“I am perfectly aware of that, Michael. But you must understand that the Sons of Cuchulainn are a separate entity from the Boston Irish mob. The mob dislikes and distrusts anyone whose motives are political rather than fiduciary. They have very little time for fanatics. And the Boston mob itself is a rival to the New York organization and they maintain few links.

There will be at least two layers of separation between you and your former associates. You’ll be quite insulated from Seamus Duffy and his agents in New York. And in any case, from what Dan Connolly tells me, Duffy is more than occupied with his own internal problems rather than looking to settle old scores.

You’re yesterday’s news, Michael. It’s been five years. No one remembers you. That’s not to say that you won’t be taking any risks. No, we must be clear from the get-go. Oh, good God, no.

This will be extraordinarily risky indeed. Even if they never found out that your real name is Michael Forsythe, they would kill you at the drop of a hat if they discovered that you were linked to Her Majesty’s government in even the remotest way.”

She paused, ran her hand through that peachy auburn hair.

No rings on any finger. Not married, not engaged.

“Did you hear what I said, Michael?”

“I heard. You’re doing your case no good. What you’re basically saying is I’d have to be mad to take this job, because I could get killed in half a dozen ways,” I said, leaning back on the cot again and resting my arms over my eyes.

“Well, I’m not one for odds, but yes, I’d say that even a competently trained professional agent with years of experience would have a rather higher than average chance of being compromised in a time-imperative operation such as this one,” Samantha said.