George moved fast considering his damaged knee, had the Walther at the back of Devlin’s neck in a second. Eric reached inside the Irishman’s jacket and relieved him of the Luger. ‘Look at that, Jack. Cunning bastard.’
Devlin spread his arms. ‘All right, Mr Carver, so you’ve got me. What happens now?’
He walked across to a packing case, sat down and took out a cigarette. Carver said, ‘You’re a cool bastard, I’ll give you that.’
Til tell you what happens now,’ Eric said, taking a cut-throat razor from his pocket and opening it.
‘I’m going to slice your ears off, that’s what I’m going to do.’
‘While George holds the gun on me?’ Devlin asked.
‘That’s the general idea,’ Eric told him.
‘Only one problem with that,’ Devlin said. ‘That gun is a Walther PPK and you have to pull the slider back to put yourself in business and I don’t think George has done that.’
George pulled at the slider desperately, Devlin hitched up his trouser, yanked the Smith &œ Wesson from the ankle holster and fired, all in one smooth motion, drilling him through the upper arm so that he cried out and dropped the Walther.
Devlin picked it up. ‘Nice,’ he said. ‘Thanks very much.’ He pushed it into his waistband.
Carver sat there, a look of total disbelief on his face. Eric looked frightened to death as Devlin put first the money and then the Luger inside his leather jacket. He picked up the case containing the radio and walked away.
As he reached the door, he turned. ‘Jesus, Eric, I was forgetting. You said something about slicing my ears off?’
His arm swung up, he fired and Eric screamed as the lower half of his right ear disintegrated. He grabbed at it, blood spurting.
Devlin said, ‘A good job you don’t wear earrings.’
He stepped out and the Judas gate banged behind him.
Schellenberg was in his office when the door burst open and Use appeared. Asa Vaughan was at her shoulder, excitement on his face.
‘What on earth is it?’ Schellenberg demanded.
‘You must come to the radio room now. It’s Devlin, General, calling from London.’
The radio was open on the kitchen table, the aerials looped all the way round the walls. Ryan and Mary sat watching in fascination as Devlin tapped away in Morse code.
‘Jesus,’ he said, frowning. There was a little more action and then he stopped. ‘That’s it. Get the aerials down.’
Mary moved around the kitchen coiling up the wires. Ryan said, ‘Is every thing all right, Liam?’
‘All wrong, old son. We were supposed to try and be back in France for the twenty-first. Now they say the great occasion is on the fifteenth and as tonight is the twelfth, that doesn’t give us much time.’
Ts it possible Liam?’
Devlin said, ‘First thing in the morning we’ll take a run down to Romney Marsh. See what the situation is at Shaw Place.’ He turned to Mary. ‘Would you like a day out in the country?’
‘It sounds just fine to me.’
‘Good, then I’ll give the Shaws a call and warn them to expect me.’
Back in his office Schellenberg sat at his desk, studying the message in front of him, Asa Vaughan and Use watching.
‘So, what do we know?’ Schellenberg said. ‘He’s there, at his IRA friend’s house, he’s made contact with Shaw and now with Steiner.’
‘Everything fits,’ Asa said.
‘Perhaps, but he can’t make the fifteenth. It would be impossible, even for Devlin.’
‘I’m beginning to wonder if anything is impossible to that guy,’ Asa said.
‘Stand by tomorrow,’ Schellenberg commented. ‘That was his final instruction. Well, we shall see.’ He stood up. ‘I doubt whether the canteen can run to champagne, but whatever they can manage is on me.’
Chapter ELEVEN
SOUTH of the Thames, they took the road to Maid-stone, Ryan driving, Devlin squeezed beside him. He wasn’t in uniform, but wore his trenchcoat over the clerical suit and dog collar, the black trilby slanted over one ear. Ryan had told him the truth. The Ford’s engine was in apple-pie order in spite of the vehicle’s rattletrap appearance.
‘You were right, Michael,’ Devlin said. ‘She’s a runner, this old van of yours.’