The fifth book in the Sean Dillon series, 1996

RAIN SWEPT IN from Belfast Lough, and as he turned the corner there was the rattle of small-arms fire somewhere in the darkness of the city center followed by the crump of an explosion. He didn’t even hesitate but started across the square, a small man, no more than five feet five, in jeans, reefer coat, and peaked cap, a seaman’s duffle bag hanging from one shoulder.

A sign said Albert Hotel , but it was more a lodging house than anything else, of a type used by sailors, and constructed originally by the simple expedient of knocking three Victorian terrace houses together. The front door stood open, and a small, balding man peered out, a newspaper in one hand.

There was another explosion in the distance. “Jesus!” he said. “The boys are active tonight.”

The small man said from the bottom of the steps, “I phoned earlier about a room. Keogh is the name.” His voice was more English than anything else, only a hint of the distinctive Belfast accent.

“Ah, yes – Mr. Keogh. Off a boat, are ye?”

“Something like that.”

“Well, come away in out of the rain and I’ll fix you up.”

At that moment, a Land Rover turned the corner followed by another. They were stripped down, three paratroopers crouched behind the driver, hard, young men in red berets and flak jackets, each one carrying a submachine gun. They vanished into the darkness and rain on the other side of the square.

“Jesus!” the old man said again, then went inside and Keogh followed him.

IT WAS A poor sort of a place, a square hall with a reception desk and a narrow staircase. The white paint had yellowed over the years and the wallpaper was badly faded, damp showing through here and there.