It was Lang who said, “I think not, old sport. Probably lots of locals doing exactly that. We’ll go back to the Europa and have a nightcap at the bar. She may well look in.”

“You like her, don’t you?” Curry said.

“So do you.”

Curry smiled. “Let’s get the car,” and they went out.

On their way back to the hotel, Curry who was driving, turned into a quiet road between several factories and warehouses, deserted at night. Lang put a hand on his arm as they passed a woman walking rapidly along the pavement, an umbrella up against the rain.

“Good God, it’s her.”

“The damned fool,” Curry said. “She can’t walk around the back streets of Belfast like that on her own.”

“Pull in to the curb,” Lang said. “I’ll get her.”

Curry did so. Lang opened the car door and saw two young men in bomber jackets run up behind Grace Browning and grab her. He heard her cry out and then they hustled her into an alley.

Grace wasn’t afraid, just angry with herself for having been such a fool. On a high after her performance, she’d thought that the walk back to the hotel in the rain would calm her down. She should have known better. This was uncharted territory. Belfast. The war zone.

They hustled her to the end of the alley where there was a dead end, a jumble of packing cases under an old street lamp bracketed to a wall. She stood facing them.

“What do you want?”

“English, is it?” The one with a ponytail laughed unpleasantly. “We don’t like the English.”

The other, who wore a tweed cap, said, “There’s only one thing we like about English girls, and that’s what’s between their legs, so let’s be having you.”

He leapt on her and she dropped the umbrella and tried to fight back as he forced her across the packing case, yanking up her dress.

“Let me go, damn you!” She clawed at his face, disgusted by the whisky breath, aware of him forcing her legs open.

“That’s enough,” Rupert Lang called through the rain.

The man in the tweed cap turned and Grace pushed him away. The one with the ponytail turned too as Lang and Curry approached.

“Just let her go,” Curry said. “You made a mistake. Let’s leave it at that.”

“You’d better keep out of this, friend,” the man in the tweed cap told him. “This is Provisional IRA business.”

“Really?” Rupert Lang replied. “Well, I’m sure Martin McGuinness wouldn’t approve. He’s a family man.”

They were all very close together now. There was a moment of stillness and then the one in the ponytail pulled a Smith & Wesson.38 from the pocket of his bomber jacket. Rupert Lang’s hand came up holding the Beretta and shot him twice in the heart.

At the same moment, the man in the tweed cap knocked Grace sideways so that she fell. He picked up a batten of wood and struck Lang across the wrist so that he dropped the Beretta. The man scrambled for it, but it slid on the damp cobbles toward Grace. She picked it up instinctively, held it against him, and pulled the trigger twice, blowing him back against the wall.

She stood there, legs apart, holding the gun in both hands, staring down at him, and Rupert Lang said, “Give it to me.”

“Is he dead?” she asked in a calm voice.

“If not, he soon will be.” Lang took the Beretta and shot him between the eyes. He turned to the one with the ponytail and did the same. “Always make sure. Now let’s get out of here.” He picked up the umbrella. “Yours, I think.”

Curry took one arm, Lang the other, and they hustled her away. “No police?” she said.

“This is Belfast,” Curry told her. “Another sectarian killing. They said they were IRA, didn’t they?”

“But were they?” she demanded as they took her down to the car and pushed her into the rear.

“Probably not, my dear,” Rupert Lang said. “Nasty young yobs cashing in. Lots of them about.”

“Never mind,” Curry told her. “They’ll be heroes of the revolution tomorrow.”

“Especially if January 30 claims credit.” Rupert Lang lit a cigarette and passed it to her. “Even if you don’t use these things, you could do with one now.” She accepted it, strangely calm. “Do you need a doctor?”

“No, he didn’t penetrate me if that’s what you mean.”

“Good,” Curry said. “Then a hot bath and a decent night’s sleep and put it out of your mind. It didn’t happen.”

“Oh yes it did,” she said and tossed the cigarette out of the window.

When they reached the Europa, Lang, a hand on Grace’s arm, started toward the lifts. She said, “ Actually, I’d like a nightcap.”

Lang frowned, then nodded. “Fine.” He turned to Curry. “Better make the call, Tom,” then he led her into the Library Bar.

A few minutes later the phone rang on the desk of the night editor at the Belfast Telegraph. When he picked it up, a gruff voice said, “ Carrick Lane, got that? You’ll find a couple of Provo bastards on their backs there. We won’t be sending flowers.”

“Who is this?” the night editor demanded.

“January 30.”

The phone went dead. The night editor stared at it, frowning, then hurriedly dialed his emergency number to the Royal Ulster Constabulary.

Curry joined them in the bar at a corner table. They were drinking brandy and there was a glass for him.

Lang said, “You seem rather calm, considering the circumstances.”

“You mean, why am I not crying and sobbing because I just killed a man?” She shook her head. “He was a piece of filth. He deserved everything he got. I loathe people like that. When I was twelve I was driving back from a concert in Washington one night with my parents. We were attacked by armed thugs. My parents were killed.”

She sat staring down into her glass and Curry said gently, “I’m sorry.”

Lang said, “You handled the gun surprisingly well. Have you had much training?”

She laughed. “One Hollywood movie, just one. I didn’t like it out there. There were a few scenes where I had to use a gun. They showed me how.” She finished the brandy and raised the empty glass to the barman. “Three more.” She smiled tightly. “I hope you don’t mind, but we do seem to be rather tied in together, don’t we?”

“Yes, you could say that,” Curry told her.

She turned to Lang as the barman brought the brandies and waited until he’d gone. “You said in the car something about January 30 claiming credit. I’ve read about them. They’re some sort of terrorist group.”

“That’s right,” Lang said. “Of course in this sort of case, revolutionaries and so on, all sorts of groups like to claim credit. Very useful fact of life. We’re just making sure somebody does.”

“I’ve already spoken to the night desk at the Belfast Telegraph,” Curry said. “By tomorrow, you’ll find the Ulster Freedom Fighters or the Red Hand of Ulster claiming credit also. They’re Protestant Loyalist factions.”

“But you’d prefer January 30 to get the credit?” she said.

There was a moment of silence. It was Lang who said, “You’re a remarkably astute young woman. Is there a problem here?”

“Not in the slightest. As I said, it would seem we’re tied together in this.”

“Invisible bonds and all that.”

“Exactly.” She opened her handbag, took out a card, and passed it to him. “That’s my address and phone number. Cheyne Walk. I’ll be back in London in twelve days. Perhaps we could meet?”

“I think you can count on that.”

She stood up. “You’ll have to excuse me now. I have a matinee tomorrow.”

She walked out. Curry said, “My God, what a woman.”

“Yes, quite remarkable. You know, Tom, I think this is going to be the beginning of a beautiful friendship.”

When she put out the light and pulled up the covers, Grace Browning lay there, strangely calm, staring up through the darkness looking for him, the shadowy figure with the gun in his hand, but he seemed to have gone. She closed her eyes and slept.