“That’s right. Like I said, a long time ago.”

Her hand tightened on his arm. “God, but you lads gave those Fenians a roasting that day. How many did you kill? Thirteen, wasn’t it?”

The lights of the pub were plain across a cobbled quay now. Keogh said, “How old are you?”

“Sixteen.”

“So young and so full of hate.”

“I told you. The IRA killed my father, my mother, and my wee sister. That only leaves Uncle Michael.”

The sign said The Orange Drum and one was painted on the brick wall beside it with the legend Our Country Too. The girl put the umbrella down, opened the door, and led the way in.

THE INTERIOR WAS a typical Belfast pub with several booths, a few tables and chairs, and a long mahogany bar. Bottles of every kind of drink were ranged on shelves against a mirrored wall. There were only half a dozen customers, all old men, four of them playing cards by an open fire, two others talking softly to each other. A hard-looking young man with one arm sat behind the bar reading the Belfast Telegraph.

He glanced up and put the paper down. “Are you okay, Kathleen? Michael told me what happened.”

“I’m fine, Ivor. Thanks to Mr. Keogh here. Is Uncle Michael in the back?”

At that moment a door opened and a man walked through. Keogh knew him at once from the photos Barry had supplied at his briefing in Dublin. Michael Ryan, aged fifty-five, a Loyalist of the first order who had served in the UVF and Red Hand of Ulster, the most extreme Protestant group of all, a man who had killed for his beliefs many times. He was of medium height, hair graying slightly at the temples, eyes very blue, and there was an energy to him.

“This is Martin Keogh,” the girl said.

Ryan came round the bar and held out his hand. “You did me a good turn tonight. I shan’t forget.”

“Lucky I was there.”

“That’s as may be. I owe you a drink, anyway.”

“Bushmills whiskey would be fine,” Keogh told him.

“Over here.” Ryan indicated a booth in the corner.

The girl took off her raincoat and beret and eased behind the table. Her uncle sat beside her and Keogh was opposite. Ivor brought a bottle of Bushmills and two glasses.

“Can I get you anything, Kathleen?”

“No, I’m okay, Ivor.”

He plainly worshiped her but nodded and walked away. Ryan said, “I’ve checked with a contact at the Royal Victoria. They just received three very damaged young men. One with a bullet in the thigh.”

“Is that a fact?” Keogh said.

Kathleen Ryan stared at him. “You didn’t tell me.”

“No need.”

“Let’s see what you’re carrying,” Ryan asked. “No need to worry. All friends here.”

Keogh shrugged, took the Walther from his pocket, and passed it across. Ryan examined it expertly. “Carswell silencer, the new job. Very nice.” He took a Browning from his pocket and passed it over. “Still my personal favorite.”

“Preferred weapon of the SAS,” Keogh said, lifting the Browning in one hand. “And the Parachute Regiment.”

“He served with One Para,” the girl said. “Bloody Sunday.”

“Is that a fact?” Michael Ryan said.

“A long time ago. Lately I’ve been at sea.”

“Belfast, but raised in London, Kathleen tells me?”

“My mother died in childbirth. My father went to London in search of work. He’s dead now.”

Ryan had ejected the magazine from the butt of the Walther. “And a good Prod. You must be because of what you did for Kathleen.”

“To be honest with you religion doesn’t mean a thing to me,” Keogh told him. “But let’s say I know which side I’m on.”

At that moment, the door was flung open and a man in a cloth cap and raincoat rushed in, a revolver in one hand.

“Michael Ryan, you bastard, I’ve got you now,” he cried and raised the revolver.

Ryan was caught, the magazine from the Walther on the table beside it. Keogh said, “What do I do, shoot him? All right. Bang, you’re dead.” He picked up the Browning and fired once. The man dropped the hand holding the revolver to one side. Keogh said, “Blanks, Mr. Ryan, I could tell by the weight. What kind of a game are we playing here?”

Ryan was laughing now. “Go on, Joseph, and get yourself a drink at the bar.”

The supposed gunman turned away. The old men by the fire continued their card game as if nothing had happened.

Michael Ryan stood up. “Just a test, my old son, in a manner of speaking. Let’s adjourn to the parlour and talk some more.”

THERE WAS A fire in the grate of the small parlour, curtains drawn as rain drummed against the window. It was warm and comfortable and Ryan and Keogh sat opposite each other. The girl came in from the kitchen with a teapot, milk, and cups on a tray.

Ryan said, “If you’re a seaman, you’ll have your papers.”

“Of course,” Keogh said.

Ryan held out his hand and Keogh shrugged, opened his reefer, and took a wallet from his inside pocket.

“There you go. Ships’ papers, union card, the lot.”

The girl poured tea and Ryan examined everything closely. “Paid off the Ventura two weeks ago. Deck hand and diver. What’s all that?”

“The Ventura’s a supply ship in the North Sea oilfields. Besides general ship’s duties I did some diving. Not the really deep stuff. Just underwater maintenance, welding when necessary. That sort of thing.”

“Interesting. A man of parts. Any special skills from the Parachute Regiment?”

“Just how to kill people. The usual weaponry skills. A considerable knowledge of explosives.” Keogh lit a cigarette. “But where’s all this leading?”

Ryan persisted. “Can you ride a motorcycle?”

“Since I was sixteen, and that’s a long time ago. So what?”

Ryan leaned back, took out a pipe, and filled it from an old pouch. “Visiting relatives, are you?”

“Not that I know of,” Keogh said. “A few cousins scattered here and there. I came back on a whim. Nostalgia, if you like. A bad idea really, but I can always go back and get another berth.”

“I could offer you a job,” Ryan said, and the girl brought a taper from the fire to light his pipe.

“What, here in Belfast?”

“No, in England.”

“Doing what?”

“Why, the kind of thing you did tonight. The kind of thing you’re good at.”

It was very quiet. Keogh was aware of the girl watching him eagerly. “Do I smell politics here?”

“Since nineteen sixty-nine I’ve worked for the Loyalist cause,” Ryan said. “Served six years in the Maze prison. I hate Fenians. I hate the bloody Sinn Fein, because if they win they’ll drive us all out, every Protestant in the country. Ethnic cleansing to the hilt. Now if things get that bad I’ll take as many of them to hell with me as I can.”

“So where’s this leading?”

“A job in England. A very lucrative job. Funds for our organization.”

“In other words we steal from someone,” Keogh said.

“We need money, Keogh,” Ryan said. “Money for arms. The bloody IRA have their Irish-American sympathizers providing funds. We don’t.” He leaned forward. “I’m not asking you for patriotism. I’ll settle for greed. Fifty thousand pounds.”

There was a long pause and Ryan and the girl waited, her face somber as if she expected him to say no.

Keogh smiled. “That’s a lot of money, Mr. Ryan, so you’ll be expecting a lot in return.”

“Backup is what I expect from a man who can handle anything, and from the way you’ve carried yourself tonight you would seem to be that kind of man.”

Keogh said, “What about your own people? You’ve as many gunmen out on the street as the IRA. More even. I know that from army days.” He lit a cigarette and leaned back. “Unless there’s another truth here. That you’re in it for the money, you’re in it for yourself.”

Kathleen Ryan jumped up. “Damn you for saying that. My uncle has given more for our people than anyone I know. Better you get out of here while you can.”