He put the hat on as the rain increased. “Amateurs,” he said softly. “What can you do with them?” and he walked rapidly away.

At that moment Daley was ringing a Dublin number. A woman answered. “Scott’s Hotel.”

“Mr. Brown.”

A moment later Daniel Quinn came on the line. “Yes?”

“Curtis here. I’m glad I caught you. I thought you might be on the way to Amsterdam tonight.”

“How did it go?”

“Jobert sent a man called Friar. English. Ex-army officer. He offered to meet all requirements, including some Stingers if you want them.”

“That’s good. What was he like, this Friar?”

“Second-rate English public school type. Black hair and moustache. Frightened to death. Said he thought he was meeting you.”

“Why should he think that?”

“Jobert told him he would. Apparently he did a tour with the Royal Artillery in Londonderry in eighty-two. Said you were quite famous.”

There was a moment’s pause, then Quinn said, “Take him out, Curtis, I smell stinking fish here.”

“But why?”

“Sure, I was in Londonderry in eighty-two, only not as Daniel Quinn. I used the name Frank Kelly.”

“Jesus!” Daley said.

“Take him out, Curtis, that’s an order. I’ll call you from Beirut.”

Dillon was staying at the Europa Hotel in Great Victoria Street by the railway station, the most bombed hotel in Belfast if not the world. He was still wearing the rain hat when he entered the suite.

The woman who sat reading a magazine was thirty years of age, wore a black trouser suit and horn-rimmed glasses. She had short red hair. Her name was Hannah Bernstein and she was a Detective Chief Inspector in the Special Branch at Scotland Yard.

She jumped up. “Everything work out?”

“So far. Have you heard from Ferguson?”

“Not yet. When do you make your move?”