Drink With The Devil

BELFAST
1985
ONE

RAIN SWEPT IN from Belfast Lough, and as he turned the corner there was the rattle of small-arms fire somewhere in the darkness of the city center followed by the crump of an explosion. He didn’t even hesitate but started across the square, a small man, no more than five feet five, in jeans, reefer coat, and peaked cap, a seaman’s duffle bag hanging from one shoulder.

A sign said Albert Hotel , but it was more a lodging house than anything else, of a type used by sailors, and constructed originally by the simple expedient of knocking three Victorian terrace houses together. The front door stood open, and a small, balding man peered out, a newspaper in one hand.

There was another explosion in the distance. “Jesus!” he said. “The boys are active tonight.”

The small man said from the bottom of the steps, “I phoned earlier about a room. Keogh is the name.” His voice was more English than anything else, only a hint of the distinctive Belfast accent.

“Ah, yes – Mr. Keogh. Off a boat, are ye?”

“Something like that.”

“Well, come away in out of the rain and I’ll fix you up.”

At that moment, a Land Rover turned the corner followed by another. They were stripped down, three paratroopers crouched behind the driver, hard, young men in red berets and flak jackets, each one carrying a submachine gun. They vanished into the darkness and rain on the other side of the square.

“Jesus!” the old man said again, then went inside and Keogh followed him.

IT WAS A poor sort of a place, a square hall with a reception desk and a narrow staircase. The white paint had yellowed over the years and the wallpaper was badly faded, damp showing through here and there.

The old man pushed a register across the desk for Keogh to sign. “RUC regulations. Home address. Next port of call. The lot.”

“Fine by me.” Keogh quickly filled it in and pushed the register back across the desk.

“Martin Keogh, Wapping, London. I haven’t been to London in years.”

“A fine city.” Keogh took out a packet of cigarettes and lit one.

The old man took a room key down from a board. “At least they don’t have Paras hurtling around the streets armed to the teeth. Crazy that, sitting out in the open, even in the rain. What a target. Suicide if you ask me.”

“Not really,” Keogh told him. “It’s an old Para trick developed years ago in Aden. They travel in twos to look after each other, and with no armor in the way they can respond instantly to any attack.”

“And how would you be knowing a thing like that?”

Keogh shrugged. “Common knowledge, Da. Now can I have my key?”

It was then that the old man noticed the eyes which were of no particular color and yet were the coldest he had ever seen, and for some unaccountable reason he knew fear. And at that moment Keogh smiled and his personality changed totally. He reached across and took the key.

“Someone told me there was a decent cafe near here. The Regent?”

“That’s right. Straight across the square, to Lurgen Street. It’s by the old docks.”

“I’ll find it,” and Keogh turned and went upstairs.

He found the room easily enough, opened the door, the lock of which had obviously been forced on numerous occasions, and went in. The room was very small and smelled of damp. There was a single bed, a hanging cupboard, and a chair. There was a washbasin in the corner, but no toilet. There wasn’t even a telephone. Still, with any luck, it would only be for the one night.

He put his duffle bag on the bed, opened it. There was a toilet bag, spare shirts, some books. He pulled them to one side and prized up the thick cardboard base of the bag disclosing a Walther PPK pistol, several clips of ammunition, and the new small Carswell silencer. He checked the weapon, loaded it, and screwed the silencer into place, then he slipped it inside his jeans against the small of his back.

“Regent, son,” he said softly and went out whistling a small, sad tune.

THERE WAS A public telephone by the reception desk of the old-fashioned kind in a booth. Keogh nodded to the old man, went inside, and closed the door. He found some pound coins and dialed a number.

JACK BARRY WAS a tall, pleasant-looking man whose horn-rimmed spectacles gave him a bookish look. He had the look also of the schoolmaster, which was exactly what he had once been. But not now – now, he was Chief of Staff of the Provisional IRA, and he was seated by the fire at his Dublin home reading the paper, his portable phone at his side when it rang.

He picked it up and his wife, Jean, called, “Now don’t be long. Your supper’s ready.”

“Barry here.”

Keogh said in Irish, “It’s me. I’ve booked in at the Albert Hotel under the name of Martin Keogh. Next step is to meet the girl.”

“Will that be difficult?”

“No, I’ve organized it. Trust me. I’m off to this Regent Cafe now. Her uncle owns it.”

“Good man. Keep me posted. Use the mobile number only.”

He switched off his phone and his wife called again, “Come away in. It’s getting cold.”

He got to his feet obediently and went into the kitchen.

KEOGH FOUND THE Regent Cafe with no trouble. One window was boarded up, obviously from bomb blast, but the other was intact, offering a clear view of the interior. There were hardly any customers, just three old men at one table, and a ravaged-looking middle-aged woman at another, who looked like a prostitute.

The girl sitting behind the counter was just sixteen; he knew that because he knew all about her. Her name was Kathleen Ryan, and she ran the cafe on behalf of her uncle, Michael Ryan, a Protestant gunman from his earliest youth. She was a small girl with black hair and angry eyes above pronounced cheekbones. Not pretty by any conventional standard. She wore a dark sweater, denim miniskirt, and boots and sat on a stool engrossed in a book when Keogh went in.

He leaned on the counter. “Is it good?”

She looked him over calmly, and that look told him of someone infinitely older than her years.

“Very good. The Midnight Court.”

“But that’s in Irish surely?” Keogh reached for the book and saw that he was right.

“And why shouldn’t it be? You think a Protestant shouldn’t read Irish? Why not? It’s our country too, mister, and if you’re Sinn Fein or any of that old rubbish, I’d prefer you went elsewhere. Catholics aren’t welcome. An IRA street bomb killed my father, my mother, and my wee sister.”

“Girl, dear.” Keogh held up his hands defensively. “I’m a Belfast boy home from the sea who’s just come in for a cup of tea.”

“You don’t sound Belfast to me. English I’d say.”

“And that’s because my father took me to live there when I was a boy.”

She frowned for a moment, then shrugged. “All right.” She raised her voice. “Tea for one, Mary.” She said to Keogh, “No more cooking. We’re closing soon.”

“The tea will do just fine.”

A moment later, a gray-haired woman in an apron brought tea in a mug and placed it on the counter. “Milk and sugar over there. Help yourself.”

Keogh did as he was told and pushed a pound coin across. The woman gave him some change. The girl ignored him, reached for her book, and stood up. “I’ll be away now, Mary. Give it another hour, then you can take an early night,” and she went through to the back.

Keogh took his tea to a table by the door, sat down, and lit a cigarette. Five minutes later, Kathleen Ryan emerged wearing a beret and an old trenchcoat. She went out without looking at him. Keogh sipped some more tea, then got up and left.

IT WAS RAINING harder now as she turned on to the waterfront and she increased her pace, head down. The three youths standing in the doorway of a disused warehouse saw her coming as she passed under the light of a street lamp. They were of a type to be found in any city in the world. Vicious young animals in bomber jackets and jeans.

“That’s her, Pat,” the one wearing a baseball cap said. “That’s her. The Ryan bitch from the cafe.”

“I can tell for myself, you fool,” the one called Pat said. “Now hold still and grab her on the way past.”

KATHLEEN RYAN WAS totally unaware of their existence as they stayed back in the shadows. It was only the quick rush of feet that alerted her and by then it was too late, one arm around her neck half choking her.

Pat walked round in front and tilted her chin. “Well, now, what have we got here? A little Prod bitch. Ryan, isn’t it?”

She kicked back catching the youth in the baseball cap on the shin. “Leave me be, you Taig bastard.”

“Taig bastard is it,” Pat said. “And us decent Catholic boys!” He slapped her face. “Up the alley with her. Time she learned her manners.”

She didn’t scream, for it was not in her nature, but cried out in rage and bit the hand that fastened on her mouth.

“Bitch!” Baseball Cap called out and punched her in the back, and then they ran her along the alley through the rain. There was a stack of packing cases clear under an old-fashioned gas street lamp. As she struggled, two of them pulled her across a packing case and Pat moved up behind and racked her skirt up.

“Time you learned,” he said.

“No, time you learned!” a voice called. Pat turned and Martin Keogh walked up the alley, hands in the pockets of his reefer. “Put her down. I mean, she doesn’t know where you’ve been, does she?”

“Stuff you, wee man,” the one in the baseball cap said, released his hold on the girl, and swung a punch at Keogh, who caught the wrist, twisted, and ran him face first into the wall.

“You bastard!” the third youth cried and rushed him.

Keogh’s left hand came out of his pocket holding the Walther and he slashed the youth across the face, splitting the cheek from the left eye to the corner of the mouth. He raised the gun and fired, the distinctive muted cough of the silenced weapon flat in the rain.

Baseball Cap was on his knees, the other clutching his cheek, blood pouring through his fingers. Pat stood there, rage on his face.

“You bloody swine!”

“It’s been said before.” Keogh touched him between the eyes with the silenced end of the Walther. “Not another word or I’ll kill you.”

The youth froze. Kathleen Ryan was pulling her skirt down. Keogh said, “Back to that cafe of yours, girl. I’ll see you soon.”

She hesitated, staring at him, then turned and ran away along the alley.

THERE WAS ONLY the rain now and the groans of the injured. Pat said wildly, “We did what you told us to do. Why this?”

“Oh, no,” Keogh said. “I told you to frighten the girl a little and then I’d come and save her.” He found a cigarette one-handed and lit it. “And what were we into? Gang rape.”

“She’s a dirty little Prod. Who cares?”

“I do,” Keogh told him. “And I’m a Catholic. You give us a bad name.”

Pat rushed him. Keogh swayed to one side, tripping him with his right foot, and dropped one knee down hard in his back. Pat lay there sobbing in the rain.

Keogh said, “You need a lesson, son.”

He jammed the muzzle of the Walther against the youth’s thigh and pulled the trigger. There was a muted report and Pat cried out.

Keogh stood up. “Only a flesh wound. It could have been your kneecap.”

Pat was sobbing now. “Damn you!”

“Taken care of a long time ago.” Keogh took an envelope from his pocket and dropped it down. “Five hundred quid, that was the price. Now get yourself to the Royal Victoria Casualty Department. Best in the world for gunshot wounds, but then they get a lot of experience.”

He walked away, whistling the same eerie little tune, and left them there in the rain.

WHEN HE REACHED the cafe, there were no longer any customers, but he could see Kathleen Ryan and the woman Mary standing behind the counter. The girl was on the telephone. Keogh tried the door, but it was locked. Kathleen Ryan turned as the door rattled and nodded to Mary, who came from behind the counter and unlocked it.

As Keogh entered, Mary said, “She told me what you did for her. God bless you.”

Keogh sat on the edge of a table and lit a cigarette. The girl was still talking. “No, I’ll be fine now. I’ll be at the Drum in twenty minutes. Don’t fret.” She put the phone down and turned, her face calm. “My uncle Michael. He worries about me.”

“And why not?” Keogh said. “Desperate times.”

“You don’t take prisoners, do you?”

“I could never see the point.”

“And you’re carrying. A Walther from what I saw.”

“Very knowledgeable for one so young.”

“Oh, I know guns, mister, I was raised on them. What did you do after I left?”

“I sent them on their way.”

“Home was it with a pat on the head?”

“No, the nearest casualty department. They needed a lesson. They got one. The one who seemed to be in charge will be on sticks for a while if that’s a comfort to you.”

She frowned, her eyes dark. “What’s your game?”

“No game. I didn’t like what was going on, that’s all.” He stood up and stubbed out his cigarette. “Still, you seem fine now so I’ll be on my way.”

He got the door open. She said quickly, “No, hang on.” He turned and she added, “You can walk me to my uncle’s pub. That’s the Orange Drum on Connor’s Wharf. It’s about a quarter of a mile. My name is Kathleen Ryan. What’s yours?”

“Martin Keogh.”

“Wait for me outside.”

He did as he was told and saw her go to the phone again. Probably speaking to her uncle, he thought. A few moments later, she joined him, this time carrying a large umbrella.

As she put it up against the driving rain, he said, “And wouldn’t a taxi be safer?”

“I like the city at night,” she told him. “I like the rain. I’ve a right to go my own way and to hell with those Fenian bastards.”

“A point of view,” he replied as they started to walk.

“Here, get under this,” she said, pulling him under the umbrella and took his arm. “A sailor, you said?”

“Just for the past couple of years.”

“A sailor from Belfast raised in London who carries a Walther.”

There was a question in her voice. “A dangerous place this old town as you saw tonight.”

“Dangerous for you, you mean, and that’s why you’re carrying.” She frowned. “You’re not a Fenian or you wouldn’t have done what you did to that lot.”

“I’m not anybody’s, girl dear.” He paused to light a cigarette.

She said, “Give me one.”

“I will not, you with your green years ahead of you. God, but you’re one for the questions, Kate.”

She turned to glance at him. “Why do you call me that? No one else does.”

“Oh, it seems to suit.”

They were walking along the waterfront now, container ships anchored at the quay and further out, the red and green lights of a freighter moving out to sea.

Kathleen Ryan said, “So, the gun? Why are you carrying?”

“Jesus, it’s the persistent one you are. A long time ago I was a soldier. Did three tours of duty in this very town, and there’s always the chance of someone with a long memory and a grudge to work off.”

“What regiment?”

“One Para.”

“Don’t tell me you were at Bloody Sunday in Londonderry?”

“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.”

Ryan held up a hand. “Softly, child, any intelligent man would see it as a possibility. It’s happened before, God knows, and on both sides.”

“So?” Keogh said.

“I can be as hungry as the next man where money is concerned, but my cause is a just one, the one certainty in my life. Any money that passes through my hands goes to the Protestant cause. That’s what my life is about.”

“Then why not use some of your own men?”

“Because people talk too much, a weakness in all revolutionary movements. The IRA have the same problem. I’ve always preferred to use what I call hired help, and for that I go to the underworld. An honest thief who is working for wages is a sounder proposition than some revolutionary hothead.”

“So that’s where I come in?” Keogh said. “Hired help, just like anyone else you need?”

“Exactly. So, are you in or out? If it’s no, then say so. After what you did for Kathleen tonight you’ll come to no harm from me.”

“Well that’s nice to know.” Keogh shrugged. “Oh, what the hell, I might as well give it a try. A change from the North Sea. Terrible weather there at this time of the year.”

“Good man yourself.” Ryan smiled. “A couple of Bushmills, Kathleen, and we’ll drink to it.”

“WHERE ARE YOU staying?” Ryan asked.

“A fleapit called the Albert Hotel,” Keogh told him.

“Fleapit, indeed,” Ryan toasted him. “Our country too.”

“May you die in Ireland,” Keogh replied.

“An excellent sentiment.” Ryan swallowed his Bushmills in a single gulp.

“So what happens now?”

“I’ll tell you in London. We’ll fly there, you, me, and Kathleen. There’s someone I have to see.”

Keogh turned to the girl. “An activist is it? A little young I would have thought.”

“I bloody told you, they blew up my family when I was ten years old, Mr. Keogh,” she said fiercely. “I grew up fast after that.”

“A hard world.”

“And I’ll make it harder for the other side, believe me.”

“You hate well, I’ll say that.” Keogh turned back to her uncle. “So that’s it, then?” He shook his hand. “What am I really getting into? I should know more.”

“All right, a taster only. How well do you know the northwest of England? The Lake District?”

“I’ve never been there.”

“A wild and lonely area at this time of the year with the tourists gone.”

“So?”

“A certain truck will be passing through there, a meat transporter. You and I will hijack it. Very simple, very fast. A five-minute job.”

“You did say meat transporter?”

Ryan smiled. “That’s what this truck is. What’s inside is another matter. You find that out later.”

“And what happens afterwards?”

“We drive to a place on the Cumbrian coast where there’s an old disused jetty. There will be a boat waiting, a Siemens ferry. Do you know what that is?”

“The Germans used them in World War Two to transport heavy equipment and men in coastal attacks.”

“You’re well informed. We drive on board and sail for Ulster. I’ve found a suitable spot on the coast where there’s a disused quarry pier. We drive the truck off the boat and disappear into the night. All beautifully simple.”

“So it would seem,” Keogh said. “And the crew of this Siemens ferry? What are they doing?”

“Earning their wages. As far as they are concerned, it’s just some sort of illegal traffic or other. They do it all the time. They’re those sort of people.”

“Crooks, you mean.”

“Exactly. The boat is tied up near Wapping at the moment. That’s why we’re going to London. To finalize things.”

There was a pause and then Kathleen Ryan said, “What do you think, Mr. Keogh?”

“That you’d better start calling me Martin as it seems we’re going to spend some time together.”

“But do you think it would work?”

“Its greatest virtue, as your uncle says, is its simplicity. It could work perfectly just like a Swiss watch. On the other hand, even Swiss watches break down sometimes.”

“O ye of little faith.” Ryan smiled. “Of course it will work. It’s got to. My organization needs the means to buy arms for our people. It’s essential. There’s a passage in the Koran that says there is more truth in one sword than ten thousand words.”

“I take your point.” Keogh stood up. “It’s late. I’d better get back to my hotel.”

“Join us here for breakfast in the morning,” Ryan told him. “We’ll catch the noon plane. I’ll take care of the tickets.”

“I’ll say goodnight, then.”

“The bar is closed. Kathleen will let you out. I’ll keep your Walther here. No way of passing through airport security with that, but it doesn’t matter. Our London connection will provide any weapons we need.” He held out his hand. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

THE GIRL OPENED the door and rain drove in on the wind.

“A dirty old night,” she said.

“You can say that again.” Keogh turned up his collar. “An Ulster fry-up will do me fine for breakfast especially if you cook it yourself. Two eggs and don’t forget the sausage.”

“Go on, get on your way.” She pushed him out and laughed that distinctive harsh laugh of hers and closed the door.

KEOGH HAD DIFFICULTY finding a phone box. Most of them seemed to be vandalized. He finally struck luck when he was quite close to the hotel. He closed the glass door to keep out the rain and rang the Dublin number. Barry was seated at the desk of his small study with his Chief of Intelligence for Ulster, a man named John Cassidy, when he took the call.

“It’s me,” Keogh said. “Worked like a charm. I’m in it up to my neck. Ryan’s taken me on board.”

“Tell me everything.”

Which Keogh did in a few brief sentences. Finally, he said, “What could be in this meat transporter?”

“Gold bullion if it’s the job I’m thinking of. It was put to the Loyalist Army Council about a year ago and thrown out as being too risky.”

“So Ryan has decided to do it on his own initiative.”

“Exactly, but then he always was the wild one. That’s why I wanted you in there when I got the whisper through an informer that he was up to something.”

“Up to something big,” Keogh told him.

“That’s right. Stay in close touch. You’ve got those alternate numbers for the mobile phone, and watch your back.”

BARRY LEANED BACK thoughtfully and lit a cigarette. Cassidy said, “Trouble?”

“Michael Ryan up to his old tricks.” He ran through what Keogh had told him.

Cassidy said, “My God, if it is gold bullion, the bastards would have enough money to arm for a civil war. What are you going to do?”

“I don’t need to do a thing except have a suitable reception committee waiting when that boat delivers the truck somewhere on the Ulster coast. Then we’ll have enough money to start a civil war.”

“And you’re certain of knowing the time and place?”

“Oh, yes. The man on the other end of the phone just now is one of our own. He’s infiltrated under a false identity. He’ll be going along for the ride every step of the way.”

“A good man?”

“The best.”

“Would I be knowing him?”

Barry told him Keogh’s real name.

Cassidy laughed out loud. “God save us, the Devil himself, so God help Michael Ryan.”

THERE WAS NO one at the reception desk when Keogh entered the hotel. He went up the stairs quickly and unlocked the door to his room. It was unbelievably depressing and he looked around with distaste. It certainly wasn’t worth taking off his clothes. He switched off the light, lit a cigarette, lay on the bed, and went over the whole affair.

The astonishing thing was, as had been said, the simplicity of it. He’d have to consider that again once Ryan had taken him fully into his confidence, of course. Not a bad fella, Ryan, a man hard to dislike. And then there was the girl. So much hate there in one so young and all blamed on the bomb which had killed her family. He shook his head. There was more to it than that, had to be, and finally he drifted into sleep.

KATHLEEN RYAN TOOK a cup of tea in to her uncle just before she went to bed. Ryan was sitting by the fire smoking his pipe and brooding.

“You think it will work?” she asked.

“I’ve never been more certain and with Keogh along-” He shrugged. “Fifty million pounds in gold bullion, Kathleen. Just think of that.”

“A strange one,” she said. “Can you trust him?”

“I’ve never trusted anyone in my life,” he said cheerfully. “Not even you. No, don’t you fret over Keogh. I’ll have my eye on him.”

“But can you be sure?”

“Of course I can. I know him like I know myself, Kathleen, my love. We’re cut from the same bolt of cloth. Like me he’s got brains, that’s obvious. He’s also a killer. It’s his nature. He can do no other, just like me.” He reached up to kiss her cheek. “Now off to bed with you.”

She went out and he sat back, sipping his tea and thinking of a lonely road in the Lake District, a road that not even his niece knew he had visited.