In the early evening of the day they had arrived in London, Ryan, Keogh, and Kathleen sat with him in a backroom, an assortment of handguns on the table. Bell, a large, jovial man with white hair, poured himself a whiskey.

“Anything you like, Michael, and there’s more where that came from.”

Ryan selected a Browning, hefted it, and put it in his pocket. Keogh found a Walther. “Would you have a Carswell for this?” he asked.

“A man of taste and discernment, I see,” Bell observed. He got up, went to a cupboard, rummaged inside, and came back. “There you go. The latest model.”

Keogh screwed it onto the end of the Walther. “Just the ticket.”

“And the young lady?” Bell asked.

“My niece doesn’t carry,” Ryan told him.

The girl bridled instantly. “I’m as good a shot as you, Uncle Michael, and you know it. How am I expected to protect myself? Kick them in the balls?”

Bell laughed. “I might have a solution.” He went back to the cupboard and returned with a small automatic. “Colt.25, quite rare. Slips in a lady’s handbag or stocking quite easily.”

“And no bloody stopping power,” Ryan told him.

“Enough if you’re close enough,” Bell said.

The girl took the weapon from him and smiled. “This will do me just fine.” She slipped it into her handbag.

Ryan said, “All right. What about the Irish Rose?”

“Siemens ferry, tied up in Wapping near the Pool of London. Captain Frank Tully, but you know that. The kind of rat who’ll do anything for money. The worst kind of drugs, anything that pays. He’s twice run arms for the IRA to the Republic.”

“What about his crew?”

“There’s four.” Bell opened a drawer and took out a piece of paper. He put reading spectacles on the end of his nose. “Mick Dolan and Jock Grant – they’re from Liverpool. Bert Fox from London, and a Kraut named Muller – Hans Muller. They’ve all got form – all been inside.”