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you half Bedu, eating bacon.’ ‘Islam is a wonderful moral faith, Dillon.’ ‘And how does that sit with those twelfth-century Dauncey Christians?’
    ‘Oh, they were hard people and their beliefs were very similar in some ways. You know something, Dillon? I’m half Bedu, but my God, I’m proud of my Dauncey roots. There are a lot of great ancestors there.’
    Dillon finished his second bacon sandwich. ‘It’s an unusual situation, I can see that. I’m not sure about the aristocracy, Kate, but I like you. What about George and Kelly?’
    ‘Last seen getting their heads down.’
    ‘Good. I’ll do the same, and since you keep
    boasting of your sailing prowess, I’ll hand it over.’
    When he returned four hours later, it was to a
    rolling motion. He had been lying on one of the
    bench seats in the saloon, come awake slowly and gone up the companionway. He opened the door of the wheelhouse to the sight of dawn, a grey light, heavy mist and rain, and the Down coast a couple of miles away. Kate stood there, hands 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 andtied 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