“Palmerstown.”
“Which way?”
With a wave of his hand, Keller instructed Gabriel to continue straight. They skirted an industrial park of low gray warehouses, and suddenly they were on Ballyfermot Road. After a moment they came upon a parade of sad little shops: a discount department store, a discount linen store, a discount optician, a chip shop. Across the street was a Tesco supermarket, and next to the supermarket was a betting parlor. Sheltering in the entrance were four men in black leather coats. Liam Walsh was the smallest of the lot. He was smoking a cigarette; they were all smoking cigarettes. Gabriel turned into the Tesco car park and eased into an empty space. It had a clear view of the betting parlor.
“Maybe you should leave the engine running,” said Keller.
“Why?”
“It might not start again.”
Gabriel killed the engine and doused the headlamps. Rain beat heavily against the windscreen. After a few seconds Liam Walsh vanished in a blurry kaleidoscope of light. Then Gabriel flicked the wipers and Walsh reappeared. A long black Mercedes sedan had pulled up outside the betting parlor. It was the only Mercedes on the street, probably the only one in the neighborhood. Walsh was talking to the driver through the open window.
“He looks like a real pillar of the community,” said Gabriel quietly.
“That’s how he likes to portray himself.”
“So why is he standing outside a betting parlor?”
“He wants the other gangs to know that he’s watching his turf. A rival tried to kill him on that very spot last year. If you look closely, you can see the bullet holes in the wall.”
The Mercedes moved off. Liam Walsh returned to the shelter of the entrance.
“Who are those nice-looking fellows with him?”
“The two on the left are his bodyguards. The other one is his second-in-command.”
“Real IRA?”
“To the core.”
“Armed?”
“Most definitely.”
“So what do we do?”
“We wait for him to make a move.”
“Here?”
Keller shook his head. “If they see us sitting in a parked car, they’ll assume we’re Garda or members of a rival gang. And if they assume that, we’re dead.”
“Then maybe we shouldn’t sit here.”
Keller nodded toward the chip shop on the other side of the road and climbed out. Gabriel followed after him. They stood side by side along the edge of the road, hands thrust into their pockets, heads bowed against the windblown rain, waiting for an opening in the traffic.
“They’re watching us,” said Keller.
“You noticed that, too?”
“Hard not to.”
“Does Walsh know your face?”
“He does now.”
The traffic broke; they crossed the road and headed toward the entrance of the chip shop. “It might be better if you don’t speak,” said Keller. “This isn’t the sort of neighborhood that gets a lot of visitors from exotic lands.”
“I speak perfect English.”
“That’s the problem.”
Keller opened the door and went inside first. It was a narrow room with a cracked linoleum floor and peeling walls. The air was thick with grease, starch, and the faint smell of wet wool. There was a pretty young girl behind the counter and an empty table against the window. Gabriel sat with his back to the road while Keller went over to the counter and ordered in the accent of someone from south Dublin.
“Very impressive,” murmured Gabriel when Keller joined him. “For a minute there I thought you were about to break into ‘When Irish Eyes Are Smiling.’”
“As far as that pretty young lass is concerned, I’m as Irish as she is.”
“Yes,” said Gabriel doubtfully. “And I’m Oscar Wilde.”
“You don’t think I can pass for an Irishman?”
“Maybe one who’s been on a very long vacation in the sun.”
“That’s my story.”
“Where have you been?”
“Majorca,” replied Keller. “The Irish love Majorca, especially Irish mobsters.”
Gabriel glanced around the interior of the café. “I wonder why.”
The girl walked over to the table and deposited a plate of chips and two Styrofoam cups of milky tea. As she was leaving, the door opened and two pale men in their mid-twenties hurried in out of the weather. A woman in a damp coat and downtown shoes entered a moment later. The two men took a table near Keller and Gabriel and began speaking in a dialect that Gabriel found almost impenetrable. The woman sat at the back of the shop. She had only tea to drink and was reading a worn paperback book.
“What’s going on outside?” asked Gabriel.
“Four men standing in front of a betting parlor. One man looking like he’s had enough of the rain.”
“Where does he live?”
“Not far,” answered Keller. “He likes to live among the people.”
Gabriel drank some of the tea and made a face. Keller pushed the plate of chips across the table. “Eat some.”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“I want to live long enough to see my children born.”
“Good idea.” Keller smiled, then added, “Men of your age really should be careful about what they eat.”
“Watch yourself.”
“How old are you, exactly?”
“I can’t remember.”
“Problems with memory loss?”
Gabriel drank some of the tea. Keller nibbled at the chips.
“They’re not as good as the fries in the south of France,” he said.
“Did you get a receipt?”
“Why would I need a receipt?”
“I hear the bookkeepers at MI6 are very picky.”
“Let’s not get carried away about MI6 just yet. I haven’t made any decisions.”
“Sometimes our best decisions are made for us.”
“You sound like the don.” Keller ate another chip. “Is it true about MI6 bookkeepers?”
“I was just making conversation.”
“Are yours tough?”
“The worst.”
“But not with you.”
“Not so much.”
“So why didn’t they get you something better than a Škoda?”
“The Škoda is fine.”
“I hope he’ll fit in the trunk.”
“We’ll slam the lid on him a few times if we have to.”
“What about the safe house?”
“I’m sure it’s lovely, Christopher.”
Keller didn’t appear convinced. He picked up another chip, thought better of it, and dropped it onto the plate.
“What’s going on behind me?” he asked.
“Two lads speaking no known language. One woman reading.”
“What’s she reading?”
“I believe it’s John Banville.”
Keller nodded thoughtfully, his eyes on Ballyfermot Road.
“What do you see?” asked Gabriel.
“One man standing outside a betting parlor. Three men getting into a car.”
“What kind of car?”
“Black Mercedes.”
“Better than a Škoda.”
“Much.”
“So what do we do?”
“We leave the fries and take the tea.”
“When?”
Keller rose to his feet.
13
BALLYFERMOT, DUBLIN
THEY DROPPED THE STYROFOAM cups into a rubbish bin in the Tesco parking lot and climbed into the Škoda. This time, Keller drove; it was his turf. He eased into Ballyfermot Road and worked his way through the traffic until there were two cars separating them from the Mercedes. He drove calmly, one hand balanced atop the steering wheel, the other resting on the automatic shift. His eyes were straight ahead. Gabriel had commandeered the side-view mirror and was watching the traffic behind them.
“Well?” asked Keller.
“You’re very good, Christopher. You’re going to make a fine MI6 officer.”
“I was asking whether we’re being followed.”
“We’re not.”
Keller removed his hand from the shift and used it to extract a cigarette from his coat pocket. Gabriel tapped the black-and-yellow notice on the visor and said, “This is a no-smoking car.”
Keller lit the cigarette. Gabriel lowered his window a few inches to vent the smoke.
“They’re stopping,” he said.
“I can see that.”
The Mercedes turned into an angled parking space outside a newsagent. For a few seconds no one got out. Then Liam Walsh stepped from the rear passenger-side door and entered the shop. Keller drove about fifty meters farther along the road and parked outside a takeaway pizza parlor. He killed the lights but left the engine running.