“So you’d reason that only a long-standing commitment by Slough to be someplace at a particular time would be the most logical point of assassination?”
“Yes. Tomorrow is Monday, he’ll be in London. What follows?”
“Tuesday in Edinburgh. For a meeting with the editors of his Scottish Daily News in the morning.…”
“Planned when?”
“Two weeks ago, according to his secretary, Jeffries.…”
“And then?”
Cashel puffed his pipe and looked at his notes carefully. “Ah. He’s t’go to Glasgow in the afternoon t’attend a benefit match of the Celtics and Rangers. Ah, now that might be the place, indeed.”
“Why?”
Cashel glanced at him. “Football, man. At the stadium there, there’d be fifty thousand lunatics there, even on a Tuesday afternoon.”
“What are the Celtics and Rangers?”
“Football teams, man.” Cashel looked closely at Devereaux to see if he understood. “Y’call it soccer. The Celtics is the Catholic team, the Rangers is the Prods team.”
Devereaux waited.
“Glasgow is the most dangerous football city in the world,” Cashel went on. “Football is their religion, not to make it too strong. And the Catholics in Glasgow are for the Celtics and the Prods for the Rangers. And they’re playin’ a benefit exhibition, something t’do with cancer or such, and Lord Slough is involved in it and the Scottish Daily News is sponsoring the match—”
“And that was set up—”
“Months ago.”
“Catholics and Protestants. Are there many Catholics in Glasgow?”
“Oh, aye. Oh, it’s a mad city for football, too; just the crowd for an assassin.”
Devereaux said, “And not far from Belfast.”
Cashel nodded. “Not far from Belfast.”
The place seemed logical; it seemed ideal; but why were so many involved in the plot? This should be the work of a lone gunman. Unless there was more to it.
“And then?”
But Cashel had gotten up from the table where they sat and gone to the window and looked out, puffing furiously on his pipe. “Glasgow,” he muttered. “The place for it. I suspected it.…”
“And then?”
“Oh. And then on to Liverpool for a banquet that night. The next morning, he launches the Brianna.”
Devereaux shrugged. “What does that mean?”
“I’m sorry. His hovercraft ship, Brianna. Named for his daughter, you met her. The first hovercraft service from England to Ireland.”
“And what will he do?”
“Jeffries says there’s t’be speeches; the Prime Minister of Britain is to be there. Less for the importance of the launching than for the importance of Lord Slough, I’d imagine.”
Cashel did not notice Devereaux stiffen; the involuntary movement was so slight that he could be forgiven the oversight.
“What will happen there?”
“Really, very little. A very small, controlled crowd is expected. The newspapers say there’s very tight police security expected because they want no harm to the craft from some anti-Irish idiots. And then, because of the Prime Minister. Let’s see, Durkin might have the paper here.…” Cashel went to a newspaper on the sideboard and opened it. “The Irish Daily News, from Dublin, Friday’s editions. Here it is.”
He began to read: “ ‘… launch… first hovercraft service… tight police security…’ Here it is: ‘Prime Minister of Great Britain and the Taoiseach of Eire will attend the launching ceremonies Wednesday and use the occasion for talks on mutual security problems, including containment of the provisional wing of the Irish Republican Army.’ ”
He shoved the paper across the table.
Devereaux seemed only to glance at it briefly and then dismiss it. “And after that?”
“Not much. The hovercraft makes its first run to Dublin and Lord Slough is to be feted at a dinner in Dublin with members of the Dáil on Wednesday night. Then, late, he returns to Clare House for the remainder of the week.”
“And when was this planned?”
“Well, I gather everyone’s known about the hovercraft for months. Lord Slough’s papers have seen to that. But the actual date, December first, was only set a little more than a week ago, because of the delays in launch. They ran a series of trials on her — an interesting ship, Mr. Devereaux. Built in the Clyde, in Glasgow, but with components built in Dublin and Belfast.”
“Détente?” joked Devereaux. “And it works?”
Cashel smiled. “So they say. They built an apron for launching hovercraft in Liverpool some years ago, along the Mersey River, but there’s never been hovercraft service on the Irish Sea. It’s a dangerous sea.”
“Everything Irish seems dangerous,” said Devereaux.
Cashel frowned. “Does it now?”
“But to get back to Lord Slough’s schedule. It seems the only event set up for months has been this soccer game in Glasgow.”
“And your theory—”
Devereaux stood up. “It has to be more than a theory. A complex assassination plot must count on a certain routine by the subject. You start from the premise of the assassination site and time and then work backwards, bringing in as many elements as you need to effect the assassination.”
“I don’t understand,” said Cashel.
Devereaux made a face and spread his hands. “Kennedy is to motorcade through Dallas on November twenty-second at eleven A.M. The final route announced takes him past the Texas School Book Depository.”
Cashel frowned.
“Those are the known facts. That’s the assassination place and time. Now, what do you need to effect the assassination? You choose your site, the Depository. So you need to make sure you can get entry. And you choose your weapons. And you bring in as many people into the conspiracy as you need—”
“Are you sayin’ that this fella, this Oswald, didn’t act alone to—”
Devereaux glared. “I’m saying nothing. I am offering an example of a known assassination. And of how, logically, it would be set up.”
“So we figure on this fella, Faolin, setting up to kill Lord Slough in the Glasgow football stadium and…”
Right, thought Devereaux. Pursue it backwards, from the stadium. Make yourself believe it will be in the stadium and bend all you know to fit the theory.
“I’ll have to contact British Intelligence now,” said Cashel at last.
“To protect Slough in Glasgow.”
“And in Edinburgh that morning. They might try to get him en route.”
“Yes, I suppose you must,” said Devereaux.
Cashel gave him a warning look. “There’ll be no interference.”
“None,” said Devereaux. “I have to report to my own people.”
“I can’t stop you.”
“And get back home.”
“It’s early in the afternoon. If ye was to get to Shannon in time, yer might catch the flight to New York—”
“Is it near?”
“Oh, sure. Not twenty miles from here.”
“Well, then,” said Devereaux. “And you? You’re going back to Dublin?”
“I wish I could. Perhaps tomorrow, when Lord Slough is off to London.”
“Good luck, Cashel,” said Devereaux.
“Good luck yerself,” said Cashel. “I’d stand y’ a jar but I think you have to hurry to catch your airplane.” And Cashel began to give Devereaux elaborate directions on the way to Ireland’s western airport.
All the way to Shannon Airport, on the curious, twisting back roads of rural Clare County, Devereaux tried to categorize the information provided him by Cashel and to fit it with the information he had obtained from Denisov and O’Neill and Terry and the dead Hastings.