Drink With the Devil Read Free

legend
Our Country Too
. The girl put the umbrella down, opened the door, and led the way in.
     
     
    T HE INTERIOR WAS a typical Belfast pub with several booths, a few tables and chairs, and a long mahogany bar. Bottles of every kind of drink were ranged on shelves against a mirrored wall. There were only half a dozen customers, all old men, four of them playing cards by an open fire, two others talking softly to each other. A hard-looking young man with one arm sat behind the bar reading the
Belfast Telegraph
.
    He glanced up and put the paper down. “Are you okay, Kathleen? Michael told me what happened.”
    “I’m fine, Ivor. Thanks to Mr. Keogh here. Is Uncle Michael in the back?”
    At that moment a door opened and a man walked through. Keogh knew him at once from the photos Barry had supplied at his briefing in Dublin. Michael Ryan, aged fifty-five, a Loyalist of the first order who had served in the UVF and Red Hand of Ulster, the most extreme Protestant group of all, a man who had killed for his beliefs many times. He was of medium height, hair graying slightly at the temples, eyes very blue, and there was an energy to him.
    “This is Martin Keogh,” the girl said.
    Ryan came round the bar and held out his hand. “You did me a good turn tonight. I shan’t forget.”
    “Lucky I was there.”
    “That’s as may be. I owe you a drink, anyway.”
    “Bushmills whiskey would be fine,” Keogh told him.
    “Over here.” Ryan indicated a booth in the corner.
    The girl took off her raincoat and beret and eased behind the table. Her uncle sat beside her and Keogh was opposite. Ivor brought a bottle of Bushmills and two glasses.
    “Can I get you anything, Kathleen?”
    “No, I’m okay, Ivor.”
    He plainly worshiped her but nodded and walked away. Ryan said, “I’ve checked with a contact at the Royal Victoria. They just received three very damaged young men. One with a bullet in the thigh.”
    “Is that a fact?” Keogh said.
    Kathleen Ryan stared at him. “You didn’t tell me.”
    “No need.”
    “Let’s see what you’re carrying,” Ryan asked. “No need to worry. All friends here.”
    Keogh shrugged, took the Walther from his pocket, and passed it across. Ryan examined it expertly. “Carswell silencer, the new job. Very nice.” He took a Browning from his pocket and passed it over. “Still my personal favorite.”
    “Preferred weapon of the SAS,” Keogh said, lifting the Browning in one hand. “And the Parachute Regiment.”
    “He served with One Para,” the girl said. “Bloody Sunday.”
    “Is that a fact?” Michael Ryan said.
    “A long time ago. Lately I’ve been at sea.”
    “Belfast, but raised in London, Kathleen tells me?”
    “My mother died in childbirth. My father went to London in search of work. He’s dead now.”
    Ryan had ejected the magazine from the butt of the Walther. “And a good Prod. You must be because of what you did for Kathleen.”
    “To be honest with you religion doesn’t mean a thing to me,” Keogh told him. “But let’s say I know which side I’m on.”
    At that moment, the door was flung open and a man in a cloth cap and raincoat rushed in, a revolver in one hand.
    “Michael Ryan, you bastard, I’ve got you now,” he cried and raised the revolver.
    Ryan was caught, the magazine from the Walther on the table beside it. Keogh said, “What do I do, shoot him? All right. Bang, you’re dead.” He picked up the Browning and fired once. The man dropped the hand holding the revolver to one side. Keogh said, “Blanks, Mr. Ryan, I could tell by the weight. What kind of a game are we playing here?”
    Ryan was laughing now. “Go on, Joseph, and get yourself a drink at the bar.”
    The supposed gunman turned away. The old men by the fire continued their card game as if nothing had happened.
    Michael Ryan stood up. “Just a test, my old son, in a manner of speaking. Let’s adjourn to the parlour and talk some more.”
     
     
    T HERE WAS A fire in the