“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, do you know what time it is, whoever you are?”
“Oh, shut up, you old rogue, and listen, will you? It’s Sean—Sean Dillon.”
Devlin pushed himself up. “You young devil. Where are you calling from?”
“A Gulfstream making its way across the Atlantic, Liam. I’ve a friend with me and we need you.”
“Is this an IRA thing?” Devlin asked.
“Worse, much worse, but Dermot Riley’s involved, only not on IRA business.”
“Sure, and he’s doing fifteen years in Wandsworth Prison.”
“He was until he offered Ferguson a deal, the whereabouts of another Active Service Unit in London and an arms dump.”
“And you believed him?” Devlin laughed out loud. “And he did a runner on you?”
“Something like that, but much more complicated, and like I said, not IRA business. I need to get to him, Liam. It’s desperately important. Nose around and see what you can find out.”
“Well, there’s always his cousin, Bridget O’Malley down at Tullamore. Her farm’s near the Blackwater River.”
“Could be or he might think that too obvious. We’ll see you at Kilrea around nine-thirty. He was using the name Thomas O’Malley, by the way.”
“Fine. Can I go back to sleep now?” Devlin asked.
“Sure, and when have you ever done anything except what you wanted to do?” Dillon asked and put the phone down.
Devlin sat there thinking about it. From what Dillon had said, this was special, very special, and at his age that excited him. He reached for a cigarette and lit it. His doctor had tried to get him to cut down, but what the hell did it matter at his age? He got up, found a robe, went into the kitchen and put the kettle on, then he picked up the phone and dialed a number.
“Is that you, Michael?” he asked. “Liam Devlin here.”
“Jesus, Liam, you’re up late.”
“And you.”
“Well, you know I’ve taken to the novel-writing, and I like to work through the night.”
“I heard that and I also heard you have breakfast at the Irish Hussar around seven o’clock most mornings.”
“That’s true.”
“I’ll join you. I need to pick your brains.”
“And I know what that means, you old sod. I’ll see you then and we’ll have a crack.”
Devlin put the phone down, switched off the kettle, and made a pot of tea, whistling softly.
On the Gulfstream, they had an excellent meal of fillets of lemon sole with potatoes and a mixed salad followed by Italian ice cream with hazelnuts. They shared a bottle of Chablis.
Afterwards, Dillon said, “I wonder what the poor sods in first-class are getting tonight on the commercial flights. That was great.”
“We aim to please.” Blake drank some of his coffee. “Devlin seems an extraordinary individual. Are all the stories I’ve heard true?”
“Probably. He was a university graduate of Trinity College, Dublin. A scholar and a poet and one of the most feared gunmen the IRA ever had. In the Spanish Civil War, he fought against Franco and was taken prisoner by the Italians, who handed him over to the Nazis in Berlin.”
“And he worked for them?”
“Well, he was no Fascist, but the IRA were dickering with Hitler at the time. They thought that England losing the war would be Ireland’s opportunity. Devlin parachuted into Ireland for the Abwehr and only got back to Berlin by the skin of his teeth.”
“Then what? Is there any truth in the old legend about a German attempt to kidnap Churchill with Devlin as a middle man?”
“Norfolk, nineteen forty-three,” Dillon said. “Crack force of German paratroopers. Devlin was there all right, but the attempt failed. Once again, he got out by a small miracle.”
“But you said he was anti-fascist?”
“They paid him well and the money went to funds for the organization. He once said he’d have tried to snatch Hitler if someone had paid him enough. He knew them all personally. Himmler, General Walter Schellenberg. He was even instrumental in saving Hitler from assassination by the SS late in the war.”
“Good God!” Blake said.
“The idea was it was better keeping him alive and cocking things up, whereas with the SS in charge the war might have gone on longer.”