Drink With the Devil (22 page)

“Oh, no, a true patriot, Jack. My guess is he’ll play it close to his chest because he knows damn well the Army Council don’t want trouble at this stage of the political game.”

“So what do you suggest, Liam?” Dillon demanded.

“I’ll go and see the Chief of Staff and sound him out. I know the Dublin pub where he has a bite to eat at lunchtime every day.”

“And he’ll see you?” Hannah asked.

Devlin laughed out loud. “They all see me, girl dear, I’m the living legend and that can be very useful, but not you and the lad here.” He turned to Dillon. “A time for peace, but there are those who see you as an apostate working for the Brits. They’d like nothing better than putting a bullet in you.”

“And that’s a fact.”

“Take the Chief Inspector to Casey’s in the village. What the English call good pub grub.” He smiled at Hannah. “I’ll see you later.”

T
HE PUB ON
one of the quays on the Liffey was called the Irish Hussar, a haunt of Irish Republicans, and it was already half full when Liam Devlin went in just after noon. Colum O’Brien, Chief of Staff of the Provisional IRA, was sitting in a booth at the far end, a pint of Guinness at one hand and a savory-looking dish before him. He tucked a napkin below his chin.

Devlin said, “Shame on you, Colum, and you tucking into a Lancashire Hot Pot, an English dish.”

O’Brien looked up and smiled with genuine pleasure. “Liam, you ould bastard. What are you doing here?”

“Oh, I was in town on business and a man has to eat.” A young woman came over and Devlin said, “I’ll have the same as your man here.”

“And give him a large Bushmills whiskey,” O’Brien said. “Only the best for Liam Devlin.”

The young woman was truly shocked. “You’re Liam Devlin? I’ve heard of you since I was a child. I thought you were dead.”

“And that says it all.” Devlin laughed. “Away with you, girl, and bring me the Bushmills.”

D
EVLIN TOOK HIS
time, raising politics only when they had eaten and were enjoying a pot of Barry’s tea.

“So where are we with the peace process?” he finally asked.

“Still roadblocked,” O’Brien told him. “It’s the bloody British Government with their demands that we get rid of all our arms, Liam. That’s too much. I mean, do they imagine the other side aren’t stockpiling?”

“I suppose you see Gerry Adams and McGuinness regularly. What’s the good word?”

“Hope, Liam, that’s the good word. Anybody who thinks Gerry and Martin don’t want this peace to last is crazy, but peace with honor.”

“And what about the Loyalist side of things?”

“Difficult, that. They think the British Government have sold them out or will do and there’s some truth in that, but they must face the fact that the day will come when they’ll have to take their place in a united Ireland. That will take change.”

“From the Catholic side, too,” Devlin said. “Anyway, how do the old warhorses see it? What’s Jack Barry up to these days?”

“Not much since he retired and not needed with the peace movement making changes. I see him now and then, but not often. You know his wife died?”

“Yes, I heard that. God rest her. Is he still in Abbey Road by the park?”

“As far as I know. I don’t know how he fills his time.”

“Out to grass like me.” Devlin got up. “Well, I’ve enjoyed the crack, Colum. We used to say our day will come. Let’s hope it has.”

I
T WAS YEARS
since he’d visited Jack Barry’s house in Abbey Road, but when he drove there and parked the car, it all came back and he found the house easily enough. He tried the knocker on the front door and waited. He had no intention of confronting Barry about the
Irish Rose
affair. Just an old friend who happened to be passing, but in any event he was disappointed. He went round to the small garden at the back and peered through the kitchen window.

A voice said, “Can I help you?” and he turned and found a young woman taking wash off the line next door.

Devlin gave her his best smile. “I was looking for Jack Barry.”

“I saw him getting into the big station wagon early this morning. He parks it in the street. If it isn’t there now he’ll be away somewhere. Is it important?”

“Not at all. An old friend who happened to be in the neighborhood, that’s all. So, you’ve no idea where he might be?”

“He’s here most of the time. A lovely man. Used to be a schoolteacher, then his wife died. They used to go away to the country at weekends. They had a cottage or something like that.”

“Would you know where?”

“I’m afraid not.”

“Ah, well, if he turns up, tell him Charlie Black called,” Devlin lied cheerfully and went back to his car.

He was smiling as he drove away, wondering what she’d say if she knew that the nice man next door had once been Chief of Staff of the Provisional IRA.

T
HE WAREHOUSE ON
the trading estate on the outskirts of Dublin was called Seahorse Supplies. The owner was a man named Tony Bradley, middle-aged and balding with a distinct beer belly. An IRA activist in his youth, a five-year sentence in Portlaoise Prison fifty miles from Dublin had cooled his ardor. His sympathy and support were still with the Republican cause, however. He had been a great fund-raiser when he came home from the North Sea oilfields, where he had been a diver, and had set up Seahorse.

The warehouse was packed with diving equipment of every kind and Bradley stopped at a goods table and took out an order pad. “Great to see you again, Jack. In fact, a great honor.”

“Last time was in the pub at Ballyburn when I was spending a weekend at my farmhouse,” Barry said.

“And that was just a happy chance, me passing through. So what can I do?”

“My friend, Mr. Sollazo, needs some diving equipment. You hire as well as sell, don’t you?”

“Of course.” Bradley turned to Sollazo. “Just tell me what you need.”

“Two of everything,” Sollazo told him. “Masks, diving suits, one medium, one large, and with hoods, gloves, fins, weight belts with twelve pounds in each, regulators, buoyancy control devices, and four air tanks. Oh, and a couple of Orca diving computers.” He turned to Barry. “They tell you how deep you are, how long you’ve got, when you should come up.”

“Great,” Bradley said. “I tell you what, Jack, I’ll open the freight door and you bring your station wagon in and we’ll load up right here.”

He bustled off, calling an assistant to help him, and Barry left Sollazo there and went and got the station wagon.

H
E STOOD WATCHING
as Sollazo carefully checked each item. “You take a lot of care,” he said.

Sollazo shrugged. “I always take care even though I’ve done two hundred and fifteen dives. You wouldn’t believe the number of people killed scuba diving each year and usually because of stupidity.” He smiled. “You see, Mr. Barry, we shouldn’t be down there in the first place.”

Bradley and his man finished stowing the gear and he said, “Anything else?”

“Underwater lights,” Sollazo said.

“No problems. I’ve got the very thing.” He went to a stack, took down two cardboard boxes, and brought them over. “Halogen lamps like the Royal Navy use. Long-life batteries and a charger included.” He put them in the station wagon and stood, hands on hips, frowning. “Something missing.” And then he smiled. “I know.” He darted away and came back with two divers’ knives in sheaths with leg straps. “Now I think that is it,” he said.

Barry said, “Just one thing. There used to be an item called a Master Navigator.”

“Still is,” Bradley said. “Just been updated.”

It was Sollazo who said, “Could we see one?”

“Of course.” Bradley darted off again and was back in a few moments, a black box in his hand. He opened it and took out the Navigator. “There you go.”

Sollazo examined it, the rows of buttons and the read-out panel. He glanced at Barry inquiringly and the Irishman said, “What happens if I insert the bearings for, let’s say, a wreck at sea?”

“Well what happens is a triumph of modern technology,” Bradley said. “There’s an instruction book here and it’s very simple.”

“No need,” Sollazo told him. “I’ll give you the figures, you feed them in, and we’ll watch.”

He took out his diary and dictated the position of the
Irish Rose
to Bradley, who punched it in. The figures appeared on the read-out panel. “Check that they’re correct,” Bradley said.

Sollazo did so. “Perfect.”

“Good.” Bradley pressed a blue button. “Now it’s on hold. You activate it by pressing the red button. You get a slow and monotonous pinging. When you reach the actual position, the pinging becomes frantic. You stop it by pressing the blue button again.”

“And that we’ll definitely have,” Barry said. “Send me a bill at Abbey Road, Tony, and you’ll get my check.”

“Ah, sure, pay me when you return the gear, Jack.”

Bradley stood to one side as they drove away and waved.

“G
OOD
,” S
OLLAZO SAID
. “The one thing you haven’t mentioned so far is a boat.”

“It’s being taken care of. I mentioned Drumdonald and Scotstown as being in the general area of the Down coast where Ryan, his niece, and Sean Dillon landed. Scotstown is a small fishing village. There’s a pub there called the Loyalist. It’s not what it seems. Kevin Stringer, the landlord, is one of our own. It was to there that Dillon went for sanctuary after landing from the
Irish Rose
. Anyway, I’ve spoken to Kevin and he’s found us something he thinks could be suitable. I think you and I should drive up there tomorrow. We can take all the equipment with us. If the boat is okay, Kevin can stow the equipment on board and we’ll come back. I’ll take some Semtex and pencil timers, by the way, in case we have to blast our way into the boat.”

“And then?”

“Return the following day, all of us, Ryan and the girl included, and we’ll go out to Rathlin Island and find the damned boat.”

“You think we will?”

“I always travel hopefully,” Jack Barry said.

I
T WAS LATE
in the afternoon when Devlin arrived back at Kilrea Cottage. Dillon was sprawled beside the fire, eyes closed, and Hannah was reading a book when Devlin entered.

He looked tired and she got up, concerned. “Let me get you a cup of tea.”

“That would be grand.”

He dropped into her chair and Dillon sat up. “Any luck?”

“Well I saw Colum O’Brien, the present Chief of Staff, and satisfied myself that as far as he is concerned Jack Barry is not up to anything. As for the rest, I’ve made discreet inquiries of various sources, some of whom I have to check back with tomorrow.”

“So that’s it?” Dillon said.

“For the moment.” Devlin sat up straight as Hannah brought tea in. “Girl, you’re the wonder of the world.” He took the cup. “When I’ve had this, I’ll have a bath and then take you for dinner.”

W
HEN
S
OLLAZO AND
Barry went into the farmhouse they found Mori in the sitting room reading a book. He looked up. “This is great stuff.
A History of the Saints of Ireland
. These guys make Mafia look like kindergarten.”

“Where are they?” Sollazo asked.

“In the kitchen. She’s cooking. I had to go and stand in the garden in the rain while her uncle dug up potatoes with a fork, also carrots. Then she got cucumbers and lettuce and tomatoes from the greenhouse. She could be a useful little broad.”

“Who’s killed at least three men to my knowledge,” Barry said.

“Exactly,” Sollazo told him.

Sollazo went into the kitchen. There was a good smell, Kathleen standing at the stove checking pans. Ryan was at the table mixing a salad.

“A woman of many talents, I see,” Sollazo said.

“You’d better believe it, mister,” she replied.

S
EATED AT HIS
desk, the phone in his hand, Ferguson said, “I’ve spoken to Dillon. Our contact, Devlin, has feelers out, but no results so far.”

In his office in the basement at the White House Blake Johnson said, “Too much to hope for an early result. As you know, the President is concerned in this matter. Do keep me posted, Brigadier.”

“Of course I will.”

Ferguson put down the phone and sat back. “Come on, Dillon,” he said softly. “Give me a result.”

D
EVLIN
,
AS A
favored customer at his local pub, was given the best booth in the corner of the restaurant. He insisted on ordering for all of them so they started with a lentil and potato soup to be followed by Irish ham in a white sauce with new potatoes and boiled cabbage.

Hannah said, “I’m sorry, Liam, I’m Jewish, you’ve forgotten. Ham is out.”

He was immediately contrite. “Would poached salmon be in?”

“That I could manage.”

“I should tell you as a serving police officer that the emphasis is on poached.”

“Oh, dear.”

He turned to Dillon. “As for you, boy, forget your ideas about the Krug champagne. All they do is a house champagne here at twelve quid the bottle.”

“Irish champagne?” Hannah said.

“Well the name on the label is French.”

Dillon raised his hands. “Order it, I surrender.”

T
HE MEAL WAS
delicious, the champagne almost acceptable, and the conversation the most interesting Hannah Bernstein had heard in years.

“So your granddad’s a rabbi, your father a professor of surgery, and you went to Cambridge University?” Devlin said. “That’s a terrible weight to bear, and you a peeler? How did that come about?”

“I wanted to do something worthwhile. Money wasn’t a consideration. I’ve got plenty of that.”

“God, you on the beat in a blue uniform must have been the grand sight.”

“Don’t be sexist, Mr. Devlin.”

“Liam. Do I have to tell you again? But a nice Jewish girl like you. I mean, didn’t your da want you to marry and have babies?”