The following morning the British Army announced that four members of the South Armagh Brigade had been killed in a raid on a remote IRA safe house. The official account made no mention of a kidnapped undercover SAS officer named Christopher Keller. Nor did it mention a laundry service on the Falls Road secretly owned by British intelligence. Keller was flown back to the mainland for treatment; the laundry was quietly closed. It was a major blow to British efforts in Northern Ireland.

“And Elizabeth?” asked Gabriel.

“They found her body two days later. Her head had been shaved. Her throat was slit.”

“Who did it?”

“I heard it was Quinn,” said Keller. “Apparently, he insisted on doing it himself.”

Upon his release from the hospital, Keller returned to SAS headquarters at Hereford for rest and recovery. He took long, punishing hikes on the Brecon Beacons and trained new recruits in the art of silent killing, but it was clear to his superiors that his experiences in Belfast had changed him. Then, in August 1990, Saddam Hussein invaded Iraq. Keller rejoined his old Sabre squadron and was deployed to the Middle East. And on the evening of January 28, 1991, while searching for Scud missile launchers in Iraq’s western desert, his unit came under attack by Coalition aircraft in a tragic case of friendly fire. Only Keller survived. Enraged, he walked off the battlefield and, disguised as an Arab, slipped across the border into Syria. From there, he hiked westward across Turkey, Greece, and Italy, until he finally washed ashore in Corsica, where he fell into the waiting arms of Don Anton Orsati.

“Did you ever look for him?”

“Quinn?”

Gabriel nodded.

“The don forbade it.”

“But that didn’t stop you, did it?”

“Let’s just say I followed his career closely. I knew he went with the Real IRA after the Good Friday peace accords, and I knew he was the one who planted that bomb in the middle of Omagh.”

“And when he fled Ireland?”

“I made polite inquiries as to his whereabouts. Impolite inquiries, too.”

“Any of them bear fruit?”

“Most definitely.”

“But you never tried to kill him?”

“No,” said Keller, shaking his head. “The don forbade it.”

“But now you’ve got your chance.”

“With the blessing of Her Majesty’s Secret Service.” Keller gave a brief smile. “Rather ironic, don’t you think?”

“What’s that?”

“Quinn drove me out of the game, and now he’s pulling me back in.” Keller looked at Gabriel seriously for a moment. “Are you sure you want to be involved in this?”

“Why wouldn’t I?”

“Because it’s personal,” replied Keller. “And when it’s personal, it tends to get messy.”

“I do personal all the time.”

“Messy, too.” The shadows had reclaimed the terrace. The wind made ripples upon the surface of Keller’s blue swimming pool. “And if I do this?” he asked. “What then?”