“That’s terrible, what you say. Still, it can’t go on-things change.”

“What do you mean, things change?”

“The whole system. My Kenny says the bombs won’t need people like you soon. He’s read about you in the papers. He knows I work for you.”

“What does he mean, things change?”

“He’s taking his finals in his degree soon. Electronics. He makes gadgets. These days you have a hand control to work your television, open your garage doors, unlock your car, switch on security systems in your house. We’ve only got an ordinary terrace, but the gadgets he’s created in it are brilliant.”

“Very interesting, but what’s this got to do with bombs?”

“Well, it’s too technical for me, but he’s been working on a thing he calls a Howler. It looks like a standard television control, but it’s really different. He can turn off security systems, and I mean really important ones. He demonstrated on our local bank. He kept locking the doors as we walked past. They didn’t know whether they were coming or going. Does it to people’s cars as we go by, turns on store alarms, even big shops in town.”

“Very interesting,” Roper said. “Fascinating, but I still don’t see the relevance to bombs.”

“Well, that’s what he’s really been working on. He said he can maybe adapt the Howler so that even a big sophisticated bomb like your Portland Hotel job could simply be switched off. That’s the only way I can describe it.” She smiled. “Anyway, I can’t stand around here chattering. I’ve got five other rooms to do.”

“No, just a minute,” Roper said. “Let me get this straight. Has Kenny really gotten anywhere with his invention?”

“He’s working at it all the time at the moment. He was talking about bombs at the time because of that Paradise Street bomb the day before yesterday, the one in the car that killed the sergeant. He said the Howler could switch it off at the touch of a button, that was what he was working towards.”

Roper was cold with excitement. “He said that, did he?”

She laughed. “I said could it work the other way, could what was switched off be switched on? He said a Howler has two faces. What could be switched off could be switched on again.” She picked up her bucket. “Anyway, I’ll be away now. Work to do.”

“Just one more thing. Could I meet Kenny?”

She had moved to the door and turned. “I don’t know about that. I mean, soldiers are targets at the best of times and you never know who’s who these days. Fenians everywhere.”

“I wouldn’t be in uniform, Jean. I’d just like to meet him and discuss his work if he’d let me. It sounds very interesting. And he might find it rewarding to discuss his ideas with someone like me who has spent so much time at the coalface, so to speak.”

She looked serious. “You’ve got a point. I can’t speak for him, but I’ll give him a phone call, see what he has to say. I’ve got to get moving. I’ll let you know.”

Then she was gone, and Roper sat on the bed and thought about it. It wasn’t as crazy as it sounded. Most really sophisticated bombs had multiple electrical circuits of one kind or another, intertwining in complicated puzzles, feeding into one another, often in the most bizarre way. The theory behind this Howler device of Kenny’s was a kind of Holy Grail. After all, if the most complicated of security systems could be neutered at the touch of a button, it seemed logical that the right touch of genius could do the same thing to bomb circuits.

It was a thought that wouldn’t go away, and he went down to the bar and ordered a large whiskey since he was off duty, took a newspaper to a corner table, and sat there, pretending to read it, but thinking.

Major Sanderson, the commanding officer, glanced in. “I see you’ve got a night off, Giles. Lucky you. I’ve got a general staff meeting at the Grand Hotel. Your furlough’s been approved, by the way. Starts Sunday. Two weeks, so make the most of it.”

He went, and for a moment there was no one else in the bar except the corporal behind the counter busying himself cleaning glasses. Jean Murray peered in at the door.

The corporal said, “You can’t come in here, you know that.”

“It’s all right,” Roper told him. “She wants me.” He swallowed his whiskey, got up, and joined her in the corridor. “What have you got for me?”

“I’ve spoken to Kenny, and he says he’ll see you, but it’s got to be tonight, because he’s starting the practical side of his finals for his degree at Queens University tomorrow.”

“That’s fine by me.”

“I’m finished in an hour. I’ll meet you on the corner by Cohan’s Bar, and no uniform, like I said.”

“No problem. Where are we going?”

“Not far. Half a mile maybe. You know where the Union Canal is? He has a room he uses for his work in what used to be a flour mill. You’ll need a raincoat. It’s pouring out there.”

“Sounds good to me,” Roper told her.

He returned to the bar, ordered another whiskey, and sat in the corner, thinking about it. His boss was out of the way at his staff meeting; there was no point in discussing his intended adventure on the streets of Belfast after dark with anyone else. There were risks, but risk of any kind had been so much a part of his life for years now that it was second nature.

He would go armed, of course, his usual Browning Hi-Power, but a backup would be a sensible precaution, and he drank his whiskey and went along to the weapons store, where he found a Sergeant Clark on duty.

“I’m going on the town tonight, out of uniform, special op. I’ll have the Hi-Power, but is there anything else you could suggest?”

Clark, who regarded Roper as a true hero, was happy to oblige. “Colt.25, Captain, with hollow-point cartridges. It’s hard to beat.

There you go.” He placed one on the counter and a box of ten cartridges.

“So that will do it?” Roper inquired.

“With this.” Clark produced an ankle holder in soft leather. “Nothing’s perfect, but in a body search, when somebody finds an item like a Browning, they tend to assume that’s it.” He smiled cheerfully. “You just have to live in hopes. Sign here, sir.”

He pushed a ledger across and offered a pen. Roper said, “I knew I could rely on you, Sergeant.”

“Take care, sir.”

IN HIS ROOM, Roper changed into a pair of old comfortable trousers, not jeans, because it made the ankle holder more accessible. He carefully loaded the Colt with six of the hollow-points and checked that he could reach it easily. He wore the bulletproof vest, a dark polo-neck sweater, and a navy blue slip-on raincoat he’d had for years. He didn’t wear a shoulder holster and simply put the Browning in his right-hand pocket. He peered out of the windows, old-fashioned streetlights aglow now in the early-evening darkness, rain hammering down, although when didn’t it in Belfast? He went through his narrow wardrobe, found an old tweed cap, pulled it on, and went downstairs.

The guards on either side of the gate stayed in their sentry boxes. They knew him well. After all, everyone did. “A hell of a night for it, sir,” one of them called cheerfully as he raised the bar. “Whatever it is.”

Roper smiled back just as cheerfully, pausing for a moment, looking out into that Belfast street that as far as he was concerned was like no other street in any city in the world.

“All right,” he murmured to himself. “Let’s get moving.” He slipped out and turned toward Cohan’s.

JEAN MURRAY STOOD in the entrance of the bar, sheltering from the rain. She had a large old-fashioned umbrella ready and seemed impatient. “So there you are. I was beginning to think you weren’t coming.”

“Will I do?” Roper asked.

She looked him over. “I suppose so. But keep that gob of yours shut. You sound as if you’ve been to Eton or somewhere like that.” She opened the umbrella. “Let’s get moving.”