Confessional. Jack Higgins

much so, sir. He’ll be back in touch, maybe later tonight.’

      ‘Good. I’ll be at the flat within the hour. No plans to go out. Phone me the moment you have more news.’

      Fox showered, then changed and went downstairs to the bar again. He had another small Scotch and water and sat there, thinking about things for a while and of McGuiness in particular. A clever and dangerous man, no doubt about that. Not just a gunman, although he’d done his share of killing, but one of the most important leaders thrown up by the Troubles. The annoying thing was that Fox realized, with a certain sense of irritation, that he had really rather liked the man. That wouldn’t do at all, so he went into the restaurant and had an early dinner, sitting in solitary splendour, a copy of the Irish Press propped up in front of him.

      Afterwards, he had to pass through the bar on the way to the lounge. There were a couple of dozen people in there now, obviously other guests from the look of them, except for the driver of the cab who’d taken him to meet McGuiness earlier. He was seated on a stool at the end of the bar, a glass of lager in front of him, the main difference being that he now wore a rather smart grey suit. He showed no sign of recognition and Fox carried on into the lounge where Ryan approached him.

      ‘If I remember correctly, sir, it’s tea you prefer after your dinner and not coffee?’

      Fox, who had sat down, said, ‘That’s right.’

      ‘I’ve taken the liberty of putting a tray in your room, sir. I thought you might prefer a bit of peace and quiet.’

      He turned without a word and led the way to the lift. Fox played along, following him, expecting perhaps a further message, but the old man said nothing and when they reached the first floor, led the way along the corridor and opened the bedroom door for him.

      Martin McGuiness was watching the news on television. Murphy stood by the window. Like the man in the bar, he now wore a rather conservative suit, in his case, of navy-blue worsted material.

      McGuiness switched off the television. ‘Ah, there you are. Did you try the Duck à l’Orange? It’s not bad here.’

      The tray on the table with the tea things on it carried two cups. ‘Shall I pour, Mr McGuiness?’ Ryan asked.

      ‘No, we can manage.’ McGuiness reached for the teapot and said to Fox as Ryan withdrew, ‘Old Patrick, as you can see, is one of our own. You can wait outside, Michael,’ he added.

      Murphy went out without a word. ‘They tell me no gentleman would pour his milk in first, but then I suppose no real gentleman would bother about rubbish like that. Isn’t that what they teach you at Eton?’

      ‘Something like that.’ Fox took the proffered cup. ‘I didn’t expect to see you quite so soon.’

      ‘A lot to do and not much time to do it in.’ McGuiness drank some tea and sighed with pleasure. ‘That’s good. Right, I’ve seen the Chief of Staff and he believes, with me, that you and your computer have stumbled on something that might very well be worth pursuing.’

      ‘Together?’

      ‘That depends. In the first place, he’s decided not to discuss it with the Army Council, certainly not at this stage, so it stays with just me and himself.’

      ‘That seems sensible.’

      ‘Another thing, we don’t want the Dublin police in on this, so keep Special Branch out of it and no military intelligence involvement either.’

      ‘I’m sure Brigadier Ferguson will agree.’

      ‘He’ll bloody well have to, just as he’ll have to accept that there’s no way we’re going to pass across general information about IRA members, past or present. The kind of stuff you could use in other ways.’

      ‘All right,’ Fox said, ‘I can see that, but it could be a tricky one. How do we co-operate if we don’t pool resources?’

      ‘There is a way.’ McGuiness poured himself another cup of tea. ‘I’ve discussed it with the Chief of Staff and he’s agreeable if you are. We use a middle-man.’

      ‘A middle-man?’ Fox frowned. ‘I don’t understand?’

      ‘Someone acceptable to both sides. Equally trusted, if you know what I mean.’

      Fox laughed. ‘There’s no such animal.’

      ‘Oh, yes there is,’ McGuiness said. ‘Liam Devlin, and don’t tell me you don’t know who he is.’

      Harry Fox said slowly, ‘I know Liam Devlin very well.’

      ‘And why wouldn’t you. Didn’t you and Faulkner have him kidnapped by the SAS back in seventy-nine to help you break Martin Brosnan out of that French prison to hunt down that mad dog, Frank Barry.’

      ‘You’re extremely well informed.’

      ‘Yes, well Liam’s here in Dublin now, a professor at Trinity College. He has a cottage in a village called Kilrea, about an hour’s drive out of town. You go and see him. If he agrees to help, then we’ll discuss it further.’

      ‘When?’

      ‘I’ll let you know, or maybe I’ll just turn up unexpected, like. The one way I kept ahead of the British Army all those years up north.’ He stood up. ‘There’s a lad at the bar downstairs. Maybe you noticed?’

      ‘The cab driver.’

      ‘Billy White. Left or right hand, he can still shoot a fly off the wall. He’s yours while you’re here.’

      ‘Not necessary.’

      ‘Oh, but it is.’ McGuiness got up and pulled on his coat. ‘Number one, I wouldn’t like anything to happen to you, and number two, it’s a convenience to know where you are.’ He opened the door, and beyond him, Fox saw Murphy waiting. ‘I’ll be in touch, Captain.’ McGuiness saluted mockingly, the door closed behind him.

      Ferguson said, ‘It makes sense, I suppose, but I’m not sure Devlin will work for us again, not after that Frank Barry affair. He felt we’d used him and Brosnan rather badly.’

      ‘As I recall, we did, sir,’ Fox said. ‘Very badly indeed.’

      ‘All right, Harry, no need to make a meal of it. Phone and see if he’s at home. If he is, go and see him.’

      ‘Now, sir?’

      ‘Why not? It’s only nine-thirty. If he is in, let me know and I’ll speak to him myself. Here’s his phone number, by the way. Take it down.’

      Fox went along to the bar and changed a five pound note for 50p coins. Billy White was still sitting there, reading the evening paper. The glass of lager looked untouched.

      ‘Can I buy you a drink, Mr White?’ Fox asked.

      ‘Never touch the stuff, Captain.’ White smiled cheerfully and emptied the glass in one long swallow. ‘A Bushmills would chase that down fine.’

      Fox ordered him one. ‘I may want to go out to a village called Kilrea. Do you know it?’

      ‘No problem,’ White told him. ‘I know it well.’

      Fox went back to the phone booth and closed the door. He sat there for a while thinking about it, then dialled the number Ferguson had given him. The voice, when it answered, was instantly recognizable. The voice of perhaps the most remarkable man he had ever met.

      ‘Devlin here.’

      ‘Liam? This is Harry Fox.’

      ‘Mother of God!’ Liam Devlin said. ‘Where are you?’

      ‘Dublin – the Westbourne Hotel. I’d like to come and see you.’

      ‘You mean right now?’

      ‘Sorry if it’s inconvenient.’