“Or maybe they’re making a run for it.”

“Dressed like that?”

“Follow them,” said Gabriel.

“What if my friends show up?”

“I think I can look after myself.”

Gabriel stepped out of the car without another word. The gate of Number 8 emitted a sharp squeak as he pushed it open, but the front door yielded soundlessly. Entering, he quickly drew a gun from the small of his back—the Glock 17 that he had been given by SO1, the prime minister’s protection detail. A television blared unwatched in the sitting room; Gabriel left it on and stole up the stairs, the gun in his outstretched hands. He found both bedrooms in disarray but unoccupied. Then he went downstairs and entered the kitchen. There were a few breakfast dishes in the basin, and on the counter was a pot of tea. He took a mug from the cabinet, poured himself a cup, and sat down at the kitchen table to wait.

It took fifteen minutes for Maggie Donahue to walk her daughter to the gates of Our Lady of Mercy secondary school for girls. Her return trip was not without incident, for on the Ardoyne Road she became ensnared in a confrontation with two Protestant women from the Glenbryn housing estates who were angry that she, a Catholic, would dare to walk along a loyalist street. As a result, she was red-faced with anger when she turned into Stratford Gardens. She shoved her key into her lock and slammed the door so hard it rattled the windows of her little house. Someone on the television was complaining about the price of milk. She silenced it before coming into the kitchen to see to the breakfast dishes. Several seconds elapsed before she noticed the man drinking tea at her table.

“Jesus Christ!” she shouted, startled.

Gabriel merely frowned, as though he did not approve of those who took the Lord’s name in vain.

“Who are you?” she asked.

“I was about to ask you the same thing,” replied Gabriel calmly.

His accent puzzled her. Then a look of recognition flashed across her face.

“You’re the one who—”

“Yes,” he said, cutting her off. “I’m the one.”

“What are you doing in my house?”

“I misplaced something the last time I was here. I was hoping you might help me find it.”

“What’s that?”

“Your husband.”

She dug a mobile phone from the pocket of her tracksuit and started to dial. Gabriel leveled the Glock at her head.

“Stop,” he said.

She froze.

“Give me that phone.”

She handed it over. Gabriel looked at the screen. The number she had been attempting to dial was eight digits in length.

“The emergency number for the Police Service of Northern Ireland is one-zero-one, isn’t it?”

She was silent.

“So who are you dialing?” Greeted by more silence, Gabriel tucked the phone into his coat pocket.

“That’s mine,” she said.

“Not anymore.”

“What the hell do you want?”