“Regent, son,” he said softly and went out whistling a small, sad tune. THERE WAS A PUBLIC TELEPHONE BY THE RECEPtion desk of the old-fashioned kind in a booth. Keogh nodded to the old man, went inside, and closed the door. He f®und some pound coins and dialed a number. JACK BARRY WAS A TALL, PLEASANT-LOOKING man whose horn-rimmed spectacles gave him a bookish look. He had the look ;also of the schoolmaster, which was exactly what he had once been. But not now–now, he was Chief of Staff of the Provisional IRA, and he was seated by the fire at his Dublin home reading the paper his portable phone at his side when it rang.
He picked it up and his wife, Jean, called, “Now
don’t be long. Your supper’s ready.”
“Barry here.”
Keogh said in Irish, “It’s me. I’ve booked in at the Albert Hotel under the name of Martin Keogh.
Next step is to meet the girl.”
“Will that be difficult?”
“No, I’ve organized it. Trust me. I’m off to this Regent Cafe now. Her uncle owns it.”
“Good man. Keep me posted. Use the mobile number only.”
He switched off his phone and his wife called again, “Come away in. It’s getting cold.”
He got to his feet obediently and went into the kitchen. KEOGH FOUND THE REGENT CAFE WITI-4 NO trouble. One window was boarded up, obviously from bomb blast, but the other was intact, offering a clear view of the’ interior. There were hardly any customers, just three old men at one table, and a ravaged-looking middle-aged woman at another, who looked like a Prostitute.
The girl sitting behind the counter was just sixteen; he knew that because he knew all about her. Her name was Kathleen Ryan, and s’ran the cafe on behalf of her uncle, Michael Ryan, a Protestant gunman from his earliest youth. She was a small girl with black hair and angry eyes above pronounced cheekbones.
Not pretty by any conventional standard. She wore a dark sweater, denim miniskirt,’ and boots and sat on a stool engrossed in a book when Keogh went He leaned on the counter. “Is it good?”
She looked him over calmly, and that look told him of someone infinitely older than her years.
Very good. The Midnight Court.”
“But that’s in Irish surely?” Keogh reached for the book and saw that he was right.
“And why shouldn’t it be? You think a Protestant shouldn’t read Irish? Why not? It’s our country too, mister, and if you’re Sinn Fein or any of that old rubbish, I’d prefer you went elsewhere. Catholics aren’t welcome. An IRA street bomb kitled my father, my mother, and my wee sister.”
“Girl, dear.” Keogh held up his hands defensively.
“I’m a Belfast boy home from the sea who’s just come in for a cup of tea.”
“You don’t sound Belfast to me. English I’d say.”
“And that’s because my father took me to live there when I was a boy.”
She frowne21 for a moment, then shrugged. “All right.” She raised her voice. “Tea for one, Mary.” She said to Keogh, “No more cooking. We’re closing soon.”
“The tea will do just fine.”
A moment later, a gray-haired woman in an apron brought tea in a mug and placed;it on the counter.
“Milk and sugar over there. Help yourself.”
Keogh did as he was told and pushed a POund coin across. The woman gave him some change. The girl ignored him, reached for her book, and stood up. “I’ll be away now, Mary. Give it another hour, then you can take an early night,” and she went through to the back.
Keogh took his tea to a table by the door, sat down, and lit a cigarette. Five minutes later, Kathleen Ryan emerged wearing a beret and an old trenchcoat. She
went out without looking at him. Keogh sipped some more tea, then got up and left. IT WAS RAINING HARDER. NOW AS SHE TURNED on to the waterfront and she increased her pace, head down. The three youths standing in the doorway of a disused warehouse saw her coming as she passed under the light of a street lamp. They were of a type to be found in any city in the world. Vicious young animals in bomber jackets and jeans.