‘God save us, but I don’t, Captain,’ White said in astonishment.
‘Well, then I suggest you kindly stop prattling on about the English being unable to understand the Irish.’
He glanced out at the traffic morosely. A police motorcyclist took up station on the left of them, a sinister figure in goggles and crash helmet with a heavy caped raincoat against the early morning downpour. He glanced sideways at Fox once, anonymous in the dark goggles, and dropped back as they turned into the slip road leading to the airport.
Billy left the car in the short stay park. As they entered the concourse, they were already calling Fox’s plane. Cuchulain, who had been with them all the way from the hotel, stood at the door by which they had entered and watched Fox book in.
Fox and Billy walked towards the departure gate and Fox said, ‘An hour till the British Airways flight lands.’
Time for a big breakfast,’ Billy grinned. ‘The fine time we had, Captain.’
Til be seeing you, Billy.’
Fox put out his good hand and Billy White took it with a certain reluctance. Try to make sure it isn’t at the wrong end of some street in Belfast. I’d hate to have you in my sights, Captain.’
Fox went through the gate and Billy made his way across the concourse to stairs leading up to the cafe terrace. Cuchulain watched him go, then went out, back across the road to the carpark and waited.
An hour later, he was back inside, consulting the nearest arrival screen. The British Airways shuttle from London was just landing and he saw White approach the central information desk and speak to one of the attendants. There was a pause and then an announcement over the tannoy system.
‘Will Mr Viktor Levin, a passenger on the London shuttle, please report to the information desk.’
A few moments later, the squat figure of the Russian appeared from the crowd. He carried a small case and wore a rather large brown raincoat and black trilby hat. Cuchulain sensed that it was his quarry even before he spoke to one of the attendants who indicated White. They shook hands. Cuchulain watched them for a moment longer as White started to speak, then turned and left.
‘So this is Ireland?’ Levin said as they drove down towards the city.
‘Your first visit?’ White asked.
‘Oh, yes. I am from Russia. I have not travelled abroad very much.’
‘Russia?’ Billy said. ‘Jesus, but you’ll find it different here.’ ‘And this is Dublin?’ Levin enquired as they followed the traffic down into the city.
‘Yes. Kilrea, where we’re going, is on the other side.’ ‘A city of significant history, I think,’ Levin observed. ‘And that’s the understatement of the age,’ White told him. ‘I’ll take you through Parnell Square, it’s on our way. A great patriot in spite of being a Prod. And then O’Connell Street and the General Post Office where the boys held out against the whole bloody British Army back in 1916.’
‘Good. This I would like very much.’ Levin leaned back in his seat and looked out on the passing scene with interest.
At Kilrea, Liam Devlin walked across the back lawn of his cottage, let himself through the gate in the wall and ran for the rear entrance of the hospice as the rain increased into a sudden downpour. Sister Anne-Marie was crossing the hall, accompanied by two young white-coated interns on loan from University College, Dublin.
She was a small, sparse little woman, very fit for her seventy years, and wore a white smock over her nun’s robe. She had a doctorate in medicine from the University of London and was a Fellow of the Royal College of Physicians. A lady to be reckoned with. She and Devlin were old adversaries. She had once been French, but that was a long time ago as he was fond of reminding her.
‘And what can we do for you, Professor?’ she demanded.
‘You say that as if to the Devil coming through the door,’ Devlin told her.
‘An observation of stunning accuracy.’
They started up the stairs and Devlin said, ‘Danny Malone – how is he?’