‘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 McGuiness said affably. ‘Nice to see you again.’
‘But we’ve never met,’ Fox said.
‘Deny, 1972.,’ McGuiness 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.’
McGuiness 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 McGuiness 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.’