‘St Patrick’s, you say? God bless you,’ Devlin told her and went out.
There was nothing very remarkable about the church. It was late Victorian in architecture like most Catholic churches in England, built after changes in English law had legitimized that branch of the Christian religion.
It had the usual smells, candles, incense, religious images, the Stations of the Cross, things which, in spite of his Jesuit education, had never meant very much to Devlin. He sat down in a pew and after a while Father Martin came out of the sacristy and genuflected at the altar. The old man stayed on his knees praying and Devlin got up and left quietly.
Michael Ryan was a little over six feet and carried himself well for his sixty years. Sitting at the kitchen table he wore a black leather jacket and white scarf, a tweed cap beside him. He was drinking tea from a large mug Mary had given him.
‘Conlon, you say?’ He shook his head. ‘I never had a friend called Conlon. Come to think of it, I never had a friend who was a priest.’
There was a knock at the kitchen door. Mary went and opened it. Devlin stood there in the rain. ‘God bless all here,’ he said and stepped inside.
Ryan stared at him, frowning and then an expression of bewilderment appeared on his face. ‘Dear God in Heaven. It can’t be – Liam Devlin. It is you?’
He stood up and Devlin put his hands on his shoulders. The years have been kind to you, Michael.’
‘But you, Liam, what have they done to you?’
‘Oh, don’t believe everything you see. I needed a change in appearance. A few years added on.’ He took his hat off and ran his ringers through the grey stubble. ‘The hair owes more to the chemical industry at the moment than it does to nature.’
‘Come in, man, come in.’ Ryan shut the door. ‘Are you on the run or what?’
‘Something like that. It needs explaining.’
Ryan said, ‘This is my niece, Mary. Remember my elder brother, Seamus? He that died in Mountjoy Prison.’
‘A good man on the worst of days,’ Devlin said.
‘Mary – this is my old friend Liam Devlin.’
The effect on the girl was quite extraordinary. It was as if a light had been turned on inside. There was a look on her face that was almost holy. ‘You are Liam Devlin? Sweet Mother of Jesus, I’ve heard of you ever since I was a little girl.’
‘Nothing bad, I hope,’ Devlin said.
‘Sit down – please. Will you have some tea? Have you had your breakfast?’
‘Come to think of it, I haven’t.’
‘I’ve got some eggs and there’s a little of Uncle Michael’s black-market bacon left. You can share it.’
While she busied herself at the stove Devlin took off his coat and sat opposite Ryan. ‘Have you a telephone here?’
‘Yes. In the hall.’
‘Good. I need to make a call later.’
‘What is it, Liam? Has the IRA decided to start up again in London?’
‘I’m not from the IRA this time,’ Devlin told him. ‘Not directly. To be frank, I’m from Berlin.’
Ryan said, ‘I’d heard the organization had had dealings with the Germans, but to what purpose, Liam? Are you telling me you actually approve of that lot?’
‘Nazi bastards most of them,’ Devlin said. ‘Not all, mind you. Their aim is to win the war, mine is a united Ireland. I’ve had the odd dealing with them, always for money, money paid into a Swiss account on behalf of the organization.’
‘And you’re here for them now? Why?’
‘British Intelligence have a man under guard not far from here at St Mary’s Priory. A Colonel Steiner. As it happens, he’s a good man and no Nazi. You’ll have to take my word for that. It also happens that the Germans want him back. That’s why I’m here.’
To break him out?’ Ryan shook his head. ‘There was never anyone else like you. A raving bloody lunatic.’
‘I’ll try not to involve you too much, but I do need a little help. Nothing too strenuous, I promise. I could ask you to do it for old times’ sake, but I won’t.’