Confessional. Part 17

She was a small, spa.r.s.e little woman, very fit for her seventy years, and wore a white smock over her nun's robe. She had a doctorate in medicine from the University of London and was a Fellow of the Royal College of Physicians. A lady to be reckoned with. She and Devlin were old adversaries. She had once been French, but that was a long time ago as he was fond of reminding her.

'And what can we do for you, Professor?' she demanded.

'You say that as if to the Devil coming through the door,' Devlin told her.

'An observation of stunning accuracy.'

They started up the stairs and Devlin said, 'Danny Malone - how is he?'

'Dying,' she said calmly. 'Peacefully, I hope. He is one of those patients who responds well to our drug programme which means that pain is only intermittent.'

They reached the first of the open plan wards. Devlin said, 'When?'

This afternoon, tomorrow - next week.' She shrugged. 'He is a fighter, that one.'

'That's true,' Devlin said. 'Big for the cause all his life, Danny.'

'Father Cussane comes in every night,' she said, 'and sits and lets him talk through this violent past of his. I think it troubles him now that he nears his end. The IRA, the killing.'

'Is it all right if I sit with him for a while?'

'Half-an-hour,' she said firmly and moved away followed by the interns.

Malone seemed to sleep, eyes closed, the skin tight on the facial bones, yellow as parchment. His fingers gripped the edge of a sheet tightly.

Devlin sat down. 'Are you there, Danny?'

'Ah, there you are, Father.' Malone opened his eyes, focused weakly and frowned. 'Liam, is that you?'

'None other.'

'I thought it was Father Cussane. We were just talking.'

'Last night, Danny. You must have fallen asleep. Sure and you know he works in Dublin at the Secretariat during the day.'

Malone licked dry lips. 'G.o.d, but I could do with a cup of tea.'

'Let's see if I can get you one,' Devlin got up.

As he did so, there was a sudden commotion on the lower level, voices shouting, drifting up. He frowned and hurried forward to the head of the stairs.

Billy White turned off the main highway on to the narrow road, flanked by fir plantations on either side, that led to Kilrea. 'Not long now.' He half-turned to speak to Levin behind him and noticed, through the rear window, aGardai motorcyclist turn off the main road behind them. He started to slow and Levin said, 'What is it?' 'Gardai,' Billy told him. 'Police to you. One mile over the limit and they'll book you, those sods.'

The police motorcyclist pulled up alongside and waved them down. With his dark goggles and helmet, White could

see nothing of him at all. He pulled in at the side of the road angrily. 'And what in h.e.l.l does this fella want? I wasn't doing an inch over thirty miles an hour.'

The animal instinct which had protected his life for many years of violence made him wary enough to have his hand on the b.u.t.t of the revolver in the left pocket of his raincoat as he got out of the car. The policeman pushed the motorcycle up on to.its stand. He took off his gloves and turned, his raincoat very wet.

'And what can we do you for, officer, on this fine morning?' Billy asked insolently.

The policeman's hand came out of the right pocket of his raincoat holding a Walther, a Carswell silencer screwed on the end of the barrel. White recognized all this in the last moment of his violent life as he frantically attempted to draw his revolver. The bullet ripped into his heart, knocking him back against the car. He bounced off and fell on his face in the road.

In the rear seat, Levin was paralysed with horror, yet he was not afraid for there was an inevitability to all this as if it was somehow ordained. The policeman opened the door and looked in. He paused, then pushed up the goggles.

Levin gazed at him in astonishment. 'Dear G.o.d in heaven,' he whispered in Russian. 'It's you.'

'Yes,' Cuchulain answered in the same language. 'I'm afraid it is,' and he shot him in the head, the Walther making no more than an angry cough.

He pocketed the weapon, walked back to the bike, pulled it off its stand and rode away. It was no more than five minutes later that a van making morning deliveries of bread to the village came across the carnage. The driver and his a.s.sistant got out of their van and approached the scene with trepidation. The driver leaned down to look at White. There was a slight groan from the rear of the car and he glanced inside quickly.

'My G.o.d!' he cried. 'There's another in here and he's still alive. Take the van and get down to the village quick as you like and fetch the ambulance from the hospice.'

When Devlin reached the foyer, they were pushing Viktor Levin on a trolley into the receiving room.

'Sister Anne-Marie's on Ward Three. She'll be right down,' he heard one of the ambulancemen tell the young sister in charge. The driver of the bread van stood there helplessly, blood on one sleeve of his overall coat. He was shaking badly. Devlin lit a cigarette and handed it to him. 'What happened?'

'G.o.d knows. We found this car a couple of miles up the road. One was dead beside it and him in the back. They're bringing the other in now.'

As Devlin, filled with a terrible premonition, turned towards the door, the ambulancemen hurried in with Billy White's body, his face plain to see. The young sister came out of the receiving room and went next door to check White. Devlin stepped in quickly and approached the trolley on which Levin still lay, moaning softly, blood congealing in a terrible head wound.

Devlin leaned down. 'Professor Levin, can you hear me?' Levin opened his eyes. 'I am Liam Devlin. What happened?'

Levin tried to speak, reached out one hand and got hold of the lapel of Devlin's jacket. 'I recognized him. He's, here.'

His eyes rolled, there was a rattle in his throat and as his grip slackened, Sister Anne-Marie hurried in. She pushed Devlin to one side and leaned over Levin, searching for a pulse. After a while, she stepped back. 'You know this man?'

'No,' Devlin told her, which was true in a sense.

'Not that it would matter if you did,' she said. 'He's dead. A miracle he didn't die instantly with a head wound like that.'

She brushed past him and went next door where they had taken White. Devlin stood looking down at Levin, thinking of what Fox had told him of the old man, of the years of waiting to get out. And this was how it had ended. He felt angry, then, at the brutal black humour of life that could allow such a thing to happen.

Harry Fox had only just arrived back at Cavendish Square, had hardly got his coat off, when the phone rang. Ferguson listened, face grave, then placed a hand over the mouthpiece. 'Liam Devlin. It seems the car with your man, Billy White, and Levin was ambushed just outside Kilrea. White was killed instantly, Levin died later in the hospice at Kilrea.'

Fox said, 'Did Liam get to see him?'

'Yes. Levin told him it was Cuchulain. That he recognized him.' -

Fox threw his coat on the nearest chair. 'But I don't understand, sir.'

'Neither do I, Harry.' Ferguson spoke into the mouthpiece, Til get back to you, Devlin.'

He put the receiver down and turned, hands out to the fire. Fox said, 'It doesn't make sense. How would he have known?'

'Some sort of leak, Harry, at the IRA end of things. They never keep their mouths shut.'

'The thing is, sir, what do we do about it?'