Devlin saw them off at Dublin airport, watching the Gulfstream climb away, then went and got a taxi into town. He told the driver to stop on the way at a phone box and called Leary.
“It’s me, Liam,” he said. “I’ll be at the Irish Hussar in twenty minutes,” and he put the phone down.
On board the Gulfstream, Blake was enjoying a coffee while Dillon and Riley drank tea. “One thing,” Dillon said, “I owe you, Dermot, for warning me that Bell was in the loft.”
“And tipping Devlin and me off about Barry being behind the door,” Blake said.
“Not that it did any good,” Riley told him.
“Yes, it did,” Dillon said. “We stiffed both the bastards in the end.”
Riley seemed troubled. “Tell me, Sean, will Ferguson play square with me? Will he let me go once this thing is over?”
“My hand on it.”
“But go where? I still can’t see me being safe in Ireland.”
“Leave it to Liam. He’ll fix it.”
Blake said, “Do you really think he can pull it off?”
“Look at it this way. As I’ve said, nothing Dermot did in this affair was against the interests of the IRA. Once Liam’s explained that, it’ll be okay. He can be very persuasive.”
“But what about Bell and Barry?”
“Plenty more rubbish where they came from, whereas Liam Devlin is the living legend of the IRA. It will work because he’ll make it work.”
“God, I hope so,” Riley said fervently.
At that moment, Devlin was paying off the taxi outside the Irish Hussar. When he went in, it was half full and many of the drinkers nodded in recognition and he heard his name mentioned. Michael Leary and the Chief of Staff were in the end booth.
“God save all here.” Devlin sat down and neither of them said a word. “God save you kindly was the answer to that.”
“Liam, what in the hell have you done?” Leary demanded.
“Cut his own throat is what he’s done,” the Chief of Staff said.
Devlin waved to a waitress. “Three large Bushmills over here.” He took out a cigarette, lit it, and eyed the Chief of Staff. “I haven’t always approved of the tactics, but haven’t I always supported the organization?”
“You’ve served us well,” the Chief of Staff said reluctantly.
“None better,” Leary agreed.
“Then why would I lie now, and me an old man with one foot in the grave?”
“Ah, fug you, Liam,” the Chief of Staff said. “Get on with it.”
So Devlin gave them a truncated version of the story, embellished a little.
“A phoney lawyer called Brown sees Dermot in Wandsworth and offers him a way out. Contact Ferguson and say he would offer knowledge of where a very nasty terrorist called Hakim was hanging out. Sicily, as it happens.”
“So?”
“Well, the whole thing was a scam by another Arab fundamentalist group who Dillon had done a bad turn to. They knew it was Dillon that Ferguson would send after Hakim, and Riley, as ordered, offered to go with him to show good faith.”
“And what happened?”
“Oh, they grabbed Dillon at some Sicilian fishing port, Riley with them, only by this time he was beginning to suspect he’d get shafted himself, so he jumped overboard while they were leaving harbor and swam back. The rest you know.”
“No, we don’t,” Leary said, but the strange thing is it was the Chief of Staff who was laughing.
“Go on,” he said, “and how did Dillon get away? I mean, it must have been good.”
“He had one gun in his pocket, another in his waistband at the rear under his coat. They found those and missed the Walther he had under his left trouser leg in an ankle holster. He shot three and took to the water himself. Of course, when he reached the shore, Dermot was long gone.”
“And that’s the way of it?” the Chief of Staff said.
“Absolutely. Dermot’s wanted in London for one purpose only. To see if he can put a face to this phoney lawyer, Brown, on the security video. Once he’s done that, he’s free.”
“I see.”