"That's fine." As they went through the shop, Selim said, "What's the plan, to get started at once or take your time?"

"Actually, I'm probably going to Mass," Daniel Holley said. "But don't ask me to explain."

He left the hotel in the early-evening rain, borrowing an umbrella, walked to the end of Curzon Street, hailed a black cab, and told the driver to take him to Kilburn. Darkness was falling and the traffic busy, but they were there quite quickly, and he asked to be dropped at Kilburn High Road. He walked the rest of the way.

Unfortunately, according to the times inscribed on the board at the gate, he was already too late for that evening's services. He hesitated, but a hint of light at the church windows encouraged him to go forward.

Walking through the Victorian-Gothic cemetery, with angels and effigies of one kind or another looming out of the darkness, he realized that he couldn't remember much from his first visit, but, then, it had been so brief. He turned the ring on the door and went in.

It was incredibly peaceful, the lights very low, and the church smelt of incense and candles, the Mary Chapel to one side. Money had been spent here, mostly during the high tide of Victorian prosperity that had coincided with the church-building period when the anti-Catholic laws changed. The stained-glass windows were lovely, the pews beautifully carved, and the altar and choir stalls ornate. Flowers were stacked all around the altar steps in polished brass vases.

Music was playing very softly and almost beyond hearing, but suddenly it stopped. A door creaked open and closed, the noise echoing, there was the sound of footfalls on tiles, and Caitlin Daly walked in from the right-hand side carrying a watering can, and he recognized her instantly.

Holley stayed back in the shadows and watched. The photo he'd seen of her on the Internet was perfectly recognizable but didn't do her full justice. The woman in the green smock and gray skirt, rearranging flowers at the altar and watering them, had been beautiful when he had last seen her in her mid-thirties. At fifty, she was still attractive, her face enhanced by the copper-colored hair that had been cropped in a style Holley remembered from an old Ingrid Bergman movie.

She finished, bowed to the altar, crossed herself, picked up the watering can, turned, and detected movement in the shadows. "Is someone there?" she called, and her voice echoed in the empty church.

He hesitated, then stepped forward. "Can I help you?" she asked.

"I'm not sure. I last saw you in 1995, when I gave you the message: 'Liam Coogan sends you his blessing and says hold yourself ready.' "

She stared at him for a moment, obviously shocked. "Oh, dear God. Who are you?"

"You asked me that last time, and I said: 'Just call me Daniel. I'm Liam's cousin.' You said I didn't sound Irish."

"You don't, you have a tinge of Yorkshire in your voice."

"That's not surprising, since I was born in Leeds."

She shook her head. "I still can't believe it."

"I phoned you at the presbytery and said I was sitting in a rear pew in the church and asked to see you. I said my time was limited, as I had to catch a plane to Algiers."

She nodded. "Yes, I remember so well, and the thrill of it."

"And the disappointment?"

"Oh, yes, but we can't talk here. Monsignor Murphy is at a dinner tonight. We'll use the sacristy."

It was warm and enclosed in there, a desk and a couple of chairs, a laptop, religious vestments hanging from the rails, registers of all kinds-marriages, deaths-and a church smell to everything that would never go away.

She leaned against the wall by the window, arms folded, and he sat opposite. "Tell me about yourself," she said.

"I'm using an alias at the moment: Daniel Grimshaw."

"A sound Yorkshire name that suits your voice."

"My mother was a Coogan from Crossmaglen, and I was a volunteer with the PIRA."

"So was I, and proud of it."

"I know. Liam told me about your sleeper cell and how he activated you in 1991. Twelve explosions that resonated in the West End of London for months."

Her face was glowing. "Great days, they were."

"Then you went back to waiting? Did that bother you?"

"It's what sleepers do, Daniel, wait to strike again."

"And hopefully for the big one. Back then, Liam asked me that if he activated you again, would I be your controller, and I said yes. Liam died, of course, from a heart attack, but I'm here now."

She nodded gravely. "God rest Liam's soul. He was a good man."

"Were your cell members disappointed not to have a role in the 1996 bombings?"

"Yes, but at least we had the satisfaction of seeing the British suffer such a great defeat. It's strange, but seeing you like this brings your last visit vividly back to me. We always met weekly in the chapel at Hope of Mary. The day you gave me Liam's message, I called a special meeting and gave them the good news."

"And how did they take it?"

"Excitement. Awe. We knelt and recited our own special prayer together."

" ' Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners, now and at the hour of our death, we who are ourselves alone'?" Daniel said.

She was amazed. "But how do you know that?"

"I just do, as I know the names of those men-Barry, Flynn, Pool, Costello, who changed to Docherty, Cochran, and Murray. A hell of a long time ago. I wouldn't imagine they're still round?"

"Until two years ago, they all attended our weekly meeting, but unfortunately Barry and Flynn had a severe brush with the law. They were both too handy with a gun. Finally, an armed robbery they took part in went sour. They would have probably gotten seven years if caught, but I used a certain influence I have, obtained false American passports for them and other necessary documentation, and packed them off to the States."

"And you stay in touch?"

"On a regular basis. We have a Hope of Mary Hospice and Refuge in New York, too. They are both security men there."

"And the remaining four?"

"We meet as we've always done, united by prayer and a common commitment to the PIRA. I was recruited at London University, the others in various ways. Liam Coogan used to arrange trips to training camps in the west of Ireland. The IRA version of a holiday, he used to say. We did that many times over the years. Bonded, you might say."

"But really only got to do your work with that twelve-bomb jolly in Mayfair in 1991. Was it enough?"

"It always is, if your resolve is strong and you are committed."

"But you need more than that, I think, some deep-seated reason, perhaps some great wrong that urges you on."

"That's true. Take Henry Pool. He's a self-employed private-hire driver. Like you, he had an English father and Irish mother, but her father was murdered by English Black and Tans in 1921 when she was only six months old and her mother fled here to Kilburn. It was a strong motive for him to not exactly care for the English."

"I shouldn't imagine his mother would ever let him forget it."

"Is there something wrong with that?" she asked.

"Not at all. For a ten-year-old child to see her father gunned down by masked intruders in front of her and her mother would, I imagine, be a memory that would last forever."

Her face was surprisingly calm. "So you know about that? Exactly who are you, Daniel, this half Irishman who claims to have been a member of the Provisional IRA? You not only sound Yorkshire, you look like some prosperous businessman. What on earth would ever have made you join?"

So he told her all about Rosaleen Coogan.

Afterwards, she sat down on the other side of the desk from him, her face like stone, her eyes burning, and it was obvious that she accepted the truth of what he had told her.