Devlin’s cottage at Kilrea was next to the convent. The garden was a riot of color and the cottage itself was Victorian, with Gothic gables and a steeply pitched roof. Blake Johnson and Dillon arrived in a rental car from Dublin Airport at nine-thirty.

“This is nice,” Johnson said.

“Yes, he likes his garden,” Dillon said and rang the bell.

The door opened and Devlin appeared in black sweater and slacks. “You young bastard,” he cried and hugged Dillon tightly, then he smiled at Blake. “And who might this be?”

“A friend from Washington, Blake Johnson.”

“A friend, is it? Well, I’ve been around long enough to recognize a peeler when I see one. That’s Belfast for policeman, Mr. Johnson, but come into the kitchen. I’ve had breakfast, but I’ll make you some coffee. Which variety of cop are you?”

“I used to be FBI,” Johnson said as Devlin filled the kettle.

“And now?”

Johnson glanced at Dillon, who said, “Let’s say he does for the President what Ferguson does for the Prime Minister.”

“That must be a tall order.” Devlin smiled. “All right, sit down and tell me about it.”

Which Dillon did, Blake Johnson making a point or two here and there. When they were finished, Devlin said, “Not good, not good at all, and I can see where you’d need Riley.”

“Will you help us, Mr. Devlin?”

“Liam, son, Liam. Actually, I’ve already tried.” He went on to tell them of his breakfast with Leary.

When he finished, Dillon said, “So Bell and Barry are still around?”

“Are they special?” Blake asked.

“The worst. If they get to work on her, she’ll know about it.” He took out his Walther and checked it. “Are you carrying?” he asked Blake.

“Sure, my Beretta. Will I need it?”

“Could be. Leary will tell the Chief of Staff and he’ll send them back to see her.”

“I know. I thought it would help to stir the pot, Sean,” Devlin said.

“You certainly have. We’ll get going now.”

“Not without me.” Devlin smiled at Blake. “Lovely country where Bridget has the farm. Tullamore, between the Blackwater River and the Knockmealdown Mountains. A grand day out in the country. What could be better?”

At the same time, in Ferguson’s office at the Ministry of Defense, Hannah was phoning through to security of Wandsworth. She spoke to a chief officer and outlined her request, then she knocked on Ferguson’s door.

“I’ve spoken to someone responsible for surveillance tapes, Brigadier. He’s digging out what they have now, and I’ve told him I’ll be there directly.”

“Take my car and driver,” Ferguson said.

“I’ve been thinking. I don’t think Judas can have violated the integrity of the Department as such. If he’d had a plant here, surely his people wouldn’t have needed to eavesdrop on Dillon’s cottage with directional microphones.”

“A point which had occurred to me, Chief Inspector.”

“That still leaves us with the fact that there would seem to be a Maccabee at work in the computer section of both MI5 and the SIS.”

“We’ll have to leave hunting that person down until this unhappy affair is resolved one way or the other.”

“Good, sir.”

“As it happens, the first thing I did on getting to the office was to check the CV of every member of the Department on my computer.”

“For religious orientation, Brigadier?”

“God forgive me, but yes.”

“And I was the only Jew.” She smiled. “When is a Maccabee not a Maccabee?” She smiled again. “I’ll see you later, sir,” and went out.

“And how far did you say?” Blake Johnson asked Devlin.

“Well, we’ve come thirty miles or so. Maybe another hundred or a hundred and twenty. It’s the country roads that twist and turn. No superhighways or turnpikes here.”

Dillon said, “I’ll give Ferguson a call and see what he’s up to.”

He pressed the Codex button on his mobile, then called Ferguson. “It’s me,” he said, and in spite of the coded nature of the call added, “Martin Keogh.”

“No need for that,” Ferguson said. “The machine indicator is on green. Where are you?”

“Driving down from Dublin to Carlow, and Waterford after that.”

“You’re going to see the O’Malley woman?”

“Yes. Devlin found out from an IRA source that Riley passed through Dublin airport three days ago using the O’Malley passport. The thing is, the Provos would like to have words with him, too. The Chief of Staff sent a couple of heavies to Tullamore to try and find him, but they got nowhere.”

“I see.”

“Devlin stirred the pot nicely with his contact. We think it will make the Chief of Staff send his goons down there again. They may even be ahead of us.”

“Watch yourself,” Ferguson told him, “and do keep Johnson in one piece. You’re expendable, Dillon, but his demise would make for an international incident.”

“Thanks very much.” Dillon switched off his mobile, sat back, and started to laugh helplessly.

At the farm outside Tullamore, Dermot Riley finished milking the last cow. He carried the churns of milk over to the tractor, lifted them into the trailer, then drove out of the barn and down the track a quarter of a mile to leave the milk churns on the platform by the gate to be picked up by the truck from the dairy in the village.

He drove back up to the barn, parked inside and lit a cigarette, and stood in the entrance, the slopes of the Knockmealdown Mountains looming above him. He wore a cap and an old donkey jacket and Wellington boots, and he had never been happier. Karl, the German Alsatian, lay on a bale of hay watching him, tongue hanging out.

“This is the life, dog, isn’t it?” Riley said, “the only bloody life.”

The dog whined and Bridget called across the yard, “Come away in, Dermot.”

She was in her early sixties and looked older, a stout, motherly looking woman with the red cheeks that came from country living, and white hair. When Dermot had arrived on her doorstep by night she had been overjoyed. The shock of seeing him in the flesh when she had thought him in prison was almost too much to bear. Of course, he’d told her his presence had to be kept a secret for the time being until he got himself sorted out with the IRA. She’d found blankets and pillows and driven him half a mile up the track in her old jeep to the barn at High Meadow, where they dealt with the sheep in lambing season. There was a room with a secret door above the loft and Riley had used it often in the old days when on the run.

“You manage here until I see old Colin and Peter and tell them to take a week off,” she said, referring to the two pensioners who worked at the farm part-time.

But in the morning, Bell and Barry had arrived from Dublin in a silver BMW, truly frightening men who had asked about Dermot. She’d lied through her teeth, which was a thing she didn’t like to do as a good Catholic, had insisted Dermot was in prison. Two things had helped. When they interrogated Colin and Peter, the two old men were genuinely bewildered, had also insisted that Dermot was away in prison in England, and were patently telling the truth. Secondly, Bridget had been able to produce a letter written by Dermot in Wandsworth only ten days before.

The two men had insisted on searching the house and farm buildings. Barry, who was six feet three and built like a wall, told her in a low, dangerous voice as they were leaving, “You know who to phone in Dublin if he turns up, you’ve done it over the years. He has nothing to worry about. The Chief wants words, that’s all.”

Not that she’d believed him, not for a moment.

In the kitchen, she passed him an egg sandwich and a mug of tea. “You’re spoiling me,” Dermot said.

“Ah, you’re worth spoiling.” She sat at the table and drank tea herself. “What happens now, Dermot? Bad enough to be on the run from the police, but the IRA is something else.”