ‘And allow me to compliment you on your English.’ ‘Thank you,’ Kirov said. ‘We’re using exactly the same language laboratory techniques as those pioneered by the SAS at Bradbury Line Barracks in Hereford. You, also, the KGB will take a special interest in.’ ‘I’m sure they will,’ Villiers said amiably. ‘So.’ Kirov turned to Salim. ‘To business.’ His Arabic was not as good as his English, but serviceable enough. He snapped a finger and the sergeant stepped forward and handed the Arab a canvas pouch. Salim opened it, took out a handful of coins and gold glinted in the sun. He smiled and handed the pouch to Hamid who stood behind him. ‘And now,’ Kirov said, ‘if you will be good enough to unpadlock these two, we’ll get moving.’ ‘Ah, but Kirov Sahib is forgetting,’ Salim smiled. ‘I was also promised a machine gun and twenty thousand rounds of ammunition.’ ‘Yes, well my superiors feel that would be putting far too much temptation in the way of the Rashid,’ Kirov said. Salim stopped smiling. ‘This was a firm promise.’ Most of his men, sensing trouble, raised their rifles. Kirov snapped fingers and thumb on his right hand, there was a sudden burst of fire from the heavy machine gun, raking the wall above Salim’s head. As the echoes died away, Kirov said patiently, ‘Take the gold, I would earnestly advise it.’ Salim smiled and flung his arms wide. ‘But of course. Friendship is everything. Certainly not worth losing for the sake of a trifling misunderstanding.’ He produced a key from a pouch at his belt and unlocked the padlock, first on the wooden halter which held Levin. Then he moved to Villiers. ‘Sometimes Allah looks down through the clouds and punishes the deceiver,’ he murmured. ‘Is that in the Koran?’ Villiers asked, as Hamid removed the halter and he stretched his aching arms. Salim shrugged and there was something in his eyes. ‘If not, then it should be.’ Two soldiers doubled forward on the sergeant’s command and ranged themselves on either side of Levin and Villiers. They walked to the Sandcruiser. Villiers and Levin climbed inside. The soldiers followed, Kirov bringing up the rear. Villiers and Levin sat down, flanked by armed guards, and Kirov turned and saluted as the engine rumbled into life. ‘Nice to do business with you,’ he called to Salim. ‘And you, Kirov Sahib!’ The Sandcruiser moved away in a cloud of dust. As they went up over the edge of the first sand dune, Villiers looked back and saw that the old Rashid was still standing there, watching them go, only now his men had moved in behind him. There was a curious stillness about them, a kind of threat, and then the Sandcruiser went over the ridge and Bir al Gafani disappeared from view. The concrete cell on the end of the administrative block at Fasari was a distinct improvement on their previous quarters, with whitewashed walls and chemical toilet and two narrow iron cots, each supplied with a mattress and blankets. It was one of half a dozen such cells, Villiers had noticed that on the way in, each with a heavy steel door complete with spyhole, and there seemed to be three armed guards constantly on duty. Through the bars of the window, Villiers looked out at the airstrip. It was not as large as he had expected: three prefabricated hangars with a single tarmacadam runway. The five MIG 23s stood wingtip to wingtip in a line in front of the hangars, looking, in the evening light just before dark, like strange primeval creatures, still, brooding. There were two Mi-8 troop-carrying helicopters on the far side of them and trucks and motor vehicles of various kinds. ‘Security seems virtually non-existent,’ he murmured. Beside him, Levin nodded. ‘Little need for it. They are, after all, in friendly territory entirely surrounded by open desert. Even your SAS people would have difficulty with such a target, I suppose.’ Behind them, the bolts rattled in the door. It opened and a young corporal stepped in, followed by an Arab carrying a pail and two enamel bowls. ‘Coffee,’ the corporal said. ‘When do we eat?’ Villiers demanded. ‘Nine o’clock.’ He ushered the Arab out and closed the door. The coffee was surprisingly good and very hot. Villiers said, ‘So they use some Arab personnel?’ ‘In the kitchens and for sanitary duties and that sort of thing. Not from the desert tribes. They bring them from Hauf, I believe.’ ‘What do you think will happen now?’ ‘Well, tomorrow is Thursday and there’s a supply plane in. It will probably take us back with it to Aden.’ ‘Moscow next stop?’ There was no answer to that, of course, just as there was no answer to concrete walls, steel doors and bars. Villiers lay on one bed, Levin on the other. The old Russian said, ‘Life is a constant disappointment to me. When I visited England, they took me to Oxford. So beautiful.’ He sighed. ‘It was a fantasy of mine to return one day.’ ‘Dreaming spires,’ Villiers observed. ‘Yes, it’s quite a place.’ ‘You know it then?’ ‘My wife was at university there. St Hugh’s College. She went there after the Sorbonne. She’s half-French.’ Levin raised himself on one elbow. ‘You surprise me. If you’ll forgive me saying so, you don’t have the look of a married man.’ ‘I’m not,’ Villiers told him. ‘We got divorced a few months ago.’ ‘I’m sorry.’ ‘Don’t be. As you said, life is a constant disappointment. We all want something different, that’s the trouble with human beings, particularly men and women. In spite of what the feminists say, they are different.’ ‘You still love her, I think?’ ‘Oh, yes,’ Villiers said. ‘Loving is easy. It’s the living together that’s so damned hard.’ ‘So what was the problem?’ ‘To put it simply, my work. Borneo, the Oman, Ireland. I was even in Vietnam when we very definitely weren’t supposed to be. As she once told me, I’m truly good at only one thing, killing people, and there came a time when she couldn’t take that any more.’ Levin lay back without a word and Tony Villiers stared up at the ceiling, head pillowed in his hands, thinking of things that would not go away as darkness fell. He came awake with a start, aware of footsteps in the passageway outside, the murmur of voices. The light in the ceiling must have been turned on whilst he slept. They hadn’t taken his Rolex from him and he glanced at it quickly, aware of Levin stirring on the other bed. ‘What is it?’ the old Russian asked. ‘Nine-fifteen. Must be supper.’ Villiers got up and moved to the window. There was a half-moon in a sky alive with stars and the desert was luminous, starkly beautiful, the MIG 23s like black cutouts. God, he thought. There must be a way. He turned, his stomach tightening. ‘What is it?’ Levin whispered as the first bolt was drawn. ‘I was just thinking,’ Villiers said, ‘that to make a run for it at some point, even if it means a bullet in the back, would be infinitely preferable to Moscow and the Lubianka.’ The door was flung open and the corporal stepped in, followed by an Arab holding a large wooden tray containing two bowls of stew, black bread and coffee. His head was down and yet there was something familiar about him. ‘Come on, hurry up!’ the corporal said in bad Arabic. The Arab placed the tray on the small wooden table at the foot of Levin’s bed and glanced up, and in the moment that Villiers and Levin realized that he was Salim bin al Kaman, the corporal turned to the door. Salim took a knife from his left sleeve, his hand went around the man’s mouth, a knee up pulling him off balance, the knife slipped under his ribs. He eased the corporal down on the bed and wiped the knife on his uniform. He smiled. ‘I kept thinking about what you said, Villiers Sahib. That your people in the Dhofar would pay a great deal to have you back.’ ‘So, you get paid twice – once by both sides. Sound business sense,’ Villiers told him. ‘Of course, but in any case, the Russians were not honest with me. I have my honour to think of.’ ‘What about the other guards?’ ‘Gone to supper. All this I discovered from friends in the kitchens. The one whose place I took has suffered a severe bump on the head on the way here, by arrangement, of course. But come, Hamid awaits on the edge of the base with camels.’ They went out. He bolted the door and they followed him along the passageway quickly and moved outside. The Fasari airbase was very quiet, everything still in the moonlight. ‘Look at it,’ Salim said. ‘No one cares. Even the sentries are at supper. Peasants in uniform.’ He reached behind a steel drum which stood against the wall and produced a bundle. ‘Put these on and follow me.’ They were two woollen cloaks of the kind worn by the Bedouin at night in the intense cold of the desert, each with a pointed hood to pull up. They put them on and followed him across to the hangars. ‘No fence around this place, no wall,’ Villiers whispered. ‘The desert is the only wall they need,’ Levin said. Beyond the hangars, the sand dunes lifted on either side of what looked like the mouth of a ravine. Salim said, ‘The Wadi al Hara. It empties into the plain a quarter of a mile from here where Hamid waits.’ Villiers said, ‘Had it occurred to you that Kirov may well put two and two together and come up with Salim bin al Kaman?’ ‘But of course. My people are already half-way to the Dhofar border by now.’ ‘Good,’ Villiers said. ‘That’s all I wanted to know. I’m going to show you something very interesting.’ He turned towards the Sandcruiser standing nearby and pulled himself over the side while Salim protested in a hoarse whisper. ‘Villiers Sahib, this is madness.’ As Villiers dropped behind the driving wheel, the Rashid clambered up into the vehicle, followed by Levin. ‘I’ve a dreadful feeling that all this is somehow my fault,’ the old Russian said. ‘We are, I presume, to see the SAS in action?’ ‘During the Second World War, the SAS under David Stirling destroyed more Luftwaffe planes on the ground in North Africa than the RAF and Yanks managed in aerial combat. I’ll show you the technique,’ Villiers told him. ‘Possibly another version of that bullet in the back you were talking about.’ Villiers switched on and as the engine rumbled into life, said to Salim in Arabic, ‘Can you manage the machine gun?’ Salim grabbed the handles of the Degtyarev. ‘Allah, be merciful. There is fire in his brain. He is not as other men.’ ‘Is that in the Koran, too?’ Villiers demanded, and the roaring of the 110 horsepower engine as he put his foot down hard drowned the Arab’s reply. The Sandcruiser thundered across the tarmac. Villiers swung hard and it spun round on its half tracks and smashed the tailplane of the first MIG, continuing right down the line as he increased speed. The tailplanes of the two helicopters were too high, so he concentrated on the cockpit areas at the front, the Sandcruiser’s eight tons of armoured steel crumpling the perspex with ease. He swung round in a wide loop and called to Salim. ‘The helicopters. Try for the fuel tanks.’ There was the sound of an alarm klaxon from the main administration block now, voices crying in the night and shooting started. Salim raked the two helicopters with a continuous burst and the fuel tank on the one on the left exploded, a ball of fire mushrooming into the night, burning debris cascading everywhere. A moment later, the second helicopter exploded against the MIG next to it and that also started to burn. ‘That’s it!’ Villiers said. ‘They’ll all go now. Let’s get out of here.’ As he spun the wheel, Salim swung the machine gun, driving back the soldiers running towards them. Villiers was aware of Kirov standing as the men went down on the other side of the tarmac, firing his pistol deliberately in a gallant, but futile gesture. And then they were climbing up the slope of the dunes, tracks churning sand and entering the mouth of the wadi. The dried bed of the old stream was rough with boulders here and there, but visibility in the moonlight was good. Villiers kept his foot down and drove fast. He called to Levin. ‘You okay?’ ‘I think so,’ the old Russian told him. ‘I’ll keep checking.’ Salim patted the Degtyarev machine gun. ‘What a darling. Better than any woman. This, I keep, Villiers Sahib.’ ‘You’ve earned it,’ Villiers told him. ‘Now all we have to do is pick up Hamid and drive like hell for the border.’ ‘No helicopters to chase us,’ Levin shouted. ‘Exactly.’ Salim said, ‘You deserve to be Rashid, Villiers Sahib. I have not enjoyed myself so much in many years.’ He raised an arm. ‘I have held them in the hollow of my hand and they are as dust.’ ‘The Koran again?’ Villiers asked. ‘No, my friend,’ Salim bin al Kaman told him. ‘It is from your own Bible this time. The Old Testament,’ and he laughed out loud exultantly as they emerged from the wadi and started down to the plain below where Hamid waited. 2 (#ulink_4683d8f7-e237-5bdf-a636-dab026aab9fc) D15, that branch of the British Secret Intelligence Service which concerns itself with counter-espionage and the activities of secret agents and subversion within the United Kingdom, does not officially exist, although its offices are to be found in a large white and red brick building not far from the Hilton Hotel in London. D15 can only carry out an investigation and has no powers of arrest. It is the officers of the Special Branch at Scotland Yard who handle that end of things. But the growth of international terrorism and its effects in Britain, particularly because of the Irish problem, were more than even Scotland Yard could handle and in 1972, the Director General of D15, with the support of 10 Downing Street, created a section known as Group Four with powers held directly from the Prime Minister of the day to co-ordinate the handling of all cases of terrorism and subversion. After ten years, Brigadier Charles Ferguson was still in charge. A large, deceptively kindly-looking man, the Guards tie was the only hint of a military background. The crumpled grey suits he favoured, and half-moon reading glasses, combined with untidy grey hair to give him the look of some minor academic in a provincial university. Although he had an office at the Directorate General, he preferred to work from his flat in Cavendish Square. His second daughter, Ellie, who was in interior design, had done the place over for him. The Adam fireplace was real and so was the fire. Ferguson was a fire person. The rest of the room was also Georgian and everything matched to perfection, including the heavy curtains. The door opened and his manservant, an ex-Gurkha naik named Kim, came in with a silver tray which he placed by the fire. ‘Ah, tea,’ Ferguson said. ‘Tell Captain Fox to join me.’ He poured tea into one of the china cups and picked up The Times. The news from the Falklands was not bad. British forces had landed on Pebble Island and destroyed eleven Argentine aircraft plus an ammo dump. Two Sea Harriers had bombed merchant shipping in Falkland Sound. The green baize door leading to the study opened and Fox came in. He was an elegant man in a blue flannel suit by Huntsman of Savile Row. He also wore a Guards tie, for he had once been an acting captain in the Blues and Royals until an unfortunate incident with a bomb in Belfast during his third tour of duty had deprived him of his left hand. He now wore a rather clever replica which, thanks to the miracle of the microchip, served him almost as well as the original. The neat leather glove made it difficult to tell the difference. ‘Tea, Harry?’ ‘Thank you, sir. I see they’ve got the Pebble Island story.’ ‘Yes, all very colourful and dashing,’ Ferguson said as he filled a cup for him. ‘But frankly, as no one knows better than you, we’ve got enough on our plate without the Falklands. I mean, Ireland’s not going to go away and then there’s the Pope’s visit. Due on the twenty-eighth. That only gives us eleven days. And he makes such a target of himself. You’d think he’d be more careful after the Rome attempt on his life.’ ‘Not that kind of man, is he, sir?’ Fox sipped some of his tea. ‘On the other hand, the way things are going, perhaps he won’t come at all. The South American connection is of primary importance to the Catholic Church and they see us as the villain of the piece in this Falklands business. They don’t want him to come and the speech he made in Rome yesterday seemed to hint that he wouldn’t.’ ‘I’ll be perfectly happy with that,’ Ferguson said. ‘It would relieve me of the responsibility of making sure some madman or other doesn’t try to shoot him while he’s in England. On the other hand, several million British Catholics would be bitterly disappointed.’ ‘I understand the Archbishops of Liverpool and Glasgow have flown off to the Vatican today to try to persuade him to change his mind,’ Fox said. ‘Yes, well let’s hope they fail miserably.’ The bleeper sounded on the red telephone on Ferguson’s desk, the phone reserved for top security rated traffic only. ‘See what that is, Harry.’ Fox lifted the receiver. ‘Fox here.’ He listened for a moment then turned, face grave and held out the phone. ‘Ulster, sir. Army headquarters Lisburn and it isn’t good!’ It had started that morning just before seven o’clock outside the village of Kilgannon some ten miles from Londonderry. Patrick Leary had delivered the post in the area for fifteen years now and his Royal Mail van was a familiar sight. His routine was always the same. He reported for work at headquarters in Londonderry at five-thirty promptly, picked up the mail for the first delivery of the day, already sorted by the night staff, filled up his petrol tank at the transport pumps then set off for Kilgannon. And always at half past six he would pull into the track in the trees beside Kilgannon Bridge to read the morning paper, eat his breakfast sandwiches and have a cup of coffee from his thermos flask. It was a routine which, unfortunately for Leary, had not gone unnoticed. Cuchulain watched him for ten minutes, waiting patiently for Leary to finish his sandwiches. Then the man got out, as he always did, and walked a little way into the wood. There was a slight sound behind him of a twig cracking under a foot. As he turned in alarm, Cuchulain slipped out of the trees. He presented a formidable figure and Leary was immediately terrified. Cuchulain wore a dark anorak and a black balaclava helmet which left only his eyes, nose and mouth exposed. He carried a PPK semi-automatic pistol in his left hand with a Carswell silencer screwed to the end of the barrel. ‘Do as you’re told and you’ll live,’ Cuchulain said. His voice was soft with a Southern Irish accent. ‘Anything,’ Leary croaked. ‘I’ve got a family – please.’ ‘Take off your cap and the raincoat and lay them down.’ Leary did as he was told and Cuchulain held out his right hand so that Leary saw the large white capsule nestling in the centre of the glove. ‘Now, swallow that like a good boy.’ ‘Would you poison me?’ Leary was sweating now. ‘You’ll be out for approximately four hours, that’s all,’ Cuchulain reassured him. ‘Better that way.’ He raised the gun. ‘Better than this.’ Leary took the capsule, hand shaking, and swallowed it down. His legs seemed to turn to rubber, there was an air of unreality to everything, then a hand was on his shoulder pushing him down. The grass was cool against his face, then there was only the darkness. Dr Hans Wolfgang Baum was a remarkable man. Born in Berlin in 1950, the son of a prominent industrialist, on his father’s death in 1970 he had inherited a fortune equivalent to ten million dollars and wide business interests. Many people in his position would have been content to live a life of pleasure, which Baum did, with the important distinction that he derived his pleasure from work. He had a doctorate in engineering science from the University of Berlin, a law degree from the London School of Economics, and a master’s degree in business administration from Harvard. And he had put them all to good use, expanding and developing his various factories in West Germany, France and the United States, so that his personal fortune was now estimated to be in excess of one hundred million dollars. And yet the project closest to his heart was the develop ment of the plant to manufacture tractors and general agricultural machinery outside Londonderry near Kilgannon. Baum Industries could have gone elsewhere, indeed the members of the board of management had wanted to. Unfortunately for them and the demands of sound business sense, Baum was a truly good man, a rare commodity in this world, and a committed Christian. A member of the German Lutheran Church, he had done everything possible to make the factory a genuine partnership between Catholic and Protestant. He and his wife were totally committed to the local community, his three children attended local schools. It was an open secret that he had met the Provisional IRA, some said the legendary Martin McGuiness himself. Whether true or not, the PIRA had left the Kilgannon factory alone to prosper, as it had done, and to provide work for more than a thousand Protestants and Catholics previously unemployed. Baum liked to keep in shape. Each morning, he awakened at exactly the same time, six o’clock, slid out of bed without disturbing his wife, and pulled on track suit and running shoes. Eileen Docherty, the young maid, was already up and making tea in the kitchen although still in her dressing gown. ‘Breakfast at seven, Eileen,’ he called. ‘My usual. Must get an early start this morning. I’ve a meeting in Derry at eight-thirty with the Works Committee.’ He let himself out of the kitchen door, ran across the parkland, vaulted a low fence and turned into the woods. He ran rather than jogged at a fast, almost professional pace, following a series of paths, his mind full of the day’s planned events. By six forty-five he had completed his schedule, turned out of the trees and hammered along the grass verge of the main road towards the house. As usual, he met Pat Leary’s mail van coming along the road towards him. It pulled in and waited and he could see Leary through the windscreen in uniform cap and coat sorting a bundle of mail. Baum leaned down to the open window. ‘What have you got for me this morning, Patrick?’ The face was the face of a stranger, dark, calm eyes, strong bones, nothing to fear there at all, and yet it was Death come to claim him. ‘I’m truly sorry,’ Cuchulain said. ‘You’re a good man,’ and the Walther in his left hand extended to touch Baum between the eyes. It coughed once, the German was hurled back to fall on the verge, blood and brains scattering across the grass. Cuchulain drove away instantly, was back in the track by the bridge where he had left Leary within five minutes. He tore off the cap and coat, dropped them beside the unconscious postman and ran through the trees, clambering over a wooden fence a few minutes later beside a narrow farm track, heavily overgrown with grass. A motorcycle waited there, an old 350cc BSA, stripped down as if for hill climbing with special ribbed tyres. It was a machine much used by hill farmers on both sides of the border to herd sheep. He pulled on a battered old crash helmet with a scratched visor, climbed on and kick-started expertly. The engine roared into life and he rode away, passing only one vehicle, the local milk cart just outside the village. Back there on the main road it started to rain and it was still falling on the upturned face of Hans Wolfgang Baum thirty minutes later when the local milk cart pulled up beside him. And at that precise moment, fifteen miles away, Cuchulain turned the BSA along a farm track south of Clady and rode across the border into the safety of the Irish Republic. Ten minutes later, he stopped beside a phone box, dialled the number of the Belfast Telegraph, asked for the news desk and claimed responsibility for the shooting of Hans Wolfgang Baum on behalf of the Provisional IRA. ‘So,’ Ferguson said. ‘The motorcyclist the driver of that milk cart saw would seem to be our man.’ ‘No description, of course,’ Fox told him. ‘He was wearing a crash helmet.’ ‘It doesn’t make sense,’ Ferguson said. ‘Baum was well liked by everyone and the local Catholic community was totally behind him. He fought his own board every inch of the way to locate that factory in Kilgannon. They’ll probably pull out now, which leaves over a thousand unemployed and Catholics and Protestants at each others’ throats again.’ ‘But isn’t that exactly what the Provisionals want, sir?’ ‘I wouldn’t have thought so, Harry. Not this time. This was a dirty one. The callous murder of a thoroughly good man, well respected by the Catholic community. It can do the Provisionals nothing but harm with their own people. That’s what I don’t understand. It was such a stupid thing to do.’ He tapped the file on Baum which Fox had brought in. ‘Baum met Martin McGuiness in secret and McGuiness assured him of the Provisionals’ good will, and whatever else you may think of him, McGuiness is a clever man. Too damned clever, actually, but that isn’t the point.’ He shook his head. ‘No, it doesn’t add up.’ The red phone bleeped. He picked it up. ‘Ferguson here.’ He listened for a moment. ‘Very well, Minister.’ He put the phone down and stood up. ‘The Secretary of State for Northern Ireland, Harry. Wants me right away. Get on to Lisburn again. Army Intelligence – anything you can think of. Find out all you can.’ He was back just over an hour later. As he was taking off his coat, Fox came in. ‘That didn’t take long, sir.’ ‘Short and sweet. He’s not pleased, Harry, and neither is the Prime Minister. She’s good and mad and you know what that means.’ ‘She wants results, sir?’ ‘Only she wants them yesterday, Harry. All hell’s broken loose over there in Ulster. Protestant politicians having a field day. Paisley saying I told you so, as usual. Oh, the West German Chancellor’s been on to Downing Street. To be frank, things couldn’t be worse.’ ‘I wouldn’t be too sure, sir. According to Army Intelligence at Lisburn the PIRA are more than a little annoyed about this one themselves. They insist they had nothing to do with it.’ ‘But they claimed responsibility.’ ‘They run a very tight ship these days, sir, as you know, since the re-organization of their command structure. McGuiness, amongst other things, is still Chief of Northern Command and the word from Dublin is that he categorically denies involvement of any of his people. In fact, he’s as angry as anybody else at the news. It seems he thought a great deal of Baum.’ ‘Do you think it’s INLA?’ The Irish National Liberation Front had shown themselves willing to strike in the past more ruthlessly than the Provisionals when they felt the situation warranted it. ‘Intelligence says not, sir. They have a good source close to the top where INLA is concerned.’ Ferguson warmed himself at the fire. ‘Are you suggesting the other side were responsible? The UVF or the Red Hand of Ulster?’ ‘Again, Lisburn has good sources in both organizations and the word is definitely no. No Protestant organization was involved.’ ‘Not officially.’ ‘It doesn’t look as if anyone was involved officially, sir. There are always the cowboys, of course. The madmen who watch too many midnight movies on television and end up willing to kill anybody rather than nobody.’ Ferguson lit a cheroot and sat behind his desk. ‘Do you really believe that, Harry?’ ‘No, sir,’ Fox said calmly. ‘I was just throwing out all the obvious questions the media crackpots will come up with.’ Ferguson sat there staring at him, frowning. ‘You know something, don’t you?’ ‘Not exactly, sir. There could be an answer to this, a totally preposterous one which you aren’t going to like one little bit.’ ‘Tell me.’ ‘All right, sir. The fact that the Belfast Telegraph had a phone call claiming responsibility for the Provisionals is going to make the Provos look very bad indeed.’ ‘So.’ ‘Let’s assume that was the purpose of the exercise.’ ‘Which means a Protestant organization did it with that end in view.’ ‘Not necessarily, as I think you’ll see if you let me explain. I got the full report on the affair from Lisburn just after you left. The killer is a professional, no doubt about that. Cold, ruthless and highly organized and yet he doesn’t just kill everyone in sight.’ ‘Yes, that had occurred to me too. He gave the postman, Leary, a capsule. Some sort of knock-out drop.’ ‘And that stirred my mind, so I put it through the computer.’ Fox had a file tucked under his arm and now he opened it. ‘The first five killings on the list all involved a witness being forced at gunpoint to take that sort of capsule. First time it occurs is nineteen seventy-five in Omagh.’ Ferguson examined the list and looked up. ‘But on two occasions, the victims were Catholics. I accept your argument that the same killer was involved, but it makes a nonsense of your theory that the purpose in killing Baum was to make the PIRA look bad.’ ‘Stay with it a little longer, sir, please. Description of the killer in each case is identical. Black balaclava and dark anorak. Always uses a Walther PPK. On three occasions was known to escape by motor cycle from the scene of the crime.’ ‘So?’ ‘I fed all those details into the computer separately, sir. Any killings where motor cycles were involved. Cross-referencing with use of a Walther, not necessarily the same gun, of course. Also cross-referencing with the description of the individual.’ ‘And you got a result?’ ‘I got a result all right, sir.’ Fox produced not one sheet, but two. ‘At least thirty probable killings since nineteen seventy-five, all linked to the factors I’ve mentioned. There are another ten possibles.’ Ferguson scanned the lists quickly. ‘Dear God!’ he whispered. ‘Catholic and Protestant alike. I don’t understand.’ ‘You might if you consider the victims, sir. In all cases where the Provisionals claimed responsibility, the target was counter-productive, leaving them looking very bad indeed.’ ‘And the same where Protestant extremist organizations were involved?’ ‘True, sir, although the PIRA are more involved than anyone else. Another thing, if you consider the dates when the killings took place, it’s usually when things were either quiet or getting better or when some political initiative was taking place. One of the possible cases when our man might have been involved goes back as far as July 1972, when, as you know, a delegation from the IRA met William Whitelaw secretly here in London.’ ‘That’s right,’ Ferguson said. ‘There was a ceasefire. A genuine chance for peace.’ ‘Broken because someone started shooting on the Lenadoon estate in Belfast and that’s all it took to start the pot boiling again.’ Ferguson sat there, staring down at the lists, his face expressionless. After a while, he said, ‘So what you’re saying is that somewhere over there is one mad individual dedicated to keeping the whole rotten mess turning over.’ ‘Exactly, except that I don’t think he’s mad. It seems to me he’s simply following sound Marxist-Leninist principles where urban revolution is concerned. Chaos, disorder, fear. All those factors essential to the breakdown of any kind of orderly government.’ ‘With the IRA taking the brunt of the smear campaign?’ ‘Which makes it less and less likely that the Protestants will ever come to a political agreement with them, or our own government, for that matter.’ ‘And ensures that the struggle continues year after year and a solution always recedes before us.’ Ferguson nodded slowly. ‘An interesting theory, Harry, and you believe it?’ He looked up enquiringly. Fox shrugged. ‘The facts were all there in the computer. We never asked the right questions, that’s all. If we had, the pattern would have emerged earlier. It’s been there a long time, sir.’ ‘Yes, I think you could very well be right.’ Ferguson sat brooding for a little while longer. Fox said gently, ‘He exists, sir. He is a fact, I’m sure of it. And there’s something else. Something that could go a long way to explaining the whole thing.’ ‘All right, tell me the worst.’ Fox took a further sheet from the file. ‘When you were in Washington the other week, Tony Villiers came back from the Oman.’ ‘Yes, I heard something of his adventures there.’ ‘In his debriefing, Tony tells an interesting story concerning a Russian Jewish dissident named Viktor Levin whom he brought out with him. A fascinating vignette about a rather unusual KGB training centre in the Ukraine.’ He moved to the fire and lit a cigarette, waiting for Ferguson to finish reading the file. After a while, Ferguson said, ‘Tony Villiers is in the Falklands now, did you know that?’ ‘Yes, sir, serving with the SAS behind enemy lines.’ ‘And this man, Levin?’ ‘A highly gifted engineer. We’ve arranged for one of the Oxford colleges to give him a job. He’s at a safe house in Hampstead at the moment. I’ve taken the liberty of sending for him, sir.’ ‘Have you indeed, Harry? What would I do without you?’ ‘Manage very well, I should say, sir. Ah, and another thing. The psychologist, Paul Cherny, mentioned in that story. He defected in nineteen seventy-five.’ ‘What, to England?’ Ferguson demanded. ‘No, sir – Ireland. Went there for an international conference in July of that year and asked for political asylum. He’s now Professor of Experimental Psychology at Trinity College, Dublin.’ Viktor Levin looked fit and well, still deeply tanned from his time in the Yemen. He wore a grey tweed suit, soft white shirt and blue tie, and black library spectacles that quite changed his appearance. He talked for some time, answering Ferguson’s questions patiently. During a brief pause he said, ‘Do I presume that you gentlemen believe that the man Kelly, or Cuchulain to give him his codename, is actually active in Ireland? I mean, it’s been twenty-three years.’ ‘But that was the whole idea, wasn’t it?’ Fox said. ‘A sleeper to go in deep. To be ready when Ireland exploded. Perhaps he even helped it happen.’ ‘And you would appear to be the only person outside his own people who has any idea what he looks like, so we’ll be asking you to look at some pictures. Lots of pictures,’ Ferguson told him. ‘As I say, it’s been a long time,’ Levin said. ‘But he did have a distinctive look to him,’ Fox suggested. ‘That’s true enough, God knows. A face like the Devil himself, when he killed, but of course, you’re not quite right when you say I’m the only one who remembers him. There’s Tanya. Tanya Voroninova.’ ‘The young girl whose father played the police inspector who Kelly shot, sir,’ Fox explained. ‘Not so young now. Thirty years old. A lovely girl and you should hear her play the piano,’ Levin told them. ‘You’ve seen her since?’ Ferguson asked. ‘All the time. Let me explain. I made sure they thought I’d seen the error of my ways so I was rehabilitated and sent to work at the University of Moscow. Tanya was adopted by the KGB Colonel, Maslovsky, and his wife who really took to the child.’ ‘He’s a general now, sir,’ Fox put in. ‘She turned out to have great talent for piano. When she was twenty, she won the Tchaikovsky competition in Moscow.’ ‘Just a minute,’ Ferguson said, for classical music was his special joy. ‘Tanya Voroninova, the concert pianist. She did rather well at the Leeds Piano Festival two years ago.’ ‘That’s right. Mrs Maslovsky died a month ago. Tanya tours abroad all the time now. With her foster-father a KGB general, she’s looked upon as a good risk.’ ‘And you’ve seen her recently?’ ‘Six months ago.’ ‘And she spoke of the events you’ve described as taking place at Drumore?’ ‘Oh, yes. Let me explain. She’s highly intelligent and well balanced, but she’s always had a thing about what happened. It’s as if she has to keep turning it over in her mind. I asked her why once.’ ‘And what did she say?’ ‘That it was Kelly. She could never forget him because he was so kind to her, and in view of what happened, she couldn’t understand that. She said she often dreamt of him.’ ‘Yes, well as she’s in Russia, that isn’t really much help.’ Ferguson got to his feet. ‘Would you mind waiting in the next room a moment, Mr Levin?’ Fox opened the green baize door and the Russian passed through. Ferguson said, ‘A nice man, I like him.’ He walked to the window and looked down into the square below. After a while, he said, ‘We’ve got to root him out, Harry. I don’t think anything we’ve handled has ever been so vital.’ ‘I agree.’ ‘A strange thing. It would seem to be just as important to the IRA that Cuchulain is exposed as it is to us.’ ‘Yes, sir, the thought had occurred to me.’ ‘Do you think they’d see it that way?’ ‘Perhaps, sir.’ Fox’s stomach was hollow with excitement as if he knew what was coming. ‘All right,’ Ferguson said. ‘God knows, you’ve given enough to Ireland, Harry. Are you willing to risk the other hand?’ ‘If you say so, sir.’ ‘Good. Let’s see if they’re willing to show some sense for once. I want you to go to Dublin to see the PIRA Army Council or anyone they’re willing to delegate to see you. I’ll make the right phone calls to set it up. Stay at the Westbourne as usual. And I mean today, Harry. I’ll see to Levin.’ ‘Right, sir,’ Fox said calmly. ‘Then if you’ll excuse me, I’ll get started,’ and he went out. Ferguson went back to the window and looked out at the rain. Crazy, of course, the idea that British Intelligence and the IRA could work together and yet it made sense this time. The question was, would the wild men in Dublin see it that way? Behind him, the study door opened and Levin appeared. He coughed apologetically, ‘Brigadier, do you still need me?’ ‘But of course, my dear chap,’ Charles Ferguson said. ‘I’ll take you along to my headquarters now. Pictures – lots of pictures, I’m afraid.’ He picked up his coat and hat and opened the door to usher Levin out. ‘But who knows? You might just recognize our man.’ In his heart, he did not believe it for a moment, but he didn’t tell Levin that as they went down in the lift. 3 (#ulink_2c1ec9b9-4c94-54ee-bd5f-d688888a0244) 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 ? 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. 4 (#ulink_21523d0f-af61-51f2-aeab-e65240464ab0) Devlin wore a dark blue flannel shirt open at the neck, grey slacks and a pair of highly expensive-looking Italian brogues in brown leather. He was a small man, no more than five foot five or six, and at sixty-four his dark, wavy hair showed only a light silvering. There was a faded scar on the right side of his forehead, an old bullet wound, the face pale, the eyes extraordinarily vivid blue. A slight ironic smile seemed permanently to lift the corner of his mouth – the look of a man who had found life a bad joke and had decided that the only thing to do was laugh about it. The smile was charming and totally sincere. ‘Good to see you, Harry.’ His arms went around Fox in a light embrace. ‘And you, Liam.’ Devlin looked beyond him at the car and Billy White behind the wheel. ‘You’ve got someone with you?’ ‘Just my driver.’ Devlin moved past him, went along the path and leaned down to the window. ‘Mr Devlin,’ Billy said. Devlin turned without a word and came back to Fox. ‘Driver, is it, Harry? The only place that one will drive you to is straight to Hell.’ ‘Have you heard from Ferguson?’ ‘Yes, but leave it for the moment. Come along in.’ The interior of the house was a time capsule of Victoriana: mahogany panelling and William Morris wallpaper in the hall with several night scenes by the Victorian painter, Atkinson Grimshaw, on the walls. Fox examined them with admiration as he took off his coat and gave it to Devlin. ‘Strange to see these here, Liam. Grimshaw was a very Yorkshire Englishman.’ ‘Not his fault, Harry, and he painted like an angel.’ ‘Worth a bob or two,’ Fox said, well aware that ten thousand pounds at auction was not at all out of the way for even quite a small Grimshaw. ‘Do you tell me?’ Devlin said lightly. He opened one half of a double mahogany door and led the way into the sitting room. Like the hall, it was period Victorian: green flock wallpaper stamped with gold, more Grimshaws on the walls, mahogany furniture and a fire burning brightly in a fireplace that looked as if it was a William Langley original. Конец ознакомительного фрагмента. Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес». 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