“And?”

“The two men in the rear car scrambled to get out. One of them fired wildly and was lucky. Hit me in the left shoulder. I riddled the car, a kind of reflex, killed him and the driver. Then I drove away, and made it to one of the safehouses, where the SAS patched me up and got me out the following morning.”

“Jesus,” Billy said. “You killed five.”

“All gone to that great IRA heaven in the sky, Billy, and the doctors put me together again and my masters gave me the Military Cross – had to, really. The loss of five members of the Londonderry Brigade was so mortifying that the Provos put it about as another SAS atrocity, and in the mythology of Irish Republicanism, that’s where it remains.”

It was Dillon who sensed more. “So what happened afterward?”

“Oh, I got a call to pick up the medal from Her Majesty at Buckingham Palace, and I asked Mary to go with me. She’d visited me in the hospital and naturally wanted to know how I’d come to be there, so I told her.”

“And what happened?”

“She sent the engagement ring back, and a letter explaining that she couldn’t possibly marry a man who’d killed five people.”

“Well, damn her eyes,” Billy said.

“That’s one point of view. So I went to the palace on my own. A nasty, wet day it was, too. The Regiment was proud of me. Gave me leave.”

“Which you used to sail to Long Island. You thought a hard sea voyage would blow the cobwebs away?” Dillon said.

“Something like that.”

“But in the end, you were still the man who shot five men dead, right?”

“That’s right.”

“General, they asked for it and they got it,” Billy said.

“True, Billy, I did my duty and it cost me Mary.” He said to Dillon, “God knows why I bothered to tell you after all these years. I think I’m getting maudlin in my old age. Take the wheel and I’ll go and have a rest,” and he went out.

Billy said, “My God, I said he was harder than Harry, but I never dreamed he was capable of a thing like that.”

“Oh, he probably killed before in all those rotten little wars, Billy. Cork Street was his spectacular.” He lit a cigarette. “Remember what I told you before, about the people who take care of the bad things that ordinary folk find impossible to handle? The soldiers? I’m a soldier, whether people approve of me or not, and so are you, and then we get Charles Ferguson, a decent, honorable man who could have been a banker or a lawyer. Instead he’s spent his life saving his country.”

Behind them, Ferguson said from the doorway, “That’s nice of you, Dillon, but don’t let’s overdo it, and as far as the steering goes, I’d say a couple of points west.”

In Drumgoole, in the back room of the pub, Derry Gibson ate bacon and eggs served by the local publican, one Keith Adair, his right-hand man in the little port.

“Is there anything else I can get you?” Adair asked.

“No, this is grand. It’s the weather I don’t like. It’s bad out there and getting worse. I’d hoped the Mona Lisa could come in to the jetty by the old stone quarry. If it gets worse, the skipper will have to drop his hook out in the bay.”

“That’ll make it more difficult to unload, Derry. Mind you, plenty of local fishermen have signed up for that.”

“Well, they would, wouldn’t they? What about the local Peelers?”

“They’ve closed the police station down, Derry. Some trouble up in Castleton, so they’ve gone up there to help out.”

“Excellent. They know which side their bread’s buttered on.”

At that moment, the phone sounded and Adair passed it to him.

“Mr. Gibson, it’s Janet from The Orange George.”

“I know who you are, Janet. What’s the problem?”

“Well, I was wondering if you knew where Patrick is? It’s been a couple of days. He phoned once and said his uncle Arthur had died unexpectedly and I was to carry on running the pub, only we got cut off and I’ve got bills coming in and I can’t write the checks, so I thought I’d speak to you, knowing you’re the real owner.”

“Just a minute,” Derry told her. “He doesn’t have an uncle Arthur.”

“Well, that’s what he said.”

And years of bad living made Derry Gibson sit up very straight. He nodded to Adair and switched the phone to speaker.

“When did you last see him, Janet?”

“Later in the morning when you went off for the plane to Belfast. I was doing breakfasts. This small man came in. Black bomber jacket, jeans and that funny kind of fair hair, almost white. He asked for Patrick, and at that moment Patrick came in by the rear door.”

“And what happened?”

“Well, the little guy said, ‘Patrick, my old son, it’s me, Sean Dillon.’ He had one of those kind of Belfast accents like yours, Mr. Gibson.”

Derry Gibson went cold. “And what happened?”

“That was it. Nothing until the phone call, and then today, I was talking to that old Kelly guy who sells the newspapers outside, and he said he was surprised to see Patrick getting in a Shogun with three guys, because he knew two of them well, Harry Salter and his nephew, Billy. Big gangsters.”

It was enough. Derry Gibson said, “There’s a lot going on here you don’t know about, Janet. Just keep things going. If you look in the right-hand top drawer of Patrick’s desk, you’ll find a company credit card. Use it to pay bills. I’ll be in touch.”

He switched off and turned to Adair. “Sean Dillon and those Salter guys. That means Ferguson.”

“Jesus, they’ll have squeezed Murphy dry,” Adair said. “We’re up the creek.”

“No, not the way Ferguson and Dillon work.” Gibson’s face was hard. “Every job is a black operation to them. No police, no SAS, just Dillon and whatever he comes up with. It’s always been the way he plays the game.”

“Which means?”

Gibson laughed and it was as if he was enjoying it. “He’s at sea already, homing on the Mona Lisa.”

“So what do we do?”

“Give him a welcome, his last on this earth. I’ll phone Rossi and let him know what to expect.”

On the bridge of the Mona Lisa, Martino was at the wheel, Rossi at one side, the boat pounding through heavy weather as darkness really descended. The ship-to-shore sounded, and Martino answered. He turned to Rossi.

“It’s for you.”

Rossi took it and listened to what Gibson had to say. “In Sean Dillon’s hands, Murphy will spill his guts.” Rossi felt strangely calm, not in the least put out. “Dillon really is a piece of work.”

“So what do we do?”

“Well, it’s up to the captain in this weather. If he can come in and make the jetty, fine,” Gibson said. “If it’s too rough, drop the anchor in the bay. I’ll have suitable backup here in Drumgoole, but you break out your weapons on board and keep a weather eye out for any likely craft.”

“You really think Dillon is actually at sea?”

“I wouldn’t be surprised. He and Ferguson will see the Mona Lisa as a prime target and they’ll do it their way. Look, all this rubbish about Northern Ireland and peace initiatives. It’s crap, because the IRA and Sinn Fein have abused the system, and the British government has let them do it. I’m a good Orange Prod and I know it, because someone like Ferguson classes me with the IRA.”

“So what are you saying?”

“That Ferguson doesn’t play by the rules, because he knows the justice system doesn’t work. That’s why he has Sean Dillon. He’ll come in the hard way.”

He hung up.

Rossi stood there thinking, and turned to Martino.

“Break out the weapons and tell everyone to keep watch. Any other boat, we approach with caution.”

“Why, señor?”

Rossi smiled grimly. “We’re about to have company, Captain.”