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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 on County Down, and he’s been provided with ten thousand pounds to supply it.’
    ‘Flew into Aldergrove yesterday. Boated out overnight, back to Magee in an hour or two. Money for old rope,’ Dillon said.
    ‘Come off it, you still work for Ferguson, you turncoat.’ He took a Browning from his pocket. ‘Hands high. See to him, Liam.’
    The red-haired man ran his hands over Dillon
    and found the Walther. He turned to Kate. ‘Now you, darling.’
    It was Bell who said, ‘Mind your manners, Casey, a lady this.’ He gestured to the briefcase. ‘See what’s in there.’
    ‘No, Mr Bell,’ Kate told him. ‘What’s in there is between you and me.’
    ‘I see.’ He turned to George as Liam Casey checked him. ‘This would be the younger brother? One Para.’
    ‘You’re well informed,’ said Kate.
    ‘I always am,