“Well, at least we know what we’re dealing with,” Keogh observed.

“That’s right,” Ryan told him. “Just your average scum.”

Bell said, “These aren’t good people, Michael. I hope you know what you’re doing.”

“I usually do.” Ryan grinned and took a folded piece of paper from his pocket. “These are my requirements. See if you can fill the bill.”

Bell had a look. “Stun grenades, smoke grenades. That’s fine. Two AK assault rifles. Okay. Semtex? Is that essential?”

“I might have to blow my way into my target.”

“All right, I’ll see what I can do.”

“That’s it, then.” Ryan smiled at his niece and Keogh. “Something to eat and then we’ll go and see Tully.”

IT WAS VERY cold on the Thames, Tower Bridge on the right and the floodlit Tower of London just beyond it. A couple of ships passed from the Pool of London, red and green lights clear in the evening darkness as the taxi stopped at the end of Cable Wharfe, and Ryan, Kathleen, and Keogh got out. The taxi moved away and they walked along the waterfront.

The ferry was moored at the far end, cables reaching to the pier. In the sickly yellow light of two lamps they could see the legend on the stern plain. Irish Rose.

“Enough to make a man feel at home,” Ryan said.

“I’m not sure that’s the right word for it,” Keogh told him.

They started up the gangway and a man in reefer coat and peaked cap appeared. “And where do you think you’re going?” he asked in a hard Liverpool voice.

“We’re expected,” Ryan said. “Tell Captain Tully.”

The man laughed out loud. “Captain Tully? Is that what he calls himself?” He laughed again. “All right, this way.”

The boat was very flat, the central section including the wheelhouse rising up from the deck three quarters of the way along. She was about five hundred feet in length.

“What do you think?” Ryan whispered to Keogh as they followed.

“That they weren’t designed for heavy weather,” Keogh told him.