“We aim to please.” Blake drank some of his coffee. “Devlin seems an extraordinary individual. Are all the stories I’ve heard true?”
“Probably. He was a university graduate of Trinity College, Dublin. A scholar and a poet and one of the most feared gunmen the IRA ever had. In the Spanish Civil War, he fought against Franco and was taken prisoner by the Italians, who handed him over to the Nazis in Berlin.”
“And he worked for them?”
“Well, he was no Fascist, but the IRA were dickering with Hitler at the time. They thought that England losing the war would be Ireland’s opportunity. Devlin parachuted into Ireland for the Abwehr and only got back to Berlin by the skin of his teeth.”
“Then what? Is there any truth in the old legend about a German attempt to kidnap Churchill with Devlin as a middle man?”
“Norfolk, nineteen forty-three,” Dillon said. “Crack force of German paratroopers. Devlin was there all right, but the attempt failed. Once again, he got out by a small miracle.”
“But you said he was anti-fascist?”
“They paid him well and the money went to funds for the organization. He once said he’d have tried to snatch Hitler if someone had paid him enough. He knew them all personally. Himmler, General Walter Schellenberg. He was even instrumental in saving Hitler from assassination by the SS late in the war.”
“Good God!” Blake said.
“The idea was it was better keeping him alive and cocking things up, whereas with the SS in charge the war might have gone on longer.”
“I get the point.”
“Hitler gave him the Iron Cross First Class. Devlin falls about laughing when he tells you that.”
“And then the Troubles?”
“Yes. He was one of the original architects of the Provisional IRA. On the British Army’s most-wanted list.”
“Which is when you met him?”
“He taught me everything I know, but Liam was an old-fashioned revolutionary and I was going through a Marxist phase; all purity of violence, being young and foolish. Shots were exchanged, but no great harm done. We made up in recent years.”
“A strange man.”
“A great man, the best I’ve ever known.”
Blake nodded. “This name on your false passport, Martin Keogh. Any significance?”
Dillon shrugged. “An alias I’ve used on and off for years.”
Blake nodded. “So you think Devlin might be able to help us find Riley?”
“If anyone can. Once we have Riley, we haul him back to London to identify that phoney lawyer from the Wandsworth security cameras. Once we have his face, we’ll move on to his identity.”
“You sound confident!”
“I am. With luck, he could be a stepping stone to Judas.”
Blake nodded slowly. “It’s not much.”
“It’s all we’ve got, and another thing. If we do find that place where Judas is holding her, it won’t do any good to call in the Navy Seals or any kind of special forces. He’ll kill her stone dead at the first sound.”
“You mean you’d want to go in on your own?”
“I’d need backup,” Dillon told him. “But I did see a fair amount of the interior. I know she’s on the third floor and things like that.”
“But one man.” Blake shook his head. “That’s crazy.”
“He only has five Maccabees with him,” Dillon said. “And no indication of staff. But then he wouldn’t have staff for obvious reasons. So, five plus Judas is six.”
“And you’d do that on your own?”
“Why not? You’ve heard the old joke about the tailor in the fairytale by the Brothers Grimm? Five at one blow? I’ll make it six.”
“That was flies on a slice of jam and bread,” Blake said.
“Same difference.” Dillon called Kersey. “Another Bushmills and I’ll turn in.”
“Right away, sir.”
“You know,” Blake said, “there’s one thing that really bugs me about the whole business.”
“And what’s that?” Dillon asked, taking the drink that Kersey brought.
“From what Marie de Brissac told you, the general knew from that anonymous letter only that his wife had spent the night with an American officer. He didn’t know it was Jake Cazalet.”
“So it would appear.”
“So only Marie and her mother and the President knew the secret.”
“You’re forgetting Teddy Grant.”
“Okay, but that means only three left when the countess died. So how in the hell did Judas find out?”
“God knows. All that matters is he did.” Dillon switched off the overhead light. “I’m going to sleep while the going’s good,” and he tilted back his seat.
Devlin parked his car on a quay on the River Liffey and walked through soft rain to the pub called the Irish Hussar. It was a pleasant, old-fashioned place with booths and a mahogany bar with a mirror behind it, rows of bottles on the shelves. Normally much favored by Republicans and Sinn Fein supporters, at that time in the morning the clientele were mainly workers of every kind tucking into a full Irish breakfast. He found his quarry, one Michael Leary, in the end booth just starting his meal.
“Liam, you old dog.”
“Same to you,” Devlin told him.
A young woman, all smiles, for Devlin was a great favorite, came to the table. “And what can I get you, Mr. Devlin?”
“The same and lots of breakfast tea, and mind I can stand the spoon in it.” He turned to Leary. “Is the work going well, Michael?”
“That thriller I did sold nicely in the airports. To be honest, Liam, I’ve cleared fifty thousand pounds in the past twelve months and it seems to be climbing.”
“And still working through the night?”
“It’s the leg. I get a lot of pain. Can’t sleep,” and he banged it with his fist.
Leary, an active member of the Provisional IRA for more than twenty years, had lost the leg when a bomb he was supposed to run across the border in an old truck had exploded prematurely, killing his two companions and taking his leg. At least the incident had kept him out of a British prison, but it had brought an end to his career as an active member of the Movement.
The young woman brought Devlin his breakfast and a pot of tea and withdrew and he started to eat.
“What is it, Liam? What do you want?” Leary asked.
“Fifteen years ago when I was sixty and should have known better, I saved your life in County Down. When the RUC peelers shot you in the shoulder, I got you over the border.”
“True,” Leary said, “but false as my left leg in one respect. You weren’t sixty, you were seventy.”
“A slight digression from the truth, but you owe me one and I’ve come to collect.”
Leary paused, frowning slightly, then resumed eating. “Go on.”
“We both know you’re still heavily connected with the organization. You were still running the intelligence section in Dublin for the Chief of Staff until the peace process started.”
Leary pushed his plate away and the young woman came and took it. “Is this IRA business, Liam?”
“Only indirectly. A favor for a friend.”
“Go on.” Leary filled his pipe from a pouch.
“You’ve still got your ear to the ground. Would you know if Dermot Riley got back in one piece? You see, last I heard, he was in Wandsworth Prison doing fifteen years, then it seems he got out. I understand that when last seen, he was using an Irish passport in the name of Thomas O’Malley.”
“Who saw him?”
“My friend, but it’s confidential.”
“Well, there’s more than one would like to see Dermot, including the Chief of Staff. All right, he’s back. He passed through security at Dublin airport three days ago in the identity of Thomas O’Malley. A security man recognized him. As he’s one of our own, he simply checked him through, then reported the matter to the Chief of Staff.”
“And what did he do?”
“Put in a call to London, then sent two enforcers, Bell and Barry, to pay a visit to Bridget O’Malley on her farm by the Blackwater River. That was yesterday. She swore he hadn’t been there. Thought he was still in prison, so they came back.”