'A middle-man?' Fox frowned. 'I don't understand?'

'Someone acceptable to both sides. Equally trusted, if you know what I mean.'

Fox laughed. 'There's no such animal.'

'Oh, yes there is,' McGuiness said. 'Liam Devlin, and don't tell me you don't know whohe is.'

Harry Fox said slowly, 'I know Liam Devlin very well.'

'And why wouldn't you. Didn't you and Faulkner have him kidnapped by the SAS back in seventy-nine to help you break Martin Brosnan out of that French prison to hunt down that mad dog, Frank Barry.'

'You're extremely well informed.'

'Yes, well Liam's here in Dublin now, a professor at Trinity College. He has a cottage in a village called Kilrea, about an hour's drive out of town. You go and see him. If he agrees to help, then we'll discuss it further.'

'When?'

Til let you know, or maybe I'll just turn up unexpected, like. The one way I kept ahead of the British Army all those years up north.' He stood up. 'There's a lad at the bar downstairs. Maybe you noticed?'

'The cab driver.'

'Billy White. Left or right hand, he can still shoot a fly off the wall. He's yours while you're here.'

'Not necessary.'

'Oh, but it is.' McGuiness got up and pulled on his coat. 'Number one, I wouldn't like anything to happen to you, and number two, it's a convenience to know where you are.' He opened the door, and beyond him, Fox saw Murphy waiting. Til be in touch, Captain.' McGuiness saluted mockingly, the door closed behind him.

Ferguson said, 'It makes sense, I suppose, but I'm not sure Devlin will work for us again, not after that Frank Barry affair. He felt we'd used him and Brosnan rather badly.'

'As I recall, we did, sir,' Fox said. 'Very badly indeed.'

'All right, Harry, no need to make a meal of it. Phone and see if he's at home. If he is, go and see him.'

'Now, sir?'

'Why not? It's only nine-thirty. If he is in, let me know and I'll speak to him myself. Here's his phone number, by the way. Take it down.'

Fox went along to the bar and changed a five pound note for 5op coins. Billy White was still sitting there, reading the evening paper. The gla.s.s of lager looked untouched.

'Can I buy you a drink, Mr White?' Fox asked.

'Never touch the stuff, Captain.' White smiled cheerfully and emptied the gla.s.s in one long swallow. 'A Bushmills would chase that down fine.'

Fox ordered him one. 'I may want to go out to a village called Kilrea. Do you know it?'

'No problem,' White told him. 'I know it well.'

Fox went back to the phone booth and closed the door. He sat there for a while thinking about it, then dialled the number Ferguson had given him. The voice, when it answered, was instantly recognizable. The voice of perhaps the most remarkable man he had ever met.

'Devlin here.'

'Liam? This is Harry Fox.'

'Mother of G.o.d!' Liam Devlin said. 'Where are you?'

'Dublin - the Westbourne Hotel. I'd like to come and see you.'

'You mean right now?'

'Sorry if it's inconvenient.'

Devlin laughed. 'As a matter of fact, at this precise moment in time I'm losing at chess, son, which is something I don't like to do. Your intervention could be looked upon as timely. Is this what you might term a business call?'

'Yes, I'm to ring Ferguson and tell him you're in. He wants to talk to you himself.'

'So the old b.a.s.t.a.r.d is still going strong? Ah, well, you know where to come?'

'Yes.'

Til see you in an hour then. Kilrea Cottage, Kilrea. You can't miss it. Next to the convent.'

When Fox came out of the booth after phoning Ferguson, White was waiting for him. 'Are we going out then, Captain?'

'Yes,' Fox said. 'Kilrea Cottage, Kilrea. Next to a convent apparently. I'll just get my coat.'

White waited until he'd entered the lift, then ducked into the booth and dialled a number. The receiver at the other end was lifted instantly. He said, 'We're leaving for Kilrea now. Looks like he's seeing Devlin tonight.'

As they drove through the rain-swept streets, White said casually, 'Just so we know where we stand, Captain, I was a lieutenant in the North Tyrone Brigade of the Provisional IRA the year you lost that hand.'

'You must have been young.'

'Born old, that's me, thanks to the B Specials when I was a wee boy and the sodding RUC.' He lit a cigarette with one hand. 'You know Liam'Devlin well, do you?'

'Why do you ask?' Fox demanded warily.

'That's who we're going to see, isn't it? Jesus, Captain, arid who wouldn't be knowing Liam Devlin's address?'

'Something of a legend to you, I suppose?'

'A legend, is it? That man wrote the book. Mind you, he won't have any truck with the movement these days. He's what you might call a moralist. Can't stand the bombing and that kind of stuff.'

'And can you?'

'We're at war, aren't we? You bombed the h.e.l.l out of the Third Reich. We'll bomb the h.e.l.l out of you if that's what it takes.'

Logical but depressing, Fox thought, for where did it end?

A charnelhouse with only corpses to walk on. He shivered, face bleak.