“You mean Barry is in this for his own ends?” Hannah asked.

“Oh, no, a true patriot, Jack. My guess is he’ll play it close to his chest because he knows damn well the Army Council don’t want trouble at this stage of the political game.”

“So what do you suggest, Liam?” Dillon demanded.

“I’ll go and see the Chief of Staff and sound him out. I know the Dublin pub where he has a bite to eat at lunchtime every day.”

“And he’ll see you?” Hannah asked.

Devlin laughed out loud. “They all see me, girl dear, I’m the living legend and that can be very useful, but not you and the lad here.” He turned to Dillon. “A time for peace, but there are those who see you as an apostate working for the Brits. They’d like nothing better than putting a bullet in you.”

“And that’s a fact.”

“Take the Chief Inspector to Casey’s in the village. What the English call good pub grub.” He smiled at Hannah. “I’ll see you later.”

THE PUB ON one of the quays on the Liffey was called the Irish Hussar, a haunt of Irish Republicans, and it was already half full when Liam Devlin went in just after noon. Colum O’Brien, Chief of Staff of the Provisional IRA, was sitting in a booth at the far end, a pint of Guinness at one hand and a savory-looking dish before him. He tucked a napkin below his chin.

Devlin said, “Shame on you, Colum, and you tucking into a Lancashire Hot Pot, an English dish.”

O’Brien looked up and smiled with genuine pleasure. “Liam, you ould bastard. What are you doing here?”

“Oh, I was in town on business and a man has to eat.” A young woman came over and Devlin said, “I’ll have the same as your man here.”

“And give him a large Bushmills whiskey,” O’Brien said. “Only the best for Liam Devlin.”

The young woman was truly shocked. “You’re Liam Devlin? I’ve heard of you since I was a child. I thought you were dead.”

“And that says it all.” Devlin laughed. “Away with you, girl, and bring me the Bushmills.”

DEVLIN TOOK HIS time, raising politics only when they had eaten and were enjoying a pot of Barry’s tea.

“So where are we with the peace process?” he finally asked.

“Still roadblocked,” O’Brien told him. “It’s the bloody British Government with their demands that we get rid of all our arms, Liam. That’s too much. I mean, do they imagine the other side aren’t stockpiling?”

“I suppose you see Gerry Adams and McGuinness regularly. What’s the good word?”

“Hope, Liam, that’s the good word. Anybody who thinks Gerry and Martin don’t want this peace to last is crazy, but peace with honor.”

“And what about the Loyalist side of things?”

“Difficult, that. They think the British Government have sold them out or will do and there’s some truth in that, but they must face the fact that the day will come when they’ll have to take their place in a united Ireland. That will take change.”

“From the Catholic side, too,” Devlin said. “Anyway, how do the old warhorses see it? What’s Jack Barry up to these days?”

“Not much since he retired and not needed with the peace movement making changes. I see him now and then, but not often. You know his wife died?”

“Yes, I heard that. God rest her. Is he still in Abbey Road by the park?”

“As far as I know. I don’t know how he fills his time.”

“Out to grass like me.” Devlin got up. “Well, I’ve enjoyed the crack, Colum. We used to say our day will come. Let’s hope it has.”

IT WAS YEARS since he’d visited Jack Barry’s house in Abbey Road, but when he drove there and parked the car, it all came back and he found the house easily enough. He tried the knocker on the front door and waited. He had no intention of confronting Barry about the Irish Rose affair. Just an old friend who happened to be passing, but in any event he was disappointed. He went round to the small garden at the back and peered through the kitchen window.

A voice said, “Can I help you?” and he turned and found a young woman taking wash off the line next door.

Devlin gave her his best smile. “I was looking for Jack Barry.”

“I saw him getting into the big station wagon early this morning. He parks it in the street. If it isn’t there now he’ll be away somewhere. Is it important?”

“Not at all. An old friend who happened to be in the neighborhood, that’s all. So, you’ve no idea where he might be?”

“He’s here most of the time. A lovely man. Used to be a schoolteacher, then his wife died. They used to go away to the country at weekends. They had a cottage or something like that.”

“Would you know where?”

“I’m afraid not.”

“Ah, well, if he turns up, tell him Charlie Black called,” Devlin lied cheerfully and went back to his car.

He was smiling as he drove away, wondering what she’d say if she knew that the nice man next door had once been Chief of Staff of the Provisional IRA.

THE WAREHOUSE ON the trading estate on the outskirts of Dublin was called Seahorse Supplies. The owner was a man named Tony Bradley, middle-aged and balding with a distinct beer belly. An IRA activist in his youth, a five-year sentence in Portlaoise Prison fifty miles from Dublin had cooled his ardor. His sympathy and support were still with the Republican cause, however. He had been a great fund-raiser when he came home from the North Sea oilfields, where he had been a diver, and had set up Seahorse.

The warehouse was packed with diving equipment of every kind and Bradley stopped at a goods table and took out an order pad. “Great to see you again, Jack. In fact, a great honor.”

“Last time was in the pub at Ballyburn when I was spending a weekend at my farmhouse,” Barry said.

“And that was just a happy chance, me passing through. So what can I do?”

“My friend, Mr. Sollazo, needs some diving equipment. You hire as well as sell, don’t you?”

“Of course.” Bradley turned to Sollazo. “Just tell me what you need.”

“Two of everything,” Sollazo told him. “Masks, diving suits, one medium, one large, and with hoods, gloves, fins, weight belts with twelve pounds in each, regulators, buoyancy control devices, and four air tanks. Oh, and a couple of Orca diving computers.” He turned to Barry. “They tell you how deep you are, how long you’ve got, when you should come up.”

“Great,” Bradley said. “I tell you what, Jack, I’ll open the freight door and you bring your station wagon in and we’ll load up right here.”

He bustled off, calling an assistant to help him, and Barry left Sollazo there and went and got the station wagon.

HE STOOD WATCHING as Sollazo carefully checked each item. “You take a lot of care,” he said.

Sollazo shrugged. “I always take care even though I’ve done two hundred and fifteen dives. You wouldn’t believe the number of people killed scuba diving each year and usually because of stupidity.” He smiled. “You see, Mr. Barry, we shouldn’t be down there in the first place.”

Bradley and his man finished stowing the gear and he said, “Anything else?”

“Underwater lights,” Sollazo said.

“No problems. I’ve got the very thing.” He went to a stack, took down two cardboard boxes, and brought them over. “Halogen lamps like the Royal Navy use. Long-life batteries and a charger included.” He put them in the station wagon and stood, hands on hips, frowning. “Something missing.” And then he smiled. “I know.” He darted away and came back with two divers’ knives in sheaths with leg straps. “Now I think that is it,” he said.

Barry said, “Just one thing. There used to be an item called a Master Navigator.”

“Still is,” Bradley said. “Just been updated.”

It was Sollazo who said, “Could we see one?”

“Of course.” Bradley darted off again and was back in a few moments, a black box in his hand. He opened it and took out the Navigator. “There you go.”