Keller rang off without another word. Gabriel looked around the room. He was used to searching the premises of professionals, not teenagers. Professionals were good at hiding things, teenagers not so. They assumed all adults were dolts, and their overconfidence was usually their undoing.

Gabriel returned to the closet and searched the insides of her shoes. Next he leafed through her fashion magazines, but they produced nothing other than subscription offers and fragrance samples. Finally, he thumbed through her small collection of books. It included a history of the Troubles written by an author sympathetic to the IRA and the cause of Irish nationalism. And it was there, wedged between two pages, that he found what he was looking for.

It was a photograph of a teenage girl and a man wearing a brimmed hat and sunglasses. They were posed on a street of faded old buildings, perhaps European, perhaps South American. The girl was Catherine Donahue. And the man at her side was her father, Eamon Quinn.

Stratford Gardens was quiet when Gabriel emerged from the house at Number 8. He slipped through the metal gate, walked over to the Škoda, and climbed into the passenger seat. Keller wound his way through the mean streets of the Catholic Ardoyne and returned to Crumlin Road. Then he made a quick right turn into Cambrai Street and eased off the throttle. Union Jacks fluttered from the lampposts. They had crossed one of Belfast’s invisible borders. They were safely back on Protestant ground.

“Did you find anything?” asked Keller finally.

“I think so.”

“What is it?”

Gabriel smiled and said, “Quinn.”

22

WARRING STREET, BELFAST

IT COULD BE ANYONE,” said Keller.

“It could be,” replied Gabriel. “But it isn’t. It’s Quinn.”

They were in Keller’s room at the Premiere Inn on Warring Street. It was around the corner from the Europa and far less luxurious. He had checked in as Adrien LeBlanc and had spoken French-accented English to the staff. Gabriel, during his brief journey across the drab lobby, had said nothing at all.

“Where do you suppose they are?” asked Keller, still studying the photograph.

“Good question.”

“There are no signs on the buildings or cars on the street. It’s almost as if—”

“He chose the spot with great care.”

“Maybe it’s Caracas.”

“Or maybe it’s Santiago or Buenos Aires.”

“Ever been?”

“Where?”

“Buenos Aires,” said Keller.

“Several times, actually.”

“Business or pleasure?”

“I don’t do pleasure.”

Keller smiled and looked at the photo again. “It looks a bit like the old center of Bogotá to me.”

“I’ll have to take your word on that one.”

“Or maybe it’s Madrid.”

“Maybe.”

“Let me see that ticket stub.”

Gabriel handed it over. Keller scrutinized the front side carefully. Then he turned it over and ran his finger along the portion of the magnetic stripe.