Confessional - Jack Higgins [19]
'Yes, sir, the thought had occurred to me.'
'Do you think they'd see it that way?'
'Perhaps, sir.' Fox's stomach was hollow with excitement as if he knew what was coming.
'All right,' Ferguson said. 'God knows, you've given enough to Ireland, Harry. Are you willing to risk the other hand?'
'If you say so, sir.'
'Good. Let's see if they're willing to show some sense for once. I want you to go to Dublin to see the PIRA Army Council or anyone they're willing to delegate to see you. I'll make the right phone calls to set it up. Stay at the Westbourne as usual. And I mean today, Harry. I'll see to Levin.'
'Right, sir,' Fox said calmly. 'Then if you'll excuse me, I'll get started,' and he went out.
Ferguson went back to the window and looked out at the rain. Crazy, of course, the idea that British Intelligence and the IRA could work together and yet it made sense this time. The question was, would the wild men in Dublin see it that way?
Behind him, the study door opened and Levin appeared. He coughed apologetically, 'Brigadier, do you still need me?'
'But of course, my dear chap,' Charles Ferguson said. 'I'll take you along to my headquarters now. Pictures - lots of pictures, I'm afraid.' He picked up his coat and hat and opened the door to usher Levin out. 'But who knows? You might just recognize our man.'
In his heart, he did not believe it for a moment, but he didn't tell Levin that as they went down in the lift.
3
IN DUBLIN, it was raining, driving across the Liffey in a soft grey curtain as the cab from the airport turned into a side street just off George's Quay and deposited Fox at his hotel.
The Westbourne was a small old-fashioned place with only one bar-restaurant. It was a Georgian building and therefore listed against redevelopment. Inside however, it had been refurbished to a quiet elegance exactly in period. The clientele, when one saw them at all, were middle-class and distinctly ageing, the sort who'd been using it for years when up from the country for a few days. Fox had stayed there on numerous occasions, always under the name of Charles Hunt, profession, wine wholesaler, a subject he was sufficiently expert on to make an eminently suitable cover.
The receptionist, a plain young woman in a black suit, greeted him warmly. 'Nice to see you again, Mr Hunt. I've managed you number three on the first floor. You've stayed there before.'
'Fine,' Fox said. 'Messages?'
'None, sir. How long will you be staying?'
'One night, maybe two. I'll let you know.'
The porter was an old man with the sad, wrinkled face of the truly disillusioned and very white hair. His green uniform was a little too large and Fox, as usual, felt slightly embarrassed when he took the bags.
'How are you, Mr Ryan?' he enquired as they went up in the small lift.
'Fine, sir. Never better. I'm retiring next month. They're putting me out to pasture.'
He led the way along the small corridor and Fox said, 'That's a pity. You'll miss the Westbourne.'
'I will so, sir. Thirty-eight years.' He unlocked the bedroom door and led the way in. 'Still, it comes to us all.'
It was a pleasant room with green damask walls, twin beds, a fake Adam fireplace and Georgian mahogany furniture. Ryan put the bag down on the bed and adjusted the curtains.
'The bathroom's been done since you were last here, sir. Very nice. Would you like some tea?'
'Not right now, Mr Ryan.' Fox took a five pound note from his wallet and passed it over. 'If there's a message, let me know straight away. If I'm not here, I'll be in the bar.'
There was something in the old man's eyes, just for a moment; then he smiled faintly. 'I'll find you, sir, never fear.'
That was the thing about Dublin these days, Fox told himself as he dropped his coat on the bed and went to the window. You could never be sure of anyone and there were sympathizers everywhere, of course. Not necessarily IRA, but thousands of ordinary, decent people who hated the violence and the bombing, but approved of the political ideal