Kathleen Ryan jumped up. “Damn you for saying that. My uncle has given more for our people than anyone I know. Better you get out of here while you can.”

Ryan held up a hand. “Softly, child, any intelligent man would see it as a possibility. It’s happened before, God knows, and on both sides.”

“So?” Keogh said.

“I can be as hungry as the next man where money is concerned, but my cause is a just one, the one certainty in my life. Any money that passes through my hands goes to the Protestant cause. That’s what my life is about.”

“Then why not use some of your own men?”

“Because people talk too much, a weakness in all revolutionary movements. The IRA have the same problem. I’ve always preferred to use what I call hired help, and for that I go to the underworld. An honest thief who is working for wages is a sounder proposition than some revolutionary hothead.”

“So that’s where I come in?” Keogh said. “Hired help, just like anyone else you need?”

“Exactly. So, are you in or out? If it’s no, then say so. After what you did for Kathleen tonight you’ll come to no harm from me.”

“Well that’s nice to know.” Keogh shrugged. “Oh, what the hell, I might as well give it a try. A change from the North Sea. Terrible weather there at this time of the year.”

“Good man yourself.” Ryan smiled. “A couple of Bushmills, Kathleen, and we’ll drink to it.”

“WHERE ARE YOU staying?” Ryan asked.

“A fleapit called the Albert Hotel,” Keogh told him.

“Fleapit, indeed,” Ryan toasted him. “Our country too.”

“May you die in Ireland,” Keogh replied.

“An excellent sentiment.” Ryan swallowed his Bushmills in a single gulp.

“So what happens now?”

“I’ll tell you in London. We’ll fly there, you, me, and Kathleen. There’s someone I have to see.”

Keogh turned to the girl. “An activist is it? A little young I would have thought.”