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  There were two guarda cars parked beside the cemetery gates, their occupants sheltering from the weather but also anxious not to intrude upon the scene before them.

  Leary knew why they were there. He had been expecting them. That was why he had chosen his position high up on the hillside in the shadow of the Wicklow mountains.

  Clouds were gathering ever more menacingly over those distant peaks, threatening to bring more of the rain that was still falling. Like tears from the heavens for his departed brother.

  'We're very sorry for your trouble, Decian.'

  The words made Leary spin round, his hand sliding inside his overcoat, fingers closing over the butt of the Giock 17.

  'No need for that,' said Seamus Mulvey, patting the younger man on the shoulder.

  Leary relaxed slightly and looked at the other man who accompanied Mulvey.

  Raymond Tracey nodded almost imperceptibly. A

  gesture designed both as a greeting and a condolence.

  'We thought we should pay our respects to your brother,' Mulvey continued. 'On behalf of the organisation.'

  'And for your mother's sake,' Tracey added.

  Thank you,' said Leary quietly.

  'It seems that over the years I've worn this suit to more funerals than I care to remember,' Mulvey mused. 'I was hoping I wouldn't have need of it again.'

  Leary turned and gazed back down at the grave surrounded by mourners.

  'I hope I don't need it for yours, Declan,' the older man continued.

  'Why should you?' Leary wanted to know. 'I'm not planning on getting killed.'

  'What are you planning?' Mulvey enquired.

  'My brother was murdered. I want to know who by.'

  'And if you find out?'

  Leary looked at the oider man but initially didn't answer. 'That's my business,' he said finally.

  'No it's not, Declan. It's everyone's business. Myself, Raymond. Everyone in the organisation. Political and military.'

  'Did you come here today to warn me off?' Leary demanded.

  'We came to give you some advice,' Tracey offered. 'I don't blame you for feeling the way you do about what happened to your brother. I'd be the same if it was kin of mine. I know how you feel.'

  'You've got no fucking idea how I feel, Raymond,' snapped Leary. 'I can only stand here and watch while

  my own mother and sisters cry their hearts out over the body of my brother. I can't even go down there and comfort them. The one thing I can give them is justice.'

  'Killing the men who murdered Vincent wouldn't be justice,' said Mulvey. 'It'd be suicide. For all of us.'

  'I'll take that chance,' Leary told him flatly.

  'I'm advising you not to, Declan.'

  'In Donegal, you asked me, now you're advising me. What's the difference? Does advice come from the barrel of a gun?'

  Mulvey looked up at the rain-sodden sky. 'If it had been the other way round, what do you think Vincent would have done?' he asked. 'Run off to find the men who killed youV

  I'd like to think so.'

  'No he wouldn't have,' Tracey said.

  'How the hell do you know what he would have done? He was my fucking brother.'

  'He wouldn't have done it because he put the organisation first,' Tracey continued. 'He understood that what he'd fought for was more important than persona! matters. He'd have realised that the kind of action you're proposing is useless.'

  'Bollocks,' spat Leary.

  There was a moment's silence, finally broken by Tracey. Think about what you're doing, Declan,' he said. Think about what Vincent would have wanted.'

  'I am thinking about Vincent,' Leary hissed. That's why I'm going to find the bastards who killed him.'

  'You're making a mistake,' Tracey told him.

  'Am i? We'll see.'

  The RUC will be looking for you after what happened in Belfast,' Mulvey said.'So will every fucking SAS and anti-terrorist operative working in the six counties. Look what happened to Finan.That could be you this time round. Whoever killed Vincent will be expecting you to come after them too. They'll be ready for you. Just let it go, Declan.'

  'Thanks for coming today,' said Leary quietly.'l appreciate your concern. For me and my family. We've got nothing more to say to each other.'

  He turned his back on the two men and gazed down at the last resting place of his dead brother.

  LONDON:

  Doyle walked briskly up the steps from Notting Hill Gate Tube station. He paused at the top and dug in his pocket for what he sought. The business card bore an address and he regarded it indifferently for a second.

  He'd spent most of the day and night thinking about whether or not it was even worth visiting the place. Finally he'd rung and made an appointment for ten o'clock the following morning. The remainder of the evening had been spent slumped in front of his television set.

  His brain had felt like a washing machine (it still did). Thoughts spinning round.Visions forcing themselves into his consciousness like some kaleidoscopic acid trip.

  Dead bodies. Blood. Pain.

  Georgie.

  Guns. Knives. Explosions.

  He'd seen the faces of Parker. Of Sir Anthony Pressman. Finan. Leary.

  Georgie.

  She was always there, somewhere.

  He'd succumbed to a headache and fallen asleep in the chair after downing half a bottle of Smirnoff and three Nurofen.

  When he'd woken, the business card Parker had given him was still on the table beside his chair.

  Doyle had spent a long time staring at it.

  Now he looked at it again:

  CARTWRIGHT SECURITY

  36 CLANRICARDE GARDENS

  NOTTING HILL

  There was a phone number beneath.

  Doyle wandered along the road, checking street names until he found the right one.

  It was a narrow cul-de-sac of two-storey mews houses, mostly converted into flats or offices.The number of nameplates outside each electronically operated front door testified to that.

  Number 36 bore the name of Cartwright Security. Doyle pressed the buzzer and waited.

  Just like old times.

  'Cartwright Security,' said a woman's voice.

  'My name's Doyle,' he said into the grille. 'I've got an appointment with Mr Cartwright.'

  'We're on the third floor, please come up.'

  There was a loud buzz and the door opened. Doyle stepped inside and made his way up the plush stairs until he found it. He knocked and walked in.There was a door to his right which was closed and another to his left which was open. Through the open one he could see a desk and a young woman seated behind

  it. Early thirties. Shoulder-length auburn hair. Attractive. She was dressed in a dark two-piece suit and highly polished court shoes.

  There was another door behind her. Also closed.

  The office was airy and brightly decorated. There were leather chairs along two walls and a low table in the centre covered with orderly lines of magazines. Doyle noticed copies of GQ, The Face, Maxim, Vogue and Cosmopoliton.There were even editions of the NME and a number of film magazines.

  The secretary smiled at him and motioned towards one of the leather seats. 'Would you like a drink, Mr Doyle?' she asked. 'Tea, coffee?'

  Tea, thanks. White. One sugar.'

  'I'll bring it through,' she told him. 'Mr Cartwright is ready to see you.'

  No hanging about

  Doyle stood back up and followed her through to the door on the other side of the narrow corridor. She knocked once then entered.

  As she did, Brian Cartwright got to his feet. He extended a hand, which Doyle shook, surprised at the power in the other man's grip. He ran appraising eyes over Cartwright who was immaculately dressed in a dark-blue suit and black roll-neck sweater.

  Thank you, Julie,' said Cartwright.

  'I'll bring you a coffee through,' the secretary said as she stepped out of the office.

  'She looks after me,' Cartwright said smili
ng.

  He was an amiable man. Late forties.Wide-shouldered and thick-necked.

  Doyle took a quick look around the office. It was

  high-ceilinged. Recently decorated. A small flight of steps led up to another smaller area where Doyle could see a sofa, a television and a video recorder. There were several framed photos on the walls. He recognised one or two of them. Film stars. There was one of Robert de Niro.

  'Some of our clients,' Cartwright said, noticing his interest. 'We look after all sorts of people. Pop stars, actors, politicians, businessmen. You name it.'

  Julie returned with their drinks, set them down and left, closing the door behind her.

  'I understand you're looking for a job, Mr Doyle,' Cartwright said, sipping his coffee.

  'Who told you that?'

  'Jonathan Parker. Your old boss. He had your file biked over to me. He didn't think you'd have much in the way of a written CV.'

  'He was right. How do you know him?'

  'I used to be a Special Branch officer. We've known each other for years.'

  'Why did you leave?'

  'I retired. I was hurt in a car accident. The money I got went into this business.'

  'You're obviously doing all right,' Doyle observed, looking around the office.

  'I employ the right people. And I've got a very good accountant.' Cartwright smiled.

  Doyle managed a grin.

  'Jonathan seems to think you'd be suited to this line of work,' said Cartwright. 'Do you?'

  'Look, I appreciate you seeing me but don't give me a fucking job out of sympathy. Just because Parker

  binned me off doesn't mean I need help from his friends.'

  'You arrogant bastard,' said Cartwright.

  Doyle shot him an angry glance, surprised when the older man held his venomous gaze.

  'It's you who needs this job,' Cartwright reminded him. 'You're the one on the scrapheap.'

  'I'll find work somewhere.'

  'Doing what? What kind of work can you do, Doyle? Remember, I've read your file. Who's going to employ a man as potentially unstable as you?'

  Doyle got to his feet.

  'Sit down,' Cartwright snapped.

  'Fuck you,' Doyle rasped.

  'Face it, you're low on options. You're not in a position to dictate what you want. Not any more. If I can help you I will but it's got nothing to do with favours or sympathy. My motives are purely selfish. If I didn't think it was worth seeing you, you wouldn't be here now.'

  Doyle sucked in a deep breath and slowly sat down again.

  Cartwright reached into his desk and pulled out a file. 'I won't bother reading this back to you,' he said. 'I'm sure you know what it says anyway.'

  'I'm not very good at this interview shit,' Doyle told him. 'I suppose I'm out of practice. I didn't think the day would ever come when I'd have to do one. I thought I'd be dead long before that.'

  'Well, you're not dead, you're here. So let's get down to business.'

  They offered you retirement twice,' said Cart-wright, flicking through the file on his desk.'Why didn't you take it?'

  'Why didn't you?' Doyle asked him. 'You could have been living off your invalidity pension from Special Branch now.'

  Cartwright smiled. 'You're right,' he acknowledged. 'I chose to use the money to put into this business. I built it up from nothing to what it is now.'

  'Why?'

  'I saw a gap in the market and, if I'm truthful, I couldn't stand the thought of sitting around twiddling my thumbs for the rest of my life, getting under my wife's feet.'

  'Join the club.'

  'You're not married, are you?'

  Doyle shook his head.

  That's probably just as well,' Cartwright told him. 'Security work is no job for a married man.'

  'What about you? You're married.'

  'I own the business. I can go home every night if ! have to. The people who work for me can't.'

  'Where do you get your people? Are they all cast-offs like me?'

  'I've got ex-coppers. Ex-army. Even a couple of guys who worked as mercenaries in Kosovo for a time.They all know how to handle themselves should the situation arise.'

  Doyle eyed him indifferently.

  'I know you can look after yourself, Doyle,' Cartwright said. 'But the question with this job is can you look after someone else? Would you risk your life for a total stranger, one you might not even think very much of, just for the money?'

  'I haven't really got much of a choice, have I?'

  'You can walk away now if you want to. No one's forcing you to take a job here. No one knows if you'll even be capable of doing it. What do you think this job entails?'

  'Making sure the wrong people don't get hurt. The ones who pay for that privilege.'

  'I know that if you're looking after one of my clients and someone has a go at them then you'll be able to do the job. I know they'll be safe under your protection. What I don't know is whether or not you'll be able to cope with the other side of the business.'

  'Like what?'

  'You have to be a diplomat in the security business, Doyle. Melt into the background. Be courteous at all times.'

  Doyle raised an eyebrow.

  'Do as you're told,' Cartwright continued. 'It must be a while since you did that.' He smiled.

  'I could try.'

  'If I employ you, the way you act and behave reflects

  upon my business and reputation. One mistake and you're out. Got it?'

  Doyle eyed the older man impassively for a moment. 'Does this mean you're offering me a job?' he wanted to know.

  'Look on it as a trial. If you do well on the first one, there'll be others. I know it's not what you want but what choice do you have?'

  'Not much by the look of it.'

  Cartwright looked at him. 'Have you got a suit?' he asked.

  'I did have. I don't know whether it still fits.'

  Then get a new one. I want you at number twenty-six Upper Brook Street at twelve tomorrow.'

  'So I've got the job.'

  'Yes you have. Don't mess it up. For your sake.'

  'Am I supposed to say thanks?'

  'You're not supposed to say anything, Doyle.'

  There was a heavy silence, finally broken by the former counter terrorist. 'What about weapons?' he asked. 'Do I carry them?'

  'It depends on the job. You'll be informed by me or by other operatives working with you.'

  'Who's working with me tomorrow?'

  Two of my best people. They've been on this job for the last month. One's a driver.The other's a personal bodyguard.'

  'Who's the client?'

  'Sheikh Karim El Roustam and his family. You might have heard of him. He's a Saudi prince. One of the richest men in the world and paranoid about assassination. He's over here for talks with the owners of

  Aspreys, the jewellers. He wants to buy the company for his wife.'

  Doyle smiled. 'Who's guarding him?'

  'Melissa Blake and Joe Hendry. They've both been with me for over six years. They're two of my best. You'll take your instructions from them. You've got no problem working with a woman have you?'

  Doyle shook his head.

  It wouldn't be the first time.

  'Stay in the background,' continued Cartwright.'Do as you're told. And, Doyle, try not to shoot anybody. Especially the Sheikh.'

  Doyle nodded.'I've never done security work in my life and you're ready to let me walk into a situation like this?' he asked.

  'You've got to learn somehow.AII my operatives had to. Now go and get yourself a suit, some decent shirts and shoes and a bloody tie. Try Burberry's.'

  Doyle got to his feet.

  'You might want to get your hair cut too,' Cartwright added.

  'I'll think about it,' Doyle told him.

  Cartwright stood too and extended his right hand. Doyle shook it.

  'Don't disappoint me, Doyle,' said Cartwright.'You've been given another chance. Not many people get that. Take it.'r />
  Doyle turned and walked out.

  'Remember,' Cartwright called after him. Twenty-six Upper Brook Street. Twelve o'clock. Don't be late.'

  He heard Doyle's footsteps receding down the stairs.

  Cartwright crossed to the window, wincing slightly

  from a recurring stiffness in his back and leg. He looked out into the street where he could see the former counter terrorist heading away from the building.

  After a moment or two he turned back to his desk and reached for the phone.

  DUNDALK.THE REPUBLIC OF IRELAND:

  The woman who ran the guest house was a cheerful individual in her mid-forties. She had offered to help Declan Leary carry his two holdalls up to his room, shrugging her shoulders when he declined.

  As he followed her up the stairs he supposed he could have allowed her to carry the sports bag with his clothes in.The plain black one he preferred to carry himself. He didn't want her asking what was in it even though he had the lie ready on his tongue. Just as he'd been ready to give her a false name and tell her what he supposedly did for a living.

  She'd told him that there were two other permanent guests in the house. The other two rooms she kept for those passers-by who found themselves in need of rest and shelter for the night.

  Leary listened dutifully as she led him on to the landing and pointed out the two toilets, the other guest rooms and her own room.

  Her husband, she informed him, had died of a heart attack two years ago. She had one son who visited her with his wife and small baby every Sunday.

  Leary smiled and nodded efficiently in all the right places.

  She pushed open the door to his room and stepped aside to allow him in.

  It was a reasonable size with a double bed (although she told him that she would prefer it if he didn't bring young women back with him), a dressing table, a wardrobe and a wash basin close to the large window that looked out on to a small garden. Beyond it was a field.

  Beyond that lay the main road leading from the Republic into the Six Counties. Leary could make the drive to Belfast in under two hours if the conditions were right.

  In and out quickly.

  The guest house would be an ideal operations base for him. If the main road was closed or too congested then there were innumerable other routes by which he could find his way into the North.

  He thanked the woman and reached for his wallet.