When Devlin went into the ward at the hospice, Sister Anne Marie was at Danny Malone’s bed. Devlin waited and she finally whispered something to the nurse, then turned and noticed him. ‘And what do you want?’ ‘To talk to Danny.’
‘He isn’t really up to conversation this morning.’
‘It’s very important.’
She frowned in exasperation. ‘It always is with you. All right. Ten minutes.’ She started to walk away, then turned. ‘Father Cussane didn’t come in last night. Do you know why?’
‘No,’ Devlin lied. ‘I haven’t seen him.’
She walked away and he pulled a chair forward. ‘Danny, how are you?’
Malone opened his eyes and said hoarsely, ‘Is it you, Liam? Father Cussane didn’t come.’
‘Tell me, Danny, you talked to him of Sean Deegan of Ballywalter who handles the Isle of Man run, I understand.’
Malone frowned. ‘Sure, I talked to him about a lot of things.’
‘But mainly of IRA matters.’
‘Sure, and he was interested in me telling him how I managed things in the old days.’
‘Particularly across the water?’ Devlin asked.
‘Yes. You know how long I lasted without getting caught, Liam. He wanted to know how I did it.’ He frowned. ‘What’s the problem?’
‘You were always the strong one, Danny. Be strong now. He wasn’t one of our own.’
Malone’s eyes widened. ‘You’re having me on, Liam.’
‘And Sean Deegan in hospital with a bullet in him and two good men dead?’
Danny sat there, staring at him. ‘Tell me.’ So Devlin did. When he was finished, Danny Malone said softly, ‘Bastard!’
‘Tell me what you can remember, Danny. Anything that particularly interested him.’
Malone frowned, trying to think. ‘Yes, the business of how I stayed ahead of Special Branch and those Intelligence boys for so long. I explained to him that I never used the IRA network when I was over there. Totally unreliable, you know that, Liam.’
‘True.’
‘I always used the underworld myself. Give me an honest
crook any day of the week or a dishonest one if the price is right. I knew a lot of people like that.’ Tell me about them,’ Devlin said.
Cussane liked seaside towns, especially the ones that catered for the masses. Honest, working class people out for a good time. Lots of cafes, amusement arcades and fairgrounds and plenty of bracing air. Morecambe certainly had that. The dark waters of the bay were being whipped into whitecaps and on the far side he could see the mountains of the Lake District.
He walked across the road. It was not the height of the season yet, but there were plenty of tourists about and he threaded his way through the narrow streets until he found his way to the bus station.
It was possible to travel to most of the major provincial cities by high speed bus, mainly on the motorways. He consulted the timetables and found what he was looking for, a bus to Glasgow via Carlisle and Dumfries. It left in one hour. He booked a ticket and went in search of something to eat.
II
GEORGI ROMANOV was senior attache in charge of public relations at the Russian Embassy in London. He was a tall, amiable-looking man of fifty, secretly rather proud of his aristocratic name. He had worked for the KGB in London for eleven years now, and had been promoted to lieutenant-colonel the previous year. Ferguson liked him and he liked Ferguson. When Ferguson phoned him just after his final telephone conversation with Devlin and suggested a meeting, Romanov agreed at once.
They met in Kensington Gardens by the Round Pond, a rendezvous so convenient to the Embassy that Romanov was able to walk. Ferguson sat on a bench readingThe Times. Romanov joined him.
‘Hello, Georgi,’ Ferguson said.
‘Charles. To what do I owe the honour?’
‘Straight talking, Georgi. This one is about as bad as it could be. What do you know about a KGB agent, code name Cuchulain, put in deep in Ireland a good twenty years ago?’
‘For once I can answer you with complete honesty,’ Romanov said. ‘Not a thing.’
‘Then listen and learn,’ Ferguson told him.
When he was finished, Romanov’s face was grave. ‘This really is bad.’