“Someone was standing behind a tree listening when you told her. A man you knew as Martin Keogh.”

It was Kathleen who spoke now, her face solemn. “You speak as if he was someone else?”

“Oh, he was. Mr Ryan, did you ever meet the IRA Chief of Staff at that time, Jack Barry?”

“Not face-to-face.”

“He knew your original plan had been turned down by your Army Council, heard a whisper that you intended to go ahead privately, so he ordered his best man to infiltrate you.”

Kathleen’s face was very pale. “Who was he?”

“A man called Sean Dillon. You’ve heard of him?”

“Oh, yes.” Ryan nodded. “A legend. The man of a thousand faces they used to say. He was once an actor. Foiled the Army, the RUC for a year.” He shook his head. “Never got lifted once. So he was Martin.”

“The bastard,” Kathleen said.

“He could have killed you on the road that morning and taken the Master Navigator. Barry was annoyed with him for not doing so. He told Barry he liked you.” He smiled at the girl. “And you.”

“Fuck him.” There were hot tears in her eyes. “I hope he rots in hell.”

“Actually he’s working for a highly secret branch of British Intelligence these days.”

“God save us.” Ryan laughed out loud. “And wouldn’t that be the Martin we knew and loved.”

“I KNOW WHO you are now,” Ryan said. “You’re the Mafia attorney who looks after Paolo Salamone. You work for the Russo Family.”

“Does that matter? Look, to business. I know everything right down to the fact that you, Miss Ryan, are in possession of false Irish passports in the names of Daniel and Nancy Forbes. I know that you’re a nurse at Green Rapids General Hospital.”

“You know a lot, mister, but where is this leading?”

“To me arranging the escape of your uncle from the hospital when he goes for his heart scan on Tuesday morning.”

There was a total silence and a kind of awe on Ryan’s face. “Dear God, and you actually mean it.”

“Certainly.”

“Just a minute,” Kathleen put in and her face was hard. “What would he have to do in exchange for that?”

“Disclose the position of the Irish Rose,” Sollazo said calmly. “We’ve done a deal with Jack Barry. I saw him the other day in Dublin. He’s no longer Chief of Staff, but he’s willing to co-operate on behalf of his movement. A preliminary survey to locate the ship first, then my organization will lay on some suitable salvage operation as a front.”

“You’re working with the fucking IRA?” Kathleen said.

“Yes, on a fifty-fifty basis.”

“And they get the fruits of my uncle’s labors? What’s in it for him?”

“I could say one million pounds, but let’s be fair. I’ll make it two million.”

“Jesus, son, you’ve got your nerve,” Ryan said.

“You do have an alternative,” Sollazo told him. “You could sit here for another fifteen years.”

Ryan’s face was pale. “But to work with Barry and the bloody IRA.”

Kathleen put a hand on his arm. “We’ve got to be practical.” She turned to Sollazo. “I’m included.”

“Of course. Once he’s out, you join in. You’ll be taken to a safe retreat to start with.”

“And leaving the country will be no problem?”

“Absolutely not. We’ll fly to Ireland probably in a Gulfstream. I’ll be with you.”

“So that’s it?”

“No. I’d like the location of the Irish Rose, the bearings indicated on that Master Navigator. Don’t tell me the figures aren’t burned into your brain.”

Kathleen put a hand on her uncle’s arm. “Oh, no, mister. You get that when we’re safe out of here and in Ireland and not before.”

Sollazo smiled. “Of course, Miss Ryan, I accept your terms. Now let me explain exactly what I expect to happen.”

IT WAS RAINING when the prison ambulance turned into the car park on Tuesday morning and pulled into a special parking spot close to the main entrance. Kathleen Ryan sat in her own car watching and saw her uncle and another man get out of the ambulance, each handcuffed to a guard. Another guard and the driver got out and lit cigarettes as the prisoners were led inside.

She got out of the car, picked up the suitcase, and walked round to the underground car park, doing exactly as she had been told, seeking a green panel truck that carried the sign Henley Laundry. She found it easily enough, Giovanni Mori sitting behind the wheel smoking a cigarette.

“I’m Kathleen Ryan. You’re Mori.”

“That’s right.” He got out, reached back inside, and produced the white doctor’s coat he’d stolen. As he pulled it on he said, “So they’ve gone up?”

“Just now.”

“Sit in the passenger seat. I won’t be long.” He reached inside the truck, took out another white coat, and draped it across his arm.

“You’ve never met my uncle.”

“I’ve seen his picture,” he said calmly, went to the freight elevator, and punched the button for the third floor.

HE PAUSED IN the corridor, then opened the fire door and entered the hallway of the General Heart Surgery Department. He glanced through the round window of the door marked Clinic Three. Ryan was lying on a table and a young doctor was busy attaching various wires to him. Mori walked down the hall and looked through the window of the swing door leading to the reception area. There was a duty nurse behind the desk, a couple of patients, and the uniformed prison guard sitting on the benches reading magazines. Mori went back to Clinic Three, opened the door, and went in.

The young doctor looked up, continuing to fasten the wires. “Hello, Doctor, what can I do for you?”

The leather sap Mori took from his pocket was filled with leadshot. It swung once and the doctor went down with a groan. Ryan was already swinging his legs to the floor, pulling the wires and connectors from his body.

Mori threw the white coat to him. “Put it on.”

He opened the door leading into the toilet and shower room and hauled the doctor inside, closed the door, and turned.

“Out we go, turn left and through the fire door.”

A moment later, they were descending in the freight elevator. They emerged into the underground car park and crossed to the laundry truck, Kathleen watching, her face pale with excitement.

Mori opened the rear door. “In you get. You’ll find what clothes you need in there. Get out of the prison uniform and make it fast. We haven’t got long.”

He took off his white coat, tossed it into a nearby trashcan, got behind the wheel, and drove away, passing the prison ambulance at the main entrance, the two guards lounging beside it, and turned out into the highway.

BY UNFORTUNATE CHANCE it was a good fifteen minutes before a nurse went into Clinic Three and was surprised to find it unoccupied. She went down to reception and spoke to the duty nurse there.

“What happened to Doctor Jessup and the patient?”

“They should still be there. Treatment takes an hour.”

“Well, they aren’t.”

“I’ll come and see.”

The prison guard was still reading his magazine when the door swung violently and the two nurses, having found the doctor’s unconscious body in the toilet, rushed in.

AT THAT PRECISE moment, the laundry van turned into the crowded car park of a large supermarket fifteen miles down the highway and Mori pulled in beside a dark sedan.

“This is where we change,” he told Kathleen, went round to the rear and opened the door. “Out you get.”

Ryan clambered out wearing a brown tweed suit and a raincoat. Kathleen kissed him impulsively. “You made it, Uncle Michael.”

Mori unlocked the sedan. “In you get.”

Ryan and his niece got in the rear, Mori slid behind the wheel and put on a chauffeur’s cap that perfectly matched his navy blue suit, then drove away.

Ryan said, “Where are we going? They must have put the alarm out by now. There’ll be cops everywhere.”