Parts of it seemed to make sense and other parts did not; that was the way of information. He would have been content usually to merely dump it in Hanley’s lap and end the mission, but there had been complications this time. Elizabeth was a complication; the attempt on his life was a complication; and even the frightened face of Brianna Devon seemed to cause problems. Devereaux was accustomed to shadows, to assignments that demanded information and not involvement.
He found Shannon Airport as it was getting dark.
Parking the rental car in the space next to the terminal building, he got out and went to turn in the key. Next stop was the telephone booths, where the operator patched his call into a line to Washington, D.C.
It was nearly two P.M. in Washington.
After a long time, he heard the telephone ring at the other end; it rang four times before he heard the voice.
“This is a caller sendin’ the charges to you, sir,” began the operator in a lilting voice. “From Mr. Thirty.”
He heard Hanley mumble his acceptance and the operator went off the line. Hanley sounded drunk or sleepy. “Red Sky,” he muttered at last.
“Have you found our man?” asked Devereaux.
“Yes. We think so. But that can wait. Can you report? Where are you? Why did it take you so long?”
“Did you ever try to find a telephone in Ireland on Sunday?”
There was a pause at the other end of the line. “No. I suppose it’s difficult.”
“Who’s our man?”
“That can wait,” Hanley said again. “Can you report?”
“Is your line clear?”
“Yes.”
Devereaux hesitated. He was sure the assassination attempt would come at the launch of the Brianna and he was glad that Cashel had not understood that. Cashel had not caught his analogy — that the site of the attempt would dictate the size and makeup of those making the attempt. Captain Donovan. Cashel had not connected that with the launch of the Brianna because the football-match site seemed easier to understand.
“Well?” said Hanley.
Devereaux’s own information was not complete. Complete enough for Hanley perhaps, but there was something wrong with it. He needed to know more. On the one hand, he wanted to be rid of Ireland and Lord Slough and the young woman who excited pity and tenderness in him; but it wasn’t ready yet, it wasn’t time.
“It isn’t complete,” said Devereaux at last. “If I give it to you now, it will probably be enough for British Intelligence. For the special relationship you want to develop—”
“Yes,” said Hanley. “Now that we know the CIA is funding the IRA.”
“We’re not certain of that.”
“But the Russians are. How do you suppose they know?”
Devereaux thought of Denisov and the mild, saintly eyes behind the rimless glasses. “Perhaps they never sleep,” he said.
Hanley said, “I don’t understand.”
“I don’t either,” said Devereaux. “I don’t understand the Russian game in this.”
“Neither do I,” said Hanley. “Report, please.”
And Devereaux began, in the familiar, slow, methodical way. There was information from Belfast and from Cashel and about the meeting with Lord Slough at Clare House.
Hanley interrupted peevishly: “The mission was not to warn Lord Slough but to inform Brit Intell.”
“Don’t say that anymore.”
“What?”
“Your goddam jargon. Don’t worry, Hanley. I’m not going soft. But there was no way around Cashel and I needed Cashel at the moment. Fortunately for your plans, Lord Slough is a self-designated hero. He is too brave to live.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Just inform goddam British Intelligence, if you want. But the information is not clear yet. I don’t understand all the parts of it. Especially about the attempt on Slough’s life. It seems certain that the second attempt will come this week because too much is surfacing, too many people know too much. And I suppose the assassination attempt in Canada has scared them into action. They’ll have to make their move soon.”
“Oh, yes. We have information from Canada on the matter there.” Hanley had received it less than an hour before Devereaux’s telephone call. “This Toolin was paid by an expatriate Irish socialist group in Quebec province, providing money and arms for the IRA provos in Belfast—”
“Lovely,” said Devereaux.
“No one suggested that the IRA source was only the Langley firm.”
“Only the Soviets suggest Langley was involved from the beginning,” cautioned Devereaux.
“Yes. Well, Canadian police made several arrests. Apparently, the scheme was entirely hatched in Quebec, without the knowledge of the IRA, although that’s not clear. But that’s what the Canadians are saying.”
“For whatever that’s worth.”
“And they had the help of the French separatists terror group in Quebec—”
“How convenient for Ottawa.”
“That’s sarcasm,” Hanley said.
“Yes.”
“Now that you’ve warned Slough—”
“I told you. He’s not a factor.” He thought of Brianna, of that innocent face frozen with an expectation of terror. “Cashel thinks the matter we spoke of will come up in Glasgow at the benefit football match of two Glaswegian teams on Tuesday afternoon.”
“Yes?”
“You can tell British Intelligence that.”
“Is that what you think?”
The lie now was difficult; Hanley understood lies. Hanley would understand Devereaux’s lie.
“It is a logical assumption, given certain elements.”
“But you’re not sure.”
Hanley invited it: “Yes,” said Devereaux. “I’m not certain.” Which was almost true.
“And you want more time.”
“Twelve hours at least. It will still be time to contact British Intelligence.”
“I wish you hadn’t warned Slough.”
“What was I supposed to do, Hanley? Tell Cashel that warning Slough was not part of my mission? That we were playing a different game?”
“There’s no need for—”
“Yes there is. This was a minor mission. I was merely sent to ascertain what Hastings knew and how important it was. Hastings is killed; I’m set upon by double agents from the goddam CIA and a Soviet agent suddenly befriends me. I expose myself — to the CIA and to the Soviets and to the goddam Irish police. I’m supposed to be an intelligence agent, not a policeman. This is a straightforward bit of criminal activity on the part of the IRA — why not let the goddam Irish settle it? No, we can’t because we have to develop a relationship with British Intelligence. And at the same time, we have to screw the Langley firm. And Devereaux is supposed to do it.”
“Yes,” said Hanley.
A moment passed as the line crackled, empty of voices.
“You’ve found our man?”
Hanley began slowly: “Yes. It was in the message you found on their agent in the Belfast hotel. We went back to the files and compared the information passed on to… to the competition about the mission. And we’re certain he’s the man.”
“The competition. What an odd way to put it,” said Devereaux.
“Yes. Well, we know who the opposition is. But the Langley firm hardly falls into that category.”
Devereaux did not speak.
“You are to plug the leak.”
“Literally, I suppose,” said Devereaux.
“Yes,” said Hanley. He sounded distracted.
“Who is it?”
“Green. In London.”
Another pause.
Devereaux stared at the telephone box. He thought of Elizabeth; he could clearly see her in that instant.
He swallowed. “When did you crack the message? When did you know?”
“About twelve hours ago.”
Twelve hours. She had been afraid at the airport in Belfast. But it was a safe house. She had no reason to be afraid.