He put his duffle bag on the bed, opened it. There was a toilet bag, spare shirts, some books. He pulled them to one side and prized up the thick cardboard base of the bag disclosing a Walther PPK pistol, several clips of ammunition, and the new small Carswell silencer. He checked the weapon, loaded it, and screwed the silencer into place, then he slipped it inside his jeans against the small of his back.

“Regent, son,” he said softly and went out whistling a small, sad tune.

THERE WAS A public telephone by the reception desk of the old-fashioned kind in a booth. Keogh nodded to the old man, went inside, and closed the door. He found some pound coins and dialed a number.

JACK BARRY WAS a tall, pleasant-looking man whose horn-rimmed spectacles gave him a bookish look. He had the look also of the schoolmaster, which was exactly what he had once been. But not now – now, he was Chief of Staff of the Provisional IRA, and he was seated by the fire at his Dublin home reading the paper, his portable phone at his side when it rang.

He picked it up and his wife, Jean, called, “Now don’t be long. Your supper’s ready.”

“Barry here.”

Keogh said in Irish, “It’s me. I’ve booked in at the Albert Hotel under the name of Martin Keogh. Next step is to meet the girl.”

“Will that be difficult?”

“No, I’ve organized it. Trust me. I’m off to this Regent Cafe now. Her uncle owns it.”

“Good man. Keep me posted. Use the mobile number only.”

He switched off his phone and his wife called again, “Come away in. It’s getting cold.”

He got to his feet obediently and went into the kitchen.

KEOGH FOUND THE Regent Cafe with no trouble. One window was boarded up, obviously from bomb blast, but the other was intact, offering a clear view of the interior. There were hardly any customers, just three old men at one table, and a ravaged-looking middle-aged woman at another, who looked like a prostitute.