“You play the double game, Billy—just like you always did. Tell him they’re wasting their time looking for me in the north. Tell him you heard a rumor I’m down in the Republic.”

“What happens if he doesn’t believe me?”

“Why wouldn’t he believe you, Billy?” Quinn placed his hand on Conway’s shoulder and smiled. “You were his best agent.”

73

THE ARDOYNE, WEST BELFAST

KELLER PARKED THE CAR directly opposite the house and hurried up the garden walk. The door opened to his touch; he followed the sound of voices into the kitchen. There he found Gabriel and Maggie Donahue seated at the table, each with a mug of tea before them. There was also a large stack of used bills, a few articles of male clothing, an assortment of toiletries, a photograph, and a Glock 17 firearm. The Glock was a few inches beyond Maggie Donahue’s reach. She was seated ramrod straight, with one arm lying protectively across her waist and a cigarette burning between the fingers of an uplifted hand. Keller reckoned she had been crying a few minutes earlier. Now her hard features had settled into a Belfast mask of reserve and mistrust. Gabriel was expressionless, a priest with a gun and a leather jacket. For a few seconds he seemed unaware of Keller’s presence. Then he looked up and smiled. “Mr. Merchant,” he said cordially. “So good of you to join us. I’d like you to meet my new friend Maggie Donahue. Maggie was just telling me how Billy Conway forced her to put these things in her house.” He paused, then added, “Maggie is going to help us find Eamon Quinn.”

74

CROSSMAGLEN, COUNTY ARMAGH

THE CORRUGATED METAL STRUCTURE AT the center of the Fagan farm was twenty feet by forty, with bales of hay at one end and an assortment of rusted tools and implements at the other. It had been designed to Jimmy Fagan’s exacting specifications and assembled at his factory in Newry. The outer door was unusually heavy, and the raised flooring contained a well-concealed trapdoor that led to one of the largest caches of weapons and explosives in Northern Ireland. Madeline Hart knew none of this. She knew only that she was not alone; the smell of stale tobacco and cheap hotel shampoo told her so. Finally, a hand plucked the hood from her head and gently removed the duct tape from her mouth. Still, she had no sense of her surroundings, for the darkness was absolute. She sat silently for a moment, her back to the hay bales, her legs stretched before her. Then she asked, “Who’s there?”

A cigarette lighter flared, a face leaned into the flame.

“You,” whispered Madeline.

The lighter was extinguished, the darkness returned. Then a voice addressed her in Russian.

“I’m sorry,” said Madeline, “but I don’t understand you.”

“I said you must be thirsty.”

“Terribly,” replied Madeline.