very vain. I didn't shave very much then,” Murphy explained. He picked up the menu that had been waiting for him. “The beef here is excellent, and the vegetables are always fresh. This place is full of bloody tourists in the summer -- those who don't want French fries -- driving prices up as they always do. Thank God they're all back home in America now, leaving so much money behind in this poor country.”
“What information do you have for us?”
“Information?”
“You asked for the meeting, Mr. Murphy,” Ashley pointed out.
“The purpose of the meeting is to assure you that we had no part in that bloody fiasco yesterday.”
“I could have read that in the papers -- I did, in fact.”
“It was felt that a more personal communique was in order, Mr. Ashley.”
“Why should we believe you?” Ashley asked, sipping at his whiskey. Both men kept their voices low and level, though neither man had the slightest doubt as to what they thought of each other.
“Because we are not as crazy as that,” Murphy replied. The waiter came, and both men ordered. Ashley chose the wine, a promising Bordeaux. The meal was on his expense account. He was only forty minutes off the flight from London's Gatwick airport. The request for a meeting had been made before dawn in a telephone call to the British Ambassador in Dublin.
“Is that a fact?” Ashley said after the waiter left, staring into the cold blue eyes across the table.
“The Royal Family are strictly off limits. As marvelous a political target as they all are” -- Murphy smiled -- “we've known for some time that an attack on them would be counterproductive.”
“Really?” Ashley pronounced the word as only an Englishman can do it. Murphy flushed angrily at this most elegant of insults.
“Mr. Ashley, we are enemies. I would as soon kill you as have dinner with you. But even enemies can negotiate, can't they, now?”
“Go on.”
“We had no part of it. You have my word.”
“Your word as a Marxist-Leninist?” Ashley inquired with a smile.
“You are very good at provoking people, Mr. Ashley.” Murphy ventured his own smile. “But not today. I am here on a mission of peace and understanding.”
Ashley nearly laughed out loud, but caught himself and grinned into his drink.
“Mr. Murphy, I would not shed a single tear if our lads were to catch up with you, but you are a worthy adversary, I'll say that. And a charming bastard.”
Ah, the English sense of fair play. Murphy reflected. That's why we'll win eventually, Mr. Ashley.
No, you won't. Ashley had seen that look before.
“How can I make you believe me?” Murphy asked reasonably.
“Names and addresses,” Ashley answered quietly.
“No. We cannot do that and you know it.”
“If you wish to establish some sort of quid pro quo, that's how you must go about it.”
Murphy sighed. “Surely you know how we are organized. Do you think we can punch up a bloody computer command and print out our roster? We're not even sure ourselves who they are. Some men, they just drop out. Many come south and simply vanish, more afraid of us than of you, they are -- and with reason,” Murphy added. “The one you have alive, Sean Miller -- we've never even heard the name.”
“And Kevin O'Donnell?”
“Yes, he's probably the leader. He dropped off the earth four years ago, as you well know, after -- ah, you know the story as well as I.”
Kevin Joseph O'Donnell, Ashley reminded himself. Thirty-four now. Six feet, one hundred sixty pounds, unmarried -- this data was old and therefore suspect. The all-time Provo champion at “own-goals.” Kevin had been the most ruthless chief of security the Proves had ever had, thrown out after it had been proven that he'd used his power as counterintelligence boss to purge the Organization of political elements he disapproved of. What was the figure -- ten, fifteen solid members that he'd had killed or maimed before the Brigade Commander'd found him out? The
“What information do you have for us?”
“Information?”
“You asked for the meeting, Mr. Murphy,” Ashley pointed out.
“The purpose of the meeting is to assure you that we had no part in that bloody fiasco yesterday.”
“I could have read that in the papers -- I did, in fact.”
“It was felt that a more personal communique was in order, Mr. Ashley.”
“Why should we believe you?” Ashley asked, sipping at his whiskey. Both men kept their voices low and level, though neither man had the slightest doubt as to what they thought of each other.
“Because we are not as crazy as that,” Murphy replied. The waiter came, and both men ordered. Ashley chose the wine, a promising Bordeaux. The meal was on his expense account. He was only forty minutes off the flight from London's Gatwick airport. The request for a meeting had been made before dawn in a telephone call to the British Ambassador in Dublin.
“Is that a fact?” Ashley said after the waiter left, staring into the cold blue eyes across the table.
“The Royal Family are strictly off limits. As marvelous a political target as they all are” -- Murphy smiled -- “we've known for some time that an attack on them would be counterproductive.”
“Really?” Ashley pronounced the word as only an Englishman can do it. Murphy flushed angrily at this most elegant of insults.
“Mr. Ashley, we are enemies. I would as soon kill you as have dinner with you. But even enemies can negotiate, can't they, now?”
“Go on.”
“We had no part of it. You have my word.”
“Your word as a Marxist-Leninist?” Ashley inquired with a smile.
“You are very good at provoking people, Mr. Ashley.” Murphy ventured his own smile. “But not today. I am here on a mission of peace and understanding.”
Ashley nearly laughed out loud, but caught himself and grinned into his drink.
“Mr. Murphy, I would not shed a single tear if our lads were to catch up with you, but you are a worthy adversary, I'll say that. And a charming bastard.”
Ah, the English sense of fair play. Murphy reflected. That's why we'll win eventually, Mr. Ashley.
No, you won't. Ashley had seen that look before.
“How can I make you believe me?” Murphy asked reasonably.
“Names and addresses,” Ashley answered quietly.
“No. We cannot do that and you know it.”
“If you wish to establish some sort of quid pro quo, that's how you must go about it.”
Murphy sighed. “Surely you know how we are organized. Do you think we can punch up a bloody computer command and print out our roster? We're not even sure ourselves who they are. Some men, they just drop out. Many come south and simply vanish, more afraid of us than of you, they are -- and with reason,” Murphy added. “The one you have alive, Sean Miller -- we've never even heard the name.”
“And Kevin O'Donnell?”
“Yes, he's probably the leader. He dropped off the earth four years ago, as you well know, after -- ah, you know the story as well as I.”
Kevin Joseph O'Donnell, Ashley reminded himself. Thirty-four now. Six feet, one hundred sixty pounds, unmarried -- this data was old and therefore suspect. The all-time Provo champion at “own-goals.” Kevin had been the most ruthless chief of security the Proves had ever had, thrown out after it had been proven that he'd used his power as counterintelligence boss to purge the Organization of political elements he disapproved of. What was the figure -- ten, fifteen solid members that he'd had killed or maimed before the Brigade Commander'd found him out? The
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