Devlin stepped out, the silenced Walther in his left hand, the sap in his right. ‘I wouldn’t do that, son. This thing makes no more noise than you or me coughing. Now turn round.’
Benson did as he was told and Devlin gave him the same as Smith. The young lieutenant groaned, sank to his knees and fell across the corporal. Quickly Devlin searched them for handcuffs but only Smith appeared to be carrying them.
‘Are you there, Colonel?’ he called.
Steiner stepped out of the confessional box and Father Martin joined him. The old priest looked shocked and bewildered. ‘Major Conlon? What’s happening here?’
‘I’m truly sorry, Father.’ Devlin turned him round and handcuffed his wrists behind him.
He sat the old man down in a pew and took out one of his makeshift gags. Martin said, ‘You’re not a priest, I take it.’
‘My uncle was, Father.’
‘I forgive you, my son,’ Frank Martin said and submitted himself to the gag.
At that moment, the door opened and Dougal Munro walked in. Before he could say a word, Kurt Steiner had him round, an arm like steel across his throat.
‘And who might this be?’ Devlin demanded.
‘Brigadier Dougal Munro,’ Steiner told him. ‘Of SOE.’
‘Is that a fact?’ Devlin held the Walther in his right hand now. ‘This thing is silenced as I’m sure you will know, Brigadier, so be sensible.’
Steiner released him and Munro said bitterly, ‘My God, Devlin – Liam Devlin.’
‘As ever was, Brigadier.’
‘What happens now?’ Steiner asked.
Devlin was excited, a little cocky. ‘A short trip downriver, a gentle drive through the country and you’ll be away while this lot are still running round in circles looking for us.’
‘Which must mean you intend to fly,’ Munro said. ‘Very interesting.’
‘Me and my big mouth,’ groaned Devlin. He tapped Munro under the chin with the gun. ‘If I leave you, you’ll have the RAF on the job before we know where we are. I could kill you, but I’m in a very generous mood.’
‘Which leaves what alternative?’
‘We’ll have to take you with us.’ He nodded to Steiner. ‘Watch him,’ and eased open the door.
At that moment, the night porter emerged from his cubby-hole with a tray containing a pot of tea, two cups and a milk jug. He went up the stairs whistling.
Devlin said, ‘Wonderful. No need for you lads to get your feet wet. We’re going straight out of the front door and across the road. It’s thick fog, so no one will notice a thing.’ He opened the door and urged Munro across the hall, the Walther at his back. ‘Don’t forget, Brigadier. A wrong word and I blow your spine out.’
It was Steiner who opened the door and led the way down to the pavement. The fog was thick and brown as only a London pea-souper could be and tasted sour at the back of the throat. Devlin pushed Munro across the road, Steiner followed. They didn’t see a soul, and alone in their private world they went down the steps to the strand. At the bottom, Devlin paused and passed the gun to Steiner.
‘I’ve got friends I don’t want this old bugger to see or he’ll be hanging them at Wandsworth Gaol for treason.’
‘Only if they deserve it,’ Munro told him.
‘A matter of opinion.’
Devlin quickly tied the Brigadier’s hands with some of the twine he’d brought. Munro was wearing a silk scarf against the cold. The Irishman took that and bound it around his eyes.
‘Right, let’s go.’
He started along the strand, a hand at Munro’s elbow and the motor boat loomed out of the darkness.
‘Is that you, Liam?’ Ryan called softly.
‘As ever was. Now let’s get the hell out of here,’ Devlin replied.
In the bedroom, Devlin changed quickly into the clerical suit and a dark polo-neck sweater. He collected what few belongings he needed, put them in a holdall together with the Luger and the Walther. He checked the Smith & Wesson in the ankle holster, picked up the bag and went out. When he went into the kitchen, Steiner was sitting at the table drinking tea with Ryan, Mary watching him in awe.