Fagan stared hard at Quinn’s face. Then he realized the stranger seated across the table was telling the truth. “Christ,” he whispered. “What are you doing back here?”

“Business,” said Quinn.

“That would explain why the RUC is so jumpy all of a sudden.”

“They’re called the PSNI now, Jimmy. Haven’t you heard?”

“The Good Friday accords forgave many sins,” Fagan said after a moment, “but not yours. It would be better for all of us if you finished your beer and left.”

“Can’t, Jimmy.”

“Why not?”

“Business.”

Quinn drank the foam off his Guinness and looked around the room. The smell of wood polish and beer, the soft murmur of Armagh-accented voices: after all the years in hiding, all the years of selling his services to the highest bidder, he was finally home again.

“Why are you here?” Fagan asked.

“I was wondering whether you might be interested in a little action.”

“What’s in it for me?”

“Money.”

“No more bombs, Eamon.”

“No,” said Quinn. “No bombs.”

“So what kind of job is it?”

“Ambush,” said Quinn. “Just like the old days.”

“Who’s the target?”

“The one who got away.”

“Keller?”

Quinn nodded. Jimmy Fagan smiled.

The farm was two hundred acres—or two hundred and forty, depending on which member of the Fagan clan you asked. It was rolling pastureland mainly, divided into smaller plots by low stone fences, some of which had been erected long before the first Protestant had set foot on the land, or so the legend went. Ireland was just over the next hill. On none of the roads was there even a suggestion of a border.

On the highest part of the land stood a two-story brick house where Fagan, a widower, lived with his two sons, both veterans of the IRA and the rejectionist Real IRA. There was a large barn of corrugated aluminum and a second structure, deep within the property, where Fagan had hidden weapons and explosives during the war. It was there, in the winter of 1989, that a younger version of Christopher Keller underwent a brutal interrogation at the hands of Eamon Quinn. Now Madeline and Katerina took Keller’s place. Quinn left enough food, water, and blankets to see them through the cold December afternoon and sealed the door with a pair of heavy padlocks. Then he walked with Billy Conway along the dirt track leading back to the main house. Conway was staring at the ground, hands shoved into the front pockets of his coat. He looked on edge. He usually did.

“How long do we have?” he asked.

“If I had to guess,” replied Quinn, “he’s already here. Allon, too.”

“Looking for me, no doubt.”

“We can only hope.”

“And if Keller asks to see me? What then?”