Confessional. Jack Higgins
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been done since you were last here, sir. Very nice. Would you like some tea?’
‘Not right now, Mr Ryan.’ Fox took a five pound note from his wallet and passed it over. ‘If there’s a message, let me know straight away. If I’m not here, I’ll be in the bar.’
There was something in the old man’s eyes, just for a moment; then he smiled faintly. ‘I’ll find you, sir, never fear.’
That was the thing about Dublin these days, Fox told himself as he dropped his coat on the bed and went to the window. You could never be sure of anyone and there were sympathizers everywhere, of course. Not necessarily IRA, but thousands of ordinary, decent people who hated the violence and the bombing, but approved of the political ideal behind it all.
The phone rang and when he answered it, Ferguson was at the other end.
‘It’s all set. McGuiness is going to see you.’
‘When?’
‘They’ll let you know.’
The line went dead and Fox replaced the receiver. Martin McGuiness, Chief of Northern Command for the PIRA, amongst other things; at least he would be dealing with one of the more intelligent members of the Army Council.
He could see the Liffey at the far end of the street, and rain rattled against the window. He felt unaccountably depressed. Ireland, of course. For a moment, he felt a distinct ache in the left hand again, the hand that was no longer there. All in the mind, he told himself, and went downstairs to the bar.
It was deserted except for a young Italian barman. Fox ordered a Scotch and water and sat in a corner by the window. There was a choice of newspapers on the table and he was working his way through The Times when Ryan appeared like a shadow at his shoulder.
‘Your cab’s here, sir.’
Fox glanced up. ‘My cab? Oh, yes, of course.’ He frowned, noticing the blue raincoat across Ryan’s arm. ‘Isn’t that mine?’
‘I took the liberty of getting it for you from your room, sir. You’ll be needing it. This rain’s with us for a while yet, I think.’
Again, there was something in the eyes, almost amusement. Fox allowed him to help him on with the coat and followed him outside and down the steps to where a black taxicab waited.
Ryan opened the door for him and said, as Fox got in, ‘Have a nice afternoon, sir.’
The cab moved away quickly. The driver was a young man with dark, curly hair. He wore a brown leather jacket and white scarf. He didn’t say a word, simply turned into the traffic stream at the end of the street and drove along George’s Quay. A man in a cloth cap and reefer coat stood beside a green telephone box. The cab slid into the kerb, the man in the reefer coat opened the rear door and got in beside Fox smoothly.
‘On your way, Billy,’ he said to the driver and turned to Fox genially. ‘Jesus and Mary, but I thought I’d drown out there. Arms up, if you please, Captain. Not too much. Just enough.’ He searched Fox thoroughly and professionally and found nothing. He leaned back and lit a cigarette, then he took a pistol from his pocket and held it on his knee. ‘Know what this is, Captain?’
‘A Ceska, from the look of it,’ Fox said. ‘Silenced version the Czechs made a few years back.’
‘Full marks. Just remember I’ve got it when you’re talking to Mr McGuiness. As they say in the movies, one false move and you’re dead.’
They continued to follow the line of the river, the traffic heavy in the rain and finally pulled in at the kerb half-way along Victoria Quay.
‘Out!’ the man in the reefer coat said and Fox followed him. Rain drove across the river on the wind and he pulled up his collar against it. The man in the reefer coat passed under a tree and nodded towards a small public shelter beside the quay wall. ‘He doesn’t like to be kept waiting. He’s a busy man.’
He lit another cigarette and leaned against the tree and Fox moved along the pavement and went up the steps into the shelter. There was a man sitting on the bench in the corner reading a newspaper. He was well dressed, a fawn raincoat open revealing a well-cut suit of dark blue, white shirt and a blue and red striped tie. He was handsome enough with a mobile, intelligent mouth and blue eyes. Hard to believe that this rather pleasant-looking man had featured on the British Army’s most wanted list for almost thirteen years.
‘Ah, Captain Fox,’ Martin McGuiness said affably. ‘Nice to see you again.’
‘But we’ve never met,’ Fox said.
‘Derry, 1972,’ McGuiness told him. ‘You were a cornet, isn’t that what you call second lieutenants in the Blues and Royals? There was a bomb in a pub in Prior Street. You were on detachment with the Military Police at the time.’
‘Good God!’ Fox said. ‘I remember now.’
‘The whole street was ablaze. You ran into a house next to the grocer’s shop and brought out a woman and two kids. I was on the flat roof opposite with a man with an Armalite rifle who wanted to put a hole in your head. I wouldn’t let him. It didn’t seem right in the circumstances.’
For a moment, Fox felt rather cold. ‘You were in command in Derry for the IRA at that time.’
McGuiness grinned. ‘A funny old life, isn’t it? You shouldn’t really be here. Now then, what is it that old snake, Ferguson, wants you to discuss with me?’
So Fox told him.
When he was finished McGuiness sat there brooding, hands in the pockets of his raincoat, staring across the Liffey. After a while, he said, ‘That’s Wolfe Tone Quay over there, did you know that?’
‘Wasn’t he a Protestant?’ Fox asked.
‘He was so. Also one of the greatest Irish patriots there ever was.’
He whistled tunelessly between his teeth. Fox said, ‘Do you believe me?’
‘Oh, yes,’ McGuiness said softly. ‘A devious bloody lot, the English, but I believe you all right and for one very simple reason. It fits, Captain, dear. All those hits over the years, the shit that’s come our way because of it and sometimes internationally. I know the times we’ve not been responsible and so does the Army Council. The thing is, one always thought it was the idiots, the cowboys, the wild men.’ He grinned crookedly. ‘Or British Intelligence, of course. It never occurred to any of us that it could have been the work of one man. A deliberate plan.’
‘You’ve got a few Marxists in your own organization, haven’t you?’ Fox suggested. ‘The kind who might see the Soviets as Saviour.’
‘You can forget that one.’ Anger showed in McGuiness’s blue eyes for a moment. ‘Ireland free and Ireland for the Irish. We don’t want any Marxist pap here.’
‘So, what happens now? Will you go to the Army Council?’
‘No, I don’t think so. I’ll talk to the Chief of Staff. See what he thinks. After all, he’s the one that sent me. Frankly, the fewer people in on this, the better.’
‘True.’ Fox stood up. ‘Cuchulain could be anyone. Maybe somebody close to the Army Council itself.’
‘The thought had occurred to me.’ McGuiness waved and the man in the reefer coat moved out from under the tree. ‘Murphy will take you back to the Westbourne now. Don’t go out. I’ll be in touch.’
Fox walked a few paces away, paused and turned. ‘By the way, that’s a Guards tie you’re wearing.’
Martin McGuiness smiled beautifully. ‘And didn’t I know it? Just trying to make you feel at home, Captain Fox.’
Fox dialled Ferguson from a phone booth in the foyer of the Westbourne so that he didn’t have to go through the hotel switchboard. The Brigadier wasn’t at the flat, so he tried the private line to his office at the Directorate-General