Killian sat in an armchair that smelled. An old blind poodle-cross came over and started sniffing around him.

"Sorry about the place. I might move over to the rental - this place is, this place...isn't so great," the man said, as if becoming aware of it for the first time in a long time.

"So - Rachel Coulter."

"We were talking money."

They did the dance and the man took Killian's fifty without much of a fight.

"She told Reese she was driving to Fermanagh. To Enniskillen. That's not a lie, that's what she told him."

He was a sleekit wee drunk and Killian could tell that was only a part of it. "What else have you got? You've got something?" Killian asked.

"She told Reese she was going to Fermanagh. That's worth fifty. But that isn't all I got."

Killian nodded. "Okay, what else is there?" he asked.

The man went to a back room and came back with a letter that he had steamed open. The envelope was addressed to her and had a return address. Killian could easily have taken it. One light push and this character would have fallen over.

"She was bad news. Reese says she was all over him. She was after me too. I wouldn't f.u.c.k her though, probably all poxed up."

"How much?" Killian demanded.

"Hundred euros in my hand," the man said.

Killian gave him the money. "You got anything else?" Killian asked.

The man shook his head.

Killian went back into the rain and read the letter in the car.

It was short: But like a good citizen, Rachel's father had filled in his return address on the back. It was from his RAOB lodge in Ballymena. That's where she wrote to him, that's how they avoided a peeler or private eye mail tap on their house.

And it had been two days now.

There was a pretty good chance that her father would have already received a postcard with her new address.

"Guess I'm going to the a.r.s.ehole of the universe," Killian said to himself.

He left this scene, went outside, and called Sean.

"News."

"What?"

"Can't say over the phone, but I got a letter that's going to give us the next step."

"You know where she is?" Sean asked.

"I know a man who does and he's not too far from the old home base."

"Good stuff. What about our boy? The tail?"

"He was a punk, I lost him."

"Great work. You still got it, brother. You want Mary to book a hotel somewhere?"

"Nah, I'll go home tonight and hit my lead in the morning."

"Where are you now, Letterkenny? That's a long oul drive to Carrick. You should take it easy mate."

"Thanks, Sean. I'll be fine."

It took Killian four hours to get to Carrickfergus.

It took Markov three and a half.

He was impressed by the town. There was a castle and sail boats and the air was pleasantly moist and cool. Marina would love it. He booked into a place called the Coast Road Hotel and phoned Marina in case it all went wrong.

"h.e.l.lo?" she said.

He smiled. Unlike him she instinctively answered the phone in English. She read English novels, she watched American TV. She had even forgotten some of her Russian. He'd actually met her in English cla.s.s at the North Las Vegas Community College. She'd been two grades above, but now even he was reasonably proficient.

"It's me," he said.

"Oh, darling. Where are you?"

"I'm still in Ireland."

"I have never been to Ireland, is it good?"

"It's okay," Markov said. "It's better than Mexico."

Marina's voice sank to an embarra.s.sed whisper and she said in Russian: "I miss you."

Markov grinned and switched to Russian too. "I miss you more than anything. I will be home soon."

"You got a cheque."

"Oh yeah? Who from?"

"The IRS."

Markov laughed. "That's a first. How much?"

"Fifteen hundred dollars."

"Great."

"When will you be back?" Marina asked.

"I don't know. I'm on a case. It's important. It could be a lot of money."

Marina said nothing. She was worried about him. "Look, I wasn't expecting that fifteen hundred, why don't you go to the mall and get yourself something. Don't get crazy on me, but, you know, get something special."

"I could get something for the nursery," Marina said brightly.

"No, no, no, get something for you, you deserve it," Markov said.

Marina gushed and Markov told her he loved her and she said that she loved him. He hung up feeling good and he went for a walk to a local pub called the Jordanstown Arms and had good food and whisky.

Back to his room.

He surveyed his equipment. He'd been sceptical at the Crime Con in Vegas but the man had been right on. Plastic strip cuffs disguised as luggage locks, pepper spray disguised as deodorant, a gla.s.s cutting tool disguised as a pen. A pen flashlight disguised as nothing. All that gear he'd taken through airline security twenty or thirty times and not once had anyone asked him about it. It was a beautiful thing.

Of course the baseball bat he'd had to buy in Belfast and that had been a ch.o.r.e because they didn't play baseball in Ireland. The Colt .45 ACP had been bought from a gun shark in the easiest fashion imaginable.

He watched TV until it was one in the morning and then loaded the gear in his pockets and tucked the nub of the aluminium baseball bat under his armpit, beneath his raincoat. He b.u.t.toned it up and exited.

Carrickfergus at one in the morning was ghostville. No people. Drizzle. Lights illuminating a power station along the coast to the left and the old castle to the right.

He took the red rubber ball from the pocket of his leather jacket and bounced it off the sidewalk ten times. He put it back in the pocket and walked to Killian's house.

Lights off, no sound. Markov's mouth was dry. He dabbed sweat from his forehead with his sleeve. There was a chance that Killian hadn't taken the Ambien tonight or that he was in there with a prost.i.tute or something. Anything really. A one-man tail ran such risks. You needed a team to be really safe. But of course that meant splitting the greenbacks.

He unb.u.t.toned his jacket, walked down the path and listened outside the door.

Nothing.

He stepped into the garden and cut a circle of gla.s.s from above the window handle. He turned the handle, pushed opened the window and climbed into the living room. He turned on the flashlight and went upstairs.

First bedroom nothing.

Second bedroom, a person in the bed snoring.

He had to go fast now. Markov closed the door behind him and carefully took off his jacket. Some people you could cuff while they were asleep, especially if they were in a drug sleep, but Killian was a dangerous customer. It was better to go in heavy.

He took the lid off the pepper spray and gave him a five-second burst in the face from a foot away.

"Aaaghhh, what the f.u.c.k!" Killian gasped and as he tried to suck air, Markov smashed the baseball bat into his ribs and ankles. He pulled Killian off the bed by the hair, give him another burst of the pepper spray and kicked him hard in the b.a.l.l.s. Killian doubled over in pain and Markov smacked the baseball bat into him again and again.

When Killian came to everything hurt and he had been tied with plastic handcuff strips and dumped naked in the bath.

Markov had gagged him with two of his own ties and was pouring water on him from the shower.

"Wake up," Markov said with a blunt and scary lack of emotion.

The gag made Killian panic.

You didn't gag people that you needed information from. You gagged people you were going to torture or kill.

Killian opened his eyes but his vision was blurred, his head spinning.

"Can you hear me?" Markov said.

Killian fought the panic, grunted.

"I want you to know who I am. Who it is that does this to you."

If he could have talked Killian might have gone for a mistaken ID rap but all he could do was grunt again.

"They call me Starshyna, old man. It means sergeant. I am what you can never be. I kill you, but you are very old man. I take pity on you. I let you live. You hear what I am saying to you? This is business matter, do you understand? I now have letter from Rachel Coulter's father. I reach him first, I reach her first. I not kill you. I let you live. This is how civilised men behave. We beat you at your game. You are old man! You retire now. You are Jay Leno. I am Conan O'Brien. I respect age. I don't break legs, I don't cut off d.i.c.k. I think you understand. I kill you if I want to. Kill you like pig. Yes. You are lucky man. Very lucky man."

Killian felt duct tape cover his eyes and mouth.

The Russian leaned in and Killian could feel his breath on his cheek. He stank of the same aftershave he had smelt in the Ford yesterday morning.

"Not bad for punk, eh?" the Russian said.

Laughter. Footsteps.

Killian heard the door close.

His head span.

He felt sick.

He knew that if he threw up in his mouth he could choke to death.

Everything really hurt. His nerve endings were overloading his brain with messages of pain and destruction.

And his mind was torturing him with questions.

How had he tracked him? What was he going to do next?

That punk line.

It had to be the car.

He'd hacked his phone or his email and gone ahead of him to the car rental place. He'd moved f.u.c.king fast. He'd bugged the Ford and bribed the kid to make him take it.

He hadn't needed to be close.

He'd installed a GPS tracker and a voice-activated transmitter.

Perhaps he'd let Killian see him. Perhaps he'd wanted to be seen. But all along he'd been a step ahead. And he was right. I am too old for this, Killian thought.

He fought the nausea and the heaves.