‘Are you sure about this?’
That’s how it looks. God knows what went wrong on the boat.’
‘Ah well,’ Ferguson said. ‘At least Cussane’s out of our hair for good and all. The last thing I needed was that madman on the rampage.’ He snorted. ‘Kill the Pope indeed.’
‘What about Tanya?’
‘She can come back tomorrow. Put her on the plane and I’ll meet her myself. Harry will be in Paris to brief Tony Villiers on this Exocet job.’
‘Right,’ Devlin said. ‘That’s it then.’
‘You don’t sound happy, Liam. What is it?’
‘Let’s put it this way. With this one, I’d like to see the body,’ Devlin said and rang off.
The Ulster border with the Irish Republic, in spite of road blocks, a considerable police presence and the British Army, has always been wide open to anyone who knows it. In many cases, farms on both sides have land breached by the border’s imaginary line and the area is criss-crossed by hundreds of narrow country lanes, field paths and tracks.
Cussane was safely in Ulster by four o’clock. Any kind of a vehicle on the road at that time in the morning was rare enough to make it essential that he drop out of sight for a while, which he did on the other side of Newry, holing up in a disused barn in a wood just off the main road.
He didn’t sleep, but sat comfortably against a wall and smoked, the Stechkin ready to hand just in case. He left just
after six, a time when there would be enough early workers on the road to make him inconspicuous, taking the Ai through Banbridge to Lisburn.
It was seven-fifteen when he rode into the carpark at Aldergrove Airport and parked the motorcycle. The Stechkin joined the Walther in the false bottom of the bag. The holiday season having started, there was a flight to the Isle of Man leaving at eight-fifteen, with flights to Glasgow, Edinburgh and Newcastle as possible alternatives if there was difficulty in obtaining a seat, all leaving within a period of one hour. The Isle of Man was his preference because it was a soft route, used mainly by holiday makers. In the event, there was space available and he had no difficulty in obtaining a ticket.
All hand baggage would be x-rayed, but that was true at most international airports these days. At Belfast, most baggage destined for the hold was x-rayed also, but this did not always apply to the softer routes during the holiday season. In any case, the false bottom of his bag, which was only three inches deep, was lined with lead. The contents would not show. Any difficulty he might have would present itself at Customs in the Isle of Man.
It was approximately eight-thirty and Cussane had been airborne for a good ten minutes when theDublin Town, running low on fuel, gave up the fruitless search for survivors from theMary Murphy and turned towards Ballywalter. It was the youngest member of the crew, a fifteen-year-old boy coiling rope in the prow, who noticed the wreckage to starboard and called to the skipper, who altered course at once. A few minutes later, he cut the engines and coasted in beside one of theMary Murphy’s hatches.
Sean Deegan was sprawled across it on his back. His head turned slowly and he managed a ghastly smile. ‘Took your sweet time about it, didn’t you?’ he called in a hoarse voice.
At Ronaldsway Airport, Cussane had no difficulty with the Customs. He retrieved his bag and joined the large number of people passing through. No one made any attempt to stop him. As with all holiday resorts, the accent was on making things as painless for the tourist as possible. Islander aircraft made the short flight to Blackpool on the English coast numerous times during the day, but they were busy that morning and the earliest flight he could get was at noon. It could have been worse, so he purchased a ticket and went along to the cafeteria to have something to eat.
It was eleven-thirty when Ferguson answered the phone and found Devlin on the line. He listened, frowning in horror. ‘Are you certain?’