Touch the Devil (8 page)

He closed his eyes, folded his hands across his stomach, leaned back in the corner and was instantly asleep.

At that moment, Frank Barry was disembarking from the hydrofoil in St. Helier harbor on the island of Jersey, having just completed the run from St. Malo. According to the forged French passport supplied by the KGB, he was a commercial traveler from Paris named Pierre Dubois. His hair had been soaked in brilliantine and carefully parted at one side, and he wore a large pair of black horn-rimmed glasses. His appearance fitted the photo they'
d t
aken exactly. Amazing how different he looked, but then, as he had discovered so often in the past, a little was all that it took.

Fifteen minutes later, a taxi deposited him at the entrance to the airport. He went straight to the British Airways desk and booked a seat on the Manchester flight.

An hour to kill. He stopped at the duty free shop to buy a carton of cigarettes and a bottle of cognac, and the girl behind the counter put them in a plastic bag and smiled.

"I hope you enjoyed your visit."

"Certainly did," Barry said. "Wonderful place. Come back any time." And he walked away to the departure lounge.

The old farmhouse that nestled among beech trees on the hillside above Killala Bay enjoyed one of the best views of the entire west coast of Ireland. Devlin never tired of it. From the terrace he'd built in his spare time the year before, he could see out beyond the cliffs all the way to Newfoundland, the sun slipping into the sea like a blood orange, and to his right, Sligo Bay and across to the mountains of Donegal. He reluctantly went back into the house.

Liam Devlin was a small man, no more than five foot five or six, and at sixty-one his dark, wavy hair showed no visible signs of gray. There was a faded scar on the right side of his forehead--an old bullet wound. His face was pale, the eyes a vivid blue, and a slight, ironic smile seemed permanently to lift the corners of his mouth. He had the look of a man who'd found life a bad joke and had decided that the only thing to do was laugh about it.

He went into the kitchen, rolled up the sleeves of his black woolen shirt, and began to prepare a stew, peeling potatoes and vegetables methodically, whistling to himself. He was still unmarried, circumstances of his life having dictated the situation more than anything else, but now it suited him. It was good to get away from the petty academic rivalries of the university. And he liked to be alone--to find his own space--although there were women enough still, even a student or two, who would have been happy to spend their weekends in Mayo with him.

He put the stew on the stove, went into the sitting room, and replenished the fire. It was dark outside now. He pulled the curtains at the French windows and poured himself an Irish whisky, Bush-mills, his favorite, and settled down by the fire. He ran a hand along the shelf at the side of the fireplace, selected a copy of The Midnight Court in Irish, and started to read.

A breath of cold air touched his cheek, the fire stirred. As he glanced up, instantly alert, the door from the hall swung open, and Tony Villiers stepped in. He wore a dark reefer jacket and jeans, and badly needed a shave. The combination made him look a thoroughly dangerous man. The Browning automatic pistol in his right hand confirmed it.

"Would you look at that now," Devlin said softly and stood up, leaning against the mantlepiece of the great stone fireplace, one foot on the hearth. "And which club are you from, son? Red Hand of Ulster, UVF, or what?"

"Easy now, professor," Tony Villiers said in impeccable public school English.

"Christ Jesus," Devlin said amiably, "not you bloody lot again."

His right hand went up inside the fireplace and grasped the butt of a Walther pistol that hung on a nail there in case of just such an emergency. His hand swung, and he fired in one smooth motion, hitting Villiers in the left shoulder, knocking him back against the wall, the Browning falling to the floor.

Villiers struggled to one knee, blood oozing between his fingers where he clutched his shoulder. "Good," he said, "really very good."

"Flattery will get you nowhere, son," Devlin said, and there was a crash behind him as the kitchen door was flung open and Villiers' two companions erupted into the room, machine pistols at the ready.

"Alive," Tony Villiers cried. "Don't harm a hair on his bloody head, that's an order." He smiled savagely. "I'm expecting rather a lot, professor; they're only trained to kill. I'd advise you to drop it."

"SAS, is it?" Devlin said.

"I'm afraid so."

"Mother Mary, why didn't they send the Devil instead. Now with him, I'm on good terms." He turned to the other two. "Do you think one of you could do something about his shoulder? It's the carpet I'm thinking of--Persian, a gift from a friend."

Tony Villiers shook his head. "Later, professor. For now, you will please pack a suitcase with whatever you feel you need for an extended trip."

"And just exactly where might we be going?"

"Well, if things go according to plan, we should cross into Ulster about three hours from now. Onward transportation, courtesy of the Army Air Corps, tomorrow morning. You should be in London by noon. I'd take a raincoat, if I were you." Villiers had produced a field service dressing pack from one pocket and was opening it with his teeth. "The weather over there's been terrible lately."

Devlin shook his head. "Where did you go to school, son?" "Eton College."

"Jesus, and I might have known. What would the Empire have been without you?"

"Not very much, I suspect," Tony Villiers said crisply. "But time is limited, professor. Please do as I say without any further delay."

"And so I will." Devlin walked to the door followed by one of the troopers. "But only because I'm fascinated. Can't wait to find out what all this is about. Help yourself to the Bushmills."

He smiled and walked out into the hall.

Morecambe is a seaside resort on the Lancashire coast, south of the English Lake District, a quiet town that even during the holiday season caters mainly to older people. Not a great deal goes on there. Someone once unkindly said that when people die in Morecambe they don't bury them, they simply sit them up in the town bus shelters to make the place look busy.

Frank Barry found it pleasant enough. Not many people on the waterfront, which was only to be expected in November, but then he'd always found seaside resorts out of season stimulating places--the cafes and shops closed for the winter, the empty boardwalks. He walked out along the pier, feeling unaccountably cheerful, and stood at the rail, breathing in the good salt air. The dark waters of Morecambe Bay were being whipped into whitecaps by the wind, and to the north, through the mist, he could see the mountains of the Lake District, a blur on the horizon.

He lit a cigarette and waited. After a while, he heard footsteps booming hollowly on the boardwalk behind him. The man who leaned on the rail on his right wore a dark raincoat and hat. He was perhaps thirty and had a young, intelligent face. His steel-rimmed glasses were giving him trouble in the rain.

Barry, who had discarded his horn-rimmed spectacles and washed the brilliantine from his hair at the motel where he had stayed the night before, smiled at him. "A hell of a problem those things in weather like this."

The young man put the briefcase he was carrying down and wiped his glasses with a handkerchief. "True, Mr. Barry. I tried contact lenses a few years ago but unfortunately had an allergy to them." His English was excellent with just a trace of an accent.

"You have something for me?"

The young man touched the briefcase with his foot. "Everything you need."

"Well, that makes a change," Barry said. "I mean, it's not often you get everything in this life."

"I have also included a contact in London by which you may reach me in the event of an emergency, Mr. Barry. Please memorize and destroy."

Barry picked up the briefcase and grinned. "Son, I was doing this sort of thing when you were still hanging on your mother's left breast."

He walked away long the pier, his feet echoing on the boards.

The young man stayed where he was. Only when the sound of the echoes had faded did he turn from the rail.

Barry picked up a rental car at Manchester airport, a Ford Cortina, and was driving it through Lancaster, turning on to the M6 motorway and heading north for the Lake District within twenty minutes of leaving his KGB contact on Morecambe pier. He drove for some ten or twelve miles, then turned into a convenient rest stop, cut the engine, and opened the briefcase.

There was, as the young man had said, everything he needed. His contact at a place called Marsh End, south of Ravenglass on the Cumbrian coast, all very convenient for the Wastwater proving ground. Details of the rendezvous for Thursday night--they'd provided a deep-sea trawler for that from the Russian northern fishing fleet. And, of course, the young man's number in London. Even more interesting was the pistol with the silencer screwed on the end, a Czech Ceska 7.5mm. There were also several additional clips of ammunition and fifty thousand pounds in twenty-pound notes, neatly packeted.

"Well, would you look at that, now?"
. B
arry said softly, hefting the Ceska in one hand.

He slipped it into his raincoat pocket. He closed the briefcase, placing it on the passenger seat beside him with the typed list on top and drove away. Occasionally, he glanced at the list memorizing the details it contained, line by line. An hour later, he left the M6 at Levens Bridge and pulled into a roadside cafe. He went into the men's room, locked himself in a stall, lit a cigarette, and touched the lighter flame to the list. Only when it was reduced to dark ashes did he drop it into the toilet bowl to flush away. Then he went outside, got back into the car and took the road to Broughton-in-Furness and the Cumbrian coast, whistling softly through his teeth.

Kim opened the door of Ferguson's sitting room and ushered Tony
Villiers and Liam Devlin inside. Ferguson was at his desk, Harry
Fox standing beside him. Ferguson glanced up, peering at the tw
o m
en over his half-moon spectacles, then he removed them slowly.

Tony Villiers' dark reefer hung from his shoulders, loosely buttoned. Underneath, he was swathed in bandages, his left arm in a sling. His face was white and drawn, lines of pain deeply etched there in spite of the injection they'd given him at the military wing of Musgrave Park Hospital in Belfast.

"Professor Devlin, sir, as ordered," he said.

"Now then, you old bastard," Devlin said amiably. "You've got a good lad here and you not deserving it."

Ferguson got to his feet. "You should be in the hospital, Captain, now, and that's an order. See to it, Harry. Get my car."

Villiers swayed, and Devlin moved in fast and got an arm around him. "Easy boy, you've done enough and more."

Villiers managed to smile. "Damn it, professor, but I like you. I really do, and that's a hell of a thing to say considering the situation."

"You're not so bad yourself," Devlin told him. "It's only th
e u
niform I'm not too happy about, not the man wearing it." Harry Fox had Villiers by the elbow. "All right, let's go." As he opened the door Villiers said, "One thing, professor. Yo
u c
ould have killed me and you didn't. Why?"

"The terrible waste that would have been," Devlin said, and suddenly the blue eyes were bleak. "And hasn't there been waste enough?" Villiers stared at him, frowning, and Devlin laughed. "Go on, boy, out of it, before I totally corrupt you."

The door closed behind them, and Devlin turned to face Ferguson, unbuckling the belt of his dark trenchcoat. "So, here we are." "Here we are indeed."

"Would there be any chance of a cup of tea, would you think? It's been a hell of a journey."

Ferguson smiled and flicked the intercom. "Tea, Kim. My usual and another pot, extra strong, Irish variety." He turned back to Devlin. "Satisfactory?"

"As long as I can stand up a spoon in it."

He helped himself to a cigarette from a box on Ferguson's desk, lit it, and sprawled in one of the chairs by the fire. "They do you well, DI5, I must say."

The door opened, and Kim, followed by Harry Fox, came in with the tea on a silver tray. "I've packed him straight off in the Bentley to the special wing at Meibury House, sir," Fox said. "I've rung through and notified Colonel Jackson that he's on his way."

"Good," Ferguson said. "And let's make sure he gets only the best."

Kim withdrew, and Devlin helped himself to the tea. "And whom have we here?"

"Captain Fox is my personal aide," Ferguson said.

Devlin's eyes took in the gloved hand. "And not much time for people like me, I should imagine."

"Not really," Fox said.

"That's fine, boy. Just so we know where we stand."

There was silence. Ferguson got up and peered out of the window into the square. "You're in a bad hole, Devlin, you realize that, don't you? There are outstanding crimes listed
. A
gainst you which would draw you twenty years at least, if not life. How does the Central Criminal Court at the Old Bailey appeal to you?"