one arm sat behind the bar reading the Belfast Telegraph.
He glanced up and put the paper down. “Are you okay, Kathleen? Michael told me Wj?tt happened.” “I’m fine, Ivor. Thanks to Mr. KEogh here. Is Uncle Michael in the back?” At that moment a door opened and a man walked through. Keogh knew him at once from the photos Barry had supplied at his briefing in Dublin. Michael Ryan, aged fifty-five, a Loyalist of the first order who had served in the UVF and Red Hand of Ulster, the most extreme Protestant group of all,. a man who had killed for his beliefs many times. He was of medium height, hair graying slightly at the temples, eyes very blue, and there was an energy to him.
“This is Martin Keogh,” the girl said.
Ryan came round the bar and held out his hand.
“You did me a good turn tonight. I shan’t forget.” “Lucky I was there.” “That’s may be. I owe you a drink, anyway.” “Bushmills whiskey would be fine,” Keogh told him.
“Over here.” Ryan indicated a booth in the corner.
The girl took off her raincoat and beret and eased behind the table. Her uncle sat beside her and Keogh was opposite. Ivor brought a bottle of Bushmills and two glasses.
“Can I get you anything, Kathleen?” “No, I’m okay, Ivor.” He painly worshiped her but nodded and walked away. Ryari said, “I’ve checked with a contact at the Royal Victoria. They just received three very damaged young men. One with a bullet in the thigh.” “Is that a fact?” Keogh said.
Kathleen Ryan stared at him. “You didn’t tell me.” ‘; “No need.” “Let’s see what you’re carrying,” Ryan asked.
“No need to worry. All friends here.” Keogh shrugged, took the Walther from his pocket, and passed it across. Ryan examined it expertly.
“Carswell silencer, the new job. Very nice.” He took a Browning from his pocket and passed it over. “Still my personal favorite.” “Preferred weapon of the SAS,” Keogh said, lift16
ing the Browning in one hand. “And the Parachute
Regiment.”
“He served with One Para,” the girl said. “Bloody —
Sunday.”
“Is that a fact?” Michael Ryan said.
“A long time ago. Lately I’ve been at sea.”
“Belfast, but raised in London, 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 Kaleen.”
“To be horiest 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’vot 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 e 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.
Ryaff 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-a and Ryan examined everything closely. :’Paid off the Ventura two weeks ago. Deck hand and diver. What’s all that?”