“But that wasn’t the real reason, was it, Liam? Quinn wanted to take matters into his own hands. Quinn wanted to put a nail in the coffin of the peace process.”

“A bullet in the head was how he described it.”

“He was supposed to leave the bomb at the courthouse?”

“That was the plan.”

“Did he even look for a parking space?”

“No,” said Walsh, shaking his head. “He went straight to Lower Market Street and parked outside S.D. Kells.”

“Why didn’t you do something?”

“I tried to talk him out of it, but he wouldn’t listen.”

“You should have tried harder, Liam.”

“You obviously don’t know Eamon Quinn.”

“Where was the escape car?”

“In the parking lot of the supermarket.”

“And when you got inside?”

“The call went back to the other side of the border.”

“‘The bricks are in the wall.’”

Walsh nodded.

“Why didn’t you tell anyone the bomb was in the wrong place?”

“If I’d opened my mouth, Quinn would have killed me. Besides,” Walsh added, “it was too late.”

“And when the bomb went off?”

“It was shit city.”

The death and devastation ignited revulsion on both sides of the border and around the world. The Real IRA issued an apology and announced a cease-fire, but it was too late; the movement had suffered irreparable damage. Walsh settled in Dublin to look after the Real IRA’s interests in the burgeoning drug trade. Quinn went into hiding.

“Where?”

“Spain.”

“What did he do?”

“He hung out on the beach until the money ran out.”

“And then?”

“He called an old friend and said he wanted back in the game.”

“Who was the friend?”

Walsh hesitated, then said, “Muammar Gaddafi.”

17

CLIFDEN, COUNTY GALWAY

IT WASN’T REALLY GADDAFI, Walsh added quickly. It was a close confidant from Libyan intelligence whom Quinn had befriended when he was at the desert terror training camp. Quinn requested sanctuary, and the man from Libyan intelligence, after consulting with the ruler, agreed to allow Quinn into the country. He lived in a walled villa in an upscale Tripoli neighborhood and did odd jobs for the Libyan security services. He was also a frequent visitor to Gaddafi’s underground bunker, where he would regale the leader with stories of the fight against the British. In time, Gaddafi shared Quinn with some of his less savory regional allies. He developed contacts with every bad actor on the continent: dictators, warlords, mercenaries, diamond smugglers, Islamic militants of every stripe. He also made the acquaintance of a Russian arms dealer who was pouring weaponry and ammunition into every civil war and insurgency in sub-Saharan Africa. The arms dealer agreed to send a small container of AK-47s and plastic explosives to the Real IRA. Walsh took delivery of the shipment in Dublin.

“Do you remember the name of the man from Libyan intelligence?” asked Keller.

“He called himself Abu Muhammad.”

Keller looked at Gabriel, who nodded slowly.