Touch the Devil. Jack Higgins
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‘What exactly are we looking for, sir?’
‘I’m not sure, Harry. Jack Corder was the third man I’ve put up against Frank Barry and two out of the three have ended up in a box. We’ve got to come up with something different, that’s all I know for certain.’
‘You’re right, sir. Takes a thief to catch a thief, I suppose.’
Ferguson paused in the act of spearing another crumpet on his fork. ‘What did you say?’
‘Jack Grand of Special Branch was telling me the other day they put one of their men into Parkhurst Prison, posing as a convict. He was attacked within two days and badly injured. I suppose the truth is most crooks can spot a copper a mile away. Frank Barry will be the same, if you think about it. He’d smell a rat in almost anyone you tried to infiltrate into his kind of action.’
‘You could be right,’ Ferguson said. ‘Start reading through those files, aloud, if you please.’
They were at it for six hours, only Kim disturbing them from time to time to replenish the tea and coffee. It was dark when Ferguson got up and stretched and waved to the window.
‘I’d like to know where the bastard is now.’
Fox said, ‘The photos on him are a bit sparse, sir. Nothing since nineteen seventy-two. The earliest seems to be this one taken from a Paris-Match article done by some woman journalist in nineteen seventy-one. Who are the other two with him? Devlin, is it? Liam Devlin and Martin Brosnan.’
Ferguson crossed the room with surprising speed for a man of his bulk and took the news clipping from him. ‘My God, Liam Devlin – and Brosnan. I’d forgotten they’d had dealings with Barry, it’s so long ago.’
‘But who were they, sir?’
‘Oh, a couple of anachronisms from the early days of the Irish Troubles. Before the worst of the bombings and the butchery. The kind of men who thought it was still nineteen twenty-one with Michael Collins carrying the flag for Ireland. Gallant guerrillas up against the might of the British Empire, Flying Columns, action by night.’
‘I think I saw the movie once, sir,’ Fox said.
‘There was a man called Sean McEoin, a Flying Column leader who later became a General in the Free State Army. In nineteen twenty-one, he was surrounded by Black and Tans in a cottage near his own village. There were women and children inside so McEoin ran out in the open with a gun in each hand and shot his way through the police cordon. Devlin and Brosnan are the same kind of idiots.’
‘I can’t say I came up against anyone like that during my time in Ulster,’ Fox said, feelingly.
‘No, well it’s as well to remember that the IRA, like the British Army or any other institution, consists of a wide range of human beings. Still, you cut along now. I want to give this some think time.’
Fox left. Ferguson poured himself a brandy and went and stood at the window, looking down into the square, thinking, with regret, of Jack Corder and the others he had sent against Barry.
‘Somewhere,’ he said softly, ‘that bastard is still laughing at me.’
Barry, at that precise moment, was doing roughly what Ferguson was: standing at a window with a large cognac in his hand. In his case, the apartment was in Paris and the view was of the Seine. There was a discreet tap at the door and when he opened it on the chain, Romanov was outside.
‘Well?’ Barry demanded as the Russian entered.
‘Considerable Service Five activity, Frank. They know you were behind the whole affair so they’re leaving no stone unturned to find you, with full assistance from British Intelligence on this one, I might add. Your Brigadier Ferguson and Colonel Guyon of Service Five are old friends.’
‘Well, that makes a change. I didn’t think DI5 and the French Intelligence Service were on speaking terms. How can you be sure that Ferguson and Guyon are such good pals, or have you an informer in Guyon’s department?’
‘Anything is possible,’ Romanov told him.
Barry was surprised and showed it. ‘You’re kidding. I thought British Intelligence had cleaned out all its moles by now. Your man certainly didn’t do me any good. What about Corder? I had to find out about him for myself.’
‘To be honest, Frank, at the moment we’re only getting peripheral information, but we expect that to improve.’
‘I don’t get it,’ Barry said. ‘You’d expect DI5 to check its employees’ credentials right back to the womb.’
‘Perhaps they do, Frank. But in this case it wouldn’t do them any good.’
‘One good thing. At least there’s no one left who can finger me at the moment, except you, of course, old son.’
Romanov’s smile was forced. ‘On the whole, I think it would be sensible if you dropped out of sight for a while.’
‘And where would you suggest?’
‘England.’
Barry laughed. ‘Well, it’s a novel enough idea. The last place they’d expect. Would you have somewhere specific in mind?’
‘The Lake District.’
‘They say it’s lovely at this time of the year.’ Barry poured himself another cognac. ‘All right, Nikolai, let’s be having it.’
The Russian opened his briefcase and took out a selection of maps. ‘It’s painfully simple. The balance of power as regards ground forces in Europe is hugely in our favour, mainly because we would be able to put at least four thousand more tanks in the field than the NATO forces.’
‘So?’
‘The West Germans have come up with a rather brilliant new weapon. Light enough to be carried by any infantry section. When fired, its pod releases twelve rockets simultaneously. Imagine them as missiles in miniature. Heat seeking, of course. Any one of these rockets is capable of knocking out our largest tank.’
‘Jesus,’ Barry said. ‘You’d wonder how they lost the war. What’ll they come up with next?’
‘We’ve tried every way possible to get hold of one, but so far, we’ve failed. We must have one, Frank.’
‘So, where do I come into it?’
Romanov started to unfold the maps. ‘I’ve had a report today of a rather interesting development. The Germans intend to demonstrate this weapon to the British and others at the British Army Rocket Proving Ground near Wast Water in the Lake District, next Thursday. There’s a team of Germans taking one over on Wednesday. An officer and six men. There’s a disused RAF base at Brisingham which is only twenty miles from the Proving Ground. They’ll land there to be taken the rest of the way by truck.’
‘Interesting.’ Barry opened the maps right across the table.
‘Frank, pull this off for me and it would be worth half a million.’
Barry didn’t seem to hear him. ‘I’d need ground support. Someone I could rely on in the general area of things. A thorough-going crook preferably. Could your people in London arrange that?’
‘Anything, Frank.’
‘And more maps. English Ordnance Survey maps. I want to know that area like the back of my hand.’
‘I’ll have them round to you in the morning.’
‘Tonight,’ Barry said. ‘I’ll also need fake passports. One British, one French and one American, just to vary things. Details like who I am, I’ll leave to your experts.’
‘All right,’ Romanov said.
‘And keep the SDECE off my back. Tell them I’ve been in Turkey or gone to the Argentine.’
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