Rain rattled against the window as Dillon got a half-bottle of champagne from the fridge and opened it. 'The usual Belfast weather, but what can you expect in March?' He filled three glasses, and took one himself. 'Good to see you, Blake.'

'And you, my fine Irish friend.' Blake toasted him and turned to Hannah. 'Chief Inspector. More fragrant than ever.'

'Hey, I'm the one who gets to make remarks like that,' Dillon said. 'Anyway, let's get down to it.'

They all sat. Blake said, 'I've read the file on Barry. He's a bad one. But I'd like to hear your version, Sean.'

'It was his uncle I knew first, Frank Barry. He founded the Sons of Erin, a rather vicious splinter group from the beginning. He was knocked off a few years ago, but that's another story. Jack's been running things ever since.'

'And you know him?'

'We've had our dealings over the years, exchanged shots. I'm not his favourite person, let's put it that way.'

'And we're certain that he hasn't met McGuire?'

'So McGuire says,' Hannah told him. 'And why would he lie? He wants an out.'

'Fine. I've memorized all that stuff you sent on the computer. McGuire's past, this French outfit he works for, Jobert and Company, and this Tim Pat Ryan who nearly finished you off in London, Sean. Intriguing that – a woman as executioner. But as for Barry – I'd like to hear about him from you, everything, even if it is on file.'

Dillon complied and talked at length. After a while, Blake nodded. 'That's about it then. I'm going to need my wits about me with this one.'

'There's one more thing you should know about the Barrys. First of all, they're an old Protestant family.'

'Protestant?' Blake was incredulous.

'It's not so unusual,' Dillon said. 'There are plenty of Protestant nationalists in Irish history. Wolfe Tone, for example. But in addition to that, his great-uncle was Lord Barry, which made Frank Barry the heir, except that he's dead, as you know.'

'Are you trying to tell me Jack Barry is the heir apparent?' Blake asked.

'His father was Frank's younger brother, but he died years ago, which only leaves Jack.'

'Lord Barry?'

'Frank didn't claim the title, and Jack certainly hasn't. It would give the Queen and the Privy Council problems,' Hannah told him.

'I just bet it would,' Blake said.

'But Jack takes it seriously.' Dillon nodded. 'An old family, the Barrys. Lots of history there. There's a family estate and castle, Spanish Head, on the coast, about thirty miles north of Belfast. It's owned by the National Trust now. Jack used to rhapsodize about it years ago. So – our Jack's a complicated man. Anyway, let's get down to it. McGuire is to wait in the bar between six and seven for a message that his taxi is ready.'

'Destination unknown?'

'Of course. I figure he'll be waiting somewhere in the city, with lots of ways out in case of trouble. The dock area, for example.'

'And you'll follow?'

'That's the idea. Green Land Rover.' Dillon passed him a piece of paper. 'That's the number.'

'And what if you lose me?'

'It's not possible.' Hannah Bernstein put a black briefcase on the table and opened it. 'We've got a Range Finder in here.'

'Follow you anywhere. The very latest,' Dillon told him.

The Range Finder was a black box with a screen. 'Watch this,' Hannah said, and pressed a button. A section of city streets appeared. 'The whole of Northern Ireland 's in there.'

'Very impressive,' Blake told her.

'Even more so with this.' She opened a small box and took out a gold signet ring. 'I hope it fits. If not, I've got another bug that you can pin anywhere you want.'

Blake tried the ring on his left hand, and nodded. 'Feels good to me.'

'No weapon,' Dillon said. 'There's no way of fooling Barry's people in that respect.'

'Then you'd better be right behind me.'

'Oh, we'll be there and armed to the teeth.'

'So the general idea is I lead you to Barry and you jump him? No police, no backup?'

'This is a black one, Blake. We snatch the bastard, stick a hypo in him and get him to the airport, where a Lear jet will take us to Farley Field.'

'And afterwards?'

'Our Holland Park safe house in London, where the Brigadier will have words,' Hannah put in.

'Grand drugs they have these days,' Dillon said. 'He'll be telling all before you know it, although the Chief Inspector doesn't like that bit.'

'Shut up, Dillon,' she said fiercely.

Blake nodded. 'No need to argue, you two. I'm happy to be here and the President's happy. No problem. I'm in your hands and that's good enough for me.'

The Library Bar was a popular watering hole for those in business who liked a drink before going home, and was quite busy when Blake went in just after six. Blake sat at the bar, ordered a whiskey and soda and lit a cigarette. Tense, but in control. For one thing, he had enormous faith in Dillon. It got to six-thirty. He ordered another small whiskey, and as the barman brought it to him, a porter came in with a board saying McGuire.

'That's me,' Blake told him.

When he went down the steps to the red taxi, it was raining hard. He got in the back and noticed to his astonishment that the driver was a grey-haired woman.

'Good night to you, sir,' she told him in the hard Belfast accent. 'You just sit back and I'll tell you where you're going.'

She drove away and Dillon, at the wheel of the Land Rover parked nearby, Hannah beside him, followed.

The woman didn't say a word, simply drove down to the docks, passing through an area of desolation and decaying warehouses. She pulled into a space beside an old Ford Transit van.

'There you are, sir, out you get.'

Blake did exactly as he was told. She drove away. Blake stood there in the rain, waiting, and the rear door of the Transit opened and two men jumped out. One was in a bomber jacket, the other, a bearded man, wore an Australian drover's coat down to his ankles. Both carried handguns.

' Mr McGuire?' the bearded one said. 'I'm Daley and this is Bell, Daley and Bell. Sounds like a cabaret act, only it isn't. One wrong move, as they say on television, and you're dead. Assume the position.'

Blake put his hands on the Transit and spread his legs. He was thoroughly checked. Satisfied, Daley said, 'In the back and let's go'

The bench seats were comfortable enough. Daley sat opposite him and Bell locked the door and got behind the wheel. He drove away.

Blake said anxiously, 'Look, what is this? I'm here in good faith and I expected to see Mr Barry.'

'And he can't wait to see you,' Daley told him, 'but it'll be a while yet, so have a cigarette and enjoy the trip.'

Dillon, having seen the taxi turn in before, had pulled into a side turning, got out and approached on foot. Now he ran back to the Land Rover and got behind the wheel.

'They've transferred him. White Ford Transit,' he told Hannah, and a few moments later was following it through the evening traffic.

The rain was relentless, and as night fell, it was obvious that they were moving out of town.

'So it's not Belfast,' Hannah observed.

'So it would appear.'

They came to a place where temporary lights had been set up because of roadworks. The traffic had turned from two lanes to one.

'Damn!' Hannah said.

'Just open the box, girl. We'll be all right.'

She had the briefcase on her knee, lifted the lid and went to work. The map was clear, even more so as it grew darker. The Transit had disappeared, but that didn't matter. Time passed and they were still going north.

Hannah said, 'Where in the hell are we going?'

'God knows,' Dillon told her. 'But I do have the glimmering of an idea.'

'Such as?'

'We're heading north and the Antrim coast is close. What about Spanish Head?'

'But that's crazy. You told us it was owned by the National Trust.'