“Yes, that does rather sum it up,” Dillon said.

“Loyal to the Crown, that’s what we Protestants are, Mr. Friar,” Daley said, genuine anger in his voice. “And what does it get us? A boot up the arse, interference from America, and a British Government that prefers to sell us out to damn Fenians like Gerry Adams.”

“I can appreciate your point of view.” Dillon managed to sound slightly alarmed.

“That’s why we call our group Sons of Ulster. We stand here or die here, no other route, and the sooner the British Government and the IRA realize that, the better. Now, what can Jobert offer?”

“Naturally I’ve put nothing on paper,” Dillon said, “but in view of the kind of money we’re talking about, a first consignment could be two hundred AK-47s in prime condition, fifty AKMs, a dozen general-purpose machine guns. Brownings. Not new, but in good order.”

“Ammunition?”

“No problem.”

“Anything else?”

“We had a consignment of Stinger missiles delivered to our Marseilles warehouse recently. Jobert says he could manage six, but that, of course, would be extra.”

Daley sat there frowning and tapping the desk with his fingers. Finally he said, “You’re at the Europa?”

“Where else in Belfast, old chap?”

“Right. I’ll be in touch.”

“Will I be meeting Mr. Quinn?”

“I can’t say. I’ll let you know.” He turned to Mullin. “Send him on his way, Jack.”

Mullin took Dillon back to the entrance, and as he opened the Judas gate there was a hollow booming sound in the distance.

“What was that?” Dillon said in alarm.

“Only a bomb, nothing to get alarmed about, my wee man. Did you wet your pants then?”

He laughed as Dillon stepped outside, was still laughing as he closed the door. Dillon paused on the corner. The first thing he did was peel away the moustache above his lip, then he removed the rain hat from his pocket, unrolled it, and took out a short-barrelled Smith & Wesson revolver, which he slipped into his waist band against the small of his back.