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  She told him she would take a deposit, if that was all right, and the week's rent would be payable in full every Friday night. No notice was needed should he want to move out but, she told him with a smile, she hoped that he would treat the place as a home and not want to move out too quickly. Dinner would be served at seven-thirty. She hoped he would enjoy meeting the other residents of the house.

  Leary thanked her and held the door open for her as she finally left him alone.

  He waited a moment then quietly turned the lock and began unpacking his clothes, sliding T-shirts and

  underwear into drawers, hanging shirts and jackets in the wardrobe.

  Leary left the black holdall on the bed until he was ready then he unzipped it and reached inside. He laid each of the weapons on the bed and regarded them impassively.

  The Glock 17 automatic. The Smith and Wesson M459 9mm automatic. The Scorpion CZ65 9mm machine pistol.

  And the knives. One an 8-inch-long double-edged blade sharpened to lethal degrees on both sides. The other his ever-reliable flick knife.

  He replaced all but the flick knife and the Glock in the holdall then stashed it carefully at the back of the wardrobe and laid a dark-blue fleece over it, happy that it was concealed.

  As he left the room, he locked the door behind him.

  Outside it had begun to rain.

  Leary climbed into the Ford and started the engine, glancing at the dashboard clock. He switched on the radio, found some traffic news. No major delays anywhere. He should be in Belfast before dark.

  LONDON:

  Doyle felt as if he was being strangled. He pulled at the tie as he clambered out of the taxi, attempting to loosen it slightly. He tried to remember the last time he'd worn one.

  Georgie's funeral? How long ago had that been? Ten, twelve years?

  He looked around at the houses in Upper Brook Street

  You could almost smell the money.

  He glanced at his watch then at the door of number 26.

  Plenty of time to spare.

  There was a Daimler parked immediately before the building. In front of it a Rolls Royce and behind it a black Ferrari F40. Doyle was fairly sure that these cars belonged to Sheikh Karim El Roustam.

  He climbed the three steps that led to the front door and rang the buzzer. There was a small video screen above the panel and Doyle turned towards it.

  'Yes,' said a metallic-sounding woman's voice.

  'My name's Doyle. I was sent here by Cartwright Security.'

  'Who's your contact?'

  'Melissa Blake.'

  There was a loud buzz and the door opened. Doyle stepped into the hallway of the house and waited.

  He knew a little about art (he'd had a book when he was a kid called World Famous Paintings, or something like that, and certain images had stuck in his mind) and he was sure that one of the paintings hanging opposite him was a Gainsborough. Next to it was a Constable. He was pretty sure they weren't copies.

  There was other stuff he didn't recognise. More modern. He didn't doubt for one second, however, that it was just as expensive.The marble floor he was standing on, he reasoned, probably cost more than he'd earned in his life.

  It was across this marble floor that Melissa Blake approached him. He could hear her heels clicking on the polished surface as she descended from the staircase ahead of him.

  Doyle watched her approvingly. She had blond hair, just past her shoulders. Deep-brown eyes. Finely chiselled features and cheek bones you could have cut cheese with. Doyle suppressed a smile. She was wearing a dark-grey jacket and trousers, and a crisply iaun-dered and almost dazzlingly white blouse, fastened to the neck. Early thirties, he guessed. She shook his hand.

  'I'm Melissa Blake,' she said smiling. 'My friends call me Mel.'

  'I'm Sean Doyle. I haven't got any friends.'

  She smiled even more broadly, revealing several hundred pounds' worth of dental work and a previously unseen dimple.

  She held his hand a moment longer then gently slid free of his grip.'Mr Cartwright told me to expect you.'

  'What else did he tell you?'

  'What he felt was relevant. You used to be in the Counter Terrorist Unit, didn't you?'

  Doyle nodded. 'What about you?' he wanted to know. 'How did you end up in this line of work? It's not the kind of thing you usually find women doing, is it?'

  'You'd be surprised. The demand for women bodyguards has grown over the last four or five years. Some women clients feel more comfortable with another woman. I can earn more than most men.'

  'So what did you do before this?'

  'I was a policewoman. Undercover'

  'Why'd you leave?'

  'I got involved in a sexual harassment case. My boss tried it on once too often. I went to his superior and reported him but nothing happened. Next time he tried it, I broke his nose. He had me transferred, i resigned.'

  Doyle shrugged. 'Shit happens,' he murmured.

  She smiled again. It was a warm, infectious gesture.

  'Come on,' she said. 'I'll show you around.' She led him towards the wide staircase at the end of the hallway.

  Doyle felt his shoes sinking into the carpet as he climbed. 'Where's the Sheikh?' he asked.

  'He's out with my colleague, Joe Hendry. He should be back soon.'

  'What about his wife?'

  'She's in her room. First thing to remember is that when you're around them, you don't speak unless

  you're spoken to. Most of the servants speak some English but they tend to keep themselves to themselves.'

  'How many are there?'

  'Twelve.'

  'Jesus, where do they all sleep?'

  'On the upper floors.The Sheikh and his family have the entire lower and first floor'

  'What about you and Hendry?'

  'We've got rooms on the second floor.'

  She led him towards another flight of stairs, past more expensive paintings and sculptures.

  'Cartwright said he was paranoid about assassination,' Doyle said. 'Does he have reason to be?'

  'He's worth over fifty million. They say his oil wells pump out the stuff at about sixty-four grand a second. I'd say that was reason enough, wouldn't you?'

  Doyle nodded.

  'He's more worried about his son though,' Mel continued. 'Kidnapping.'

  'I didn't know he had any kids.'

  'One boy. He's eleven. Son and heir, that kind of thing. The Sheikh's very big on that. That's where you come in.'

  Doyle looked surprised.

  'You travel with him to school every day,' Mel said. 'Make sure he gets there okay. Then you go and pick him up. Two of the Sheikh's attendants will go with you.'

  'I didn't know I was being hired as a fucking babysitter.'

  She turned and looked at him.'Watch your language,

  Doyle.You never know who's listening.'Again that infectious smile.

  He nodded and exhaled wearily.'Shit,' he murmured, but under his breath.

  BELFAST:

  Declan Leary couldn't remember how many pubs he'd been in since arriving in Belfast two hours earlier. Five. Six. More?

  He'd drunk pints in the first two then switched to still mineral water with ice. To anyone who cared to look, he might just as easily have been drinking vodka.

  He knew that what he was doing wasn't exactly an ideal method of finding the killers of his brother but, at the moment, it was all he had.

  He sat at bars and listened to conversations while he gazed blankly at his paper. He sat in booths and tried to pick up names, sometimes whispered. Anything that might point him in the right direction.

  He moved around the Woodvale and Shankill areas without detection. A Catholic looked no different to a Protestant, he reasoned. They were all supposed to be human beings, divided merely by religion and beliefs.

  That was the way it should have been. But it was not the case. It hadn't been for over four hundred years and, as far as men like Declan Leary were concerned, it would con
tinue like this for another four hundred.

  Despite the promises of the Good Friday Agreement, Catholics and Protestants, for the most part, still kept themselves to themselves. Proddies stayed away from the Ardoyne and Turf Lodge, just as his kind kept out of Woodvale and the Shankill.

  Except tonight.

  Leary wondered what the mathematical probability was of bumping into one of his brother's killers in these circumstances. He found it was best not to even consider the astronomical odds.

  So, what are you going to do?

  He sipped his mineral water and watched a group of men gathered around a pool table.

  At the bar there was a television set perched high above the optics. Those seated opposite were watching, barely able to hear because of the noise coming from the jukebox and the incessant chatter inside.

  Any one of you bastards could have shot my brother.

  He saw two young women enter.The first was wearing a white mini-dress and attracted many admiring glances. She tottered uncertainly on precipitous high heels. Her friend, dressed in imitation-leather trousers and a top barely capable of containing her large breasts, crossed to the bar and ordered some drinks.

  Normally Leary might have paid them more attention but tonight his mind was elsewhere.

  He got up and moved towards the dartboard, sitting down at an empty seat, watching the two men engrossed in their game. When one scored a bullseye, Leary clapped and raised his glass in salute.

  The man looked at him and managed a smile. 'Do I know you?' he said.

  Leary shook his head. I was just admiring a good shot,' he commented, his voice slightly slurred.

  Part of the deception.

  'Here's to a good shot,' he said and raised his glass. 'As good as the ones that killed those five Fenian bastards the other day.'

  The two players looked at each other then continued their game.

  Leary watched the darts thudding into the board.

  'Bang, bang, bang,' he chuckled. 'As easy as shooting Catholics, eh?'

  'What the hell are you going on about?' said the first man, retrieving his darts.

  'It's a pity there isn't a fucking Catholic standing in front of that board. That'd be one more out of the way.' He raised his glass again.

  The two men carried on playing.

  'Can I buy you a drink?' Leary persisted. To celebrate what happened to those fuckers the other day.'

  'Just leave it, will you?' the second man said, taking a sip of his beer.

  'What's the matter?' Leary wanted to know. 'Five IRA men were shot. If that isn't cause for celebration, I don't know what is.'

  'You're drunk,' said the first man, throwing his darts once more.

  That I am. But then do you blame me? Five more of those bastards wiped out is worth getting drunk for, don't you think?'

  'I think you've had one too many,' said the second man.

  'Fuck it,' Leary burbled. He got to his feet and raised his glass.

  'God save the Queen and God save the UVF,' he called loudly.

  The two players looked at each other. A number of other heads turned in Leary's direction.

  'Will anyone else join me in a toast?' Leary shouted. 'I'll buy anyone in here a drink if they'll celebrate the shooting of those fucking Fenian bastards with me.'

  There were murmurs from all corners of the bar.

  Leary lurched towards the two women who both giggled as he approached.

  'What about you two young ladies,' he slurred.'You'll have a drink with me to toast the UVF, won't you?' He thrust himself close to the one in the white dress.

  'Lay off, will you?' said the barman, his face set in hard lines.

  Leary raised his glass but stumbled against a nearby bar stool and spilled some of the contents on the girl with the large breasts.

  'Fuck off,' she spat.

  'Sorry,' said Leary, trying to wipe the water off, squeezing the girl's breast as he did so.

  'I said fuck off,' snarled the girl, stepping backwards.

  'Right, get out now,' said the barman.

  Leary looked at him.

  Do it

  'Ah,fuck you then,' he grunted and stumbled towards the door. When he reached it he paused and looked at the sea of faces gazing at him. 'God bless the UVF,' he shouted.

  He crashed out into the street, sucking in a deep breath.

  Shit No takers.

  He set off down the street, glancing behind him.

  No one emerged from the pub.

  Leary walked on. Past boarded-up shops. Past a cat that was clawing at a bulging, black rubbish bag, pulling the rubbish out and scattering it across the pavement.

  Past a giant mural on the side of a house with the caption beneath that read: William III crossing the

  BOYNE.

  Orange bastard.

  There was more graffiti: no surrender. It was faded. As though someone had tried to wash it off.

  Leary wondered how far it was to the next pub. He was still wondering when the car pulled up beside him. He slid one hand into his jacket pocket, his fingers closing around the flick knife.

  There was one man in the car. He leaned over and pushed the passenger door open, gesturing to Leary. 'Get in,' he said.

  "Why?" Leary wanted to know.

  'I heard what you were saying back there. I hear you've been saying the same thing all over Belfast. Word gets around. I want to talk to you.'

  'About what?'

  'Just get in,' the driver insisted.

  'Fuck off.'

  Leary saw the gun pointing at him.

  'I won't say it again,' rasped Ivor Best.

  Leary looked at the gaping barrel of the .38 for a second longer then took a step towards the car. Thoughts tumbled through his mind.

  Who was this bastard?

  Had his rant inside the last pub brought this newcomer to him?

  'Listen,' Leary said, his voice more even.'What I said back there—'

  'Get in the fucking car,' Ivor Best snapped, waving the revolver towards the passenger seat.

  What if he's one of your own? There'd be an irony, wouldn't there? Looking for Proddies to kill and ending up shot by one of your own.

  Leary moved closer to the car.

  He's not going to shoot you in the street

  is he?

  Leary touched the flick knife once more then slid into the passenger seat and shut the door behind him.

  Best slid the gun into his pocket and guided the car away from the kerb.

  Leary relaxed slightly and looked at the older man.

  'Keep your eyes ahead,' Best told him as he drove. 'Just listen to me.'

  The car smelt of fast food. Leary saw a McDonald's wrapper on the floor.

  'What you were saying back there in the pub about those IRA men being killed, did you mean it?' Best asked.

  Careful.

  'A man's entitled to an opinion, isn't he?' Leary said.

  'He is that. But some opinions are best kept to yourself.'

  They drove in silence for a moment.

  Leary had no idea where he was or where he was being taken.

  Just be ready when he stops the car. You can use the knife before he reaches the gun if you have to.

  'What's your name?' Best asked.

  The lie was ready. 'Keith Levine,' Leary told him. 'What about you?'

  'My name's not important now. I want to know if you meant what you said back there in the pub. About the UVF. Being happy that they killed five of the IRA.'

  'I meant it. As far as I'm concerned there's still a war going on.'

  Best smiled. 'A man after me own heart,' he said, glancing at Leary.

  The younger man studied his companion's features.

  You're a fucking Proddie all right.

  'People are scared to say what they think any more,' Best continued.'Even more afraid to do anything about it.' Again he looked at Leary. 'Are you prepared to do something, Keith? To back up your opinions?'

  Leary regarded h
im warily. 'What kind of thing?' he asked.

  'You tell me. How far would you go to support your opinions? Or are you just all mouth like so many of the others? They say what they'd do but when the time comes, they haven't got the balls.'

  Leary shrugged. 'What kind of thing are you talking about?' he persisted. Best stopped the car. 'Get out,' he said.

  Leary looked puzzled.

  'Get out,' Best snapped, more forcefully. He watched as the younger man pushed open the door and clambered out on to the pavement.

  'If you want to find out more then be here tomorrow night at eight,' said Best. 'If you're not here then I'll know you're all talk.'

  He reached across, slammed the passenger door shut and drove off.

  Leary squinted in the gloom and picked out the registration number of the car.

  'Oh, I'll see you again,' he whispered as he watched the car disappear around a corner. 'Count on that.'

  SEEING IS BELIEVING

  Ward wondered, briefly, if he might still be drunk Perhaps in some alcohol-induced haze he had imagined watching the finished pages fall from the printer. Maybe he had dreamt the entire bizarre episode.

  Failing that, there had to be an electrical fault of some description with the machine. But, if that were the case, why were the pages pouring from the printer filled with words? Lucid, perfectly formed prose the like of which he would have typed himself.

  What the hell was happening?

  He stood frozen until the printer had finished, then advanced slowly towards the desk, scanning the pages that had been vomited forth with such frenzy.

  Ward sat down and picked them up carefully, scanning each one.

  No spelling errors. Everything in context. These, surely, were not the fumblings of some alcohol-fuelled episode.

  So, what were they? Where had they come from?

  He had no answers to his perplexing questions.

  Ward numbered the pages and added them to the rest of the manuscript. He was breathing heavily as he did so, squinting myopically at the numbers. On more

  than one occasion, his vision blurred and he was forced to stop. The beginning of a headache was gnawing at the base of his skull.

  He looked at the blank screen almost fearfully. Very slowly, he rested his fingers on the keyboard. And began to type.

  LONDON:

  Doyle watched the knife as it whipped back and forth with dizzying speed.The cuts were uniform.