Ryan stood at the door as Devlin changed quickly from the uniform into dark slacks and sweater. He pulled up his right trouser leg and strapped the ankle holster to it, tucking his sock up around the end. He slipped the Smith & Wesson.38 into it and pulled down his trouser.
‘Just in case.’ He picked up the old leather jacket Ryan had loaned him and put it on. Then he opened his suitcase, took out a wad of fivers and put them in his inside pocket.
They went downstairs and found Mary sitting at the table reading again. ‘Is there any tea in the pot?’ Devlin asked.
‘A mouthful, I think. Are we going now?’ She poured the tea into a cup.
He opened the kitchen table drawer, took out the Luger, checked it and slipped it inside his jacket. ‘You’re not going anywhere, girl dear, not this time,’ he told her and swallowed his tea.
She started to protest, but her uncle shook his head. ‘He’s right, girl, it could get nasty. Best stay out of it.’
She watched, disconsolate, as they went down the steps to the boat and cast off. As Ryan started the engine, Devlin moved into the little wheelhouse beside him and lit a cigarette in cupped hands.
‘And the same applies to you, Michael,’ he said. ‘Stay out of it. My affair, not yours.’
Jack and Eric Carver arrived at Black Lion Dock at nine forty-five in a Humber limousine, George driving. The dock was almost completely dark except for the light over the main warehouse doors, shaded as requested by the blackout regulations. The sign on the warehouse said: ‘Carver Brothers _ Export and Import’ and Jack Carver looked up at it with satisfaction as he got out of the car.
‘Very nice that. The sign writer did a good job.’
It was very quiet, the only sounds those of shipping on the river. Eric followed him and George limped round to the back of the car, opened the boot and took out the radio set in its wooden case painted olive green.
Carver turned to his brother. ‘All right, Eric, let’s get on with it.’
Eric unlocked the Judas gate in the main door, stepped inside and found the light switch. His brother and George followed him. The warehouse was stacked with packing cases of every kind. There was a table in the centre and a couple of chairs, obviously used by a shipping clerk.
‘Right, put it on the table.’ George did as he was told and Carver added, ‘You’ve got the shooter?’
George took a Walther PPK from one pocket, a silencer from the other and screwed it into place.
Carver lit a cigar. ‘Look at that, Eric, bloody marvellous. Just sounds like a cork popping.’
‘I can’t wait for that little bastard to get here,’ Eric said.
But Devlin had actually been there for some time, hidden in the shadows at the rear of the building having gained access through an upstairs window. He watched George position himself behind a stack of packing cases, the Carver brothers sitting down at the table, then turned and slipped out the way he had come.
A couple of minutes later he approached the main door, whistling cheerfully, opened the Judas and went in. ‘God save all here,’ he called, and approached the table. ‘You got it then, Mr Carver?’
‘I told you. I can get anything. You didn’t mention your name last night, by the way.’
‘Churchill,’ Devlin said. ‘Winston.’
‘Very funny.’
Devlin opened the case. The radio fitted inside, head-phones, Morse tapper, aerials, everything. It looked brand new. He closed the lid again.
‘Satisfied?’ Carver asked.
‘Oh, yes.’
‘Then cash on the table.’
Devlin took the thousand pounds from his pocket and passed it over. ‘The hard man, eh, Mr Carver?’
‘Hard enough.’ Carver dropped the money back on the table. ‘Of course, we now come to the other matter.’
‘And what matter would that be?’
‘Your insulting treatment of my brother and your threats to me. IRA and Special Branch. I can’t have that, I’ve got a reputation to think of. You need chastising, my son.’ He blew cigar smoke in Devlin’s face. ‘George.’