by Jack Higgins
Harry Fox said in amazement, “You mean it’s all true, sir?”
“It’s a few years yet before those classified files are opened, Harry. You’ll have to wait and see.”
“And Devlin worked for the Nazis? I don’t get it. I thought you said he was antifascist?”
“Rather more complicated than that. I think if someone on our side had suggested that he should attempt to kidnap Adolf Hitler, he’d have thrown himself into the task with even greater enthusiasm. Very frequently in life we’re not playing the game, Harry. It’s playing us. You’ll learn that as you get older.”
“And wiser, sir?”
“That’s it, Harry, learn to laugh at yourself. It’s a priceless asset. During the postwar period, Devlin was a professor at a midwestern college in America. He returned to Ulster briefly during the border war of the late fifties and went back again during the civil rights disturbances of nineteen sixty-nine. He was one of the original architects of the provisional IRA. As I said earlier, he never approved of the bombing campaign.”
“In nineteen seventy-five, increasingly disillusioned, he officially retired from the movement. He’s a living legend, whatever that trite phrase means. Since nineteen seventy-six, against considerable opposition from some quarters, he’s held a post as visiting professor on the English faculty at his old university, Trinity College.”
Ferguson pushed back his chair and they got up to go. “And he and Brosnan were friends?” Fox asked.
“I think you could say that. I also think what happened to Brosnan in France was a sort of final straw for Devlin. Still.” He stood in the entrance looking across the dingy carpark and waved to his driver. “All right, Harry, let’s press on to Hereford.”
Barry was working at the maps in his apartment soon after breakfast, when there was a discreet knock at the door. He opened it to admit Belov.
“How about the passports?” Barry asked.
“No problem. If you would go to the usual place at ten o’clock for the photos, they’ll be ready this afternoon. Is there anything else you need?”
“Yes, documentation for the Jersey route—that’s the way I’ll go. French tourist on holiday.”
“No problem,” Belov said.
Once in Jersey, he would be on British soil and able to take an internal flight to a selection of airports on the British mainland where customs and immigration procedures were considerably less strict than they would have been landing at London Heathrow.
“If I collect the package Wednesday afternoon, you must be prepared to take delivery that night,” Barry said. “Preferably a trawler, say fifteen miles off the coast.”
“And how will you rendezvous?”
“We’ll get whoever your people in London find to work for me to arrange a boat. A good forty-foot deep-sea launch will do to operate somewhere out of this area.” He tapped the map. “Somewhere on the coast opposite the Isle of Man. South of Ravenglass.”
“Good.”
“I’ll leave for St. Malo tonight and cross to Jersey tomorrow, using the French passport. There’s a British Airways flight to Manchester from Jersey at midday. I’ll meet your London contact man the following day on the pier at Morecambe at noon. That’s a seaside resort on the coast below the Lake District. He’ll recognize me from the photograph you keep on file at the KGB office at your London embassy, I’m sure.”
Belov looked down at the map. “Frank, if this comes off, it will be the biggest coup of my career. Are you sure? Are you really sure?”
“That you’ll be a Hero of the Soviet Union decorated by old Leonid Ilyich Brezhnev himself?” Barry clapped him on the shoulder. “Don’t worry, Nikolai, old son. A piece of cake.”
FOUR
The 22nd Regiment Special Air Service is what the military refer to as an elite unit. Someone once remarked that they were the nearest thing the British army has to the SS. This is a sour tribute to the unit’s astonishing success in counterinsurgency operations and urban guerrilla warfare, areas in which the SAS are undoubtedly world experts, with thirty years experience behind them gained in the jungles of Malaya and Borneo, the deserts of southern Arabia and the Oman, the green countryside of south Armagh, the back streets of Belfast. The SAS accepts only volunteers, soldiers already serving with other units. Its selection procedure is so demanding, both physically and mentally, that only five percent of those applying are accepted.
The office of the commanding officer of 22nd SAS at Bradbury Lines barracks in Hereford was neat and functional, if rather Spartan. Most surprising was the CO himself. Young for a half-colonel, he had a keen intelligent face, bronzed from much exposure to desert sun.
The medal ribbons above his pocket included the Military Cross. He sat there, leaning back in his seat, listening intently.
When Ferguson had finished speaking the colonel said, “Very interesting.”
“But can it be done?” Ferguson asked.
The colonel smiled slightly. “Oh, yes, Brigadier, no trouble at all as far as I can see. The sort of thing my chaps are doing in south Armagh all the time. Tony Villiers is the man for this one, I think.” He flicked his intercom. “Captain Villiers, quick as you like, and we’ll have tea for three while we’re waiting.”
The tea was excellent, the conversation mainly army gossip. It was perhaps fifteen minutes before there was a knock at the door, and a young man of twenty-six or seven entered. At some time or other his nose had been broken, probably in the boxing ring from the look of him. He wore a black track suit. His most surprising feature was his hair, which was black and tangled and almost shoulder length.
“Sorry about the delay, sir. I was on the track.”
“That’s okay, Tony. I’d like you to meet Brigadier Ferguson and Captain Fox.”
“Gentlemen.” Villiers nodded.
“Brigadier Ferguson is from D15, Tony. He has a job of the kind to which we are particularly suited. Absolute top priority. Seemed to me it could be your department.”
“Ireland, sir?”
Ferguson said, “That’s right. I want you to kidnap someone for me. My information is that he’ll be spending the weekend at his cottage in County Mayo on the coast near Killala Bay. I need him within thirty-six hours, delivered to me Sunday morning in London. Do you think you can manage that?”
“I don’t see why not, sir.” Villiers strolled to the map of Ireland on the wall. “Only sixty or seventy miles from the Ulster border.”
“Excellent,” Ferguson said.
“Presumably IRA, sir? Anyone important?”
“A university professor called Devlin. You’ll be thoroughly briefed.”
Villiers showed surprise. “Liam Devlin, sir? I thought he’d retired?”
“That’s what he thinks, too,” Ferguson said. He hesitated. “Are you certain you can mount this thing right off the cuff, just like that?”
Villiers grinned and ran a hand over his hair. “That’s why I never have a haircut, sir. Special dispensation. I mean, in Crossmaglen you’ve got to look the part.” His shoulders hunched and his voice changed, the hard, distinctive Ulster accent taking over. “Personal camouflage is very important, sir. Other people use language labs to learn how to speak French or whatever. In the SAS, we can teach you how to speak with the accent of any Irish county you care to name within a fortnight.”
“Soldiering,” Ferguson said, “has certainly changed since my day.”
The colonel stood up. “Right, gentlemen, I think we’ll go over to operations now. Get this thing thoroughly sorted out. You lead the way, Tony.”
Villiers flicked Fox’s Guards brigade tie as they went through the door. “Which regiment?”
Fox, who knew a guardsman when he saw one, long hair or not, said, “Blues and Royals. And you?”
“Grenadiers,” Villiers said. “You lost the hand over there?”
“That’s right,” Fox said. “Picked up the wrong briefcase.”
“That’s the way it goes.”
It
was a misty morning as they crossed the parade ground, and the clock tower loomed above them. Villiers paused. “If you’re interested, the name of every member of the regiment killed since nineteen fifty is recorded up there.”
Fox paused and peered at the names of men who had died in every possible theater of war. He frowned. “Good God, there’s a chap listed as having died in Ethiopia in nineteen sixty-eight. What on earth was he doing there?”
“Search me,” Villiers said. “Ours not to reason why, and all that sort of good old British rubbish. You might as well ask ten years from now what I was doing in Mayo tomorrow night.”
Later, as the Bentley turned out through the main gates and they started back to London, Fox said, “You really think they’ll put it off, sir?”
“By the beginning of nineteen seventy-six, Harry, forty-nine British soldiers had been killed in south Armagh and not a single member of the IRA, so the SAS were moved in to operate undercover. In the year following, only two part-time members of the Ulster Defense Regiment were killed in the entire area. That result speaks for itself.”
“All right, sir, but one thing worries me. So Tony Villiers and his boys are good. The two men he’s taking with him were very impressive, I admit that. But Devlin’s good, too. I know he’s a bit long in the tooth, but what if he decides to shoot first himself…?”
“Just what the bastard would do,” Ferguson said. “But you heard my orders to Villiers. I want him untouched by human hand. He’s no use to me if he’s dragging his left leg or something.” He yawned. “I’m going to get a little shut-eye, Harry. Wake me at Cheltenham, and we’ll have something to eat at that superb cafe.”
He closed his eyes, folded his hands across his stomach, leaned back in the corner and was instantly asleep.
At that moment, Frank Barry was disembarking from the hydrofoil in St. Helier harbor on the island of Jersey, having just completed the run from St. Malo. According to the forged French passport supplied by the KGB, he was a commercial traveler from Paris named Pierre Dubois. His hair had been soaked in brilliantine and carefully parted at one side, and he wore a large pair of black horn-rimmed glasses. His appearance fitted the photo they’d taken exactly. Amazing how different he looked, but then, as he had discovered so often in the past, a little was all that it took.
Fifteen minutes later, a taxi deposited him at the entrance to the airport. He went straight to the British Airways desk and booked a seat on the Manchester flight.
An hour to kill. He stopped at the duty free shop to buy a carton of cigarettes and a bottle of cognac, and the girl behind the counter put them in a plastic bag and smiled.
“I hope you enjoyed your visit.”
“Certainly did,” Barry said. “Wonderful place. Come back any time.” And he walked away to the departure lounge.
The old farmhouse that nestled among beech trees on the hillside above Killala Bay enjoyed one of the best views of the entire west coast of Ireland. Devlin never tired of it. From the terrace he’d built in his spare time the year before, he could see out beyond the cliffs all the way to Newfoundland, the sun slipping into the sea like a blood orange, and to his right, Sligo Bay and across to the mountains of Donegal. He reluctantly went back into the house.
Liam Devlin was a small man, no more than five foot five or six, and at sixty-one his dark, wavy hair showed no visible signs of gray. There was a faded scar on the right side of his forehead—an old bullet wound. His face was pale, the eyes a vivid blue, and a slight, ironic smile seemed permanently to lift the corners of his mouth. He had the look of a man who’d found life a bad joke and had decided that the only thing to do was laugh about it.
He went into the kitchen, rolled up the sleeves of his black woolen shirt, and began to prepare a stew, peeling potatoes and vegetables methodically, whistling to himself. He was still unmarried, circumstances of his life having dictated the situation more than anything else, but now it suited him. It was good to get away from the petty academic rivalries of the university. And he liked to be alone—to find his own space—although there were women enough still, even a student or two, who would have been happy to spend their weekends in Mayo with him.
He put the stew on the stove, went into the sitting room, and replenished the fire. It was dark outside now. He pulled the curtains at the French windows and poured himself an Irish whisky, Bushmills, his favorite, and settled down by the fire. He ran a hand along the shelf at the side of the fireplace, selected a copy of The Midnight Court in Irish, and starred to read.
A breath of cold air touched his cheek, the fire stirred. As he glanced up, instantly alert, the door from the hall swung open, and Tony Villiers stepped in. He wore a dark reefer jacket and jeans, and badly needed a shave. The combination made him look a thoroughly dangerous man. The Browning automatic pistol in his right hand confirmed it.
“Would you look at that now,” Devlin said softly and stood up, leaning agaist the mantelpiece of the great stone fireplace, one foot on the hearth. “And which club are you from, son? Red Hand of Ulster, UVF, or what?”
“Easy now, professor,” Tony Villiers said in impeccable public school English.
“Christ Jesus,” Devlin said amiably, “not you bloody lot again.”
His right hand went up inside the fireplace and grasped the butt of a Walther pistol that hung on a nail there in case of just such an emergency. His hand swung, and he fired in one smooth motion, hitting Villiers in the left shoulder, knocking him back against the wall, the Browning falling to the floor.
Villiers struggled to one knee, blood oozing between his fingers where he clutched his shoulder. “Good,” he said, “really very good.”
“Flattery will get you nowhere, son,” Devlin said, and there was a crash behind him as the kitchen door was flung open and Villiers’ two companions erupted into the room, machine pistols at the ready.
“Alive,” Tony Villiers cried. “Don’t harm a hair on his bloody head, that’s an order.” He smiled savagely. “I’m expecting rather a lot, professor; they’re only trained to kill. I’d advise you to drop it.”
“SAS, is it?” Devlin said.
“I’m afraid so.”
“Mother Mary, why didn’t they send the Devil instead. Now with him, I’m on good terms.” He turned to the other two. “Do you think one of you could do something about his shoulder? It’s the carpet I’m thinking of—Persian, a gift from a friend.”
Tony Villiers shook his head. “Later, professor. For now, you will please pack a suitcase with whatever you feel you need for an extended trip.”
“And just exactly where might we be going?”
“Well, if things go according to plan, we should cross into Ulster about three hours from now. Onward transportation, courtesy of the Army Air Corps, tomorrow morning. You should be in London by noon. I’d take a raincoat, if I were you.” Villiers had produced a field service dressing pack from one pocket and was opening it with his teeth. “The weather over there’s been terrible lately.”
Devlin shook his head. “Where did you go to school, son?”
“Eton College.”
“Jesus, and I might have known. What would the Empire have been with you?”
“Not very much, I suspect,” Tony Villiers said crisply. “But time is limited, professor. Please do as I say without any further delay.”
“And so I will.” Devlin walked to the door followed by one of the troopers. “But only because I’m fascinated. Can’t wait to find out what all this is about. Help yourself to the Bushmills.”
He smiled and walked out into the hall.
Morecambe is a seaside resort on the Lancashire coast, south of the English Lake District, a quiet town that even during the holiday season caters mainly to older people. Not a great deal goes on there. Someone once unkindly said that when people die in Morecambe they don’t bury them, they simply sit them up in the town bus shelters to make the place look busy.
Frank Barry found it pleasant enough. Not many peo
ple on the waterfront, which was only to be expected in November, but then he’d always found seaside resorts out of season stimulating places—the cafes and shops closed for the winter, the empty boardwalks. He walked out along the pier, feeling unaccountably cheerful, and stood at the rail, breathing in the good salt air. The dark waters of Morecambe Bay were being whipped into white-caps by the wind, and to the north, through the mist, he could see the mountains of the Lake District, a blur on the horizon.
He lit a cigarette and waited. After a while, he heard footsteps booming hollowly on the boardwalk behind him. The man who leaned on the rail on his right wore a dark raincoat and hat. He was perhaps thirty and had a young, intelligent face. His steel-rimmed glasses were giving him trouble in the rain.
Barry, who had discarded his horn-rimmed spectacles and washed the brilliantine from his hair at the motel where he had stayed the night before, smiled at him. “A hell of a problem those things in weather like this.”
The young man put the briefcase he was carrying down and wiped his glasses with a handkerchief. “True, Mr. Barry. I tried contact lenses a few years ago but unfortunately had an allergy to them.” His English was excellent with just a trace of an accent.
“You have something for me?”
The young man touched the briefcase with his foot. “Everything you need.”
“Well, that makes a change,” Barry said. “I mean, it’s not often you get everything in this life.”
“I have also included a contact in London by which you may reach me in the event of an emergency, Mr. Barry. Please memorize and destroy.”
Barry picked up the briefcase and grinned.
“Son, I was doing this sort of thing when you were still hanging on your mother’s left breast.” He walked away along the pier, his feet echoing on the boards. The young man stayed where he was. Only when the sound of the echoes had faded did he turn from the rail.
