Confessional

by Jack Higgins

  'Yes, sir, serving with the SAS behind enemy lines.'

  'And this man, Levin?'

  'A highly gifted engineer. We've arranged for one of the Oxford colleges to give him a job. He's at a safe house in Hampstead at the moment. I've taken the liberty of sending for him, sir.'

  '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.

  Chapter Three

  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 all.'

  It was a pleasant room with green damask walls, twin beds, a fake Adam fireplace and Georgian mahogany furniture.

  Ryan put the bag down on the bed and adjusted the curtains.

  'The bathroom's 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, bu
t 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 McGinness said affably. 'Nice to see you again.'

  'But we've never met,' Fox said.

  'Deny, 1972.,' McGinness 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.'

  McGinness 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 McGinness 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,' McGinness 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 McGinness'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. 'Cuchulam could be anyone. Maybe somebody close to the Army Council itself.'

  'The thought had occurred to me.' McGinness 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 McGinness 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 ca
rried 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 a 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.'