by Jack Higgins
'Oh, I do, Professor Devlin. You see, I think I recognize you now. The true revolutionary, the failed romantic who didn't really want it to stop.'
'And what would it be, exactly?'
'Why, the game, Professor. The mad, dangerous, wonderful game that alone makes life worth living for a man like you. Oh, you may like the cloistered life of the lecture room or tell yourself that you do, but at the first chance to sniff powder…'
'Can I take time to catch my breath?' Devlin asked.
'And worst of all,' she carried on relentlessly, 'is your need to have it both ways. To have all the fun, but also to have a nice clean revolution where no innocent bystanders get hurt.'
She sat there, arms folded in front of her in an inimitable gesture as if she would hold herself in, and Devlin said, 'Have you missed anything out, would you say?'
She smiled tightly. 'Sometimes I get very wound up like a clock spring and I hold it until the spring goes.'
'And it all bursts out and you're into your imitation of Freud,' he told her. 'I bet that goes down big over the vodka and strawberries after dinner at old Maslovsky's summer dasha.'
Her face tightened. 'You will not make jokes about him. He has been very good to me. The only father I have known.'
'Perhaps,' Devlin said. 'But it wasn't always so.'
She gazed at him angrily. 'All right, Professor Devlin, we have fenced enough. Perhaps it is time you told me why you are here.'
He omitted nothing, starting with Viktor Levin and Tony Villiers in the Yemen and ending with the murder of Billy White and Levin outside Kilrea. When he was finished, she sat there for a long moment without saying anything.
'Levin said you remembered Drumore and the events surrounding your father's death,' Devlin said gently.
'Like a nightmare, it drifts to the surface of consciousness now and then. Strange, but it is as if it's happening to someone else and I'm looking down at the little girl on her knees in the rain beside her father's body.'
'And Mikhail Kelly or Cuchulain as they call him? You remember him?'
'Till my dying day,' she said flatly. 'It was such a strange face, the face of a ravaged young saint and he was so kind to me, so gentle, that was the strangest thing of all.'
Devlin took her arm. 'Let's walk for a while.' They started along the path and he asked, 'Has Maslovsky ever discussed those events with you?'
'No.'
Her arm under his hand was going rigid. 'Easy, girl dear,' he said softly. 'And tell me the most important thing of all. Have you ever tried to discuss it with him?'
'No, damn you!' She pulled away, turning, her face full of passion.
'But then, you wouldn't want to do that, would you?' he said. 'That would be opening a can of worms with a vengeance.'
She stood there looking at him, holding herself in again. 'What do you want of me, Professor Devlin? You want me to defect like Viktor? Wade through all those thousands of photos in the hope that I might recognize him?'
'That's a reasonable facsimile of the original mad idea. The IRA people in Dublin would never let the material they're holding out of their own hands, you see.'
'Why should I?' She sat on a nearby bench and pulled him down. 'Let me tell you something. You make a big mistake, you people in the West, when you assume that all Russians are straining at the leash, anxious only for a chance to get out. I love my country. I like it there. It suits me. I'm a respected artist. I can travel wherever I like, even in Paris. No KGB - no men in black overcoats watching my every move. I go where I please.'
'With a foster-father, a lieutenant-general in the KGB in command of Department V amongst other things, I'd be surprised if you didn't. It used to be called Department 13, by the way. Distinctly unlucky for some, and then Maslovsky reorganized it in nineteen sixty-eight. It could best be described as an assassination bureau, but then, no well-run organization should be without one.'
'Just like your IRA?' She leaned forward. 'How many men have you killed for a cause you believed in, Professor?'
He smiled gently and touched her cheek in a strangely intimate gesture. 'Point taken, but I can see I'm wasting your time. You might as well have this, though.'
He took a largish buff envelope from his pocket, the one that had been delivered by Ferguson's bagman that morning and placed it in her lap.
'What is it?' she demanded.
'The people in London, being ever hopeful, have made you a present of a British passport with a brand new identity. Your photo looks smashing. There's cash in there - French francs - and details of alternative ways of getting to London.'
'I don't need it.'
'Well, you've got it now. And this.' He took his card from his wallet and gave it to her. 'I'll fly back to Dublin this afternoon. No point in hanging around.'
Which wasn't strictly true, for the bagman from London had flown in with more than the package containing the false passport. There had also been a message from Ferguson for Devlin personally. McGuiness and the Chief of Staff were hopping mad. As far as they were concerned, the leak was none of their doing. They wanted out and Devlin was to mend fences.
She put the packet and the card into her shoulder bag with some reluctance. 'I'm sorry. You came a long way for nothing.'
'You've got my number,' he said. 'Call any time.' He stood up. 'Who knows, you just might start asking questions.'
'I think not, Professor Devlin.' She held out her hand. 'Goodbye.'
Devlin held it for a moment, then turned and walked back along the gardens to where Hunter was sitting. 'Come on!' he said. 'Let's get moving!'
Hunter scrambled to his feet and trailed after him. 'What happened?'
'Nothing,' Devlin told him as they reached the car. 'Not a bloody thing. She didn't want to know. Now let's go back to your place so that I can get my bag, then you can take me up to Charles de Gaulle. With luck, I might make the afternoon flight to Dublin.'
'You're going back?'
'Yes, I'm going back,' Liam Devlin said, and he sank down in his seat and tipped the rim of his black felt hat over his eyes.
Behind them, Tanya Voroninova watched them go, turning out into the traffic of the Rue de Rivoli. She stood there, thinking about things for a moment, then moved out of the gardens and started to walk along the pavement, considering the extraordinary events of the morning. Liam Devlin was a dangerously attractive man, no doubt about it, but more than that, his story had been terribly disturbing for her and events from a past perhaps best forgotten were trying to call her, as if from a great distance.
She was aware of a car pulling into the kerb ahead of her, a black Mercedes saloon. As she approached it, the rear door opened and Natasha Rubenova looked out. She seemed agitated. No, more than that — afraid.
'Tanya!'
Tanya turned towards her. 'Natasha - what on earth are you doing here? What's happened?'
'Please, Tanya. Get in!'
There was a man sitting beside her, young and with a hard, implacable face. He wore a blue suit, dark blue tie and white shirt. He also wore black leather gloves. The man in the passenger seat next to the chauffeur could have been his twin. They looked as if they might be employed by a high class funeral firm and Tanya felt slightly uneasy. 'What on earth is going on?'
In a second, the young man beside Natasha was out of the car, a hand taking Tanya above the left elbow in a grip, light, but strong. 'My name is Turkm — Peter Turkin, Comrade. My colleague is Lieutenant Ivan Shepilov. We are officers of GRU and you will come with us.'
Soviet Military Intelligence. She was more than uneasy now. She was frightened and tried to pull away.
'Please, Comrade.' His grip tightened. 'You'll only hurt yourself by struggling and you have a concert tonight. We don't want to disappoint your fans.'
There was something in his eyes, a hint of cruelty, of perversity, that was very disturbing. 'Leave me alone!' She tried to strike him and he blocked her blow with ease. 'You'll answer for this. Don't you know who my father is?'
'Lieutenant-General Ivan Maslovsky of the KGB, under whose direct orders I am acting now, so be a good girl and do as you are told.'
She had no will to resist, so great was the shock, and found herself sitting next to Natasha who was close to tears. Turkm got in on the other side.
'Back to the Embassy!' he told the chauffeur. As the Mercedes pulled away, Tanya held on to Natasha's hand tightly. For the first time since she was a little girl, she felt really and truly afraid.
Chapter Seven
NIKOLAI BELOV was in his fifties, a handsome enough man with the slightly fleshy face of someone who enjoyed the good things of life more than was healthy for him, the kind of good Marxist whose dark suit and overcoat had been tailored in London's Savile Row. The silver hair and decadent good looks gave him the air of an ageing and rather distinguished actor instead of a colonel in the KGB.
This trip to Lyons could hardly have been classified as essential business, but it had been possible to take his secretary, Irana Vronsky, with him. As she had been his mistress for some years now, it meant that they had enjoyed an extremely pleasurable couple of days, the memory of which had faded rather rapidly when he discovered the situation waiting for him on his return to the Soviet Embassy.
He had hardly settled into his office when Irana came in. 'There's an urgent communication from KGB Moscow for your eyes only.'
'Who's it from?'
'General Maslovsky.'
The name alone was enough to bring Belov to his feet. He went out and she followed him down to the coding office where the operator got the relevant tape. Belov keyed in his personal code, the machine whirred, the operator tore off the print-out sheet and handed it to him. Belov read it and swore softly. He took Irana by the elbow and hurried her out. 'Get me Lieutenant Shepilov and Captain Turkin. Whatever else they're on, they drop.'
Belov was seated at his desk, working his way through papers when the door opened and Irana Vronsky ushered in Tanya, Natasha Rubenova and Shepilov and Turkin. Belov knew Tanya well. His official position at the Embassy for some years had been senior cultural attache. As part of that cover role he had escorted her to parties on a number of occasions.
He stood up. 'It's good to see you.'
'I demand to know what's going on here,' she told him passionately. 'I'm pulled off the pavement by these bully boys here and…'
'I'm sure Captain Turkin was only acting as he saw fit.' Belov nodded to Irana. 'Get the Moscow call now.' He turned to Tanya. 'Calm yourself and sit down.' She stood there, mutinous, then glanced at Shepilov and Turkin standing against the wall, gloved hands folded in front of them. 'Please,' Belov said.
She sat and he offered her a cigarette. Such was her agitation that she took it and Turkin moved in smoothly and lit it for her. His lighter was not only by Cartier, but gold. She coughed as the smoke caught at the back of her throat.
Belov said, 'Now tell me what you did this morning.'
'I walked to the Tuileries Gardens.' The cigarette was helping, calming her down. She had control now and that meant she could fight.
'And then?'
'I went into the Louvre.'
'And who did you talk to?'
The question was direct and meant to entrap by causing an automatic response. To her own surprise, she found herself replying calmly, 'I was on my own. I didn't go with anyone. Perhaps I didn't make that clear?'
'Yes, I know that,' he said patiently. 'But did you speak to anyone when you got there? Did anyone approach you?'
She managed a smile. 'You mean, did anyone try to pick me up? No such luck. Considering its reputation, Paris can be very disappointing.' She stubbed out the cigarette. 'Look, what's going on, Nikolai? Can't you tell me?'
Belov had no reason to disbelieve her. In fact he very much wanted to. He had, in effect, been absent from duty the night before. If he had not been, he would have received Maslovsky's directive then and Tanya Voroninova would not have been allowed to stir from her suite at the Ritz that morning. Certainly not unaccompanied.
The door opened and Irana entered. 'General Maslovsky on line one.'
Belov picked up the phone and Tanya tried to snatch it. 'Let me speak to him.'
Belov pulled away from her. 'Belov here, General.'
'Ah, Nikolai, she is with you now?'
'Yes, General.' It was a measure of the length of their friendship that Belov missed out the Comrade.
'And she is under guard? She has spoken to no one?'
'Yes to both questions, General.'
'And the man Devlin has not attempted to get in touch with her?'
'It would seem not. We've had the computer pull him out of the files for us. Pictures, everything. If he tries to get close, we'll know.'
'Fine. Now give me Tanya.'
Belov handed her the phone and she almost snatched it from him. 'Papa?'
She had called him so for years and his voice was warm and kindly as always. 'You are well?'
'Bewildered,' she said. 'No one will tell me what is happening.'
'It is sufficient for you to know that for reasons which are unimportant now, you have become involved in a matter of state security. A very serious business indeed. You must be returned to Moscow as soon as may be.'
'But my tour?'
The voice of the man at the other end of the line was suddenly cold, implacable and detached. 'Will be cancelled. You will appear at the Conservatoire tonight and fulfil that obligation. The first direct flight to Moscow is not until tomorrow morning anyway. There will be a suitable press release. The old wrist injury giving problems again. A need for further treatment. That should do nicely.'
All her life, or so it seemed, she had done his bidding, allowed him to shape her career, aware of his genuine concern and love, but this was new territory.
She tried again, 'But Papa!'
'Enough of argument. You will do as you are told and you will obey Colonel Belov in everything. Put him back on.'
She handed the phone to Belov mutely, hand shaking. Never had he spoken to her like this. Was she no longer his daughter? Simply another Soviet citizen to be ordered about at will?
'Belov, General.' He listened for a moment or two then nodded. 'No problem. You can rely on me.'
He put the phone down and opened a file on his desk. The photo he took from it and held up to her was of Liam Devlin, a few years younger perhaps, but Devlin unmistakably.
'This man is Irish. His name is Liam Devlin. He is a university professor from Dublin with a reputation for a certain Irish charm. It would be a mistake for anyone to take him lightly. He has been a member of the Irish Republican Army for all his adult life. An important leader at one stage. He is also a ruthless and capable gunman who has killed many times. As a young man, he was an official executioner for his people.'
Tanya took a deep breath. 'And what has he to do with me?'
'That need not concern you. It is sufficient for you to know that he would very much like to talk to you and that we simply can't allow, can we Captain?'
Turkin showed no emotion. 'No, Colonel.'
'So,' Belov told her, 'you will return to the Ritz now, you and Comrade Rubenova with Lieutenant Shepilov and Captain Turkin in attendance. You will not go out again until tonight's performance when they will escort you to the Conservatoire. I will be there myself because of the reception afterwards. The Ambassador will be there and the President of the Republic Monsieur Mitterand, himself. His presence is the only reason we are not cancelling tonight's concert. Is there anything you don't understand in all this?'
'No,' she said coldly, her face white and strained. 'I understand only too well.'
'Good,' he said. 'Then go back to the hotel now and get some rest.'
She turned, Turkin opened the door for her, a slight, twisted smile on his mouth. She brushed past him, followed by a thoroughly frightened Natasha Rubenova and Shepilov and Turkin moved in behind.
In Kilrea, Devlin had not been long back at the cottage. He di
dn't have a regular housekeeper, just an old lady who came in twice a week, knocked the place into shape and did the laundry, but he preferred it that way. He put the kettle on in the kitchen, went into the living room and quickly made the fire. He had just put a match to it when there was a rap on the French window and he turned to find McGuiness there.
Devlin unlocked it quickly. 'That was quick. I'm only just back.'
'So I was told within five minutes of you landing at the airport.' McGuiness was angry. 'What's the score, Liam? What's going on?'
'What do you mean?'
'Levin and Billy, and now Mike Murphy's been pulled out of the Liffey with two bullets in him. It must have been Cuchulain. You know it and I know it. The thing is, how did he know?'
'I don't have any fast answer on that one.' Devlin found two glasses and the Bushmills and poured. 'Try this for size and calm down.'
McGuiness swallowed a little. 'A leak is what I think, at the London end. It's a well-known fact that the British security service has been heavily infiltrated by the Soviets for years.'
'A slight exaggeration, but some truth to it,' Devlin said. 'As mentioned earlier, I know that Ferguson thinks the leak is from your people.'
'To hell with that. I say we pull in Cherny and squeeze him dry.'
'Maybe,' Devlin said. 'I'd have to check on that with Ferguson. Let's give it another day.'
'All right,' McGuiness said with obvious reluctance. 'I'll be in touch, Liam. Close touch.' And he went out through the French windows.
Devlin poured another whiskey and sat there savouring it and thinking, then he picked up the phone. He was about to dial, then hesitated. He replaced the receiver, got the black plastic box from the desk and switched it on. There was no positive response from the telephone, nor indeed from anywhere in the room.
'So,' he said softly, 'Ferguson or McGuiness. It's one or other of the buggers that it's down to.'
He dialled the Cavendish Square
number and the receiver was picked up at once. 'Fox here.'
'Is he there, Harry?'
'Not at the moment. How was Paris?'