'Is it urgent, Paul?' Lubov said. 'Not often we meet between fixed days.'

'Urgent enough,' Cherny said. 'Cuchulain is blown. Mas-lovsky must be informed as soon as possible. He may want to pull us out.'

'Of course,' Lubov said, alarmed. Til see to it as soon as I get back, but hadn't you better fill me in on the details?'

Devlin was working in his study at the cottage, marking a thesis on T. S. Eliot submitted by one of his students, when the phone rang.

Ferguson said, 'It's a fine b.l.o.o.d.y mess. Someone must have coughed at your end. Your IRA cronies are not exactly the most reliable people in the world.'

'Sticks and stones will get you nowhere,' Devlin told him. 'What do you want?'

'Tanya Voroninova,' Ferguson said. 'Harry told you about her?'

'The little girl from Drumore who was adopted by this Maslovsky character. What about her?'

'She's in Paris at the moment to give a series of piano concerts. The thing is, being foster-daughter to a KGB general gives her a lot of leeway. I mean, she's considered an excellent risk. I thought you might go and see her. There's an evening flight from Dublin direct to Paris. Only two and a half hours, Air France.'

'And what in the h.e.l.l am I supposed to do? Get her to defect?'

'You never know. When she hears the whole story, she might want to. See her anyway, Liam. It can't do any harm.'

'All right,' Devlin said. 'A little breath of French air might do me good.'

'I knew you'd see it my way,' Ferguson said. 'Report to the Air France desk at Dublin Airport. They've got a reservation. When you arrive at Charles de Gaulle, you'll be met by one of my chaps based in Paris. Fella called Hunter - Tony Hunter. He'll see to everything.'

'I'm sure he will,' Devlin said and rang off.

He packed a bag quickly, feeling unaccountably cheerful and was just pulling on his trenchcoat when the phone went again. It was Martin McGuiness. 'A bad business, Liam. What exactly happened?'

Devlin told him and when he was finished, McGuiness exploded. 'So, he exists, this b.a.s.t.a.r.d?'

'It would appear so, but more worrying from your point of view is, how did he know Levin was due in? The one man who might be able to identify him.'

'Why ask me?'

'Because Ferguson thinks there's been a leak at your end.'

'Well, screw Ferguson.'

'I wouldn't advise it, Martin. Listen, I've got to go. I've a flight to Paris to catch.'

'Paris? What's there, for Christ's sake?'

'A girl called Tanya Voroninova who might be able to identify Cuchulain. I'll be in touch.'

He put down the receiver. As he picked up his bag, there was a tap on the French windows. They opened and Harry Cussane entered.

Devlin said, 'Sorry, Harry, I must fly or I'll miss my plane.'

'Where on earth are you going?' Cussane demanded.

'Paris.' Devlin grinned and opened the front door. 'Champagne, loose women, incredible food. Don't you think it's just possible you joined the wrong club, Harry?'

The door banged. Cussane listened to the engine of the car start up, turned and ran out through the French windows, round to his cottage at the back of the hospice. He hurried upstairs to the secret room behind the water tanks in the roof where he had the eavesdropping equipment. Quickly, he ran back the tape and listened to the various conversations Devlin had had that day until he came, in the end, to the important one.

By then, of course, it was too late. He cursed softly, went down to use the phone and rang Paul Cherny's number.

IN THE SACRISTY of the village church as he robed for evening Ma.s.s, Cussane examined himself in the mirror. Like an actor getting ready for a performance. Next thing, he'd be reaching for the make-up. Who am I, he thought? Who am I, really? Cuchulain, ma.s.s murderer, or Harry Cussane, priest? Mikhail Kelly didn't seem to enter into it any more. Only an echo of him now like a half-forgotten dream.

For more than twenty years he had lived multiple lives and yet the separate personae had never inhabited his body. They were roles to be played out as the script dictated, then discarded.

He slipped the stole around his neck and whispered to hisalter ego in the mirror, 'In G.o.d's House I am G.o.d's priest,' and he turned and went out.

Later, standing at the altar with the candles flickering and the organ playing, there was genuine pa.s.sion in his voice as he cried, 'I confess to Almighty G.o.d and to you, my brothers and sisters, that I have sinned through my own fault.'

And when he struck his breast, asking blessed Mary ever Virgin to pray for him to the Lord our G.o.d, there were sudden hot tears in his eyes.

At Charles de Gaulle Airport, Tony Hunter waited beside the exit from customs and immigration. He was a tall man in his mid-thirties with stooped shoulders. The soft brown hair was too long, the tan linen suit creased, and he smoked a Gitane cigarette without once taking it from his mouth as he readParis Soir and kept an eye on the exit. After a while, Devlin appeared. He wore a black Burberry trenchcoat, an old black

felt hat slanted over one ear, and carried one bag.

Hunter, who had pulled Devlin's photo and description off the wire, went to meet him. 'Professor Devlin? Tony Hunter. I've got a car waiting.' They walked towards the exit. 'Was it a good flight?'

'There's no such thing,' Devlin told him. 'About a thousand years ago, I flew from Germany to Ireland in a Dornier bomber on behalf of England's enemies and jumped by parachute from six thousand feet. I've never got over it.'

They reached Hunter's Peugeot in the car park and as they drove away, Hunter said, 'You can stay the night with me. I've got an apartment on the Avenue Foch.'

'Doing well for yourself, son, if you're living there. I didn't know Ferguson handed out bags of gold.'

'You know Paris well?'

'You could say that.'

'The apartment's my own, not the Department's. My father died last year. Left me rather well off.'

'What about the girl? Is she staying at the Soviet Emba.s.sy?'

'Good G.o.d, no. They've got her at the Ritz. She's something of a star, you see. Plays rather well. I heard her do a Mozart concerto the other night. Forgotten which one, but she was excellent.'

'They tell me she's free to come and go?'

'Oh, yes, absolutely. The fact that her foster father is General Maslovsky takes care of that. I followed her all over the place this morning. Luxembourg Gardens, then lunch on one of those boat trips down the Seine. From what I hear, her only commitment tomorrow is a rehearsal at the Conservatoire during the afternoon.'

'Which means the morning is the time to make contact?'

'I should have thought so.' They were well into Paris by now, just pa.s.sing the Gare du Nord. Hunter added, 'There's a bagman due in from London on the breakfast shuttle with doc.u.mentation Ferguson's having rushed through. Forged pa.s.sport. Stuff like that.'

Devlin laughed out loud. 'Does he think all I have to do is ask and she'll come?' He shook his head. 'Mad, that one.'