“I mean, what in the hell is going on?”

“It’s simple, Harry,” said Dillon. “You’ve been targeted, you and Billy, just like Blake Johnson, General Ferguson, and Major Miller. Maybe somebody thinks it’s payback time.”

“All very well,” Harry pointed out. “But that bastard Costello or Docherty, or whatever he called himself, was prepared to torch the pub, just to get at Billy and me.”

“Whoever these people are, they’re highly organized and totally ruthless. The would-be assassin in Central Park, Frank Barry, called somebody and told them where he was. The instant response was an executioner.”

“Exactly,” Miller put in. “And one professional enough to remember to snatch Barry’s mobile before departing, so details of that call couldn’t be traced.”

“I’ve spoken to Clancy Smith, brought him up to speed, including the arson attack on the pub,” Roper said. “His people have established that Flynn’s passport was an extremely good forgery, as was his driver’s license and Social Security card.”

“So there’s no way of checking if he had a police record?” Ferguson put in.

“Exactly,” Roper carried on. “His address in Greenwich Village is a one-room apartment, sparsely furnished, basic belongings, not much more than clothes. An old lady on the same floor said he was polite and kept to himself. She’d no idea what he did for a living, and was surprised to hear he had an American passport, as she’d always thought he was Irish. She’s a Catholic herself and often saw him at Mass at the local church.”

Miller said, “Interesting that Costello-cum-Docherty has a forged Irish passport, too, and his religion had been the saving of him, according to Inspector Parkinson.”

“A passport which claims he was born in Dublin, yet we know from his other identity documents that his address is in Point Street, Kilburn,” Dillon said.

“And Henry Pool from Green Street, Kilburn,” Ferguson said. “Too many connections here. This would appear to be a carefully mounted campaign.”

“Another point worth remembering,” Roper said. “I’ve processed the computer photo of Major Miller that was in Barry’s wallet.” His fingers worked the keys, and the photo came on screen. “Just a crowded street, but that’s definitely the side of a London black cab at the edge of the pavement. The photo was definitely taken in London, I’d say.”

“Careful preparation beforehand by someone who knew I was going to New York,” Miller said.

“Yes, and remember that Blake was only visiting his place on Long Island because he was going to the UN.” Roper shook his head. “It’s scary stuff, when you think about it.”

Salter said, “But nobody had a go at you, Dillon, when you were in New York. Why not?”

“Because I wasn’t supposed to be there. It was only decided at the last moment that I should join Harry.”

“Nobody has had a go at me either,” Roper told him. “But that doesn’t mean they’re not going to.”

“Exactly,” Ferguson said. “Which raises the point again—what in the hell is this all about?”

“Let’s face it,” Billy said. “We’ve been up against a lot of very bad people in our day. Al Qaeda, a wide range of Islamic terrorists, Hamas, Hezbollah. We’ve been in Lebanon, Hazar, Bosnia, Kosovo. And you older guys talk about the Cold War. But the Cold War is back, it seems to me, so we can add in the Russians.”

“Which adds up to a lot of enemies,” Dillon put in. “Lermov, who’ll be the new Head of Station for the GRU here, was at the UN reception with Putin, and we were talking to him. Baited him, really. Asked after Boris Luzhkov, and was told he was in Moscow being considered for a new post.”

“Six pounds of gray ash, that bastard,” Billy said.

“And when I asked after Yuri Bounine, he said he’d been given another assignment.”

“He knew something,” Miller said. “I’m sure of it.”

“Well, if he knows that Bounine is guarding Alex Kurbsky at his aunt Svetlana’s house in Belsize Park, we’re in trouble,” Ferguson told him.

They were all silent at the mention of the famous Russian writer whose defection had caused so much mayhem recently but of whom they’d all become unaccountably fond.

Dillon said, “We’re going to have to do something, General. They could be in harm’s way.”

“I’m aware of that, Dillon,” Ferguson snapped. “But you could widen the circle to include a lot of people who’ve been involved with us.” He turned to Miller. “What about your sister, Major? She helped us out in that business involving the IRA in County Louth last year. She even shot one of them.”

Miller’s sister, Lady Monica Starling, an archaeologist and Cambridge don, had indeed proved her mettle—and, in the process, had become as close a friend to Dillon as a woman could.

Miller frowned and turned to Dillon. “He’s got a point, Sean, we should speak to her.”

Roper said, “If the rest of you can shut up for a moment, I’ll get her on the line.” He was answered at once. She sounded fraught, her voice echoing through the speakers.

“Who is this?”

“No need to bite my head off, darling,” said Miller. “It’s your big brother.”

“It’s so good to hear from you, Harry, I was going to call. I thought you and Sean were still in New York.”

“What’s happened? Where are you?”

“I’m at the hospital here in Cambridge.”

“For God’s sake, tell me, Monica.”

“There was a faculty party at a hotel outside Cambridge last night. Dear old Professor George Dunkley was desperate to go. I volunteered to drive him there so he could enjoy his port and so on. Six miles out into the countryside, a bloody great truck started to follow us and just stayed on our tail. It didn’t matter what I did, it wouldn’t go away, and then, when we came to a wider section of the road, it came alongside and swerved into us.”

“Are you okay?”

“Yes, but George has his left arm broken. We were hurled into a grass verge and crashed against a wall. I called the police on my mobile, and they were there in no time.”

“And the truck?”

“Oh, he crashed farther on. They found the wreck, but the driver had cleared off. The police sergeant who’s been dealing with me says the truck was stolen from somewhere in London. George is going to be in hospital for a while. A terrible thing at his age.”

“And you are coming to Dover Street to stay at the house with me?”

“That’s sweet of you, Harry, but I’ve got seminars, and there’s my book.”

“To hell with your seminars, and you can work on your book at Dover Street.”

“Harry, what’s happening?”

Dillon cut in. “Monica, my love, listen to the man. It’s no coincidence what’s happened to you. Bad things have been happening to all of us. We need you safe and among friends.”

Her voice was quiet. “What’s going on, Sean?”

“I’ll explain when I pick you up,” Miller said. “We should be there in round two hours. Go straight back to your rooms, pack, and don’t go out again.”

“If you say so, Harry.”

The line cleared, and everyone was silent for a moment. Miller said, “Sorry, General, I must go.”

“Of course you must, so get moving.”

Miller went out fast, and Roper said, “Open warfare. They certainly mean business, whoever they are. Do you think there’s an IRA touch to this?”

Dillon nodded. “Since the Peace Process, the IRA hands have fanned out, looking to make money,” he said. “We’ve dealt with plenty of them in the past, desperate for work, who’ve offered their skills to various countries in the Russian Federation, worked with the PLO, Hamas, Hezbollah. Then there was Kosovo and Chechnya.”

“Iraq,” Roper said. “Plenty of money to be made there, one way or another, for the kind of men who were members of the Provisional IRA, with all their military skills.”

“Which is exactly the kind of thing I was doing for years, until the General here made me an offer I couldn’t refuse.” Dillon shook his head. “That’s what this all smells like to me—IRA for hire. I’ll take myself off to Kilburn and see what I can find out.”

“Would you care for some company?” Billy said.

“Why not? What about you, Harry?”

Salter got up. “You go with Dillon, Billy. I’ll take your Alfa and get back to the Dark Man and see how Ruby’s coping with the cleaning.”

He went out, and Ferguson said, “On your way, then, you two, I’m going to have a word with Clancy at the White House, then I’ll visit our Russian friends in Belsize Park.” He turned to Roper. “Whenever you’re ready, Major, call Clancy on his personal line.”

Clancy answered at once, nine o’clock on a Washington morning. “General, how are things?”

“They’ve moved at some speed, but, before I fill you in, how is Blake?”

“What would you expect from an old Vietnam hand? He’s being airlifted in a Medical Corps helicopter to a hospital in Washington this afternoon.”

“Give him our best. Let me tell you what’s happened now.”

Which he did, and Clancy was horrified. “This is incredible. Whoever these people are, they certainly don’t take prisoners. Everything that’s already happened, and now the attempted arson attack on the Dark Man and the assault on Monica Starling, shows we’re up against truly ruthless people. And I take your point about who could be next.”

“Exactly. Alexander Kurbsky, his aunt Svetlana, and their friend, Katya Zorin. Kurbsky’s a marked man. He’s still posing as a leukemia victim on chemotherapy, and the change in his physical appearance is remarkable, but if the Russians get wind of his location, that won’t hold them for long.”

Kurbsky had originally been sent in by the GRU to penetrate British intelligence, but once he’d found out how his bosses had duped him about his sister he’d had a change of heart. In particular, he’d saved Blake Johnson’s ass when he’d been kidnapped in London, and then he and Bounine had saved the Vice President’s life from a crazed Luzhkov.

“As I recall,” said Clancy, “there was a Presidential promise of asylum in the U.S. if Kurbsky ever wanted it. I’m sure that would be honored, if you think it’s a good idea.”

“What would you suggest?”

“We have a list of facilities, but Heron Island off the Florida coast would be perfect. The Secret Service use it only for the most special cases. A hundred percent security, the staff vetted in every possible way, decent climate, and the house I’m thinking of is spectacular.”

“How soon could you arrange all this?”

“Twenty-four hours. I assume you’ll handle your end. It may not be forever, General, but I can promise they’ll be safe on Heron Island. With luck, we’ll take care of the threat between us in a few weeks, and then we can think again.”

“Thank you, old friend,” Ferguson told him. “I’ll be back to you.”

Roper had, of course, heard everything. “Sounds good. Are you going up to see them now?”

“Yes, I think so. One less problem if they agree,” and Ferguson went out.

The garden was beautiful—rhododendron bushes, cypress trees, plane trees, more bushes surrounding a lovely curving lawn. As he advanced towards the conservatory, Bounine stepped out of the bushes, wearing overalls, holding a baseball bat menacingly in his hand.

“It’s General Ferguson, you idiot.” Kurbsky emerged from the trees, a sad, gaunt figure, with the skull and the haunted face of someone on chemotherapy, although, in his case, he took drugs to make him look that way.

“What’s up?” Ferguson asked.

“We’ve had an intruder,” Kurbsky said. “Yesterday, after supper, we were going to watch television with the ladies. I stepped out of the conservatory to have a smoke and thought I heard something over by the garage, so I went to investigate. Someone jumped me, a man in a bomber jacket and jeans. He was closer to the garage than me and made the security lights come on.”

“What happened?”

“He pulled a flick-knife and sprung the blade, so I smacked him about a bit. He was on the ground after I took the knife, so I relieved him of his wallet, and I moved over to the garage security lights to inspect it. Bounine came out on the terrace and called, which distracted me. The guy scrambled up, ran like hell, and got over the wall.”

“Were the ladies alarmed?”

“Obviously. The security alarms sound inside the house. But they were easily reassured. Russian women are tough as nails.”

“The wallet, were the contents interesting?”

“Not particularly. Fifty-four pounds, a Social Security card, and a credit card, all in the name of Matthew Cochran.”

“Did he live in Kilburn?”

“No. Close, though. Camden Town. Sixty Lower Church Street.”

“And that’s it? Nothing like: ‘Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners, now and at the hour of our death, we who are ourselves alone’?”

“The prayer card,” Bounine said to Kurbsky. “You forgot that.”

Kurbsky frowned, and said, “Why, is it important?”

“It means you are all in great danger. Let’s find the ladies, and I’ll spell it out for you,” and he led the way along to the terrace and the conservatory.

Svetlana Kelly, Kurbsky’s aunt, sat in a wicker chair. Katya Zorin, Svetlana’s partner, a handsome forty-year-old with cropped hair, who was an artist and theater scene designer, sat close to her, holding the older woman’s right hand.

“These are terrible things you tell us, General. Such violence is too much to bear.”

“But it must be faced, my dear. The prayer card was involved with all these attacks I’ve just discussed, except for the business involving Monica Starling. It’s hardly a coincidence, and, when I come here, I find this.” He picked up the prayer card and held it high. “I repeat, you are in great danger if you stay here, or stay in London for that matter. I think you should take the Americans’ offer of sanctuary.”

“To leave my home is a terrible prospect. All my beautiful things. The world is so untrustworthy these days.” Svetlana was distressed.

Ferguson threw down the card. “You’ve heard the full story. Blake is in the hospital badly wounded, four of the cardholders are violently dead, the attempt to burn down Salter’s pub could have killed everybody in it.” He turned to Kurbsky. “Please, Alex, just go, and take them with you, and leave us to hunt down whoever is behind this.”

Kurbsky bent down and kissed Svetlana on the head. “He’s right, babushka, my decision. We go, and we go tonight, is this not so, General?”

“You’ll take the Gulfstream from Farley Field. Nobody will know you have gone.”

She was weeping now, and Katya kissed her on the cheek. “All will be well, my love. Alexander is right. We must go.”

Ferguson said, “I’ll make a deal with you, Svetlana. It’s important for Alex to go if there are strange and wicked people stirring, but you needn’t worry about your paintings or your antiques. I’ll arrange for a caretaker to live here and take care of them, all right? Now I must go.”

Kurbsky walked to the gate with him. Ferguson opened it, and turned. “It really is the smart move until we get to the bottom of all this.”

Kurbsky said, “I’m sure you’re right. It’s just that I’ve never been very good at running away.”

“On this occasion, you must think of the women. I’ll see you off from Farley. Roper will be in touch to confirm the timing.”

As Martin got out of the Daimler, Ferguson said, “I’ll sit beside you.” Martin got the door open, it started to rain, and Ferguson scrambled inside. The big man slid behind the wheel and drove away.

“Thank God, that’s sorted,” Ferguson said.

“Things looking a bit better, General?” Martin inquired.

“Not really,” Ferguson said. “Actually, the road ahead looks pretty bloody stony, but there it is.” He leaned back, called Roper, and filled him in. “So the intruder at Belsize Park definitely makes their departure a top priority.”

“I’ll organize it at once. And that man Kurbsky tangled with—Matthew Cochran, wasn’t it? Camden Town, Sixty Lower Church Street. We should check on him, too.”

“You’re right. See to it.”

Dillon obviously couldn’t put it on speaker in the pub, so he listened, then said, “Okay, we’ll handle it. We’re in Camden High Street now.” He relayed to Billy what Roper had just told him. “We’ll go and look this guy Cochran up. Do you know the address?”

“No, but the Sat Nav will,” Billy said. “So let’s move it.”

“Wait for me,” Dillon said, and got out of the Cooper.

The store was crammed with just about everything you would ever need, and the stocky Indian in traditional clothes was welcoming. “Can I help you, sir?”

“I was looking for an address—60 Lower Church Street.”

“Ah, long gone. Many streets were knocked down last year, and Lower Church Street was one of them. They are to build flats.”

“I was looking for a man named Matthew Cochran who used that address.”

“But I remember number 60 well, it was a lodging house.”

“Thanks very much.” Dillon returned to the Cooper.

“No joy there. Lower Church Street was knocked down last year, and the address was just a lodging house. Let’s move on.”

“It always reminds me of Northern Ireland, this place. We just passed a pub called the Green Tinker, so that’s Catholic, and we’re coming up to the Royal George, which has got to be Protestant. Just like Belfast, when you think about it,” Billy said.

“Nothing’s changed,” Dillon told him. He thought back again, to his mother dying when he was born, his father raising him with the help of relatives, mainly from her family, until, in need of work, his father moved to London and took him with him. Dillon was twelve years old, and they did very well together right here in Kilburn. His father made decent money because he was a cabinet-maker, the highest kind of carpenter. He was never short of work. Dillon went to a top Catholic grammar school, which led him to a scholarship at RADA at sixteen, onstage with the National Theatre at nineteen—and then came his father’s death, and nothing was ever the same again.

Billy said, “Where did you live? Near here?”

“Lodge Lane, a Victorian back-to-back. He opened up the attic, my father did, put a bathroom in. A little palace by the time he had finished with it.”

“Do you ever go back?”

“Nothing to go back to. The fella who tried to incinerate you, Costello/Docherty? His address was Point Street. We’ll take a look.”

“Will you still know your way?”

“Like the back of my hand, Billy, so just follow what I tell you.”

Which Billy did, ending up in a street of terrace houses, doors opening to the pavement. There were cars of one kind or another parked here and there, but it was remarkably quiet.

“This is going back a few years,” Billy said as they drew up.

The door of number 5 was interesting for two reasons. First, there was yellow scene-of-crime police tape across it, forbidding entrance. Second, a formal black mourning wreath hung from the door knocker.

“Interesting,” Dillon said, and got out, and Billy followed. The curtain twitched at the window of the next house. “Let’s have words. Knock them up.” Billy did.

The door opened, and a young woman in jeans and a smock, holding a baby, appeared. “What is it?” she asked with what Dillon easily recognized as a Derry accent.

Billy flashed his MI5 warrant card. “Police. We’re just checking that everything’s okay.”

“Your lot have been and gone hours ago. They explained that Docherty had been killed in a car accident. I don’t know why they’ve sealed the door.”

“To stop anyone getting in.”

“He lived on his own, kept himself to himself.”

“What, not even a girlfriend?”

“I never even saw him with a boyfriend, though he was of that persuasion if you ask me.”

Dillon turned on his Belfast accent. “Is that a fact, girl dear? But one friend, surely, to leave that mourning wreath?”

She warmed to him at once. “Ah, that’s Caitlin Daly, for you. A heart of gold, that woman, and goodness itself.”

“Well, God bless her for that,” Dillon told her. “A fine child you’ve got there.”

“Why, thank you.” She was beaming now.

They got in the Cooper, and Billy drove away. “You don’t half turn it on when it suits you.”

“Fifteen Green Street, now. Just follow my directions.”

Billy did as he was told. “What’s the point? We know Pool lived on his own. I thought you wanted to go and look up the local priest?”

“We’ll get to that, so just do as I say,” and Dillon gave him his directions.

“This is better,” Billy said. “No garages, though.”

“People who lived here in 1900 had no need for garages.”

Dillon opened a gate and walked up to the front door through the garden, followed by Billy. The door was exactly the same as the one in Point Street, with the police tape across it and the black mourning wreath hanging from the knocker.

“Caitlin Daly again, it would appear.”

The door of the adjacent house was within touching distance over the hedge. It opened now, and a white-haired lady peered out. Dillon turned on the charm again, this time pulling out his own warrant card.

“Police,” he told her. “Just checking that all is well.”

The woman was very old, he could see that, and obviously distressed. “Such a tragedy. The police sergeant this morning told me he died in a terrible crash somewhere in central London. I can’t understand it. I’ve driven with him, and he was so careful. A professional chauffeur.”

“Yes, it’s very sad,” Dillon told her.

“I knew his mother, Mary, so well, a lovely Irish lady.” She was rambling now. “Widowed for years, a nurse. It was a great blow to him when she died. Eighty-one, she was. From Cork.”

Dillon said gently, “I know it well. Wasn’t Michael Collins himself a Cork man?

“Who?” she said.

“I’m sorry, and me thinking you were Mrs. Caitlin Daly?” She looked bewildered. “The mourning wreath on the door.”

“Oh, I’m not Caitlin, and I saw her leave it earlier. Her mother was a wonderful friend to me. Died last year from lung cancer. Only seventy-five. She was still living with Caitlin at the presbytery by the church. But Caitlin isn’t married, never was. She’s been housekeeper to Father Murphy for years. Used to teach at the Catholic school. Now she just looks after the presbytery and Father Murphy and two curates.” She was very fey now. “Oh, dear, I’ve got it wrong again. He’s Monsignor Murphy, now. A wonderful man.”

Dillon gave her his best smile. “You’ve been very kind. God bless you.”

They went back to the Cooper, and Billy said, as he settled behind the wheel, “Dillon, you’d talk the Devil into showing you the way out of hell. The information you got out of that old duck beggars belief.”

“A gift, Billy,” Dillon told him modestly. “You’ve got to be Irish to understand.”

“Get stuffed,” Billy told him.

“Sticks and stones,” Dillon said. “But everything that befuddled old lady told me was useful information.”

“I heard. Pool was wonderful, so was his mother, this Caitlin bird is beyond rubies, and, as for the good Monsignor Murphy, from the sound of it they got him from central casting.” He turned left on Dillon’s instructions. “Mind you, he must be good to get that kind of rank in a local church where he’s their priest-in-charge.”

“Turn right now,” Dillon told him. “And what would you be knowing about it?”

“I’ve never talked much about my childhood, Dillon. My old man was a very violent man, killed in gang warfare when I was three. My mum was married to Harry’s brother, and she was an exceptional lady who died of breast cancer when I was nineteen. I really went off the rails after that.”

“Which is understandable.”

“It was Harry who pulled me round, and you, you bastard, when you entered our lives. You introduced me to philosophy, remember, gave me a sense of myself.”

“So where is this leading?” Dillon asked.

The Cooper turned another corner and pulled up outside their destination. “Church of the Holy Name,” it said on the painted signboard beside the open gate, along with the times of Confession and Mass. The building had a Victorian-Gothic look to it, which made sense because it was only in the Victorian era that Roman Catholics by law were allowed to build churches again. Dillon saw a tower, a porch, a vast wooden door bound in iron in a failed attempt to achieve a medieval look.

They stayed in the car for a few moments. Billy said, “The thing is, my mother was a strict Roman Catholic. Not our Harry. He doesn’t believe in anything he can’t put his hand on, but she really put me onstage. When I was a kid, I was an acolyte. I tell you, Dillon, it meant everything to her when it was my turn to serve at Mass.”

“I know,” Dillon said. “Scarlet cassock, white cotta.”

“Don’t tell me you did that?”

“I’m afraid so, and, Billy, I’ve really got news for you. I did it in this very church we’re about to enter. I was twelve when my father brought me from Northern Ireland to live with him in Kilburn. That means it was thirty-seven years ago when I first entered this church, and the priest in charge is the same man, James Murphy. As I recall, he was born in 1929, which would make him eighty.”

“But why didn’t you mention that to Ferguson and the others? What’s going on? I knew something was, Dillon. Talk to me.”

Dillon sat there for a moment longer, then took out his wallet and from one of the pockets produced a prayer card. It was old, creased, slightly curling at the golden edges. Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners, now and at the hour of our death, we who are ourselves alone.

“Jesus, Dillon.” Billy took it from him. “Where the hell did this come from?”

“It was Father James Murphy, as he was then, who first received the news of my father’s death in that firefight in Belfast, an incident that turned me into what I am, shaped my whole life. ‘A casualty of war,’ he told me, gave me the card, and begged me to pray.” He smiled bleakly, took the card, and replaced it in the wallet. “So here we are. Let’s go in, shall we? I see from the board someone’s hearing confessions in there, although it may not be the great man himself.”

He got out, and Billy joined him, his face pale. “I don’t know what to say.”

They entered and walked through the cemetery, which was also Victorian-Gothic and rather pleasant, marble effigies, winged angels, engraved headstones, and cypress trees to one side. “I used to like this when I was a boy, liked it more than I liked it inside the church in a way. It’s what we all come to, when you think of it,” Dillon said.

“For Christ’s sake, cut it out,” Billy said. “You’re beginning to worry me.”

He turned the ring on the great door, and Dillon followed him through. There was faint music playing, something subdued and soothing. The whole place was in a kind of half darkness, but was unexpectedly warm, no doubt because of central heating. The usual church smell, so familiar from childhood, filled his nostrils. Dillon dipped his fingers in the holy water font as he went past and crossed himself, and Billy, after hesitating, did the same.

The sanctuary lamp glowed through the gloom, and to the left there was a Mary Chapel, the Virgin and Child floating in a sea of candlelight. The place had obviously had money spent on it in the past. Victorian stained glass abounded, carvings that looked like medieval copies, and a Christ on the Cross which was extremely striking. The altar and choir stalls, too, were ornate and, it had to be admitted, beautifully carved.

A woman was down there wearing a green smock, arranging flowers by the altar. Fifty or so, Dillon told himself, a strong face with a good mouth, handsome in a Jane Austen kind of way, the hair fair and well kept with no gray showing, although that was probably due more to the attentions of a good hairdresser than nature. She wore a white blouse and gray skirt under the smock, and half-heeled shoes. She held pruning scissors in one gloved hand, and she turned and glanced at them coolly for a moment, then returned to her flowers.

Dillon moved towards the confessional boxes on the far side. There were three of them, but the light was on in only one. Two middle-aged women were waiting, and Billy, sitting two pews behind them beside Dillon, leaned forward to decipher the name card in the slot on the priest’s confessional door.

“You’re all right, it says ‘Monsignor James Murphy.’ ”

A man in a raincoat emerged from the box and walked away along the aisle, and one of the women went in. They sat there in silence, and she was out in not much more than five minutes. She sat down, and her friend went in. She was longer, more like fifteen minutes, then finally emerged, murmured to her friend, and they departed.

“Here I go,” Dillon whispered to Billy, got up, opened the door of the confessional box, entered, and sat down.

“Please bless me, Father,” he said to the man on the other side of the grille, conscious of the strong, aquiline face in profile, the hair still long and silvery rather than gray.

Murphy said, “May our Lord Jesus bless you and help you to tell your sins.”

“Oh, that would be impossible, for they are so many.”

The head turned slightly towards him. “When did you last make a confession, my son?”

“So long ago, I can’t remember.”

“Are your sins so bad that you shrink from revealing them?”

“Not at all. I know the secrets of the confessional are inviolate, but acknowledging the deaths of so many at my hands in no way releases me from the burden of them.”

Murphy seemed to straighten. “Ah, I think I see your problem. You are a soldier, or have been a soldier, as with so many men these days.”

“That’s true enough.”

“Then you may certainly be absolved, but you must help by seeking comfort in prayer.”

“Oh, I’ve tried that, Father, saying, ‘Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners, now and at the hour of our death, we who are ourselves alone.’ ”

There was a moment of silence, then Murphy turned full face, trying to peer through the grille. “Who are you?”

“God bless you, Father, but isn’t that breaking the rules? Still, I’ll let it go for once and put you out of your misery. Sean Dillon, as ever was. Thirty years since you last saw me. I was nineteen, and you were the man the police asked to break the news that my father was dead, killed accidently while on a trip to Belfast. You told me he was a casualty of war.”

“Sean,” Murphy’s voice quavered. “I can’t believe it. What can I say?”

“I think you said it all thirty years ago when you urged me to pray, particularly the special one on a prayer card you gave me, the prayer I’ve just quoted to you.”

“Yes, I recollect now.” The voice was unsteady. “A wonderful prayer to the Virgin Mary.”

“I remember you saying it would be a comfort for all victims of a great cause. Which made sense, as the prayer is directed at we who are ourselves alone, and ‘ourselves alone’ in Irish is Sinn Fein. So it had a definite political twist to it, urging a nineteen-year-old boy whose father had ended up dead on a pavement in the Falls Road to get angry, clear off to Belfast, and join the Provos to fight for the Glorious Cause. Now, aren’t you proud of me?”

The door to Dillon’s half of the confessional box was yanked open, and the woman in the green smock was there, blazingly angry. “Come out of there,” she shouted, and grabbed at him. Behind her, Billy moved in to pull her off.

“You got good and loud, Sean. Only her and me in the place, and we heard most of what you said.”

She pulled away from Billy and glared at Dillon. “Get out of here before I call the police.”

Billy produced his warrant card. “Don’t waste your breath. MI5, and he’s got one, too.”

The other door opened, and Murphy came out, an imposing figure at six feet, with the silver hair, dressed in a full black cassock, an alb, violet stole draped over his shoulder.

“Leave it, Caitlin, this is Sean Dillon. As a boy of nineteen, I had to tell him his father was murdered by British soldiers in Ulster. He left for Belfast for his father’s funeral and never returned. There were rumors that he had cast in his lot with the Provisional IRA. If so, I can’t see that it in any way concerns me. As to the prayer card that I gave him as a comfort, it may be found on the Internet, if you look carefully, Sean, and has been available to all since Easter 1916. We have a Hope of Mary Hospice and Refuge where the card is readily available.” He put a hand on Dillon’s left shoulder. “You are deeply troubled, Sean, that is so obvious. Your dear father worked and did so much for the church in his spare time. The lectern in beechwood by the high altar was his work. If I can help you in any way, I am here.”

“Not right now,” Dillon said. “But before I go, the score for dead cardholders right now is four: Henry Pool, John Docherty, Frank Barry in New York, Jack Flynn on Long Island.”

“What on earth are you talking about?” Murphy looked shocked.

“Don’t listen to him, he’s lost his wits entirely.” Caitlin moved close to Dillon and slapped his face. “Get out.”

“My, but you’re the hard woman. Come on, Billy, let’s go.” Billy opened the great door, and Dillon turned, and Murphy and Caitlin were standing close, he with his head inclined while she whispered to him.

Dillon called, “If you know anybody named Cochran, tell him we found his wallet, and the prayer card, too. God bless all here.”

And Caitlin Daly snapped completely. “Get out, you bastard.” Her voice echoed around the church, and Dillon followed Billy to the Cooper, and they drove away.

“Do you think there’s anything doing?” Billy asked.

“Oh, yes,” Dillon said. “However bizarre it sounds, I think there’s something going on there.”

“If that’s so, don’t you think you’ve given a lot away?”

“I intended to. Back to Holland Park, Billy,” and he leaned back in his seat and closed his eyes, thinking about it.

“Caitlin?”

“Just listen,” she said. “We’ve got trouble.” She quickly told him what had taken place. “What are we going to do?”

“How did Murphy take it?”

“How do you expect? He’s too good for this bloody world. All he feels is pity for Dillon.”

“Well, he would, wouldn’t he? Leave it with me, I’ll handle it somehow.” The church was very quiet now when she returned, and Murphy knelt before the altar, his head bowed in prayer, and she sat in a front pew and waited. When he stood up and walked to her, she said, “You’ve been praying for Dillon, haven’t you?”

“Of course. So sad, that business of his father’s death in Belfast all those years ago. His life has so obviously been a hard and bitter one. What else can I do but pray for him?”

She stifled her anger with difficulty. “Sometimes, Monsignor, I think you’re much too forgiving. But take my arm, and we’ll go back to the presbytery for tea.”

He did as he was told, and as they walked away he said, “Poor boy, he seems completely unhinged.”