Drink With the Devil (21 page)

“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?”

I
N 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.”

F
ERGUSON 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?”

T
HE
L
EAR 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.

B
ARRY 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.

“I didn’t know you were a religious man, Mr. Barry?”

“That was my wife, God rest her. Mass on most mornings when she could manage it. She worried about me, Mr. Sollazo. All those wild years in the movement.” He shook his head. “The hard time I gave her.”

“And where are our friends?”

“In the kitchen. Don’t worry. The backdoor is locked and I’ve got the keys of the brake.” He raised his voice. “Where’s that tea?”

K
ATHLEEN
,
WAITING FOR
the kettle to boil on the stove, was talking quietly to her uncle. “Have you had your pill?”

“Yes.”

“Then just take it slowly and don’t upset yourself. The last thing we need at this moment in time is you on your back.”

“All right, girl,” he said, “don’t fuss.”

She made the tea and discovering a jar of instant coffee, spooned some into two mugs and added hot water. It was at that moment that Barry called. She put everything on a tray and they went through.

“Coffee for you two,” she told Sollazo. “Only the instant variety, but you’ll have to make do.”

Mori tasted it and made a face. “Disgusting.”

Barry laughed. “You can’t have everything in this life, son. You should try the tea. Two things the Irish do extremely well, brew Guinness and make tea.”

Kathleen poured. “There you go, then.”

Barry took one of the cups and sipped his tea. “And that’s grand, the cup that cheers. I’ll just finish it in peace and then we’ll get down to business.”

K
ATHLEEN
,
HER UNCLE
, and Sollazo leaned on the table and watched as Barry unfolded a large scale map of the east coast of Ireland including both the Republic and Ulster.

“Here we are at Ballyburn. Now, up through Dundalk into County Down, and you see Drumdonald and Scotstown. That’s the area where you landed. Now all I need are the bearings for the position of
Irish Rose
.” He looked at Ryan. “What was it again, Michael?”

Pale in the face and with great reluctance, Ryan told him. Barry had a ruler and pencil at hand. “A cinch, this. As you can see, the map is marked in degrees top and bottom.” He quickly drew two lines, one bisecting the other. “There you are, three miles out I make it. Just off Rathlin Island. Did you know that, Michael?”

“It was dark.”

“Ah, well, let’s have a look at the Admiralty Chart for the area. I got one of those, too.”

It was larger in scale and covered the Down coast, the Isle of Man, and the northwest of England. He repeated the exercise. “There you go.” He threw down the pencil. “Fifteen to twenty fathoms she’s lying in.”

“Between ninety and a hundred and twenty feet.” Sollazo nodded. “No problem.”

Barry nodded. “When your uncle phoned me last night to say you were taking off, he told me that as far as the preliminary dive to establish the ship’s position was concerned, you’d do it yourself. He said you were an expert scuba diver.”

“I’ve been diving in the Caribbean for years, the Virgins, St. Lucia.” Sollazo shrugged. “Mori dives with me. We can easily handle a dive like this.”

“Your uncle asked me to provide the equipment. I know the right man. Friendly to our cause, you might say. He has a place on a trading estate on the outskirts of Dublin. I thought you and I could take a run in this afternoon.”

“That’s fine. Mori can baby-sit our friends here. He’ll need to be armed. Can you see to that?”

“There’s an arsenal here if you know where to look for it. I’ll see to it.”

“Fuck you, mister,” Kathleen Ryan said and stormed out.

K
ILREA
C
OLLEGE WAS
next to a convent on the outskirts of the village. The garden was a joy, flowers and bushes of every description. The college itself was Victorian, with Gothic gables and leaded windows. Dillon gave the bell pull a tug and it echoed inside. A moment later the door opened and Liam Devlin stood there.

“So there you are, you young bastard,” he said to Dillon, in Irish.

“As ever was,” Dillon replied in the same language.

Devlin turned to Hannah. “And you’ll be that old sod Ferguson’s good right hand, the famous Chief Detective Inspector Hannah Bernstein.” He looked her over with approval. “The lucky one he is and always was. Anyway, cead mile falte, and that’s Irish for a hundred thousand welcomes. Come away in.”

Hannah was totally astonished. She’d expected an old man of eighty-five and instead found someone full of energy and life, still with some color in his hair, wearing a black silk shirt and Armani slacks cut in the latest fashion. The eyes were the bluest she had ever seen and he had the same ironic quirk to his mouth as did Dillon. It was as if they were laughing at a world too absurd to take seriously.

The sitting room was a delight, all very Victorian, from the fire in the grate and the mahogany furniture to the Atkinson Grimshaw paintings. She was examining them when Devlin brought tea from the kitchen on a tray.

“Good God, these are the real thing?”

“Yes, I invested wisely a few years back. I’ve always had a thing for old Grimshaw. Love his night scenes. Whistler once said that to call him the master of the nocturne was false. That anything he knew he’d learned from Grimshaw.”

He poured the tea and Hannah said, “My grandfather has one.
The Thames Embankment at Night
.”

“Oh, a man of taste and discernment. What does he do?”

“He’s a rabbi.”

Devlin laughed out loud. “Jesus, girl, and that’s a showstopper if ever I heard one.”

Hannah felt suddenly breathless.
What an absolutely marvelous, marvelous man. One of the most extraordinary people she’d ever met
.

Devlin sat in a chair by the fire. “So it’s working for the Brits now, is it, Sean?”

“Sure and you know I am.”

“Does that give you a problem, Mr. Devlin?” Hannah asked.

“Call me Liam, girl dear. No, whatever I am, I’m no hypocrite. I once worked for Ferguson myself.”

“He didn’t say.” Hannah frowned.

“Well, he wouldn’t. He wanted someone to break an American Irish lad called Martin Brosnan out of a French prison on Belle Island and me being a friend of Martin’s found it difficult to say no.” He glanced at Dillon. “And he no friend of yours, Sean. Told me he thought they’d done for you after you tried to blow up the British War Cabinet during the Gulf War.”

“Yes, well, I was wearing a nylon and titanium waistcoat and it stopped the bullets,” Dillon said.

Devlin laughed. “Nine lives this one, and I taught him everything I know.” He shook his head and there was an edge to his voice. “You know something, Sean, you’re the dark side of me.”

“And you, Liam, are the good side of me,” Dillon said.

Devlin frowned for a moment and then laughed out loud. “You always did have a way with the words.” He shook his head. “Still, let’s get down to business.”

T
HEY WENT THROUGH
all the information available, and Dillon once again gave a meticulous account of the robbery and the voyage to Down on the
Irish Rose
. When all this was finished, Devlin sat there frowning, a cigarette in one hand.

“All right. First of all, we don’t want the Garda on this. Sure, they could arrest Ryan, hold him until the Americans asked for extradition. They could even hold Kathleen and this fella Sollazo and his bully boy as accessories, but none of that matters. The only thing that does is finding the
Irish Rose
and making sure that gold can’t be used for the wrong purposes.”

“So what can we do?” Hannah asked. “I mean, if Barry and the Provisional IRA are in this . . .”

Devlin cut her off. “I don’t think so. Gerry Adams, Martin McGuinness, and Sinn Fein have a big investment in the peace process. Sure there’s still the problem of persuading the Provos to give up their arms, but nobody wants trouble at the moment, the politics are too finely balanced.” He shook his head. “No, I’ll bet you a fiver the Provisional IRA Army Council know nothing about this.”

“You mean Barry is in this for his own ends?” Hannah asked.