Confessional

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 and got through to him at once.

‘I’ve had my preliminary meeting, sir.’

‘That was quick. Did they send McGuiness?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Did he buy it?’

‘Very 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?’