“It was a peaceful city,” said Denisov sadly. He had his arms folded behind him. He looked slightly professorial in his drab brown raincoat. He was bareheaded. His eyeglasses became damp and the wet in the fog touched his red cheeks and made it appear there were tears on them.
Devereaux walked with him. The city did not terrify in bleak morning; perhaps that was how they stood it, stood the years of bombing and war and rubber bullets and barbed wire and soldiers on the street. The people of the city waited for morning. For a little peace.
“I will ask you some things but only to explain. I am trying to make you trust me.”
The fog chilled them. But it was warmer than in Edinburgh.
“Do you know who finances the IRA now?” Denisov asked.
“No.”
“Good. An answer at least. I am not sure I believe you but at least it is an answer.”
They turned down Royal Avenue, away from the center, toward the docks.
“We know it is the CIA. Your CIA.”
They walked along. Past the immense offices of the Belfast Telegraph.
“You are not surprised?” said Denisov.
“You’re not through.”
“No, I am not through. You’re right. The CIA channels the legitimate funds — from the Irish in your country — through Dublin banks and then adds its own. We are not even certain that the IRA know this.”
“How do you know this?”
“A little mouse told me.”
“A little bird.”
“Are you sure? Sorry. A little bird.”
“You’re crazy, Denisov. You’ve told me nothing. I’m going back to my hotel.”
“I am insulted. I have told you the truth. A great truth. To make you trust me.”
“If the CIA funds the Boys and you know this, I cannot find a plausible reason for your telling me. If the CIA funds the Boys, I cannot find a plausible reason for them to do it. Your information, then, cannot be true.”
“Do you like opera?”
“No.”
“I love English opera. The Gilbert and Sullivan. Do you know the Pinafore? No? You are too badly educated, Devereaux. They have a song in this. It sings:
“Things are seldom what they seem;
Skim milk masquerades as cream;
Highlows pass as patent leathers;
Jackdaws strut in peacock feathers—”
Devereaux was amused by the startled looks of several passersby. Denisov smiled. “You see?”
“No.”
“You look to something and you say, ‘I don’t understand.’ So it does not happen.”
“Talking to you is like trying to draw a perfect circle.”
“I am being direct, Devereaux,” said Denisov, just as mildly as before. “I do not understand why the CIA funds the Republican Army. Until now, I do not care. But now I must help you and you will not let me.”
“Who is Blatchford?”
“I have told you. CIA. A very bad man.”
“We’re all bad men.”
“He killed your friend, Hastings. Does that make him bad?”
“Hastings was not my friend.”
“Blatchford had a picture of this woman you sleep with. There.” He gestured to the hotel across the street. “Do you know she is there now?”
“Now I do.”
“Yes, because I tell you. That is Blatchford’s hotel. That is her hotel. Blatchford had her picture with him. He tries to kill you. All these things happen to you, to Blatchford. I see this. The woman meets you and makes you love her. Blatchford eliminates Hastings and then eliminates you. You go to Edinburgh to meet Hastings. Everything I have told you is true.” Denisov stepped ahead of Devereaux and turned to face him. His eyeglasses were misted so that the clear, blue eyes swam behind them. His hair was plastered wet with the mist.
“Why are you here, Devereaux? You must tell me this.”
“Tell you so that you will not have to kill me.”
Denisov took off his glasses and looked at the American. “Yes. So I will not have to kill you.”
He yearned to speak to Denisov. The words, buried in him, yearned to be articulated.
“I don’t know. That’s the truth.”
“That is not the truth, Devereaux.”
“Perhaps.”
Denisov wiped the glasses on the sleeve of his brown raincoat. “Then we cannot be friends.”
“No.”
“I am sorry.”
“Now you will kill me?”
Denisov shrugged. “I do not know. I am sorry we cannot be friends.”
“Yes.”
The two men stood a moment longer, forming an island in the stream of pedestrian traffic along Royal Avenue. And then the island broke up and the pieces of it flowed into the stream, away from each other.
Tatty was waiting in the back of the public house when Faolin strode in. Faolin appeared angry, his thin face twisted even more with some grievance. He had a copy of the Telegraph rolled under his arm. He saw Tatty and went to the back table and sat down.
Tatty sipped at his Guinness and looked at the younger man.
“Y’ve seen it, then,” said Tatty.
“Oh, aye. I’ve bloody seen it,” said Faolin in a furious whisper. “IRA is it? Some bloody fool walks into Lord Slough’s room and tries t’kill him and nearly ruins a half a year’s plan?”
“Who says it’s the Boys?”
“Here. The bloody English say it.”
Tatty did not look at the paper. He peered at Faolin as one might peer at a monkey in the zoo; or as a monkey might peer at the people watching him.
“What fool ordered this?”
“None that I’m aware of—”
“Then you’re not bloody aware—”
“Watch it, lad,” said Tatty. Mildly.
“I want t’know the bloody fool responsible. This cuts it, finally—”
“It cuts nothin’, Faolin.”
The younger man glared.
“ ’Tis almost Providential.”
“How the bloody hell is that?”
“D’ye think that our plot would have remained so bloody secret? Right t’the moment? This is Ireland, boyo, bloody full of fools and gossips and informers. So now if there is any suspicion that the Boys are gonna get Lord Slough, the suspicious ones suddenly have their fact t’gnaw at like dogs. And, like dogs, t’look no further—”
Faolin stared at Tatty and then understood. His anger could not leave him so easily, but he managed silence.
“Ach. Yer see? It’s the best thing that could have occurred. Lord Slough has been shot at and not hurt, the Boys have been blamed and all’s well—”
“But who ordered it?”
“Who can say? Perhaps he was on his own or had a grievance against the Great Man. Who cares now, Faolin? ’Tis done. And our plan is still in place. Stronger than ever.”
“He’ll get another bodyguard—”
“Oh, aye. P’raps two of them. Does it matter, lad?”
Faolin shook his head. “I don’t like the unexpected—”
“Woosh, lad. Y’talk foolishness. The unexpected has aided us in this. And thrown the gossips off the track. Let someone say, ‘The Boys are after Lord Slough,’ and they’ll say, ‘Yer great bloody fool, they already tried t’kill him in Canada. Now what are ya sayin’? That they’ll do it again?’ ”
But Faolin could not feel assured. He sat with Tatty and watched the black Guinness slowly descend the pint glass and he drummed his fingers on the table until it was time for them to leave.
The unexpected frightened him. Even if Tatty thought it was welcome news.
10
There were three things that needed to be done; each was linked to the other like three parts of the same event.
Devereaux was back in his room; he glanced around and everything was as it should have been — the laundry had been returned, the bed made, new towels in the bath.