“So where does this get us?” Ferguson demanded.
“They left and took to the park. Barry’s house is on the other side. O’Leary drove round there and saw a limousine with a driver parked outside. He waited until the American left in the limousine and followed it to Dublin airport.”
“And then?”
“The American left in a private plane, a Gulfstream. Its flight plan was to MacArthur Field in Long Island.” Dillon laughed. “No prizes for guessing who owns that plane.”
“I’ll get on to Johnson straight away,” Ferguson said, turned, and hurried into his office.
AT HIS DESK, Blake Johnson was working his way through a file when Alice Quarmby came in with her pad.
Johnson sat back. “All right, tell me.”
“The details on the Gulfstream Brigadier Ferguson got from the Garda were easily checked. It’s owned by the Russo Corporation and is usually based at MacArthur Airport in Long Island. According to airport records it logged out with two passengers last week. Marco Sollazo and Giovanni Mori.”
“God, that’s great,” Johnson said. “We’re getting somewhere.”
“Now comes the hard part. The same Gulfstream left MacArthur nine hours ago. Passengers as before with the addition of two Irish citizens, a Daniel and Nancy Forbes.”
“Damn!” Johnson said. “I must contact Ferguson.”
“A waste of time if you want to do anything,” Alice told him. “I’ve just checked. They landed at Dublin two hours ago.”
Johnson shook his head. “You know something, Alice, I think it’s time for another cigarette, and get me Brigadier Ferguson anyway.”
FERGUSON SAT WITH the phone in his hand and Dillon and Hannah waited. The Brigadier nodded. “Thank you, Superintendent.” He put down the phone. “That was Costello of Garda Special Branch. The Gulfstream landed, disgorged four passengers, refuelled, and left.”
“Anything else?”
“Yes, one bit of luck. An airport security officer, a retired Detective Sergeant in Special Branch, noticed them at the main entrance getting into a large shooting brake. He noticed them because Jack Barry was at the wheel and he recognized him.”
“So we know where we are,” Dillon said. “The Russos in cahoots with the Provisional IRA. I wonder how Michael Ryan likes that?”
“Not much, I suspect,” Hannah Bernstein said. “On the other hand, it’s totally obvious that the Russo family got him out and now he has to pay.”
“One thing is certain,” Dillon said. “No point in raiding Barry’s home or rubbish like that. He’ll have a safe house somewhere.”
They sat there thinking about it and suddenly Charles Ferguson laughed. “I know who we need, the greatest expert on the IRA in existence – Liam Devlin.”
He opened a drawer in his desk, took out a small black book, and leafed through it. Hannah Bernstein said, “Liam Devlin?”
“Scholar, poet, once a professor at Trinity College, gunman for the IRA who probably killed more men than I did. Living legend of the IRA,” Dillon told her.
Ferguson was talking. “Is that you, Devlin, you old rogue?”
IN THE PARLOUR of his cottage in the village of Kilrea outside Dublin, Liam Devlin listened as Ferguson talked. When he was finished, Devlin laughed.
“Jesus, but you’ve got a ton of trouble on this one, Brigadier.”
“It’s important, Devlin, you must see that.”
“Oh, I do. I mean, we’re all big for the cause of peace. Send Dillon and that Chief Inspector of yours to see me, only tell him not to try and shoot me this time.”
FERGUSON PUT DOWN the phone. “He’ll see you two and, believe me, if anyone can help, it’s Devlin. He knows more about the IRA than anyone, so order the Lear jet, pack your bags, and get moving.”
“Sir.” Hannah moved to the door and Dillon went after her.
Ferguson called, “And, Dillon?”
“Brigadier.”
“He’d be obliged if you wouldn’t try to shoot him this time.”
Hannah looked shocked, but Dillon smiled. “Now do I look like the sort of fella that would do a thing like that, Brigadier?”
TWELVE
THE LEAR JET lifted off at Gatwick and climbed to thirty thousand feet. Dillon sat across the aisle from Hannah Bernstein.
“Devlin – Liam Devlin,” Hannah said. “I always thought it was just a fairy story, the German attempt to kidnap Winston Churchill.”
“True enough. November nineteen forty-three. A strange one, Liam. He was born in Ulster. His father was executed by the English during the Anglo-Irish War in nineteen twenty-one. A brilliant scholar. He took first honors in English Literature at Trinity College. He carried a gun for the IRA during the thirties, went to the Spanish Civil War and served with the International Brigade. The Italians took him prisoner and gave him to German Intelligence, what was called the Abwehr. They did what they could with him, but the trouble was he was very antifascist.”
“What happened?”
“After an abortive trip by parachute to liaise with the IRA in Ireland, he managed to get back to Germany and spent his time lecturing at Berlin University in English.”
“Then what?”
“Oh, the ultimate commando job. A crack force of German paratroopers dropped into Norfolk in November nineteen forty-three to kidnap Winston Churchill. Devlin went on ahead as a kind of middle man.”
“But I thought you said he was antifascist?”
“Well, they paid him well – funds for the IRA – and I suspect that if someone on the Allied side had asked him to snatch Hitler out of Berchtesgaden he’d have tried that, too.”
“I see.”
“He told me once that the greatest question in life is to ask, ‘Am I playing the game or is the game playing me?”’ He smiled ruefully. “I know what he means.”
“And you tried to kill him?”
“And he me.”
“I assumed you must have been friends.”
“We were. He taught me a great deal.” He shrugged. “I went through the purity of violence phase, the kind of Marxist revolutionary who’d kill the Pope if he thought it would further the cause. Liam was more old-fashioned. He wanted to meet his enemy face-to-face like a soldier of the revolution. We didn’t agree to differ. Shots were exchanged and we parted, both of us the worse for wear.”
“And you regret that?”
“Oh, yes, the greatest man I ever knew in my life.”
“He must be pretty old by now.”
“Eighty-five next birthday.”
“Good God!” she said blankly.
BARRY HAD OWNED the old farmhouse just outside the village of Ballyburn fifteen miles north of Dublin for years. He rented the land to a local farmer, a Sinn Fein sympathizer, and used the house itself only for the occasional weekend since the death of his wife.
When he unlocked the front door and led the way in, there was a smell of damp. Kathleen Ryan shivered. “God, you could catch your death here.”
“The fire’s laid in the sitting room and in the kitchen stove. I’ll light them up and we’ll be fine in no time.” He had a carrier bag in his hand, and he went into the stone-flagged kitchen and put the bag on the table. “Fresh bread, milk, eggs and bacon. You could make us a fry-up, girl.”
“You can make your own bloody fry-up.”
He smiled. “The hot one Kathleen Ryan, aren’t you? Suit yourself.”
He opened the stove and put a match to it and turned. Michael Ryan was leaning against the wall, hands in pockets, an intent look on his face.
“Sure and you’d like to shoot me, wouldn’t you, Michael?”
“Nothing would suit me better.”
Barry laughed and turned to the girl. “Well, at least you could make us a nice cup of tea.”
He went out into the hall and found Sollazo hanging up his raincoat. Mori was in the sitting room putting a match to the log fire. It was pleasant enough, a few rugs scattered on the flagged floor. There was a dining table with six chairs, a sofa and large wingbacked chairs on either side of the fire, and the ceiling was beamed. There was a statue of the Virgin Mary on the mantelpiece and a picture on the wall.