“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.