Touch the Devil

Barry, at that precise moment, was doing roughly what Ferguson was: standing at a window with a large cognac in his hand. In his case, the apartment was in Paris and the view was of the Seine. There was a discreet tap at the door and when he opened it on the chain, Romanov was outside.

‘Well?’ Barry demanded as the Russian entered.

‘Considerable Service Five activity, Frank. They know you were behind the whole affair so they’re leaving no stone unturned to find you, with full assistance from British Intelligence on this one, I might add. Your Brigadier Ferguson and Colonel Guyon of Service Five are old friends.’

‘Well, that makes a change. I didn’t think DI5 and the French Intelligence Service were on speaking terms. How can you be sure that Ferguson and Guyon are such good pals, or have you an informer in Guyon’s department?’

‘Anything is possible,’ Romanov told him.

Barry was surprised and showed it. ‘You’re kidding. I thought British Intelligence had cleaned out all its moles by now. Your man certainly didn’t do me any good. What about Corder? I had to find out about him for myself.’

‘To be honest, Frank, at the moment we’re only getting peripheral information, but we expect that to improve.’

‘I don’t get it,’ Barry said. ‘You’d expect DI5 to check its employees’ credentials right back to the womb.’

‘Perhaps they do, Frank. But in this case it wouldn’t do them any good.’

‘One good thing. At least there’s no one left who can finger me at the moment, except you, of course, old son.’

Romanov’s smile was forced. ‘On the whole, I think it would be sensible if you dropped out of sight for a while.’

‘And where would you suggest?’

‘England.’

Barry laughed. ‘Well, it’s a novel enough idea. The last place they’d expect. Would you have somewhere specific in mind?’

‘The Lake District.’

‘They say it’s lovely at this time of the year.’ Barry poured himself another cognac. ‘All right, Nikolai, let’s be having it.’

The Russian opened his briefcase and took out a selection of maps. ‘It’s painfully simple. The balance of power as regards ground forces in Europe is hugely in our favour, mainly because we would be able to put at least four thousand more tanks in the field than the NATO forces.’

‘So?’

‘The West Germans have come up with a rather brilliant new weapon. Light enough to be carried by any infantry section. When fired, its pod releases twelve rockets simultaneously. Imagine them as missiles in miniature. Heat seeking, of course. Any one of these rockets is capable of knocking out our largest tank.’

‘Jesus,’ Barry said. ‘You’d wonder how they lost the war. What’ll they come up with next?’

‘We’ve tried every way possible to get hold of one, but so far, we’ve failed. We must have one, Frank.’

‘So, where do I come into it?’

Romanov started to unfold the maps. ‘I’ve had a report today of a rather interesting development. The Germans intend to demonstrate this weapon to the British and others at the British Army Rocket Proving Ground near Wast Water in the Lake District, next Thursday. There’s a team of Germans taking one over on Wednesday. An officer and six men. There’s a disused RAF base at Brisingham which is only twenty miles from the Proving Ground. They’ll land there to be taken the rest of the way by truck.’

‘Interesting.’ Barry opened the maps right across the table.

‘Frank, pull this off for me and it would be worth half a million.’

Barry didn’t seem to hear him. ‘I’d need ground support. Someone I could rely on in the general area of things. A thorough-going crook preferably. Could your people in London arrange that?’

‘Anything, Frank.’

‘And more maps. English Ordnance Survey maps. I want to know that area like the back of my hand.’

‘I’ll have them round to you in the morning.’

‘Tonight,’ Barry said. ‘I’ll also need fake passports. One British, one French and one American, just to vary things. Details like who I am, I’ll leave to your experts.’

‘All right,’ Romanov said.

‘And keep the SDECE off my back. Tell them I’ve been in Turkey or gone to the Argentine.’

Since the Sapphire scandal, the intelligence networks of most Western countries had had a rather poor opinion of the French Intelligence Service, believing it to be penetrated by the KGB, which it was – certainly enough for Romanov to be able to agree to Barry’s request.

‘And one more thing,’ Barry added as Romanov opened the door. ‘A banking account in my English identity for fifty thousand pounds’ working capital.’ He smiled softly. ‘And it’ll cost you a million, Nikolai. This one will cost you a million.’

Romanov shrugged. ‘Frank, just get it for us and you can name your own price, I promise you.’

He went out and Barry locked and chained the door, then returned to the table, sat down at the maps and started to give the whole thing some thought.

Back in London, Harry Fox was just about to step into the shower when his ’phone rang. He cursed, pulled a towel around him and went to answer it.

‘Harry, Ferguson here. You know what you said earlier about setting a thief to catch a thief. You’ve given me a very interesting idea. Go to the office and bring me Martin Brosnan’s file. You might as well bring Devlin’s while you’re at it.’

Fox glanced at his watch. ‘You mean in the morning, sir?’

‘I mean now, damn you!’

Ferguson slammed down his ’phone and Fox replaced his receiver and checked his watch. It was just after two a.m. He sighed, returned to the bathroom and started to dress.

3 (#u34de0702-34ff-53ad-8c88-fc6d8e712fe1)

‘Martin Aodh Brosnan,’ Ferguson said. ‘The Aodh is Gaelic for Hugh, if you’re interested, after his maternal grandfather, a well-known Dublin Union leader in his day.’

The fire was burning well. It was four o’clock in the morning and Harry Fox felt unaccountably alive, except for the hand, of course, which ached a little as if it were still there. That always happened under stress.

‘According to the file he was born in Boston in nineteen forty-five, sir, of Irish-American parentage. His great, great-grandfather emigrated from Kerry during the famine. Made the family fortune out of shipping during the second half of the nineteenth century, since when they’ve never looked back. Oil, construction, chemical plants – you name it. And very social register.’ Fox frowned and looked up. ‘A Protestant. That’s astonishing.’

‘Why?’ Ferguson said. ‘A lot of prejudice against the Catholics in America in the old days. Probably one of his ancestors changed sides. He’s hardly the first Protestant to want a United Ireland. What about Wolfe Tone? He started it all. And the man who came closest to getting it from the British Government of his day, Charles Stewart Parnell, was another.’

‘According to this, Brosnan’s mother is a Catholic.’

‘Unremittingly so. Mass four times a week. Born in Dublin. Met her husband when she was a student at Boston University. He’s been dead for some years. She rules the family empire with a rod of iron. I believe the only human being she has never been able to bend to her will is her son.’

‘He did all the right things, it seems. Very Ivy League stuff. Top prep school, Andover. Took a degree in English literature at Princeton.’

‘Majored,’ Ferguson corrected him.