‘With a foster-father, a lieutenant-general in the KGB in command of Department V amongst other things, I’d be surprised if you didn’t. It used to be called Department 13, by the way. Distinctly unlucky for some, and then Maslovsky reorganized it in nineteen sixty-eight. It could best be described as an assassination bureau, but then, no well-run organization should be without one.’
‘Just like your IRA?’ She leaned forward. ‘How many men have you killed for a cause you believed in, Professor?’
He smiled gently and touched her cheek in a strangely intimate gesture. ‘Point taken, but I can see I’m wasting your time. You might as well have this, though.’
He took a largish buff envelope from his pocket, the one that had been delivered by Ferguson’s bagman that morning and placed it in her lap.
‘What is it?’ she demanded.
‘The people in London, being ever hopeful, have made you a present of a British passport with a brand new identity. Your photo looks smashing. There’s cash in there – French francs – and details of alternative ways of getting to London.’
‘I don’t need it.’
‘Well, you’ve got it now. And this.’ He took his card from his wallet and gave it to her. Til fly back to Dublin this afternoon. No point in hanging around.’
Which wasn’t strictly true, for the bagman from London had flown in with more than the package containing the false passport. There had also been a message from Ferguson for
Devlin personally. McGuiness and the Chief of Staff were hopping mad. As far as they were concerned, the leak was none of their doing. They wanted out and Devlin was to mend fences.
She put the packet and the card into her shoulder bag with some -reluctance. ‘I’m sorry. You came a long way for nothing.’
‘You’ve got my number,’ he said. ‘Call any time.’ He stood up. ‘Who knows, you just might start asking questions.’
‘I think not, Professor Devlin.’ She held out her hand. ‘Goodbye.’
Devlin held it for a moment, then turned and walked back along the gardens to where Hunter was sitting. ‘Come on!’ he said. ‘Let’s get moving!’
Hunter scrambled to his feet and trailed after him. ‘What happened?’
‘Nothing,’ Devlin told him as they reached the car. ‘Not a bloody thing. She didn’t want to know. Now let’s go back to your place so that I can get my bag, then you can take me up to Charles de Gaulle. With luck, I might make the afternoon flight to Dublin.’
‘You’re going back?’
‘Yes, I’m going back,’ Liam Devlin said, and he sank down in his seat and tipped the rim of his black felt hat over his eyes.
Behind them, Tanya Voroninova watched them go, turning out into the traffic of the Rue de Rivoli. She stood there, thinking about things for a moment, then moved out of the gardens and started to walk along the pavement, considering the extraordinary events of the morning. Liam Devlin was a dangerously attractive man, no doubt about it, but more than that, his story had been terribly disturbing for her and events from a past perhaps best forgotten were trying to call her, as if from a great distance.
She was aware of a car pulling into the kerb ahead of her, a black Mercedes saloon. As she approached it, the rear door opened and Natasha Rubenova looked out. She seemed agitated. No, more than that – afraid.
‘Tanya!’
Tanya turned towards her. ‘Natasha – what on earth are you doing here? What’s happened?’
‘Please, Tanya. Get in!’
There was a man sitting beside her, young and with a hard, implacable face. He wore a blue suit, dark blue tie and white shirt. He also wore black leather gloves. The man in the passenger seat next to the chauffeur could have been his twin. They looked as if they might be employed by a high class funeral firm and Tanya felt slightly uneasy.
‘What on earth is going on?’
In a second, the young man beside Natasha was out of the car, a hand taking Tanya above the left elbow in a grip, light, but strong. ‘My name is Turkin – Peter Turkin, Comrade. My colleague is Lieutenant Ivan Shepilov. We are officers of GRU and you will come with us.’