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 behind it all.
The phone rang and when he answered it, Ferguson was at the other end.
'It's all set. McGuiness is going to see you.'
'When?'
'They'll let you know.'
The line went dead and Fox replaced the receiver. Martin McGuiness, Chief of Northern Command for the PIRA, amongst other things; at least he would be dealing with one of the more intelligent members of the Army Council.
He could see the Liffey at the far end of the street, and rain rattled against the window. He felt unaccountably depressed. Ireland, of course. For a moment, he felt a distinct ache in the left hand again, the hand that was no longer there. All in the mind, he told himself, and went downstairs to the bar.
It was deserted except for a young Italian barman. Fox ordered a Scotch and water and sat in a corner by the window. There was a choice of newspapers on the table and he was working his way throughThe Times when Ryan appeared like a shadow at his shoulder.
'Your cab's here, sir.'
Fox glanced up. 'My cab? Oh, yes, of course.' He frowned, noticing the blue raincoat across Ryan's arm. 'Isn't that mine?'
'I took the liberty of getting it for you from your room, sir. You'll be needing it. This rain's with us for a while yet, I think.'
Again, there was something in the eyes, almost amusement. Fox allowed him to help him on with the coat and followed him outside and down the steps to where a black taxicab waited.
Ryan opened the door for him and said, as Fox got in, 'Have a nice afternoon, sir.'
The cab moved away quickly. The driver was a young man with dark, curly hair. He wore a brown leather jacket and white scarf. He didn't say a word, simply turned into the traffic stream at the end of the street and drove along George's Quay. A man in a cloth cap and reefer coat stood beside a green telephone box. The cab slid into the kerb, the man in the reefer coat opened the rear door and got in beside Fox smoothly.
'On your way, Billy,' he said to the driver and turned to Fox genially. 'Jesus and Mary, but I thought I'd drown out there. Arms up, if you please, Captain. Not too much. Just enough.' He searched Fox thoroughly and professionally and found nothing. He leaned back and lit a cigarette, then he took a pistol from his pocket and held it on his knee. 'Know what this is, Captain?'
'A Ceska, from the look of it,' Fox said. 'Silenced version the Czechs made a few years back.'
'Full marks. Just remember I've got it when you're talking to Mr McGuiness. As they say in the movies, one false move and you're dead.'
They continued to follow the line of the river, the traffic heavy in the rain and finally pulled in at the kerb half-way along Victoria Quay.
'Out!' the man in the reefer coat said and Fox followed him. Rain drove across the river on the wind and he pulled up his collar against it. The man in the reefer coat passed
under a tree and nodded towards a small public shelter beside the quay wall. 'He doesn't like to be kept waiting. He's a busy man.'
He lit another cigarette and leaned against the tree and Fox moved along the pavement and went up the steps into the shelter. There was a man sitting on the bench in
'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 behind it all.
The phone rang and when he answered it, Ferguson was at the other end.
'It's all set. McGuiness is going to see you.'
'When?'
'They'll let you know.'
The line went dead and Fox replaced the receiver. Martin McGuiness, Chief of Northern Command for the PIRA, amongst other things; at least he would be dealing with one of the more intelligent members of the Army Council.
He could see the Liffey at the far end of the street, and rain rattled against the window. He felt unaccountably depressed. Ireland, of course. For a moment, he felt a distinct ache in the left hand again, the hand that was no longer there. All in the mind, he told himself, and went downstairs to the bar.
It was deserted except for a young Italian barman. Fox ordered a Scotch and water and sat in a corner by the window. There was a choice of newspapers on the table and he was working his way throughThe Times when Ryan appeared like a shadow at his shoulder.
'Your cab's here, sir.'
Fox glanced up. 'My cab? Oh, yes, of course.' He frowned, noticing the blue raincoat across Ryan's arm. 'Isn't that mine?'
'I took the liberty of getting it for you from your room, sir. You'll be needing it. This rain's with us for a while yet, I think.'
Again, there was something in the eyes, almost amusement. Fox allowed him to help him on with the coat and followed him outside and down the steps to where a black taxicab waited.
Ryan opened the door for him and said, as Fox got in, 'Have a nice afternoon, sir.'
The cab moved away quickly. The driver was a young man with dark, curly hair. He wore a brown leather jacket and white scarf. He didn't say a word, simply turned into the traffic stream at the end of the street and drove along George's Quay. A man in a cloth cap and reefer coat stood beside a green telephone box. The cab slid into the kerb, the man in the reefer coat opened the rear door and got in beside Fox smoothly.
'On your way, Billy,' he said to the driver and turned to Fox genially. 'Jesus and Mary, but I thought I'd drown out there. Arms up, if you please, Captain. Not too much. Just enough.' He searched Fox thoroughly and professionally and found nothing. He leaned back and lit a cigarette, then he took a pistol from his pocket and held it on his knee. 'Know what this is, Captain?'
'A Ceska, from the look of it,' Fox said. 'Silenced version the Czechs made a few years back.'
'Full marks. Just remember I've got it when you're talking to Mr McGuiness. As they say in the movies, one false move and you're dead.'
They continued to follow the line of the river, the traffic heavy in the rain and finally pulled in at the kerb half-way along Victoria Quay.
'Out!' the man in the reefer coat said and Fox followed him. Rain drove across the river on the wind and he pulled up his collar against it. The man in the reefer coat passed
under a tree and nodded towards a small public shelter beside the quay wall. 'He doesn't like to be kept waiting. He's a busy man.'
He lit another cigarette and leaned against the tree and Fox moved along the pavement and went up the steps into the shelter. There was a man sitting on the bench in
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