steady on the wheel.
‘Good man yourself,’ Dillon said. ‘I’ll take over.’ He eased her aside. ‘Are you okay?’
‘Fine. I haven’t enjoyed anything so much in years. I’ll make some tea. Would you like some more sandwiches?’
‘See what the deckhands want. I’d say we’ll arrive at Drumcree in about an hour. I know the place from the old days. There’s a pub called the Royal George. Don’t be misled by the name. It’s a hotbed of Republicanism. We’ll call in and ask for Bell.’
‘Surprise him, is that your tactic?’
‘Oh, you could say that. Let me be sure I’ve got this straight, Kate Rashid. You don’t want me there when you meet him, am I right?’
‘It’s business, Dillon, private company business. George can come with me.’
‘Fine,’ Sean Dillon told her and turned the wheel. ‘Now what about that tea?’
George and Kelly joined them eventually in the wheelhouse, drank mugs of tea, and listened to Dillon.
‘The pub, the Royal George, is a good Fenian institution and right on the jetty. You’ve both done Ulster time, so you know the kind of place.’
‘Should we be carrying?’ Kelly asked.
‘Feel under the chart table. There’s a catch.’
A flap fell down, Kelly pulled out a drawer and there was an assortment of handguns inside. ‘I’ll take the Walther in my pocket, so when I’m searched they’ll discover it,’ Dillon said. ‘You’ll find three ankle holsters with short-barrelled two-twos. One for each of us.’
‘You think we’ll need them?’ George asked him.
‘This is Indian territory and I’m one of the Indians.’ Dillon smiled. ‘Keep the faith, people. Slow and easy.’
Drumcree was a small place, with a tiny harbour, a jetty, a scattering of houses in grey stone and a few fishing boats. They coasted in, Dillon eased to the jetty, and George jumped over the rail and tied up. It was very quiet, no one about.
‘There you go, Kate,’ Dillon pointed. ‘The Royal George.’
It was obviously eighteenth-century, but the roof looked sound and the sign was in green, with black lettering and what looked like fresh gilding.
‘So what do we do?’ Kate demanded.
‘Well, like any decent pub in these parts, they’ll do an Irish breakfast. I’d say let’s partake and I’ll tell mine host to inform Aidan Bell we’re here.’
‘And that will do it?’
‘Absolutely. We’re already on their screen, as they say.’ He turned to the other two. ‘You stay with the boat, Kelly, and be prepared for anything.’
A bell tinkled as they went in the bar. Dillon and George were in jerseys and reefer coats, Kate wore a black jumpsuit and carried a briefcase. There were three men sitting in the window seat eating breakfast; one was middle-aged with a beard, the other two were younger. They turned to stare, men of a rough persuasion with hard faces. A man appeared behind the bar, thickset, white-haired.
‘Can I help you?’
‘We’d like breakfast,’ Kate said.
The well-bred English voice sliced through the quiet like a knife, and the men at the window continued to stare.
‘Breakfast?’ the man said.
Dillon cut in, making his Belfast accent even more pronounced. ‘That’s it, me ould son, three Ulster fry-ups. We’ve just sailed in from Magee. Then phone Aidan Bell and tell him Lady Kate Rashid is here.’
‘Phone Aidan Bell?’ the man said.
‘What’s your name?’ Dillon asked.
‘Patrick Murphy,’ the man replied, as a reflex.
‘Good man yourself, Patrick, now breakfast and Bell, in whatever order you want.’
Murphy hesitated and then said, ‘Take a seat.’
Which they did, on the opposite side from the three men. Dillon lit a cigarette, there was a murmur of conversation, then the bearded man got up and crossed to the table. He stood there looking at them.
‘English, is it?’ he said to Kate, then leaned down and brushed her face. ‘Still, I suppose anything’s better than nothing where a woman’s concerned. Come on, English bitch, let’s see what you’ve got.’
There was a large bottle of brown sauce on the table. George tried to get up, but Dillon pushed him down, picked up the bottle and smashed it across the side of the man’s head, sending him to his knees. The man knelt, blood and sauce on his cheek, and Dillon stamped on his face, sending him sprawling.
Patrick Murphy appeared at that moment and was totally shocked as the two young men jumped up and Dillon produced his Walther.
‘I don’t think so.’
‘For Christ’s sake,’ the barman said. ‘What are you doing? They’re Provisional IRA.’
‘Once in, never out, I was told,’ Dillon said. ‘And I’ve been a member since I was nineteen. I’ll tell you what, Martin McGuinness wouldn’t approve of this lot. I mean, he’s a family man.’ He turned to the two young men and nodded to the floor. ‘Get this piece of dung out of here.’
Their rage was plain, but they got the bearded man to his feet. Behind them, the door swung open and a man almost as small as Dillon strode in, dark hair tousled, needing a shave, wearing a Barbour jacket against the rain, with a large red-haired man behind.
‘Jesus,’ he said. ‘Is that you, Quinn, and in a damn bad way?’ He laughed out loud. ‘And whose toes did you stand on?’
‘Mine,’ Dillon said.
Bell turned in astonishment and his expression was close to awe. ‘Dear God, is it you?’
‘As ever was. A long time ago it was: Derry, and those Brit paratroopers chasing us through the sewers.’
‘You saved my life once.’ Bell held out his hand.
‘You tried to kill me twice.’
‘Ah, well, so we had a falling out.’ Bell turned to the two men supporting Quinn. ‘Get him out of my sight.’
They took the bearded man out of the door and Bell said, ‘What in the hell goes on, Dillon?’
‘This is Lady Kate Rashid. I believe you have a meeting arranged.’
Bell didn’t even look surprised. ‘I should have known. Take me unawares, is that it? And where does this bastard fit in?’ he asked her.
‘Mr Dillon is acting in a private capacity. I wanted his expertise
