Twenty-five years had passed since Christopher Keller last set foot in Belfast, and the city center had changed much in his absence. Indeed, were it not for a few landmarks like the Opera House and the Europa Hotel, he scarcely would have recognized it. There were no British soldiers patrolling the streets, no army surveillance posts atop the taller buildings, and no fear on the faces of the pedestrians walking along Great Victoria Street. The city’s geography remained sharply divided along sectarian lines, and there were still paramilitary murals in some of the rougher neighborhoods. But for the most part, evidence of the long and bloody war had been erased. Belfast promoted itself as a tourist mecca. And for some reason, thought Keller, the tourists actually came.

One of the city’s main attractions was a vibrant Celtic music scene that had reappeared in the absence of war. Most of the bars and pubs that featured live music were located in the streets around St. Anne’s Cathedral. Tommy O’Boyle’s was on Union Street, on the ground floor of an old redbrick Victorian factory. It was not yet noon, and the door was locked. Keller thumbed the button on the intercom and quickly turned his back to the security camera. Greeted by silence, he pressed the button a second time.

“We’re closed,” a voice said.

“I can read,” Keller replied in his Belfast accent.

“What do you want?”

“A word with Billy Conway.”

A few seconds of silence, then, “He’s busy.”

“I’m sure he can make time for me.”

“What’s your name?”

“Michael Connelly.”

“Doesn’t ring a bell.”

“Tell him I used to work for the Sparkle Clean laundry service on the Road back in the day.”

“That place closed down years ago.”

“We’re thinking about going back into business.”

There was another silence. Then the voice said, “Be a good lad and let me have a look at your face.”

Keller hesitated before glancing into the lens of the security camera. Ten seconds later the deadbolts of the door popped open.

“Come inside,” the voice instructed.

“I prefer it out here.”

“Suit yourself.”

A wad of newsprint somersaulted along the shadowed pavement, driven by a cold wind from the River Lagan. Keller turned up his coat collar. He thought of his sunlit terrace overlooking his valley in Corsica. It seemed alien to him now, a place he had visited once in his childhood. He could no longer conjure the aroma of the hills or a clear image of the don’s face. He was Christopher Keller again. He was back in the game.