On standby, he had been based in a small market town in County Down, where there had been a spate of bomb alerts, mostly false, though one in four was the real thing. The unit had five jeeps, a driver and guard, and a disposal expert. On that particular day, a call came in over the radio and the jeeps disappeared, leaving only Roper and his driver, the unit being a man short. The first call was false, also the second. There was another, this time for Roper by name. There was something about it-the speaker had a Cockney accent that sounded wrong.

Terry, his driver, started up, and Roper said, “No, just hang on. I’m not happy. Something smells.” He had a Browning Hi-Power pistol stuffed in his camouflage shirt. He was also wearing, courtesy of his newfound wealth, a nylon-and-titanium vest capable of stopping a.44 Magnum at point-blank range.

Terry eased up an Uzi machine pistol on his knees. There was a nurses’ hostel to the side of the old folks’ home across the street, and as the voice sounded over the radio again, still calling for Roper, a milk wagon came around the corner. It braked to a halt outside the hostel. Two men were in the cab in dairy company uniform.

The one on the passenger side dropped out, turning suddenly as Roper started forward, pulled out a pistol, and fired. He was good, the bullet striking Roper in the chest and knocking him back against the jeep. The man fired again, catching Terry in the shoulder as he scrambled out with the Uzi, then fired again at Roper as he tried to get up, catching him in the left arm before turning and starting to run. Roper shot him twice in the back, shattering his spine.

The vest had performed perfectly. He picked up the Uzi Terry had dropped, got to his feet, and walked toward the milk truck. The driver had slipped from behind the wheel and was firing through the cab, where the passenger door was partially open. A bullet plucked Roper’s shoulder. He dropped down on his face and could see directly under the truck where the driver’s legs were exposed from the knees down. He held the Uzi out in front of him and fired two sustained bursts, the man screaming in agony and going back against the hotel wall.

Roper found him there, sobbing. He tapped the muzzle of the Uzi against the face. “Where is it, in the cab?”

“Yes,” the man groaned.

“What kind? Pencil timer, detonators, or what?”

“Go fuck yourself.”

“Have it your own way. We’ll go to hell together.”

He grimaced at the pain of his wounded arm, but managed to pull the man up and push him half into the cab. There was a large Crawford’s biscuit can. “You could get a Christmas cake in there or a hell of a lot of Semtex. Anyway, let’s try again. Pencil timer, detonator?”

He turned the man’s face and pushed the muzzle of the Uzi between his lips. The man wriggled and jerked away. “Pencils.”

“Let’s hope you’re right, for both our sakes.”

He pulled off the lid and exposed the contents. Three pencils-the extras just to make sure. “Oh, dear,” he said. “Fifteen minutes. I’d better move sharpish.” He pulled them out and tossed them away and eased the man down as he fainted.

People were emerging from the houses and the local bar, now a couple of dogs barked, and then there was a sudden roaring of engines as two of the jeeps appeared, moving fast.

“Here we go, the bloody cavalry arriving late as usual.” He slid down on the pavement, his back to the hostel wall, scrambled a pack of cigarettes from his pocket, fumbled to get one out, and failed.

IT DIDN’T MAKE him notable in any way beyond military circles. The national newspapers didn’t make a fuss simply because death and destruction were so much a part of everyday life in Northern Ireland that, as the old army saying went, it was old news before it was news. But the Portland Hotel a year later, the lone man face-to-face with a terrible death for nine hours, really was news, although the decision to reward him with the George Cross had still not been taken. He continued to meet the daily demands of his calling, working out of an old state school in Byron Street that the army had taken over on the safe house principle, fortifying it against any kind of attack, the many rooms providing accommodation for officers and men, with a bar and catering facilities. There were places like it all over Belfast, safe but bleak.

Local women fought for the privilege of working there in the canteen, the laundry, or as cleaners. That many would be Republican sympathizers was clear, and a rough and ready way of sorting the problem was to try to employ only Protestant women. On the other hand, it was obviously a temptation for Catholics who needed work to pretend to be other than they were. Such women lived locally, and came and went through the heavily fortified gates with identity cards, often so false they could be bought for a couple of pounds in any local bar.

Roper had been posted to Byron Street for nine months, and in that time had caused something of a stir with his Military Cross and good looks, but his gentlemanly behavior toward the younger women, which was conspicuously absent in his fellows, had provoked a suggestion that, as the local girls put it, there had to be something wrong with him.

On the other hand, his incredible bravery was a fact, and another was that in those nine months, some of his comrades had paid the final price and others had been terribly injured.

The Portland Hotel caused many people to look at him differently, as if there was something otherworldly about him, and there were those who felt uncomfortable in his presence, hurrying past him. One who did not was a new young cleaner who replaced an older woman who’d moved away. The girl’s name was Jean Murray, and she was from a Protestant Orange background.

Roper’s room was on the list, and she was resolutely cheerful from the moment she started and knew all his business within two days. Her mother had been killed in a bombing four years earlier, for which she blamed the fugging Fenians, as she called them. Her father was a member of the local Orange Lodge and had a plum job at the Port Authority. There was also a brother of twenty-one named Kenny, in his final year at Queens University.

She extracted as much personal information from Roper as she could. As long as it wasn’t military, he didn’t mind. The truth was that to a certain extent he rather fancied her, which gave him pause for thought, because it meant the defensive wall he’d built around himself was weakening.

“What’s it get yer, Captain, the hero bit? You’re a lonely man, that’s the truth of it, and you’ve stared death in the face for so long, it’s dried up any juice that’s in you.”

“Well, thank you, Dr. Freud,” he said. “I mean, you would know.”

“Why do you do it? It’s a known fact in this dump that you’re well fixed financially.”

“Okay, look at it this way. When the Troubles started in ’sixty-nine, the bomb thing was in its infancy. Very crude, no big deal. Over the years, as the Provisional IRA has grown in power, bombs have become very sophisticated indeed. The public image of the IRA as a bunch of shaven-headed yobs off a building site is well off the mark. Plenty of solid middle-class professionals are in the movement. Schoolteachers, lawyers, accountants, a whole range of ordinary people.”

“So what are you saying?”

“That the bomb makers these days have got university degrees and they’re very clever and sophisticated. Consider the Portland bomb. I’m an expert and I’ve dealt with hundreds of bombs over the years, but that one took me nine hours, and shall I tell you something? He’ll be back, that bomb maker. He’ll come with something just a little bit different, just for me. He can’t afford to have me beat him. It’s as simple as that.”

She stared at him, pretty and rumpled in her blue uniform dress, leaning on her broom, no makeup on at all, and there was something in her eyes that could have been pity.