“That’s as may be. I owe you a drink, anyway.”

“Bushmills whiskey would be fine,” Keogh told him.

“Over here.” Ryan indicated a booth in the corner.

The girl took off her raincoat and beret and eased behind the table. Her uncle sat beside her and Keogh was opposite. Ivor brought a bottle of Bushmills and two glasses.

“Can I get you anything, Kathleen?”

“No, I’m okay, Ivor.”

He plainly worshiped her but nodded and walked away. Ryan said, “I’ve checked with a contact at the Royal Victoria. They just received three very damaged young men. One with a bullet in the thigh.”

“Is that a fact?” Keogh said.

Kathleen Ryan stared at him. “You didn’t tell me.”

“No need.”

“Let’s see what you’re carrying,” Ryan asked. “No need to worry. All friends here.”

Keogh shrugged, took the Walther from his pocket, and passed it across. Ryan examined it expertly. “Carswell silencer, the new job. Very nice.” He took a Browning from his pocket and passed it over. “Still my personal favorite.”

“Preferred weapon of the SAS,” Keogh said, lifting the Browning in one hand. “And the Parachute Regiment.”

“He served with One Para,” the girl said. “Bloody Sunday.”

“Is that a fact?” Michael Ryan said.

“A long time ago. Lately I’ve been at sea.”

“Belfast, but raised in London, Kathleen tells me?”

“My mother died in childbirth. My father went to London in search of work. He’s dead now.”

Ryan had ejected the magazine from the butt of the Walther. “And a good Prod. You must be because of what you did for Kathleen.”

“To be honest with you religion doesn’t mean a thing to me,” Keogh told him. “But let’s say I know which side I’m on.”

At that moment, the door was flung open and a man in a cloth cap and raincoat rushed in, a revolver in one hand.

“Michael Ryan, you bastard, I’ve got you now,” he cried and raised the revolver.