Sollazo examined it, the rows of buttons and the read-out panel. He glanced at Barry inquiringly and the Irishman said, “What happens if I insert the bearings for, let’s say, a wreck at sea?”

“Well what happens is a triumph of modern technology,” Bradley said. “There’s an instruction book here and it’s very simple.”

“No need,” Sollazo told him. “I’ll give you the figures, you feed them in, and we’ll watch.”

He took out his diary and dictated the position of the Irish Rose to Bradley, who punched it in. The figures appeared on the read-out panel. “Check that they’re correct,” Bradley said.

Sollazo did so. “Perfect.”

“Good.” Bradley pressed a blue button. “Now it’s on hold. You activate it by pressing the red button. You get a slow and monotonous pinging. When you reach the actual position, the pinging becomes frantic. You stop it by pressing the blue button again.”

“And that we’ll definitely have,” Barry said. “Send me a bill at Abbey Road, Tony, and you’ll get my check.”

“Ah, sure, pay me when you return the gear, Jack.”

Bradley stood to one side as they drove away and waved.

“GOOD,” SOLLAZO SAID. “The one thing you haven’t mentioned so far is a boat.”

“It’s being taken care of. I mentioned Drumdonald and Scotstown as being in the general area of the Down coast where Ryan, his niece, and Sean Dillon landed. Scotstown is a small fishing village. There’s a pub there called the Loyalist. It’s not what it seems. Kevin Stringer, the landlord, is one of our own. It was to there that Dillon went for sanctuary after landing from the Irish Rose. Anyway, I’ve spoken to Kevin and he’s found us something he thinks could be suitable. I think you and I should drive up there tomorrow. We can take all the equipment with us. If the boat is okay, Kevin can stow the equipment on board and we’ll come back. I’ll take some Semtex and pencil timers, by the way, in case we have to blast our way into the boat.”

“And then?”

“Return the following day, all of us, Ryan and the girl included, and we’ll go out to Rathlin Island and find the damned boat.”

“You think we will?”

“I always travel hopefully,” Jack Barry said.

IT WAS LATE in the afternoon when Devlin arrived back at Kilrea Cottage. Dillon was sprawled beside the fire, eyes closed, and Hannah was reading a book when Devlin entered.

He looked tired and she got up, concerned. “Let me get you a cup of tea.”

“That would be grand.”

He dropped into her chair and Dillon sat up. “Any luck?”

“Well I saw Colum O’Brien, the present Chief of Staff, and satisfied myself that as far as he is concerned Jack Barry is not up to anything. As for the rest, I’ve made discreet inquiries of various sources, some of whom I have to check back with tomorrow.”

“So that’s it?” Dillon said.

“For the moment.” Devlin sat up straight as Hannah brought tea in. “Girl, you’re the wonder of the world.” He took the cup. “When I’ve had this, I’ll have a bath and then take you for dinner.”

WHEN SOLLAZO AND Barry went into the farmhouse they found Mori in the sitting room reading a book. He looked up. “This is great stuff. A History of the Saints of Ireland. These guys make Mafia look like kindergarten.”

“Where are they?” Sollazo asked.

“In the kitchen. She’s cooking. I had to go and stand in the garden in the rain while her uncle dug up potatoes with a fork, also carrots. Then she got cucumbers and lettuce and tomatoes from the greenhouse. She could be a useful little broad.”

“Who’s killed at least three men to my knowledge,” Barry said.

“Exactly,” Sollazo told him.

Sollazo went into the kitchen. There was a good smell, Kathleen standing at the stove checking pans. Ryan was at the table mixing a salad.

“A woman of many talents, I see,” Sollazo said.

“You’d better believe it, mister,” she replied.

SEATED AT HIS desk, the phone in his hand, Ferguson said, “I’ve spoken to Dillon. Our contact, Devlin, has feelers out, but no results so far.”

In his office in the basement at the White House Blake Johnson said, “Too much to hope for an early result. As you know, the President is concerned in this matter. Do keep me posted, Brigadier.”

“Of course I will.”

Ferguson put down the phone and sat back. “Come on, Dillon,” he said softly. “Give me a result.”

DEVLIN, AS A favored customer at his local pub, was given the best booth in the corner of the restaurant. He insisted on ordering for all of them so they started with a lentil and potato soup to be followed by Irish ham in a white sauce with new potatoes and boiled cabbage.

Hannah said, “I’m sorry, Liam, I’m Jewish, you’ve forgotten. Ham is out.”

He was immediately contrite. “Would poached salmon be in?”

“That I could manage.”

“I should tell you as a serving police officer that the emphasis is on poached.”

“Oh, dear.”

He turned to Dillon. “As for you, boy, forget your ideas about the Krug champagne. All they do is a house champagne here at twelve quid the bottle.”

“Irish champagne?” Hannah said.

“Well the name on the label is French.”

Dillon raised his hands. “Order it, I surrender.”

THE MEAL WAS delicious, the champagne almost acceptable, and the conversation the most interesting Hannah Bernstein had heard in years.

“So your granddad’s a rabbi, your father a professor of surgery, and you went to Cambridge University?” Devlin said. “That’s a terrible weight to bear, and you a peeler? How did that come about?”

“I wanted to do something worthwhile. Money wasn’t a consideration. I’ve got plenty of that.”

“God, you on the beat in a blue uniform must have been the grand sight.”

“Don’t be sexist, Mr. Devlin.”

“Liam. Do I have to tell you again? But a nice Jewish girl like you. I mean, didn’t your da want you to marry and have babies?”

“This nice Jewish girl shot dead Norah Bell,” Dillon said.

Devlin stopped smiling. “Jesus, big for the Protestant cause, that one.”

“And I killed the boyfriend, Ahern,” Dillon said. “They were in London to knock off the American President.”

Hannah looked strained and Devlin put a hand on hers. “It is not on you, any of it, girl, it’s the world we live in. Now, a Bushmills whiskey to put me to sleep and we’ll go home.”

He shouted the order across to the barman, turned back with a smile, then suddenly frowned. “I’ve had a thought.”

“And what would that be?” Dillon asked.

“They’ve got to go looking for the site of the Irish Rose.”

“That’s right. Somewhere off the Down coast. We landed in the general area of Drumdonald and Scotstown.”

“I’m not thinking of that. I’m thinking they have to go looking, which means chartering a boat, but more than that, wouldn’t they need diving equipment?”

Dillon nodded. “Of course.”

“And you, they tell me, are an expert in that field these days.”

“I’ve done my share. What are you getting at?”

“Well, they’ve got to get that equipment from somewhere, and Dublin isn’t exactly saturated with firms in that line of business.”

“No, it wouldn’t be,” Dillon said.

“What if I told you there’s a firm called Seahorse Supplies on the edge of Dublin that’s owned by an old IRA hand called Tony Bradley? Served under Jack Barry, did five years in Portlaoise Prison. Now if you were Jack Barry and you needed diving equipment, where would you go?”

“Seahorse Supplies,” Hannah Bernstein said.

Devlin smiled and raised his glass in a toast. “Exactly, which is where we’ll go first thing in the morning. Everything comes to he who waits.”