“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.”