Drink With The Devil

She broke down entirely. Barry handed her over to Sollazo. “Take her to the station wagon. I’ll handle things here.”

Sollazo took her out and Barry turned to Hassan. “You’ve been a good friend to the IRA, Ali, and we appreciate it, so this is another special one.”

“I understand, Jack.”

“You get him up to the crematorium tonight and put him through the ovens. No name, no certificate.”

“Whatever you say.”

“Good man yourself,” Barry said, turned, and went out.

DILLON AND DEVLIN, sitting in the Toyota, watched the station wagon drive away. Dillon said, “Only the three of them and the girl and no Ryan. What goes on?”

“I know this place,” Devlin told him. “An IRA safe house. It’s run by a damn good surgeon, an Egyptian named Ali Hassan. Maybe we should pay him a visit?”

ALI HASSAN, SITTING in his office, only a desk light on, was aware of the door opening and glanced up to see Devlin, Dillon behind him.

Devlin said, “Hello, Ali. Remember me? Liam Devlin. You took a bullet out of me eighteen years ago.”

“Oh, my God, Mr. Devlin,” Hassan said.

“And this is a friend of mine, Sean Dillon, who’s done as much for the cause as I have.”

“Mr. Dillon,” Hassan said uncertainly.

“A few people we know were in earlier propping up a Mr. Ryan between them,” Dillon said. “They left without him. Why would that be?”

“I think you must be mistaken,” Hassan said desperately.

Dillon produced his Walther. “Well, this doesn’t agree with you, so think again.”

Which Ali Hassan did and told them all.

AT VICTORIA FARM, Kathleen was in the bedroom, still weeping. Barry, Sollazo, and Mori were in the sitting room drinking whiskey when the phone rang.

Stringer said, “Thank God you’re there, Jack. Something’s come up.”

He started to talk. When he was finished, Barry said, “Hold her tight, Kevin, we’re on our way. We’ll leave now.”

“I will, Jack.”

Barry put down the phone and turned to Sollazo. “Do you recall a woman in glasses having lunch in the Loyalist today?”

“Sure,” Sollazo said. “Good-looking lady in an Armani trouser suit.”

“She’s not only a Detective Chief Inspector, she also works for Brigadier Charles Ferguson, the Prime Minister’s special intelligence expert, and guess who his troubleshooter is, Sean Dillon.”

“Christ,” Sollazo said. “What do we do?”

“We get the hell out of here now. Don’t ask me what’s going on because I don’t know, but we leave now for Scotstown and we check Irish Rose out tomorrow morning.” Barry turned to Mori. “Get the girl.”

Mori glanced at his boss and Sollazo nodded. “Do as he says.”

DEVLIN AND DILLON, sitting in the Toyota, watched the station wagon leave. “There you go,” Devlin said. “Hot for Scotstown. I should imagine Ryan’s unfortunate demise has brought things forward.”

“We’d better get going, then,” Dillon said.

“No rush, Sean, we’ll go to my cottage first. After all, you know where they’re going.”

AT KILREA COTTAGE, Devlin sat by the fire with a Bushmills in his hand. Dillon bustled in, his Walther in one hand, his spare in the ankle holster in the other. He pulled up his trouser, put his foot on a chair, and fastened the ankle holster. He slipped the other Walther in his waistband against the small of his back.

Devlin said, “I always favored a Walther myself, Sean, there’s one in the desk drawer. Get it out.” Dillon did as he was told. “Now put it in your pocket.”

“But why?” Dillon said.

“Sean, lad, I’m too old. I’d only be a hindrance if the bullets start flying, so you’re on your own now. Only one thing I can do, which is to offer sound advice. You’ve a gun in your pocket. In a search Barry would find that easy enough. Then he’d check your back because he knows you favor that position. He’ll find the other Walther. That should satisfy him, give you a chance of getting away with the ankle gun.” Devlin smiled. “I mean, this is all supposition. Maybe Barry won’t have the chance of turning you over, but who knows?”

“God bless you, Liam, you’re the best,” Dillon said.

“Give them hell, Sean,” Liam Devlin said. “Now get on with you. I’ll phone Ferguson and bring him up to date.”

IT WAS FOUR o’clock in the morning and Hannah Bernstein was sleeping fitfully on the sofa in the small parlour at the back of the Loyalist. There were security bars on the window and Stringer had locked her in. She came awake to the sound of a vehicle drawing up in the yard. She sat up and listened to the sound of voices. After a while, the door opened and Stringer led the way in.

They were all there, Barry, Sollazo, Mori, and Kathleen, who looked pale and subdued from much weeping.

Stringer took Hannah’s Walther from his pocket and gave it to Barry. “This was in her shoulder bag.”

Barry weighed it in his hand, then put it in his pocket. “So, Chief Inspector Hannah Bernstein, and you work for that old dog Charlie Ferguson?”

“If you say so.”

“Oh, but I do. Careless of you making a telephone call like that with a nosey one like Kevin in the office to listen in.”

“We all make mistakes.”

“You mentioned Devlin and Sean Dillon? We can expect them nosing around, can we?”

“Look, Mr. Barry, it’s over, can’t you see that? American Intelligence is on to Mr. Sollazo here and at a White House level.”

“That’s a lie,” Sollazo said. “They can’t be.”

“They know everything. How do you think Brigadier Ferguson came into the picture?” She shook her head. “There’s no way either the White House or Downing Street will stand by and see that bullion fall into the wrong hands. You see, Mr. Barry, Sollazo is in this for greed, but not you. With those kind of resources, the Provisional IRA could keep going forever if it needed to.”

“Shoot the bitch,” Kathleen Ryan said dully.

“I can take care of it,” Mori said.

Barry shook his head. “She could still be useful as some kind of hostage.” He shook his head. “Fancy that old fox Liam Devlin making a fool of me, but why? Why Liam?”

“Peace, Mr. Barry, it’s very fashionable these days,” Hannah told him. “And most people want it.”

“To hell with polite conversation,” Sollazo said. “What happens now?”

“Maybe we should get the hell out of here while we can,” Mori said.

Barry shook his head. “My hunch is that Ferguson sent the Chief Inspector here and Dillon on a fishing expedition with Devlin supplying the local expertise. No Garda, no RUC, not at this stage. All they wanted was to know where the Irish Rose is lying. Once Ferguson knows that, then it would be a job for a Royal Navy salvage team.”

“We’ve had it anyway,” Sollazo said bitterly. “They know where we are.”

“Yes, but they still don’t know where the Irish Rose is. I say we go out at dawn and make the dive anyway. Dammit man, if that gold is reachable we could raise a few bars and be on our way. A million – two million – for a morning’s work.”

And suddenly Sollazo smiled. “What the hell, why not? I’ve been taking chances all my life. Too late to stop