"Let me tell you something, ya stupid wee s.h.i.te," Killian said.

"What?"

"I've never been to Uruguay in my life."

CHAPTER 3.

RICHARD COULTER.

A key. A room. Like all the others. Thousands of hotel rooms over the years. This one was New Orleans themed. Antebellum paintings in pastel shades, fake Victorian lamps, uncomfortable high-backed chairs, fluted light fixtures, four-poster bed. He sat up and walked to the bathroom. He stared at his own face. His tight, narrow mouth. His slate-grey eyes. His iron-heavy black eyebrows. His slab of black hair.

His body was long.

His face was long And he looked tired. But despite what Sean said he didn't look old. Not yet. Forty in dog and tinker years was old but not out there among the civilians.

And so what if he seemed a bit lived in anyway? He wouldn't have minded looking like a mature student, or better yet, a happy middle-aged married professor. Something normal like that.

He turned on the TV news; it was dominated by diabolical herds of local children disguised as leprechauns saying things like "top of the morning to ya," and "where's me gold?" The weather lady's eyes were wide with merriment. "Those are some great kids!" she said.

The hotel room phone rang. Killian found the merciful release of the mute b.u.t.ton.

"h.e.l.lo?"

"Nice work," Michael said. Live music in the background, laughter.

"Thanks."

"So is this you officially unretired?" Michael asked.

"Why?" Killian asked suspiciously.

"No reason," Michael said. "A potential rival on the block, maybe."

"Ha! Me tangle with you, no thanks mate. I'm on the Continental cheapie back to Belfast tomorrow."

"Well, you're impressive, pal. We're different schools of thought you and me."

"How so?"

"I'm the local bada.s.s and you're all softly softly catchee monkey."

"If you say so."

"I do say so, pity we couldn't have hooked, I gotta go back to the dinner, enjoy your stay in Boston. And thanks."

The phone went dead and Killian looked at it for a long time before it started making that annoying beeping noise that American phones made.

He hung up and went to the bathroom, which was in a different part of the suite and was all brushed t.i.tanium and Star Trek: The Next Generation flat cabinets.

He had a p.i.s.s and out of habit took the Fairmont's toothbrush, sewing kit, moisturizer and a hand towel they wouldn't notice and packed them in his messenger bag. Satisfied with this he sat back down in front of the big TV. Through the window he saw that the New York rain had migrated north.

He turned on the telly. He flipped news and movies. Men with guns.

He thought about the day.

It was good to get something like this under your belt. The legit world had shaken his confidence. All his decisions in the last year had been suspect.

He s.p.a.ced. It was full night outside now.

Night in America. A night that was the absence of love. A night of malls, car parks, chain restaurants, houses. A clumsy washing-line of things strung between aeons of darkness.

He got room-service pizza.

The tomato sauce had been dyed green.

Sometime after midnight he went to the ground-floor exterior courtyard. The piano bar was finished. The night bar closed. Cardboard debris everywhere reminded him of the date. He took a fold-up chair and sat by a fountain with his smokes. It was cold and everything was pretending to be something else. The stars were camp fires. The clouds a naked girl. He wasn't ready to buy into it. For a city so huge it was remarkably quiet. He closed his eyes. Listened to the nothing. Crickets. A faint trickling of water. He wished it were a stream. To take him away. Away from this place, from these people, away from all of it. It didn't matter where. Anywhere. He wanted to lie back and let the current float him out.

He drifted and woke chilled.

Back in the hotel room the light on the phone was blinking.

It was 4.00 a.m. Nine in Belfast.

He played the message: "Killian, something's come up. Call me."

He called Sean. "Well?"

"Richard Coulter."

"What about him?"

"Not a surrogate. Not Tom. Mr C himself. Asked for you by name, wants you to look for his daughters."

"What's the story?"

"Weans were with his ex-wife. She was keeping her end of the visitation agreements until one day she didn't. His lawyers tried to get in contact with her and lo and behold it turns out she's just f.u.c.king vanished."

"UFOs I suppose. It's common enough these days."

"What's the matter with you? Have you been drinking?"

"The bars are closed. On Saint Patrick's Day in Boston."

"Look, mate, this is a thing."

"What kind of a thing?"

"A missing persons case."

"Why are you telling me, Sean? You know I'm semi semi. And d.i.c.k Coulter? f.u.c.k him. I've flown Coulter Air, the b.a.s.t.a.r.ds charged me two quid to use the f.u.c.king toilet."

"That's an urban myth."

"Not on my flight it wasn't. They're worse than Ryanair! Charged you for water, the bog, they'll be charging you for b.l.o.o.d.y oxygen next."

"Nice routine but listen, mate, this is a score."

"Okay. I'll bite."

"Fifty thousand for taking the case and the first month's retainer. Four hundred and fifty thousand more if you find her."

"Half a million quid?"

"Half a million quid."

Killian had to sit down. With a half million quid he could clear the debts, sell the apartments, buy a small three-bedroom in Carrick and do the course at Jordy full time.

"Why me, Sean?"

"He's heard things."

"Come on.

"Okay, okay, so your pal told him about you."

"Michael Forsythe?"

"Who else?"

"When?"

"About four hours ago. Michael was evidently impressed by your work."

"So Michael calls Coulter, Coulter calls Tom, Tom calls you, you call me?"

"No. Mr C called me personally."

"It's basically a wandering-daughter job?"

"Coulter's married again. His wife's pregnant. He wants his kids back before the new one comes along. One big f.u.c.king happy family."

"How many kids?"

"Two. Look, we're the good guys. The missus is off the deep end. f.u.c.ked up. The kids are in genuine danger. It's all true. She's had drug problems. Didn't you read about her last year in the Sunday World?"

"I don't read the Sunday World."

"You should keep in touch with current events. You know they have a black President now?"

"Why so much money?"

"He's got money to burn." "Still."

"Ease up on the paranoia. They still want to do this on the hush hush before they have to bring in the peelers."

"Peelers sounds like a good idea."

"It's complicated. Coulter doesn't want the publicity. Not when he's looking shaky."

"Shaky? I thought he was making money hand over fist. I thought he was going to be the first f.u.c.king Irishman in s.p.a.ce."

"The airline business is in the bog. Coulter Air lost a hundred and fifty million euros last quarter. And after that Iceland volcano they were already in the s.h.i.tter. They've cut half their routes out of Luton. That's why he's in Macau. Diversifying."

"Macau?"

"Macau, it's a former Portuguese colony in China, next to Hong-"

"I know where it is, Sean. What's he doing there?'

"Opening a casino."

"Aye, sounds like he's really on the skids. That and the half million for finding his wife."

"That's not his money, incidentally, that's coming from the kidnap insurance."

"Oh right, the kidnap insurance, very small time."

"Look, they want a decision immediately. Will I tell him you'll meet him or not?"

"When did this doll go missing?"

"Five weeks ago."

"This thing reeks, Sean. Five weeks and now they wanna start looking? ' I They're considering contacting the peelers?"

"Okay, okay, so we weren't the first guys they went to. They tried the rest and now they want the best. Believe me this time we're the good guys. Come on, whaddya think? Does it sound like something?"

"It sounds like something," Killian admitted.

"What will I tell him? He wants to meet you ASAP."