Part 39 (1/2)

There is just one item of minor importance, but worth mentioning,' Devlin told him. 'On your side of the water, I'm still a wanted man from way back. A member of an illegal organization is the least of it.'

Til take care of that, for G.o.d's sake,' Ferguson said. 'Just get your backside on that plane,' and he hung up.

Tanya Voroninova brought tea in from the kitchen. 'What happens now?'

'I'm going with you to London,' he said, 'and we'll take it from there.'

'And Cussane? Where is he, would you say?'

'Anywhere and everywhere.' He sipped some of his tea. 'He has one problem however. The Pope arrives Friday according to the morning paper. Visits Canterbury the next day.'

'Sat.u.r.day the twenty-ninth?'

'Exactly. So Cussane has some time to fill. The question is, where does he intend to go?'

The phone rang. McGuiness was on the other end. 'You've spoken to Ferguson?'

'I have.'

'What does he intend to do?'

'G.o.d knows. He's asked me to go over.'

'And will you?'

'Yes.'

'Jesus, Liam, did you hear about this Russian, Lubov, turning up dead in the cinema? He preaches a h.e.l.l of a sermon this priest of yours.'

'He's developed a slightly different att.i.tude to the job since he discovered his own people were trying to knock him off,' Devlin said. 'Interesting to see where it takes him.'

'To Canterbury is where it's taking the mad b.a.s.t.a.r.d,' McGuiness said. 'And we can't help with that. It's up to British Intelligence to handle this one. Nothing more the IRA can do for them. Watch your back, Liam.'

He rang off and Devlin sat there, frowning thoughtfully.

He stood up. 'I'm going out for a little while,' he said to Tanya. 'Shan't be long,' and he went out through the French windows.

The Customs at Blackpool were just as courteous as they had been at Ronaldsway. Cussane actually paused, smiling, and offered his bag as the stream of pa.s.sengers moved through.

'Anything to declare, Father?' the Customs officer asked.

Cussane unzipped his bag. 'A bottle of Scotch and two hundred cigarettes.'

The Customs officer grinned. 'You could have had a litre of wine as well. It isn't your day, Father.'

'Obviously not.' Cussane zipped up his bag and moved on.

He hesitated outside the entrance of the small airport. There were several taxi cabs waiting, but he decided to walk down to the main road instead. He had, after all, all the time in the world. There was a newsagents across the road and he crossed over and bought a paper. As he came out, a bus pulled in at the stop a few paces away. Its indicator said Morecambe, which he knew was another seaside resort some miles up the coast. On impulse, he ran forward and scrambled on board as it drew away.

He purchased a ticket and went up on the top deck. It was really very pleasant and he felt calm and yet full of energy at the same time. He opened the newspaper and saw that the news from the South Atlantic was not good. HMSCoventry had been bombed and a Cunard container s.h.i.+p, theAtlantic Conveyor, had been hit by an Exocet missile. He lit a cigarette and settled down to read about it.