THE LONG GOODBYE.

Markov was feeling pleased with himself. It was clear that Killian - Bernie had found out his name from Michael Forsythe - was not going to call the police over the incident at the farmhouse. It wouldn't be in anyone's interest to get Mr Coulter mixed up in that, so clearly they were going to let the cops believe it was a robbery gone wrong or some such thing.

In a way he should be thankful to Killian for that.

He also should be thankful for the fact that his plays were so obvious.

Bush league stuff from twenty years ago.

His scheme had failed almost from the outset.

Markov had checked out of his hotel and gone to his car at six-thirty in the morning. He'd known as soon as he turned the key in the ignition that it had been sabotaged. He'd checked the exhaust pipe for obstructions and after an engine inspection he'd found the cut spark plugs in about twenty seconds.

What was more the skinny red-haired kid who was hanging around the parking lot and looking at him was transparently something to do with it.

He'd walked over to the kid and pointed the .45 ACP at his forehead and without even asking a question the whole thing had spilled.

Markov had tried not to yawn during the kid's story: Private detective/stolen car/wait for you/spy on you/call him when you left.

The kid would have turned even without a financial incentive but Markov gave him two hundred pounds sterling anyway.

"Come with me," he said to the kid.

The rest was a picnic.

This country was easy. It was open territory. Not like the US where people were armed, cars alarmed and cops and cameras lurked everywhere.

He felt like a time traveller from the 2000s unleashed in the 1950s.

He found a 2008 Toyota Camry in the lot that he liked the look of. He cut gla.s.s from the window, opened the door, climbed inside, ripped the plastic cover from underneath the steering column, hot-wired it and went back to the kid.

"How long to drive to Dervish Island?" he asked.

"An hour and a half," the kid guessed.

"Okay, this is what you will do. Wait until nine o'clock and then make phone call as originally planned. Tell Killian I have just left."

"Okay."

"What time?"

"Nine o'clock."

"Perfect. If you f.u.c.k up, or try to cross me, I will search four corners of Earth until I find you. Your death will be long. It will be famous."

It was now seven in the morning, plenty of time to get to the island and take Killian by surprise. Plenty of time. And the money and the prospect of a .45 slug in the temple would keep the little s.h.i.t honest.

Poor old Killian.

But that's the price you paid for being old and slow and stupid.

Markov drove the Camry to a gas station, bought a map, a sandwich and a c.o.ke Zero.

It was a full service station and while the man pumped the gas for him, he bounced his rubber stress ball up and down into his left hand. It was cold and a little drizzly but he was wearing a leather jacket and his jeans and a thick T-shirt. He was okay.

He was feeling good.

He tipped the guy pumping gas five pounds and drove south out of Enniskillen into a boggy sort of woodland.

The rain came on and Markov flipped the window wipers and later he had to hit the fog lights as a mist rolled in from the sh.o.r.es of Lough Erne.

He found it quite pleasant.

He wound the window down, turned off the radio and his phone and breathed the air.

He liked it here. Las Vegas dried you out, wearied you, and after the initial excitement neither he nor Marina nor any of the locals ever went anywhere near the Strip.

This might be a good place to retire to.

Marina's father was a Volga German who had recently migrated to Berlin. They could probably get German citizenship through him and with German citizenship they could live anywhere in the European Union.

Maybe.

He'd see.

He drove on.

He had to consult the map a few times but he didn't get lost and he found first Upper Lough Erne and then Dervish Island easily.

When he pulled into the ferry parking lot he saw that the car Killian had stolen was still there.

An old Mercedes the kid had said.

Da.

He parked the Camry next to it.

There were no others cars. No people.

There was a small flat-bottomed boat which was obviously a ferry, but no attendant. If it had been Russia, he would have said that that ferryman was lying drunk somewhere and in America it would have been one of those holidays they were so fond of.

Markov pulled apart the starter wires and the Toyota's engine died.

He got out of the car and stretched.

He sucked the cool, moist, oxygenated air.

It felt good.

He walked over to the ferry.

There was a sign on a steering wheel that said "Back in 15 Minutes". Markov nodded. He'd already been here at least ten minutes.

But what did it matter?

Killian and the girls weren't going anywhere. Not unless they all decided to swim for it.

He walked back to the Toyota, got inside, turned the phone back on, calculated the time in Vegas and called Bernie.

"Hi," Markov said.

"I've been trying to reach you, man," Bernie said, sounding annoyed.

"I turned the phone off."

"No, really, dude, you can't do that, this is serious."

Markov immediately thought of the bodies in the farmhouse.

"Is it the police?" he asked in Russian.

"Do you have a landline where we can talk?" Bernie said, continuing the conversation in Russian.

"No. Just tell me what it is."

"They got translators in Ireland. Let me email you."

"I don't have a terminal."

"What about your iPhone?"

"Didn't bring it. You told me it wouldn't work. You told me to buy a phone at the airport."

"f.u.c.k.

"What is it? Is it about Marina? Is she okay?"

"She's fine. It's about the job. Jesus Christ. You need a partner or an a.s.sistant or something, you know? You do the job, they do all the f.u.c.king admin," Bernie said, still in Russian.

"Will you tell me what's going on?" Markov said.

Bernie gathered his thoughts. "Okay, where are you?"

"At the island. She's on an island in a lake. I'm at the ferry terminal. I'm here."

"How big is this island?"

"Small."

"And she's definitely there?"

"She is. That's the good news. The bad news is that so is our friend."

"He beat you?"

"Yes. It doesn't matter. There's only one way off the island and I'm standing at it."

"Okay, okay, brother, take it easy, relax."

"You're the one who needs to take it easy."

"Look, everything's changed. Let me get confirmation and call you right back, okay? Keep your f.u.c.king phone turned on."

"What's going on?"

"I'll call you in two minutes."

Bernie hung up.

Markov lit himself a cigarette.

A red Mazda pulled into the parking lot. The ferryman got out and walked over to the flat-bottomed boat and sat under an awning on the deck. He was a red-headed guy of about fifty. He had his raincoat on and a tweed cap pulled low over his head. He must have noticed Markov standing next to the Toyota but he didn't pay him any attention or say h.e.l.lo. He didn't seem interested in soliciting custom, which meant that he was obviously some kind of civil servant.

Markov's phone rang again.

"Are you there?"

"I'm here," Markov said.

"Okay, now listen to me. The job has changed. We're getting a lot more money, okay?" Bernie continued in Russian, just on the off chance that it might indeed help obscure things if the police ever did get a recording of this.

"Okay."

"This is what I want you to do. I want you to care of the wife. I want her to go on a trip? Okay? You understand me?"

"I understand you."

"You think you can do that?"

"Yes, I think so, I will have to take care of our friend too."

"Okay, then do that."

"Okay."

"Now listen, old friend. The kids are not to join those two on the trip. They are going to stay at home, do you understand?"