“Nothing to do with the IRA in any of this,” Devlin said. “My word on it. The person who’s really scored is Dermot. He could have been sitting in a cell for the whole fifteen years, even twelve if he got remission, the Brits are the losers on that one. I’d have thought you’d have liked that.”
The Chief of Staff glanced at Leary, then grinned reluctantly. “All right, Liam, you win. Riley can come home and we’ll drink to it.”
When Ferguson picked up his phone, Devlin said, “So there you are, you old sod. Are they in yet?”
“Too early,” Ferguson said. “Long car trip once they’ve landed. You did sterling work.”
“Keep the soft soap for those who need it. Tell Dillon I’ve good news for Riley. I’ve seen Leary and the Chief of Staff and he’s to be allowed home.”
“How did you manage that?”
“I told them a half-truth, if you like.” He carried on and told Ferguson the story he had sold to Leary and the Chief of Staff.
Ferguson said, “My God, you’re the most incredible man I’ve ever known.”
“I agree with you.” Devlin laughed. “Tell Sean to watch his back,” and he put the phone down.
Hannah drove out of the Ministry of Defense garage in her red Mini car, the one she found best in London traffic. She parked on the forecourt of her ground floor flat in Ebury Place, unlocked the door, and went in.
The man who called himself George Brown straightened behind the wheel of the black Ford Escort parked along the street and reached for his mobile.
“She’s here. Get over as quickly as you can. If she leaves before you get here, I’ll follow and contact you.”
Hannah at that moment was having a quick shower. She stepped out, toweled dry, then put on fresh underwear and a blouse. She found a fawn trouser suit, dressed, and went downstairs.
She phoned her father’s office in Harley Street, only to discover from his secretary that he was doing a heart and lung transplant at the Princess Grace Hospital that would probably take eight hours.
Not that it mattered, for she knew who she really wanted to see. She grabbed her handbag, went out, and drove away in the Mini car just as an ambulance turned the corner. Brown cursed and went after her, but five minutes later and proceeding along the Embankment beside the Thames, was comforted to find the ambulance on his tail.
The driver was Aaron Eitan, Moshe in the seat beside him. “Keep close,” Moshe said. “This traffic is terrible.”
Aaron laughed. “It’s years since I last drove in London. What fun.”
Rabbi Thomas Bernstein was seated at his study desk, a small but distinguished-looking man with a snow-white beard and hair topped by a plain yarmulke in black velvet. There was a knock, the door opened, and his granddaughter came in.
He put down his pen and held out his arms. “So there you are, light of my life.”
She embraced him warmly. “Your sermon for Shab-bes?”
“Queen of the week. It’s like show business. I have to catch their attention. How are you?”
“Busy.”
He laughed. “I’ve learned enough about you and your work to know that means you’re on a big case.”
“The biggest.”
He stopped smiling. “Can you tell me about it?”
“No, highly secret and all that.”
“You’re troubled. Why?”
“All I can say is there’s a Jewish element and it disturbs me.”
“In what way?”
“Let me ask you a question. The man who shot Prime Minister Rabin—”
He interrupted her. “Murdered is a more accurate word.”
“The man who did that, and those who support him, claimed some sort of biblical authority for what he did.”
His voice was stern. “No such authority exists in either the Bible or the Torah. That despicable act of violence was a great sin in the eyes of God.”
“So, if I had to hunt down such people, it would not disturb you?”
“Because they are Jews? Why should it? We are the same as other people. Good, bad, average, sometimes evil.”
“Tell me,” she said, “why does God allow these things to happen, the evil that men do?”