Confessional. Jack Higgins

      ‘Have you indeed, Harry? What would I do without you?’

      ‘Manage very well, I should say, sir. Ah, and another thing. The psychologist, Paul Cherny, mentioned in that story. He defected in nineteen seventy-five.’

      ‘What, to England?’ Ferguson demanded.

      ‘No, sir – Ireland. Went there for an international conference in July of that year and asked for political asylum. He’s now Professor of Experimental Psychology at Trinity College, Dublin.’

      Viktor Levin looked fit and well, still deeply tanned from his time in the Yemen. He wore a grey tweed suit, soft white shirt and blue tie, and black library spectacles that quite changed his appearance. He talked for some time, answering Ferguson’s questions patiently.

      During a brief pause he said, ‘Do I presume that you gentlemen believe that the man Kelly, or Cuchulain to give him his codename, is actually active in Ireland? I mean, it’s been twenty-three years.’

      ‘But that was the whole idea, wasn’t it?’ Fox said. ‘A sleeper to go in deep. To be ready when Ireland exploded. Perhaps he even helped it happen.’

      ‘And you would appear to be the only person outside his own people who has any idea what he looks like, so we’ll be asking you to look at some pictures. Lots of pictures,’ Ferguson told him.

      ‘As I say, it’s been a long time,’ Levin said.

      ‘But he did have a distinctive look to him,’ Fox suggested.

      ‘That’s true enough, God knows. A face like the Devil himself, when he killed, but of course, you’re not quite right when you say I’m the only one who remembers him. There’s Tanya. Tanya Voroninova.’

      ‘The young girl whose father played the police inspector who Kelly shot, sir,’ Fox explained.

      ‘Not so young now. Thirty years old. A lovely girl and you should hear her play the piano,’ Levin told them.

      ‘You’ve seen her since?’ Ferguson asked.

      ‘All the time. Let me explain. I made sure they thought I’d seen the error of my ways so I was rehabilitated and sent to work at the University of Moscow. Tanya was adopted by the KGB Colonel, Maslovsky, and his wife who really took to the child.’

      ‘He’s a general now, sir,’ Fox put in.

      ‘She turned out to have great talent for piano. When she was twenty, she won the Tchaikovsky competition in Moscow.’

      ‘Just a minute,’ Ferguson said, for classical music was his special joy. ‘Tanya Voroninova, the concert pianist. She did rather well at the Leeds Piano Festival two years ago.’

      ‘That’s right. Mrs Maslovsky died a month ago. Tanya tours abroad all the time now. With her foster-father a KGB general, she’s looked upon as a good risk.’

      ‘And you’ve seen her recently?’

      ‘Six months ago.’

      ‘And she spoke of the events you’ve described as taking place at Drumore?’

      ‘Oh, yes. Let me explain. She’s highly intelligent and well balanced, but she’s always had a thing about what happened. It’s as if she has to keep turning it over in her mind. I asked her why once.’

      ‘And what did she say?’

      ‘That it was Kelly. She could never forget him because he was so kind to her, and in view of what happened, she couldn’t understand that. She said she often dreamt of him.’

      ‘Yes, well as she’s in Russia, that isn’t really much help.’ Ferguson got to his feet. ‘Would you mind waiting in the next room a moment, Mr Levin?’

      Fox opened the green baize door and the Russian passed through. Ferguson said, ‘A nice man, I like him.’ He walked to the window and looked down into the square below. After a while, he said, ‘We’ve got to root him out, Harry. I don’t think anything we’ve handled has ever been so vital.’

      ‘I agree.’

      ‘A strange thing. It would seem to be just as important to the IRA that Cuchulain is exposed as it is to us.’

      ‘Yes, sir, the thought had occurred to me.’

      ‘Do you think they’d see it that way?’

      ‘Perhaps, sir.’ Fox’s stomach was hollow with excitement as if he knew what was coming.

      ‘All right,’ Ferguson said. ‘God knows, you’ve given enough to Ireland, Harry. Are you willing to risk the other hand?’

      ‘If you say so, sir.’

      ‘Good. Let’s see if they’re willing to show some sense for once. I want you to go to Dublin to see the PIRA Army Council or anyone they’re willing to delegate to see you. I’ll make the right phone calls to set it up. Stay at the Westbourne as usual. And I mean today, Harry. I’ll see to Levin.’

      ‘Right, sir,’ Fox said calmly. ‘Then if you’ll excuse me, I’ll get started,’ and he went out.

      Ferguson went back to the window and looked out at the rain. Crazy, of course, the idea that British Intelligence and the IRA could work together and yet it made sense this time. The question was, would the wild men in Dublin see it that way?

      Behind him, the study door opened and Levin appeared. He coughed apologetically, ‘Brigadier, do you still need me?’

      ‘But of course, my dear chap,’ Charles Ferguson said. ‘I’ll take you along to my headquarters now. Pictures – lots of pictures, I’m afraid.’ He picked up his coat and hat and opened the door to usher Levin out. ‘But who knows? You might just recognize our man.’

      In his heart, he did not believe it for a moment, but he didn’t tell Levin that as they went down in the lift.

       3

      In Dublin, it was raining, driving across the Liffey in a soft grey curtain as the cab from the airport turned into a side street just off George’s Quay and deposited Fox at his hotel.

      The Westbourne was a small old-fashioned place with only one bar-restaurant. It was a Georgian building and therefore listed against redevelopment. Inside however, it had been refurbished to a quiet elegance exactly in period. The clientele, when one saw them at all, were middle-class and distinctly ageing, the sort who’d been using it for years when up from the country for a few days. Fox had stayed there on numerous occasions, always under the name of Charles Hunt, profession, wine wholesaler, a subject he was sufficiently expert on to make an eminently suitable cover.

      The receptionist, a plain young woman in a black suit, greeted him warmly. ‘Nice to see you again, Mr Hunt. I’ve managed you number three on the first floor. You’ve stayed there before.’

      ‘Fine,’ Fox said. ‘Messages?’

      ‘None, sir. How long will you be staying?’

      ‘One night, maybe two. I’ll let you know.’

      The porter was an old man with the sad, wrinkled face of the truly disillusioned and very white hair. His green uniform was a little too large and Fox, as usual, felt slightly embarrassed when he took the bags.

      ‘How are you, Mr Ryan?’ he enquired as they went up in the small lift.

      ‘Fine, sir. Never better. I’m retiring next month. They’re putting me out to pasture.’

      He led the way along the small corridor and Fox said, ‘That’s a pity. You’ll miss the Westbourne.’

      ‘I will so, sir. Thirty-eight years.’ He unlocked the bedroom door and led the way in. ‘Still, it comes to us