Kathleen tells me?’
‘My mother died in childbirth. My father went to London in search of work. He’s dead now.’
Ryan had ejected the magazine from the butt of the Walther. ‘And a good Prod. You must be because of what you did for Kathleen.’
‘To be honest with you, religion doesn’t mean a thing to me,’ Keogh told him. ‘But let’s say I know which side I’m on.’
At that moment, the door was flung open and a man in a cloth cap and raincoat rushed in, a revolver in one hand.
‘Michael Ryan, you bastard, I’ve got you now,’ he cried and raised the revolver.
Ryan was caught, the magazine from the Walther on the table beside it. Keogh said, ‘What do I do, shoot him? All right. Bang, you’re dead.’ He picked up the Browning and fired once. The man dropped the hand holding the revolver to one side. Keogh said, ‘Blanks, Mr Ryan, I could tell by the weight. What kind of a game are we playing here?’
Ryan was laughing now. ‘Go on, Joseph, and get yourself a drink at the bar.’
The supposed gunman turned away. The old men by the fire continued their card game as if nothing had happened.
Michael Ryan stood up. ‘Just a test, my old son, in a manner of speaking. Let’s adjourn to the parlour and talk some more.’
There was a fire in the grate of the small parlour, curtains drawn as rain drummed against the window. It was warm and comfortable and Ryan and Keogh sat opposite each other. The girl came in from the kitchen with a teapot, milk and cups on a tray.
Ryan said, ‘If you’re a seaman you’ll have your papers.’
‘Of course,’ Keogh said.
Ryan held out his hand and Keogh shrugged, opened his reefer and took a wallet from his inside pocket.
‘There you go. Ships’ papers, union card, the lot.’
The girl poured tea and Ryan examined everything closely. ‘Paid off the Ventura two weeks ago. Deck hand and diver. What’s all that?’
‘The Ventura’s a supply ship in the North Sea oilfields. Besides general ship’s duties, I did some diving. Not the really deep stuff. Just underwater maintenance, welding when necessary. That sort of thing.’
‘Interesting. A man of parts. Any special skills from the Parachute Regiment?’
‘Just how to kill people. The usual weaponry skills. A considerable knowledge of explosives.’ Keogh lit a cigarette. ‘But where’s all this leading?’
Ryan persisted. ‘Can you ride a motorcycle?’
‘Since I was sixteen and that’s a long time ago. So what?’
Ryan leaned back, took out a pipe and filled it from an old pouch. ‘Visiting relatives, are you?’
‘Not that I know of,’ Keogh said. ‘A few cousins scattered here and there. I came back on a whim. Nostalgia if you like. A bad idea really, but I can always go back and get another berth.’
‘I could offer you a job,’ Ryan said and the girl brought a taper from the fire to light his pipe.
‘What, here in Belfast?’
‘No, in England.’
‘Doing what?’
‘Why, the kind of thing you did tonight. The kind of thing you’re good at.’
It was very quiet. Keogh was aware of the girl watching him eagerly. ‘Do I smell politics here?’
‘Since nineteen sixty-nine I’ve worked for the Loyalist cause,’ Ryan said. ‘Served six years in the Maze prison. I hate Fenians. I hate the bloody Sinn Fein because if they win they’ll drive us all out, every Protestant in the country. Ethnic cleansing to the hilt. Now if things get that bad I’ll take as many of them to hell with me as I can.’
‘So where’s this leading?’
‘A job in England. A very lucrative job. Funds for our organization.’
‘In other words we steal from someone,’ Keogh said.
‘We need money, Keogh,’ Ryan said. ‘Money for arms. The bloody IRA have their Irish American sympathizers providing funds. We don’t.’ He leaned forward. ‘I’m not asking you for patriotism. I’ll settle for greed. Fifty thousand pounds.’
There was a long pause and Ryan and the girl waited, her face sombre as if she expected him to say no.
Keogh smiled. ‘That’s a lot of money, Mr Ryan, so you’ll be expecting a lot in return.’
‘Back-up is what I expect from a man who can handle anything and, from the way you’ve carried yourself tonight, you would seem to be that kind of man.’
Keogh said, ‘What about your own people? You’ve as many gunmen out on the street as the IRA. More, even. I know that from army days.’ He lit a cigarette and leaned back. ‘Unless there’s another truth here. That you’re in it for the money, you’re in it for yourself.’
Kathleen Ryan jumped up. ‘Damn you for saying that. My uncle has given more for our people than anyone I know. Better you get out of here while you can.’
Ryan held up a hand. ‘Softly, child, any intelligent man would see it as a possibility. It’s happened before, God knows, and on both sides.’
‘So?’ Keogh said.
‘I can be as hungry as the next man where money is concerned, but my cause is a just one, the one certainty in my life. Any money that passes through my hands goes to the Protestant cause. That’s what my life is about.’
‘Then why not use some of your own men?’
‘Because people talk too much, a weakness in all revolutionary movements. The IRA have the same problem. I’ve always preferred to use what I call hired help and for that I go to the underworld. An honest thief who is working for wages is a sounder proposition than some revolutionary hothead.’
‘So that’s where I come in?’ Keogh said. ‘Hired help, just like anyone else you need?’
‘Exactly. So, are you in or out? If it’s no then say no. After what you did for Kathleen tonight you’ll come to no harm from me.’
‘Well, that’s nice to know.’ Keogh shrugged. ‘Oh, what the hell, I might as well give it a try. A change from the North Sea. Terrible weather there at this time of the year.’
‘Good man yourself,’ Ryan smiled. ‘A couple of Bushmills, Kathleen, and we’ll drink to it.’
‘Where are you staying?’ Ryan asked.
‘A fleapit called the Albert Hotel,’ Keogh told him.
‘Fleapit indeed,’ Ryan toasted him. ‘Our country
