“We considered that,” said Hanley. “We made discreet inquiries overnight and determined that Lord Slough is, at the moment, safely enjoying the pleasures of life in Detroit, Michigan. Where he is in negotiation with a major American company to distribute his autos in the U.S. He leaves in two days for an oil conference in Quebec City. That is to last two days as well, and then he flies home to his castle in County Clare. The danger starts then—”
“Where’s the conference in Quebec City?”
“At the Chateau Frontenac. He and his Saudi Arabian partners in the North Sea drillings and the new ones off the Irish coast—”
“This is hopeless,” said Devereaux. “I know nothing about him—”
Hanley went on unperturbed. “A coded cable follows. You’ll receive it in Belfast in a few hours. You’ll be in Belfast, then—”
“A logical place,” said Devereaux. “But not in code, please. I’m an agent of Central Press Service. Plain English backgrounder will suffice.”
“Good point,” Hanley muttered.
Devereaux smiled.
“So, in summary, you go to Belfast, find out the why and wherefore of the assassination of Lord Slough — and we present it to Brit Intell—”
“In Christmas wrapping,” said Devereaux.
“Sarcasm,” identified Hanley.
“And if Slough is hit in Detroit or Quebec despite his apparent safety there?”
There was a pause in Washington.
“Then it will all be wasted,” said Hanley.
“And so will Slough,” said Devereaux. “But, thy will be done.”
“Yes,” said Hanley.
“There are two other matters—”
“Can’t they wait for—”
“No, dammit. One, what about the American Express card? Has it been taken care of?”
“Yes, damn you. I didn’t forget. Is that all?”
“Two, I want to give you a name.” He paused. “Two names. One is Free The Prisoners. Cap F, cap T, cap P. Sort of like an Amnesty International. Working in London now. Headquarters in Bern. Can you check it out?”
“Yes,” said Hanley. There were times when he did not question Devereaux too closely. For all his problems with him, Hanley respected Devereaux’s instincts and, rather than obscure those instincts with words requiring explanation, let Devereaux run free until he had tracked down whatever aroused his curiosity.
“Second name,” said Hanley.
Devereaux only hesitated for a moment while he remembered the long, caressing curve of her full body and the smooth innocence of her back. No one would have noticed the hesitation unless they knew Devereaux.
“Campbell,” he said, “Elizabeth.” And broke the connection. For a moment, he listened to the silence, and then he got up and walked out of the tight little room.
Two hours later, he was looking down at the rubble-strewn mass of Belfast still decorated with brave church spires. The plane banked sharply at three thousand feet and whined down to the landing strip.
Devereaux unbuckled his belt as the plane taxied to the terminal building. A misting rain fell, as usual.
Seven miles away, at that moment, a limping man came up to a little boy in the Crumlin Road. He touched the child and asked him what he had seen.
“Nothin’, sur,” said the boy.
He slipped a second coin into the childish hand.
“I woulda banged the dustbin if I had,” the boy said.
6
William Henry Christopher Devon, Lord Slough, ninth Earl of Slough in a line back to the time of George III, first cousin of the Hanoverian Queen Elizabeth of England, marched into the stately lobby of the Chateau Frontenac in Quebec City with the conspicuous anonymity that all great men crave and seldom achieve.
He was, by good chance, exactly a day early for the conference with the Saudi Arabian oil ministers. He had not planned the unexpected schedule change but he had accepted it because it would allow time with Deirdre, and time for himself. Like all men who own the world and run it, Lord Slough had little time for himself. Not that every pleasure was denied; only postponed.
The conference in Detroit with the American automobile executives had gone smoothly. In fact, Lord Slough discovered there was no need to spend a single day — a single hour — more in the company of the fawning aristocrats of the American motor industry. He despised them secretly for their cowardice in the face of mere titled royalty — though he also enjoyed it. Amusement and contempt rested comfortably in Lord Slough’s ample store of emotions.
The Chateau Frontenac, scene of the historic wartime conference between Winston Churchill and Franklin Roosevelt, commanded a promontory over the wide and turbulent Saint Lawrence river that flowed past the ancient city of Quebec. From its spires, which poked into the broad and gloomy Canadian sky, one could look down on the snow-covered Plains of Abraham in the lower town, where the French had lost Canada to the English for good. And just as well, thought Lord Slough, who disliked the French.
The English lord had not chosen the site of the meeting with the Saudis. They had. Canada was picked because of its proximity to Washington, where the Saudis were meeting with the President shortly after the meeting with Lord Slough. Then, too, the Canadian government — itself torn in loyalty between oil needs and its perpetual dominance by the United States — had recently proposed a new tilt in foreign policy, favoring the Arab states over the Israelis. New friends — even oil friends — were encouraged by the quiet Saudis. Lord Slough had not objected, though Canada in November presented no welcome face.
Everything had been arranged for him, of course.
Deirdre Monahan, his daughter’s tutor, had been summoned first, while he still wrangled in Detroit with the auto magnates. One of the best of his private air fleet had whisked her from the Slough home in County Clare, Ireland, to Quebec in seven hours. Dierdre was afraid to fly; only Lord Slough’s command could have brought her.
Brianna, still at school in Lausanne, would not join him until they all met at home, later in the week. Which would leave Deirdre with nothing to do. Except comfort his Lordship.
Slough waited at the elevator for a moment, aware that every glance was directed at him. He was discreetly dressed, evenly tanned; his hands were large and his ginger mustache bristled. He bore himself well, though past fifty; he had been one of His Majesty’s colonels in the last war and he had never gotten out of the habits of the military.
People stared at him and he expected it. Wealth and power imparted their own luminescence. A fact those who were born with both seem indifferent to.
“I’m sorry for the delay, my lord,” said Jeffries, his secretary. Behind Slough was Harmon, the bodyguard he had personally recruited out of the Royal Marines five years previously. Harmon did not speak; or, if he did, he did not speak in the presence of the body he guarded day and night.
Lord Slough did not answer. Jeffries was a competent secretary. The incompetence of a hotel or the perfidiousness of a lift did not fall into his sphere; nor did the petty annoyances of life upset Lord Slough. He had infinite patience. Which is why, he supposed at times, he got everything he wanted.
The elevator arrived, the door opened. He stepped on confidently, trailed by Jeffries and Harmon. Harmon barred the way to further passengers. The clerk, a French-Canadian, spoke to the operator in French. Without a word, the operator slammed the doors and the elevator ascended to the top floor, where Lord Slough’s suite awaited. And where Deirdre awaited as well.
At the suite, he walked directly into his bedroom. Jeffries followed with a clutch of cables that had caught up with Slough since his sudden departure from Detroit.