‘And what in the hell am I supposed to do? Get her to defect?’
‘You never know. When she hears the whole story, she might want to. See her anyway, Liam. It can’t do any harm.’
‘All right,’ Devlin said. ‘A little breath of French air might do me good.’
‘I knew you’d see it my way,’ Ferguson said. ‘Report to the Air France desk at Dublin Airport. They’ve got a reservation. When you arrive at Charles de Gaulle, you’ll be met by one of my chaps based in Paris. Fella called Hunter – Tony Hunter. He’ll see to everything.’
‘I’m sure he will,’ Devlin said and rang off.
He packed a bag quickly, feeling unaccountably cheerful and was just pulling on his trenchcoat when the phone went again. It was Martin McGuiness. ‘A bad business, Liam. What exactly happened?’
Devlin told him and when he was finished, McGuiness exploded. ‘So, he exists, this bastard?’
‘It would appear so, but more worrying from your point of view is, how did he know Levin was due in? The one man who might be able to identify him.’
‘Why ask me?’
‘Because Ferguson thinks there’s been a leak at your end.’
‘Well, screw Ferguson.’
‘I wouldn’t advise it, Martin. Listen, I’ve got to go. I’ve a flight to Paris to catch.’
‘Paris? What’s there, for Christ’s sake?’
‘A girl called Tanya Voroninova who might be able to identify Cuchulain. I’ll be in touch.’
He put down the receiver. As he picked up his bag, there was a tap on the French windows. They opened and Harry Cussane entered.
Devlin said, ‘Sorry, Harry, I must fly or I’ll miss my plane.’
‘Where on earth are you going?’ Cussane demanded.
‘Paris.’ Devlin grinned and opened the front door. ‘Champagne, loose women, incredible food. Don’t you think it’s just possible you joined the wrong club, Harry?’
The door banged. Cussane listened to the engine of the car start up, turned and ran out through the French windows, round to his cottage at the back of the hospice. He hurried upstairs to the secret room behind the water tanks in the roof where he had the eavesdropping equipment. Quickly, he ran back the tape and listened to the various conversations Devlin had had that day until he came, in the end, to the important one.
By then, of course, it was too late. He cursed softly, went down to use the phone and rang Paul Cherny’s number.
IN THE SACRISTY of the village church as he robed for evening Mass, Cussane examined himself in the mirror. Like an actor getting ready for a performance. Next thing, he’d be reaching for the make-up. Who am I, he thought? Who am I, really? Cuchulain, mass murderer, or Harry Cussane, priest? Mikhail Kelly didn’t seem to enter into it any more. Only an echo of him now like a half-forgotten dream.
For more than twenty years he had lived multiple lives and yet the separate personae had never inhabited his body. They were roles to be played out as the script dictated, then discarded.
He slipped the stole around his neck and whispered to hisalter ego in the mirror, ‘In God’s House I am God’s priest,’ and he turned and went out.
Later, standing at the altar with the candles flickering and the organ playing, there was genuine passion in his voice as he cried, ‘I confess to Almighty God and to you, my brothers and sisters, that I have sinned through my own fault.’
And when he struck his breast, asking blessed Mary ever Virgin to pray for him to the Lord our God, there were sudden hot tears in his eyes.
At Charles de Gaulle Airport, Tony Hunter waited beside the exit from customs and immigration. He was a tall man in his mid-thirties with stooped shoulders. The soft brown hair was too long, the tan linen suit creased, and he smoked a Gitane cigarette without once taking it from his mouth as he readParis Soir and kept an eye on the exit. After a while, Devlin appeared. He wore a black Burberry trenchcoat, an old black
felt hat slanted over one ear, and carried one bag.
Hunter, who had pulled Devlin’s photo and description off the wire, went to meet him. ‘Professor Devlin? Tony Hunter. I’ve got a car waiting.’ They walked towards the exit. ‘Was it a good flight?’