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. Til 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.
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, but 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 throughThe Times when Ryan appeared like a shadow at his shoulder.