Free Touch the Devil by Jack Higgins

carton of cigarettes and a bottle of cognac, and the girl behind the counter put them in a plastic bag and smiled.
    "I hope you enjoyed your visit."
    "Certainly did," Barry said. "Wonderful place. Come back any time." And he walked away to the departure lounge.
    The old farmhouse that nestled among beech trees on the hillside above Killala Bay enjoyed one of the best views of the entire west coast of Ireland. Devlin never tired of it. From the terrace he'd built in his spare time the year before, he could see out beyond the cliffs all the way to Newfoundland, the sun slipping into the sea like a blood orange, and to his right, Sligo Bay and across to the mountains of Donegal. He reluctantly went back into the house.
    Liam Devlin was a small man, no more than five foot five or six, and at sixty-one his dark, wavy hair showed no visible signs of gray. There was a faded scar on the right side of his forehead--an old bullet wound. His face was pale, the eyes a vivid blue, and a slight, ironic smile seemed permanently to lift the corners of his mouth. He had the look of a man who'd found life a bad joke and had decided that the only thing to do was laugh about it.
    He went into the kitchen, rolled up the sleeves of his black woolen shirt, and began to prepare a stew, peeling potatoes and vegetables methodically, whistling to himself. He was still unmarried, circumstances of his life having dictated the situation more than anything else, but now it suited him. It was good to get away from the petty academic rivalries of the university. And he liked to be alone--to find his own space--although there were women enough still, even a student or two, who would have been happy to spend their weekends in Mayo with him.
    He put the stew on the stove, went into the sitting room, and replenished the fire. It was dark outside now. He pulled the curtains at the French windows and poured himself an Irish whisky, Bush-mills, his favorite, and settled down by the fire. He ran a hand along the shelf at the side of the fireplace, selected a copy of The Midnight Court in Irish, and started to read.
    A breath of cold air touched his cheek, the fire stirred. As he glanced up, instantly alert, the door from the hall swung open, and Tony Villiers stepped in. He wore a dark reefer jacket and jeans, and badly needed a shave. The combination made him look a thoroughly dangerous man. The Browning automatic pistol in his right hand confirmed it.
    "Would you look at that now," Devlin said softly and stood up, leaning against the mantlepiece of the great stone fireplace, one foot on the hearth. "And which club are you from, son? Red Hand of Ulster, UVF, or what?"
    "Easy now, professor," Tony Villiers said in impeccable public school English.
    "Christ Jesus," Devlin said amiably, "not you bloody lot again."
    His right hand went up inside the fireplace and grasped the butt of a Walther pistol that hung on a nail there in case of just such an emergency. His hand swung, and he fired in one smooth motion, hitting Villiers in the left shoulder, knocking him back against the wall, the Browning falling to the floor.
    Villiers struggled to one knee, blood oozing between his fingers where he clutched his shoulder. "Good," he said, "really very good."
    "Flattery will get you nowhere, son," Devlin said, and there was a crash behind him as the kitchen door was flung open and Villiers' two companions erupted into the room, machine pistols at the ready.
    "Alive," Tony Villiers cried. "Don't harm a hair on his bloody head, that's an order." He smiled savagely. "I'm expecting rather a lot, professor; they're only trained to kill. I'd advise you to drop it."
    "SAS, is it?" Devlin said.
    "I'm afraid so."
    "Mother Mary, why didn't they send the Devil instead. Now with him, I'm on good terms." He turned to the other two. "Do you think one of you could do something about his shoulder? It's the carpet I'm thinking of--Persian, a gift from a friend."
    Tony Villiers shook his head.