Drink With The Devil

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.

“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?”

KATHLEEN, 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.”

KATHLEEN, 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.

KILREA COLLEGE 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.”

THEY 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.

“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.”

THE 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.”

DEVLIN 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.”

IT 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.

THE 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.

HE 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.

“GOOD,” SOLLAZO 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.

IT 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.”

WHEN SOLLAZO 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.

SEATED 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.”

DEVLIN, 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.”

THE 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?”

“This nice Jewish girl shot dead Norah Bell,” Dillon said.

Devlin stopped smiling. “Jesus, big for the Protestant cause, that one.”

“And I killed the boyfriend, Ahern,” Dillon said. “They were in London to knock off the American President.”

Hannah looked strained and Devlin put a hand on hers. “It is not on you, any of it, girl, it’s the world we live in. Now, a Bushmills whiskey to put me to sleep and we’ll go home.”

He shouted the order across to the barman, turned back with a smile, then suddenly frowned. “I’ve had a thought.”

“And what would that be?” Dillon asked.

“They’ve got to go looking for the site of the Irish Rose.”

“That’s right. Somewhere off the Down coast. We landed in the general area of Drumdonald and Scotstown.”

“I’m not thinking of that. I’m thinking they have to go looking, which means chartering a boat, but more than that, wouldn’t they need diving equipment?”

Dillon nodded. “Of course.”

“And you, they tell me, are an expert in that field these days.”

“I’ve done my share. What are you getting at?”

“Well, they’ve got to get that equipment from somewhere, and Dublin isn’t exactly saturated with firms in that line of business.”

“No, it wouldn’t be,” Dillon said.

“What if I told you there’s a firm called Seahorse Supplies on the edge of Dublin that’s owned by an old IRA hand called Tony Bradley? Served under Jack Barry, did five years in Portlaoise Prison. Now if you were Jack Barry and you needed diving equipment, where would you go?”

“Seahorse Supplies,” Hannah Bernstein said.

Devlin smiled and raised his glass in a toast. “Exactly, which is where we’ll go first thing in the morning. Everything comes to he who waits.”