'Yes, sir, everything all right?'

Frank recognised the voice. 'Liz?'

'Yes, sir.'

'Can you do a plate check for me? Need it urgently.'

'Certainly, sir, pencil's ready.'

Frank read out the number plate.

'Be with you in less than a minute, sir,' said Liz.

There was more hissing then Liz spoke again.

'Car's registered to an address in Portaferry, Sir, do you want the details?'

'No. Thank you, Liz, that's all I need to know,' replied Frank.

'Anything else, sir?'

'If you see Sheena will you tell her to stop worrying, I'll have it back to her in the morning . . . She'll know what I mean.'

'Understood. Goodnight, sir.'

'I bloody hope so, Liz . . . Goodnight.'

The guy in the VW was on his way home. It was just a coincidence. Frank felt a sense of relief: the last thing he wanted to do was get involved in a gunfight.

He was only minutes from home and the notion of one glass of red had turned into a bottle of red and a small Cohiba.

Just to be sure Frank drove past his turn-off and took the next right into Watermeade Avenue. A few seconds later the Volkswagen sped past and disappeared into the distance. Frank reversed back onto the main road. Just moments later he squeezed his car through the tall hedge that surrounded his property and rolled gently to a stop in his driveway.

He lived on his own in a rented pebble-dashed bungalow, on a quiet street near Greyabbey, at the bottom end of Strangford Lough. It was considered too dangerous for his wife and two kids to move over so they had stayed in their main home back in Highgate, north London. At least once a month he got to fly home for the weekend, but it wasn't ideal. At times like this he really missed having his family around. Most of the time he was too busy to think about them, but when he did, the sense of longing for some sort of normality would eat away at him.

Frank got out of the car and stood for a moment enjoying the fresh spring air. He hadn't eaten all day and his stomach was making noises.

He entered the kitchen through the back door and made straight for the fridge. After grating some cheese onto a slice of bread and sliding it under the grill he headed into the lounge to light the fire and choose a bottle of red from the small rack below the bookshelf. There wasn't a big selection, but all the wines were decent: he would rather spend his money on six good bottles than twelve mediocre ones. Frank walked back into the kitchen and pulled the piece of toast from under the grill and froze.

Suddenly the hunger was gone.

A corner of the piece of bread was missing. It looked like someone had taken a bite and put it back under the grill. Frank sensed a presence behind him.

'You're some cook, big fella.'

Even though it had been over eight years since Frank heard it last, there was no mistaking Sean McGuire's laid-back tone.

Frank slipped his hand inside his jacket and realised with alarm that his gun was still sitting on the passenger's seat of his car.

'You wouldn't have time to pull the trigger anyway, Frank, so I wouldn't worry too much,' said Sean.

Frank turned and saw Sean McGuire standing in the kitchen doorway pointing a semi-automatic at him. 'You look very well for someone who's been dead for eight years, Sean,' he said, managing to sound nonchalant.

'Thank you,' replied Sean. 'You still look like a prick after eight years, Frank.'

'Thank you.'

'You don't seem that surprised to see me,' said Sean.

'I heard a rumour about your miraculous recovery. I suppose somehow I've been expecting you, although admittedly not as a house guest.'

'Who'd you hear from?' asked Sean.

Frank hesitated before replying, well aware that the question was loaded. 'An old friend of yours.' He raised the unopened bottle of wine he was holding before continuing. 'Do you mind if I pop this, I've been gasping for a drink all day?'

'Crack on there! I'm not here to ruin your dinner. I've a few questions to ask and then I'll be on my way,' said Sean.

Frank took two glasses down from the shelf above the sink and a bottle opener from the drawer and moved over to the small kitchen table in the corner of the room. 'D'you want a glass?'

'Too much ground to cover. Got to keep my wits about me, so no thanks,' replied Sean.

Frank poured himself a large glass of Burgundy and took a sip. 'There are security cameras inside and out, and panic buttons in every room: in less than two minutes I could have this place surrounded, you know that?'

'Good for you, Frank. But you're forgetting as far as the law is concerned, I'm dead: got a certificate to prove it. You'd have a job getting me into court. Anyway, that's beside the point: I've no intention of harming you. I'm not here for revenge, Frank. I'm in Ireland to get my life back, not fuck it up all over again. The gun is a defensive measure, not an offensive one. I'll only use it if you try anything stupid.'

'How's your brother taking your resurrection?' asked Frank, taking a cigarette from a packet that had been left on the kitchen table from the previous evening. He took a second to light up before continuing. 'We haven't seen him around for a while. Did he come back with you, or is he still in the States?'

'You tell me, Frank . . . you fuckers seem to know it all anyway,' replied Sean.

'It looks like he murdered four SAS men before he left, did he tell you that? If he shows his face around here he's going to the H blocks for a very long time . . . if he makes it that far: you know what the SAS are like when it comes to getting their own back. They don't go in for that "revenge is a dish best served cold" shite.'

'Aye, well, you'll have to talk to him about that it's none of my business.'

Frank returned to the kitchen table and pulled one of the wooden chairs from underneath it before sitting down. His job now was mostly administrative: office-based. He was seldom if ever out in the field. It had been a long time since he'd had a gun pointed at him. He'd forgotten how unpleasant an experience it was: one he'd never quite got used to. The only comfort was that Sean McGuire was not a hothead. Frank had no doubt in his mind that Sean would shoot him if he had to, but he believed him when he said it wasn't the reason he was there.

'What's his name Frank?' asked Sean.

'Whose?'

Sean didn't reply. He stood in the doorway in silence, waiting for Frank to answer the question.

'It's irrelevant now, anyway,' said Frank eventually. 'The British government, for reasons best known to themselves, decided to "release" the details of all the informers working for us into your organisation's hands. Whoever has the list has the answers. Why don't you go and ask them?'

'I've narrowed it down to one of six people that could be the Thevshi,' said Sean. 'There were only six people in our "organisation" seven if you include myself with access to the information about the plot to bomb the Prime Minister. It has to be one of them. That day you asked me about it in Castlereagh, there was no way you could have known unless one of the six had told you. That's the only mistake I think the Thevshi made. He came to you too early; before anyone else in the IRA had any idea what we were planning. I just need a name, then I'll be on my way.'

'As far as I'm concerned,' said Frank, 'the name is in the public domain now anyway. It's not worth me getting shot for. The problem is I can't pass on that information in person: goes against my training. Why don't you say the names out loud and I'll nod when you get to the winner.' Frank took another drink of wine. 'That way I won't have broken the Official Secrets Act, and I can go to bed with a clear conscience.'

It crossed Sean's mind that Frank Thompson might be stalling for time, but he decided to play along.

'Either one of the two Rogers brothers?' asked Sean.

Frank didn't move.

'Eamon Ruairc?'

'Shot dead outside his house a few weeks ago . . . keep going.'

'Tim O'Neil?'

There was still no response from Frank Thompson, but Sean wasn't surprised: he'd been fairly certain it wasn't any of them.

That left just two names.

Over the years of Sean's self-imposed exile he had picked over various scenarios and incidents in his mind that all six of the men had been involved in. He'd run through each one time and again: examining every small detail, or coincidence, reaction or turn of phrase that had struck him at the time as odd or out of place. He was looking for a link or common denominator that would identify the informer that had become known as the Thevshi: 'The Ghost'.

He always came to the same conclusion: there were only six possibilities, and of that six there were only two that Sean had suspected all along.

'Owen O'Brien?'

The hint of a smile flashed across Frank's face. 'O'Brien is a murdering psychopath with a brain the size of a walnut, his mind doesn't retain information long enough to be able to pass it on to a third party. He would be useless as an informer. If you called him stupid you'd be gracing him with an intelligence he doesn't possess.'

There was only one other person it could be, but it didn't make sense.

'E. I. O'Leary?'

'You've had eight years to mull it over, Sean, and you've missed out number eight: the most obvious . . .' Frank took his time refilling his glass. 'All that time! I'm surprised you haven't worked it out. That day you went walkabout in Castlereagh, the Thevshi was in the room next to you. He was convinced you'd seen him. Wanted us to kill you there and then . . . just shows you, eh? He couldn't believe his luck when you got yourself blown up, none of us could. We should have known you'd faked the whole thing. We even had the SAS telling us they had nothing to do with it, but we didn't believe them. Well done, you had us all fooled. Incidentally, the Prime Minister was in the building that day as well. If you'd had your wits about you, you could have had a crack at her too.'

The telephone sitting on the counter top next to the sink started to ring. Frank looked over at Sean. 'That's my office calling to check I'm all right. They'll be wondering why I haven't rung in yet,' he said. Then, by way of an explanation, 'It's to cover eventualities such as this. What should I tell them? If I don't answer they'll send a couple of officers round to check I'm all right.'

'Tell them there's a dead man in your kitchen eating your dinner, but he's just about to leave.'

Sean watched as Frank made his way over to the phone.

'Hello Sheena . . . yes, sorry about that! There's a ghost in my kitchen, but he assures me he's just about to leave . . . bugger took a bite out of my cheese and toast . . . I'm fine. No, really I am fine. Sorry I didn't check in, something came up. Yes, see you in the morning . . . wait! Before you go you don't happen to have Lep McFarlane's file handy, do you? Would you mind, I just want to check the approximate time of death and which side of his head they put the bullet in. No, take your time, I'll hold.' Frank watched the expression on Sean's face change as the implication of what he was saying slowly sank in.

Frank covered the mouthpiece on the phone with his left hand. 'If you want your life back, Sean . . . gather up your family and get the fuck out of Northern Ireland. The Thevshi is dead . . . someone beat you to it.' Frank turned and glanced out of the kitchen window into the darkness and waited for Sheena to come back on the line. 'Thank you Sheena, that's great. Don't worry, I'll bring the report back in the morning. Goodnight.'

When he turned round again, Sean McGuire was gone.

Frank stood for several minutes without moving, giving Sean enough time to make his getaway, then picked up the phone and punched in a number. The phone rang for several minutes before it was answered.

'He's back,' he said quietly into the mouthpiece. There was no response from the other end of the line.

'I've put him off your trail for the time being, but it won't take him long to figure out what's going on,' continued Frank in a sombre tone. 'This is a courtesy call for old times' sake, but from now on you're on your own: that's official. You'll have no further contact with us or from us, do you understand? Any monies that are owed will be sent to the usual address. I hope you live long enough to enjoy it.'

Frank replaced the handset and stood in silence for several minutes staring at the wall.

The following morning Frank Thompson cast a bleary eye over the uniform he was wearing. The Secretary of State for Northern Ireland was visiting the province later that day and Frank was due to brief him on amongst other things the rising number of deaths related to the names on the 'tout rout list'. It wasn't only the informers that were being systematically hunted down and murdered. Frank had finally been given access to the names of those suspected of carrying out the break-in at his offices in Castlereagh when the list was stolen. He was under strict instructions not to make any arrests: which, as circumstance would have it, was purely academic now. In the last week all the men involved in the burglary had been murdered, including the security guard.

There was a clear-up operation going on and Frank was certain he knew who was behind it. The Thevshi was protecting himself: destroying anything or anyone that might compromise his identity.

As he headed for the kitchen door Frank glanced over at the debris from the night before sitting on the table. Two empty bottles of wine and a whisky glass with an inch of Laguvulin still in it reminded Frank of why he was feeling so rough.

Outside the day was clear and bright, and the sun was starting to make an impression on the early-morning mist. He thought of his wife back in London getting the kids ready for school and reminded himself to phone her to apologise for being drunk when he'd called at one in the morning to tell her he loved her. That in itself wasn't worth the apology: he meant every word of what he'd said it was the fact that he kept repeating it. A drunk's rationale: the more you repeated it, the more it was true.

'Bugger me, it's not raining!' exclaimed Frank to himself as he pushed his car key into the passenger-side door. Sheena's brown folder lay unread on the seat with his Beretta in full view sitting on top.

'Sloppy, Thompson . . . sloppy!' he muttered.

Suddenly, a shock of adrenalin swamped his system.

It was too late to turn and run: too late to do anything. Without thinking he'd twisted the key in the lock. The circuit was complete.

With his arms hanging limply by his side Frank raised his eyes to the heavens and thought of his wife and children.

'Fuck you Thevshi,' he said.

Despite weighing nearly one and a half tonnes the black Saab lifted six or seven feet off the ground and lurched forward towards the cottage like a toy car being thrown at a wall.

A bright orange fireball rose high into the air and for a brief moment obscured the sun.

Chapter 41.

Near the Irish border Friday night

It took Sean nearly three hours to drive from Frank Thompson's house in Greyabbey to the border with the Irish Republic. The traffic was light, but he'd taken a detour to pick a few things up on the way: cash and ammunition from Danny's post-office box, and a passenger arriving off the ferry at Larne.

Just as he was approaching a large army checkpoint that blocked both carriageways of the main Dublin Road near Jonesborough, he turned off and started heading along Lower Newton Road. As he drove deeper into the countryside, the roads narrowed until eventually they were barely wider than the car. The Carewamean Road twisted and turned as it cut through the large patchwork of fields and overhanging hedgerows. Sean had to concentrate. It was a long time since he had made his way to the farmhouse in Carrickbroad, and even though he'd nearly always made the journey in the dark, the once familiar landmarks now had eight years of growth on them: nothing was quite as he remembered it. One wrong turn could have him driving around the Armagh countryside for the rest of the night.

Eventually he came to a T-junction he recognised and made a left turn. Sean switched off the car's headlights and drove for another half a mile or so in complete darkness until he came to a small iron gate. Beyond it was a footpath that led through a large ploughed field to the back of E. I. O'Leary's farm buildings. It was just after 10 p.m. and there were several lights on in the imposing main farmhouse. To the left, some fifty metres away from the main house, were several large barns, one of them clad in corrugated metal sheets. Sean knew this was where E. I. O'Leary hid his contraband and had his illegal drinking den. The back end of the barn was just metres away from the official border with the Republic of Ireland and had a network of tunnels burrowed under the large barbed-wire fence that separated the two countries. The tunnels were once used for smuggling, but now mainly as an escape route.

The moment Sean stepped out of the car, the intervening eight years seemed to vanish. It could have been a month, a week, or even an hour since he'd been here last. The farmhouse looked exactly the same; nothing had changed.

Sean felt the chill, damp air seeping through the light cotton jacket he was wearing. Marie had bought it for him in Tuscaloosa to replace the blood-stained leather jacket with the hole left by Vincent Lee Croll's bullet. If everything had gone according to plan, Marie would be sitting down with Kneller and Evelyn signing an affidavit proclaiming her innocence, and that would be the end of it for her.