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God!”
    “Yes, my love, my cousin and Tim Kelly can disguise themselves as much as you like, but no one could disguise that music from me, wouldn’t you agree after hearing my story?”
    “But what would they be up to?”
    “Obviously I don’t know, but what I do is that they were both released from the Maze Prison during the peace process. I heard some talk of them being in the security business, so called. As we know, that could mean anything. It gave me the greatest shock of my life when Henry spoke to me. It was so strange, brought everything back. My first thought was that I’d have to turn them in. I couldn’t face that, but I’ve got my head round it now. I’ll have to tell the General and face the consequences.”
    There was a stirring up in front of them and Ferguson looked around. “No need, Dillon, I heard the whole bloody saga—taped it, as a matter of fact. How lucky for me that my pill box was empty so I hadn’t been knocked out as I usually am on these flights.”
    “So it’s the Tower of London, next stop?” Dillon said.
    “You certainly deserve it. You’ve given me all sorts of problems now. What do I do about the CIA, what will the Prime Minister have to say? I’m going to send it all on for Roper to digest. In the meantime, we have another four hours to Farley. May I suggest we dim the lights and try to get some sleep?”
    —
    At the Holland Park safe house, Roper, seated in his bathrobe in his wheelchair in the computer room, was ecstatic and laughing to himself as he reached the end of the recording. He reached for the Bushmills Irish whiskey bottle and poured a large one.
    He tossed it back, broke into laughter, and said, “God bless you, Sean Dillon. When my day is dull, I can always rely on you to brighten it up.”
    Tony Doyle, the military police sergeant on night duty, had just pushed in a trolley with bacon sandwiches and a tea urn, his bomb-devastated boss being unable to drink coffee any longer.
    “You’re a happy man, Major, what’s caused that? Have there been developments?”
    He had been in the computer room the previous night with Roper when Ferguson had come on screen from Nantucket to mention the assassination attempt and Dillon and Sara’s part in it. The Holland Park safe house operated outside the normal security services such as MI5 and 6, who hated the fact that, thanks to Roper’s genius, a great deal that passed through his coded computers stayed private except to Ferguson and his people, all sworn to secrecy.
    Roper said, “You’ve got to hear this, Tony, fresh from the Gulfstream. Pass me a bacon sandwich and a mug of tea. No pictures, just audio.”
    When it was finished, Tony Doyle shook his head. “That was a bad thing some bastard did to Father Murphy.”
    Roper, taking a more sober attitude now, agreed. “The Troubles were not only hell on earth, they were disgusting morally.”
    “Yes, but you only realized that by being there,” Doyle said. “Take me. A Jamaican Cockney born and bred in London. I wanted to see the world, so I joined the British Army, and what did I get?”
    “Seven tours of duty in Northern Ireland.” Roper took another sandwich. “And what did I get out of it? This wheelchair.” He switched on multiple screens. “Let me see if there’s anything interesting I can find about the Flynn clan.”
    Doyle said, “Yes, Major, you really are a casualty of war.”
    “So are you,” Roper told him, not looking at him but scanning the screens. “And so were Dillon and Tod Flynn and Tim Kelly, who marched to the beat of the wrong drum. Hmm. Apparently, the only person in this affair who showed good sense was Tod’s elder brother by ten years, Peter. He avoided the Troubles by moving to the Republic to work for a distant relative on his horse farm and stud at a place called Drumgoole.”
    “A sensible option, I’d say.”
    “I’d agree, especially as seven years later, the relative died of a heart attack and left the farm to