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.”