‘Leopards and spots comes to mind,’ said Kinsella.
‘Nah, they’re changing,’ said Lynn. ‘There’s more Catholics joining and they’re accountable now.’
‘Are you going to introduce me?’ asked Elizabeth. She smiled at Lynn. ‘You’ll have to forgive my husband,he doesn’t have much in the way of social graces.’
Lynn held out his hand. ‘Gerry Lynn. Pleased to meet you.’
They shook hands. ‘You’re wearing a bulletproof vest?’ asked Elizabeth.
‘It’s nothing,’ said Kinsella, hastily.
‘A bulletproof vest isn’t nothing,’ said his wife. ‘What’s going on, Noel?’
‘Nothing. It’s fine.’
‘You keep saying it’s nothing but he’s wearing a bulletproof vest and he says you should wear one, too.’
‘I was joking, love,’ said Lynn.
‘Please don’t “love” me, Mr Lynn,’ said Elizabeth, frostily. She turned to her husband. ‘We need to talk, honey.’
‘We will, baby,’ said Kinsella. ‘Let me have a chat with Gerry first.’
Elizabeth glared at him. He tried to kiss her but she moved away. ‘I’m serious, Noel,’ she said.
‘So am I, baby. You visit the antiques shop while Gerry and I have coffee and a chat.’
‘Noel . . .’
Kinsella kissed her on the cheek. ‘Baby, come on now, I have to talk to Gerry.’ Elizabeth looked as if she wanted to argue, but then she walked away from him. ‘Elizabeth!’Kinsella caught up with her and they went to the side of the castle where there was an entrance to the antiques shop and a tea-room.
‘Ten minutes,’ said Elizabeth.
‘Sure,’ said Kinsella.
Elizabeth picked up a framed watercolour of the castle as Kinsella and Lynn went through to the tea-room, their minders following.
Kinsella’s eyes were on the men who had arrived with Lynn. One was in his late forties, short and stocky with unkempt red hair, the other tall and lanky, in his late twenties. They were dressed casually in leather jackets, jeans and training shoes. ‘They’re not cops, are they?’
Lynn chuckled. ‘No.’
‘What’s with the vest, Gerry? Do you seriously think someone’s going to shoot you in broad daylight? Those days are gone.’
‘You think?’said Lynn. ‘You know yourself it doesn’t matter whether it’s day or night. Someone’s shooting and everyone gets their head down. We did as many shootings in the day as we did at night.’
‘Speak for yourself, Gerry. I was involved in just the one.’
‘Aye – and then you ran off to America with your tail between your legs.’ He put up his hands as anger flashed across Kinsella’s face. ‘I meant nothing by that, Noel.’
‘When they pulled in McEvoy I knew it was only a matter of time before they’d be knocking on my door,’ said Kinsella.
‘You were a Volunteer, Noel. You should have stood your ground. We were fighting a war and in a war there are casualties.’
‘There was no way I was going to spend the rest of my life in jail,’ said Kinsella.
‘Well, now, luckily it never came to that,’ said Lynn. ‘And look at you, guilty of murder but not a day behind bars. Who says fortune favours the brave?’ Kinsella’s face darkened and Lynn patted him on the back. ‘I’m only messing, Noel.’
They sat at a quiet table. Lynn despatched one of his bodyguards to get two coffees. ‘What did they tell you?’
‘Who?’
‘The cops. What did they tell you about Adrian and Joe?’
Kinsella’s minder was out of earshot at a table where he could keep an eye on the entrance. ‘Same as they told you, I suppose, that they were dead and that until they find out who’s responsible I should be protected.’
‘Did they tell you how they were killed?’
‘Shot.’
Lynn grinned triumphantly. ‘The lying bastards.’
‘They weren’t shot?’
‘They were shot, all right, but it’s the way they were shot that matters. They didn’t tell me, they haven’t told the media, and they’re treating you like a mushroom, too.’ He leant close to Kinsella. ‘They were shot in the knees, and in the back of the head. Does the significance of that hit home, now?’
‘Carter,’ said Kinsella.
‘Carter,’ repeated Lynn.
‘Why didn’t they tell me?’
‘They’re not saying. Scared of bad publicity, maybe. Or copycat killers. But I’ve got a source in the cops who says they were definitely shot in the head and knees.’
‘Shit,’ said Kinsella.
‘Yeah, shit,’ said Lynn. ‘If I were you, I’d lose your police minders and let the boys take care of you.’
‘Are you serious?’
‘You can’t trust the cops,’ said Lynn. ‘For all we know, it could be cops doing it.’
Kinsella shook his head. ‘Can’t do that, Gerry. It wouldn’t look good.’
The bodyguard returned with cappuccinos. He put the cups on the table and rejoined his colleague.
‘I’m going to be offered a role in the Assembly,’ said Kinsella. ‘That’s why I came back. They’ve got big things planned for me, Gerry. Big things.’
‘Because of your wife?’
‘It’s sod all to do with Elizabeth. It’s me they want. The Assembly’s the future, Gerry. It’s the way to a united Ireland.’
‘And that means turning your back on your old friends, does it?’
‘It means aligning myself with Sinn Fein rather than the IRA,’ said Kinsella.
‘Be careful who you turn your back on, Noel,’ said Lynn.
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ asked Kinsella.
Lynn stood up and clapped him on the shoulder. ‘Just be careful, that’s all.’ He walked out of the coffee shop, flanked by his bodyguards.
Hassan Salih settled back in the buttery leather seat of the white Rolls-Royce and looked out over the waters of the Persian Gulf.
‘There are drinks in the cabinet in front of you, sir,’ said the driver.
‘I’m fine,’ said Salih. ‘Where are you from?’
‘Bangladesh, sir,’ said the driver. ‘You are here on business or holiday?’
‘Business,’ said Salih. He stared at the back of the driver’s head. Like most of the countries in the Middle East, at least those with oil, the locals brought in overseas workers to do the jobs they felt were beneath them.
‘You have stayed at the Burj Al Arab before, sir?’
‘I’m not staying, just visiting,’ said Salih, ‘but it will be my first visit. And this is my first time in a Rolls-Royce.’
‘All the hotel’s cars are Roll-Royces,’ said the driver, ‘and every suite has its own butler.’
‘Amazing,’ said Salih.
‘The Burj Al Arab is the only seven-star hotel in the world.’
‘I heard that,’ said Salih.
‘And it is the most beautiful,’ said the driver. ‘It was designed to represent the shape of a dhow.’
The hotel was ahead of them, a thousand-feet-high steel and glass structure on an island some three hundred metres offshore. It gleamed in the harsh sunlight, and to Salih it looked more like a curved blade than a ship. The Rolls turned to the right and headed over a causeway. Uniformed flunkeys were already waiting as it glided to a halt. Salih climbed out, and explained that he had no luggage and would be attending a meeting in one of the suites. A bellboy escorted him to the reception desk and handed him over to a blonde woman with Slavic cheekbones who took him up in the lift to the fifteenth floor, where she passed him on to a Bangladeshi butler. The man knocked discreetly and stood aside to let him in.
An Arab man in his early forties was sitting on a sprawling sofa. He was wearing an expensive dark blue suit and black patent-leather shoes that glinted in the sunlight streaming through the floor-to-ceiling windows that overlooked the sea. The man did not get to his feet, merely indicated the second sofa. ‘Please sit,’ he said, in accented English. ‘Do you want anything to drink?’ He stroked his greying moustache as he studied Salih.
‘I’m fine,’ said Salih. His own English was perfect. He had spent two years as a postgraduate student in California and was a frequent visitor to the United Kingdom. He had worked hard to lose his accent. The man dismissed the butler as Salih sat down. ‘You have my money?’ asked Salih.