“Don’t tell me you were at Bloody Sunday in Londonderry?”

“That’s right. Like I said, a long time ago.”

Her hand tightened on his arm. “God, but you lads gave those Fenians a roasting that day. How many did you kill? Thirteen, wasn’t it?”

The lights of the pub were plain across a cobbled quay now. Keogh said, “How old are you?”

“Sixteen.”

“So young and so full of hate.”

“I told you. The IRA killed my father, my mother, and my wee sister. That only leaves Uncle Michael.”

The sign said The Orange Drum and one was painted on the brick wall beside it with the legend Our Country Too. The girl put the umbrella down, opened the door, and led the way in.

THE INTERIOR WAS a typical Belfast pub with several booths, a few tables and chairs, and a long mahogany bar. Bottles of every kind of drink were ranged on shelves against a mirrored wall. There were only half a dozen customers, all old men, four of them playing cards by an open fire, two others talking softly to each other. A hard-looking young man with one arm sat behind the bar reading the Belfast Telegraph.

He glanced up and put the paper down. “Are you okay, Kathleen? Michael told me what happened.”

“I’m fine, Ivor. Thanks to Mr. Keogh here. Is Uncle Michael in the back?”

At that moment a door opened and a man walked through. Keogh knew him at once from the photos Barry had supplied at his briefing in Dublin. Michael Ryan, aged fifty-five, a Loyalist of the first order who had served in the UVF and Red Hand of Ulster, the most extreme Protestant group of all, a man who had killed for his beliefs many times. He was of medium height, hair graying slightly at the temples, eyes very blue, and there was an energy to him.

“This is Martin Keogh,” the girl said.

Ryan came round the bar and held out his hand. “You did me a good turn tonight. I shan’t forget.”

“Lucky I was there.”