'Is this a hot one?'
'It could be.' She took a chance then. 'One cop to another?'
'One cop to another.'
'Does Brendan Murphy mean anything to you?'
'That bastard? Dear God, is he in this?' He frowned. 'But he wouldn't be in this jurisdiction. He's always stayed north of the border. What is this?'
'This is just a rumour right now. Could be an arms dump in County Louth. Could be an Arab terrorist connection in Lebanon.'
'So that's why you've come to see Devlin?'
'That's right. If anyone will have heard a whisper, it'll be him.'
'No doubt about that.' Malone frowned. 'You'll keep me informed?'
'Of course. We might even need your good offices.'
'Fine. I'll hear from you, then.' He walked her back to thelimousine and opened the door. 'And watch your back, peace or no peace.'
'What peace?' she asked, got in the limousine, and closed the door.
It was just after noon when she reached Devlin's Victorian cottage next to the convent in Kilrea village. She told the driver to wait, went up the path, and knocked on the door. It opened and he stood there, an ageless figure in black Armani slacks and shirt, his hair silver, his eyes very blue, a man who still held literary seminars as a visiting professor at Trinity College, but also a lifetime member of the IRA who had killed many times.
'Jesus, girl, you look wonderful.' He embraced her. 'You look grand. Come away in.'
'You're not looking too bad yourself.'
He led her to the sitting room.
He turned. 'Would you like a drink or something?' 'No, I'd like to get on with it.'
She sat down and he took the opposite chair. 'Get on with it, then.'
'Do you know a man called Brendan Murphy?'
His face hardened. 'Is that dog in this?'
'A bad one?'
'As bad as they come.' He took a cigarette from the old silver case and lit it. 'You'd better tell me.'
When she was finished, he sat there, frowning. 'Yes, that sounds like Murphy.'
'I was thinking. Where would Murphy get the kind of money he'd need to pay for an underground arms bunker and weaponry?'
'Drugs. Protection. This early release of prisoners the government's been doing has handed Ulster back to the Godfathers on both sides, Loyalist and Catholic.'
'Have you any information on what Murphy could be up to?'
'Only in general. The word is that he did time in Libya, not only in training but also working for various Arab outfits. He'll be the one supplying the contacts for Fox in this Lebanon business.'
'Nothing more specific?'
He shook his head, then his eyes narrowed. 'However, I might know somebody who could help. But I want your words as regards confidentiality.'
'IRA?'
'Exactly.'
She nodded. 'My hand on it.'
He reached for the phone. 'Let's see.'
In Dublin, Michael Leary was just pulling on his raincoat to go out when the phone rang.
'Leary,' he said.
'Michael, my old son, Liam Devlin.'
'Jesus, Liam, my heart's sinking already, because that can only mean you want something.'
'And don't I always? I'll meet you at the Irish Hussar for a snack, and I'll have a Special Branch superintendent with me.'
'What? The Garda I don't need.'
'No, this is the Scotland Yard variety, name of Bernstein. A woman with brains and beauty, Michael. Works with Sean Dillon.'
'My God.' Leary groaned. 'I don't want to know.' 'You'll love it, son. See you soon,' and Devlin put the phone down.
In Hannah's limousine on the way to Dublin a short while later, Devlin pulled the glass screen across and filled her in on Michael Leary.
'A nice lad. He went to Queen's University, Belfast. Read English literature. Taught for a while.'
'And then took up the glorious cause.'
'He had his reasons.'
'But an educated man taking up guns and bombs.'
'You mean all members of the IRA should be off a building site and wear hobnailed boots? Hannah, after the Second World War the Jews who fought to create Israel, the members of Irgun and the Stern gang, used guns and bombs, and many of them had been to the finest universities in Europe.'
'Point taken.'
He found a cigarette and opened his window to let the smoke blow away. 'I might also mention, with my usual modesty, that I was educated by Jesuits myself and took a first class honours degree at Trinity.'
'All right, I surrender. I can't talk. I've killed people myself. It is just that I don't like bombs.'
'And neither do I.'
'So, more about Leary.'
'Michael was on the active list for years. We worked together, except that he liked the bombs more than you or I do. He was running one in a truck over the border to Ulster, and it went off. Killed the two men with him and took off half of his left leg. The good news was he was still in the Republic, so he didn't end up in the Maze prison.'
'So his active career was over?'
'Oh, he ran the Dublin intelligence section for the chief of staff, but once the peace process started he'd had enough. He knows Dillon well, from Derry in the old days, when they were facing soldiers.'
'And now what?'
'He writes thrillers. The kind you see on the stalls at airports, and doing well.'
'Good God.' She frowned. 'Will he help?'
'Let's put it this way: He's like a lot of people these days. Big for peace. We'll see.'
Devlin directed the driver to a quay on the River Liffey, where they parked outside the Irish Hussar.
'It's a favourite with good Republicans and Sinn Fein supporters, and the food is excellent,' Devlin told her. The bar was very old-fashioned with mahogany and mirrors, bottles offering every kind of drink. It was busy, people sampling good simple pub food. Leary sat in a booth in the far corner. He had a pint of Guinness at his right hand, a plate of Irish stew in front of him.
'Don't getup,' Devlin told him. 'This is my friend Hannah, so let's start with that.'
Leary looked at her, a good-looking man of forty-five, black hair streaked with silver. He hesitated, then held out his hand. Hannah also hesitated, then took it.
'Sit down.'
'The stew looks good,' she said, as a waitress appeared. 'I think I'd like to sample that.'
'And you, Professor Devlin?' the waitress asked.
'Ah, now you're stroking me.' He turned to Hannah. 'Eileen's a student at Trinity. For her sins, she comes to my occasional seminars.'
'Nonsense, you're the best, everyone knows that,' Eileen said.
'Which gets you an A for your next essay. An all-day breakfast for me. A grand old playwright and novelist called Somerset Maugham once said that to dine well in England you should eat breakfast three times a day. Bushmills Whiskey for me, my love.'
