Ryan was caught, the magazine from the Walther on the table beside it. Keogh said, “What do I do, shoot him? All right. Bang, you’re dead.” He picked up the Browning and fired once. The man dropped the hand holding the revolver to one side. Keogh said, “Blanks, Mr. Ryan, I could tell by the weight. What kind of a game are we playing here?”

Ryan was laughing now. “Go on, Joseph, and get yourself a drink at the bar.”

The supposed gunman turned away. The old men by the fire continued their card game as if nothing had happened.

Michael Ryan stood up. “Just a test, my old son, in a manner of speaking. Let’s adjourn to the parlour and talk some more.”

THERE WAS A fire in the grate of the small parlour, curtains drawn as rain drummed against the window. It was warm and comfortable and Ryan and Keogh sat opposite each other. The girl came in from the kitchen with a teapot, milk, and cups on a tray.

Ryan said, “If you’re a seaman, you’ll have your papers.”

“Of course,” Keogh said.

Ryan held out his hand and Keogh shrugged, opened his reefer, and took a wallet from his inside pocket.

“There you go. Ships’ papers, union card, the lot.”

The girl poured tea and Ryan examined everything closely. “Paid off the Ventura two weeks ago. Deck hand and diver. What’s all that?”

“The Ventura’s a supply ship in the North Sea oilfields. Besides general ship’s duties I did some diving. Not the really deep stuff. Just underwater maintenance, welding when necessary. That sort of thing.”

“Interesting. A man of parts. Any special skills from the Parachute Regiment?”

“Just how to kill people. The usual weaponry skills. A considerable knowledge of explosives.” Keogh lit a cigarette. “But where’s all this leading?”

Ryan persisted. “Can you ride a motorcycle?”

“Since I was sixteen, and that’s a long time ago. So what?”

Ryan leaned back, took out a pipe, and filled it from an old pouch. “Visiting relatives, are you?”