“How are you feeling?” asked Quinn.

“Do you care?”

“Not really.”

She nodded toward the Ardglass lighthouse and said, “Looks as though we missed our exit.”

“Change in plan,” said Quinn.

“Police?”

Quinn nodded.

“What did you expect?”

“Get ready,” he said. “We have one more boat ride.”

“Lucky me.”

Quinn slipped through the companionway and went onto the deck. The weather was clear and cold, and a spray of stars shone brightly in the black sky. The coastline north of Ardglass was mainly farmland, with a few scattered cottages overlooking the sea. Quinn swept the landscape with his binoculars, but it was still too dark to see anything. They churned past Guns Island, an uninhabited lump of green two hundred yards off the village of Ballyhornan, and a few minutes later rounded the rocky headland that guarded the mouth of Strangford Lough. Channel markers pointed the route north. The first lights were starting to come on in the cottages along Shore Road, enough so that Quinn could discern the silhouette of Kilclief Castle. Then he saw three bursts of light a little farther up the shoreline. He sent a text message that consisted only of a question mark. The reply said the front door was wide open.

Quinn readied the Zodiac and returned to the cabin. He pointed toward the spot where he had seen the flashes of light and instructed Jack Delaney to make for it. Then he ducked down the steps into the forward cabin and snatched the hood from Madeline’s head. A pair of eyes glared at him in the semidarkness.

“Time to go ashore,” said Quinn. “Be a good lass. Otherwise, I’ll put a bullet through your brain. Are we clear?”

The two eyes stared coldly back at him. No fear there, thought Quinn, only anger. He had to admit he admired her courage. He pulled the black hood over her head and lifted her to her feet.

Connor Delaney took them in straight and fast. Quinn climbed out into a foot of water. Then, with Katerina’s help, he lifted Madeline from the Zodiac and marched her toward the car parked along the edge of the road. The car was a Peugeot 508, dark gray. The boot was open. Quinn forced Madeline inside and slammed the lid. Then he and Katerina climbed into the car, Katerina in the front passenger seat, Quinn stretched across the backseat, the Makarov pointed at her spine. Behind the wheel, wearing a reefer coat and a woolen watch cap, was Billy Conway. “Welcome home,” he said. Then he started the engine and pulled onto the road.

They headed west toward Downpatrick. Quinn turned his face away instinctively as a unit from the PSNI approached from the opposite direction, lights flashing.

“Where do you suppose he’s going so early on a lovely Saturday morning?”

“It’s like that all across the six counties.” Billy Conway glanced into the rearview mirror. “I suppose you’re the cause of it.”

“I suppose I am.”

“Who’s the girl in the trunk?”

Quinn hesitated, then answered truthfully.

“The Russian girl who was sleeping with the prime minister?”

“One and the same.”

“Christ, Eamon.” Billy Conway drove in silence for a moment. “You never told me you were bringing out a hostage.”

“The facts on the ground changed.”

“What facts?”

Quinn said nothing more.

“What do you intend to do with her?”

“Sit on her.”

“Where?”

“Somewhere no one will find her.”

“South Armagh?”

Quinn was silent.

“We’d better let them know we’re coming.”

“No,” said Quinn. “No phones.”

“We can’t just show up on their doorstep.”

“Yes, we can.”

“Why?”

“Because I’m Eamon Quinn.”

Another PSNI unit was speeding toward them out of Downpatrick. Quinn lowered his face. Billy Conway clutched the wheel tightly in both hands.

“Why did you bring that girl back here, Eamon?”

“Breadcrumbs,” replied Quinn.

“For what?”

“Just drive, Billy. I’ll tell you the rest when we get to Bandit Country.”

71

THE ARDOYNE, WEST BELFAST

THE SEA KING HAD SET down at JHFS Aldergrove, the Joint Helicopter Command flying station adjacent to Belfast Airport. Amanda Wallace of MI5 had arranged for a car, a five-year-old Ford Escort with faded blue paint and nearly a hundred thousand surveillance miles on the odometer. She had also opened the doors of an MI5 safe house in a Protestant section of North Belfast. Two officers from T Branch, MI5’s Irish terrorism division, were waiting inside when Gabriel and Keller arrived shortly after midnight. Neither knew Keller’s name or face, though Gabriel’s identity proved harder to conceal. They passed a sleepless night together monitoring the search for the craft that had taken Madeline Hart from the isolated cove on the northern coast of Cornwall. By six in the morning it had become clear that the boat would not be found, at least not with Madeline still on board. The British public, however, knew nothing of her abduction. Nor did it know that an SIS officer had leapt to his death from a terrace of Vauxhall Cross. The lead story on the BBC’s Breakfast program concerned the prime minister’s controversial plan to reform the National Health Service. The reaction was universally hostile.

At half past six Gabriel and Keller left the safe house and climbed into the Ford. They spent the next thirty minutes driving in circles through the northern and eastern sections of the city to make certain they were not being followed by MI5 or any other entity of British intelligence. Then, at seven o’clock, they turned onto Crumlin Road and headed into the Catholic Ardoyne. Keller parked at one end of Stratford Gardens and killed the engine. Lights burned in a few windows along the terraces, but otherwise the street was in darkness.

“How long before your friends show up?” asked Gabriel.

“It’s early,” said Keller vaguely.

“That doesn’t sound encouraging.”

“We’re in West Belfast. It’s hard to be optimistic.”

For several minutes Stratford Gardens did not stir. Keller scanned the street for evidence of trouble, but Gabriel had eyes only for the door of Number 8. It opened at 7:45 and two figures emerged, Maggie and Catherine Donahue, the wife and daughter of a man who could make a ball of fire travel a thousand feet per second. The wife and daughter of the man who had helped Tariq al-Hourani solve the problems he was having with his timers and detonators. Catherine Donahue was wearing a field hockey uniform beneath a gray coat. Her mother was wearing a tracksuit and trainers. They passed through the metal gate at the end of the garden walk and turned right, toward Ardoyne Road.

“Where’s her game?” asked Gabriel.

“Lisburn. Bus leaves at eight thirty.”

“Can’t she find her way alone?”

“They have to pass through a Protestant area to get up to Our Lady of Mercy. There’s been a lot of trouble over the years.”

“Or maybe they’re making a run for it.”

“Dressed like that?”

“Follow them,” said Gabriel.

“What if my friends show up?”

“I think I can look after myself.”

Gabriel stepped out of the car without another word. The gate of Number 8 emitted a sharp squeak as he pushed it open, but the front door yielded soundlessly. Entering, he quickly drew a gun from the small of his back—the Glock 17 that he had been given by SO1, the prime minister’s protection detail. A television blared unwatched in the sitting room; Gabriel left it on and stole up the stairs, the gun in his outstretched hands. He found both bedrooms in disarray but unoccupied. Then he went downstairs and entered the kitchen. There were a few breakfast dishes in the basin, and on the counter was a pot of tea. He took a mug from the cabinet, poured himself a cup, and sat down at the kitchen table to wait.