The English Spy. Daniel Silva
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money from the dealers.”
“What does Liam Walsh do?”
“A little of everything.”
Rain blurred the headlamps of the evening rush hour traffic. It was lighter than Gabriel had expected. He supposed it was the economy. Ireland’s had fallen farther and faster than most. Even the drug dealers were hurting.
“Walsh has republicanism in his veins,” Keller was saying. “His father was IRA, and so were his uncles and brothers. He went with the Real IRA after the great schism, and when the war effectively ended he came down to Dublin to make his fortune in the drug business.”
“What’s his connection to Quinn?”
“Omagh.” Keller pointed to the right and said, “There’s your turn.”
Gabriel guided the car into Kennelsfort Road. It was lined on both sides by terraces of small two-story houses. Not quite the Irish miracle, but not a slum, either.
“Is this Ballyfermot?”
“Palmerstown.”
“Which way?”
With a wave of his hand, Keller instructed Gabriel to continue straight. They skirted an industrial park of low gray warehouses, and suddenly they were on Ballyfermot Road. After a moment they came upon a parade of sad little shops: a discount department store, a discount linen store, a discount optician, a chip shop. Across the street was a Tesco supermarket, and next to the supermarket was a betting parlor. Sheltering in the entrance were four men in black leather coats. Liam Walsh was the smallest of the lot. He was smoking a cigarette; they were all smoking cigarettes. Gabriel turned into the Tesco car park and eased into an empty space. It had a clear view of the betting parlor.
“Maybe you should leave the engine running,” said Keller.
“Why?”
“It might not start again.”
Gabriel killed the engine and doused the headlamps. Rain beat heavily against the windscreen. After a few seconds Liam Walsh vanished in a blurry kaleidoscope of light. Then Gabriel flicked the wipers and Walsh reappeared. A long black Mercedes sedan had pulled up outside the betting parlor. It was the only Mercedes on the street, probably the only one in the neighborhood. Walsh was talking to the driver through the open window.
“He looks like a real pillar of the community,” said Gabriel quietly.
“That’s how he likes to portray himself.”
“So why is he standing outside a betting parlor?”
“He wants the other gangs to know that he’s watching his turf. A rival tried to kill him on that very spot last year. If you look closely, you can see the bullet holes in the wall.”
The Mercedes moved off. Liam Walsh returned to the shelter of the entrance.
“Who are those nice-looking fellows with him?”
“The two on the left are his bodyguards. The other one is his second-in-command.”
“Real IRA?”
“To the core.”
“Armed?”
“Most definitely.”
“So what do we do?”
“We wait for him to make a move.”
“Here?”
Keller shook his head. “If they see us sitting in a parked car, they’ll assume we’re Garda or members of a rival gang. And if they assume that, we’re dead.”
“Then maybe we shouldn’t sit here.”
Keller nodded toward the chip shop on the other side of the road and climbed out. Gabriel followed after him. They stood side by side along the edge of the road, hands thrust into their pockets, heads bowed against the windblown rain, waiting for an opening in the traffic.
“They’re watching us,” said Keller.
“You noticed that, too?”
“Hard not to.”
“Does Walsh know your face?”
“He does now.”
The traffic broke; they crossed the road and headed toward the entrance of the chip shop. “It might be better if you don’t speak,” said Keller. “This isn’t the sort of neighborhood that gets a lot of visitors from exotic lands.”
“I speak perfect English.”
“That’s the problem.”
Keller opened the door and went inside first. It was a narrow room with a cracked linoleum floor and peeling walls. The air was thick with grease, starch, and the faint smell of wet wool. There was a pretty young girl behind the counter and an empty table against the window. Gabriel sat with his back to the road while Keller went over to the counter and ordered in the accent of someone from south Dublin.
“Very impressive,” murmured Gabriel when Keller joined him. “For a minute there I thought you were about to break into ‘When Irish Eyes Are Smiling.’”
“As far as that pretty young lass is concerned, I’m as Irish as she is.”
“Yes,” said Gabriel doubtfully. “And I’m Oscar Wilde.”
“You don’t think I can pass for an Irishman?”
“Maybe one who’s been on a very long vacation in the sun.”
“That’s my story.”
“Where have you been?”
“Majorca,” replied Keller. “The Irish love Majorca, especially Irish mobsters.”
Gabriel glanced around the interior of the café. “I wonder why.”
The girl walked over to the table and deposited a plate of chips and two Styrofoam cups of milky tea. As she was leaving, the door opened and two pale men in their mid-twenties hurried in out of the weather. A woman in a damp coat and downtown shoes entered a moment later. The two men took a table near Keller and Gabriel and began speaking in a dialect that Gabriel found almost impenetrable. The woman sat at the back of the shop. She had only tea to drink and was reading a worn paperback book.
“What’s going on outside?” asked Gabriel.
“Four men standing in front of a betting parlor. One man looking like he’s had enough of the rain.”
“Where does he live?”
“Not far,” answered Keller. “He likes to live among the people.”
Gabriel drank some of the tea and made a face. Keller pushed the plate of chips across the table. “Eat some.”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“I want to live long enough to see my children born.”
“Good idea.” Keller smiled, then added, “Men of your age really should be careful about what they eat.”
“Watch yourself.”
“How old are you, exactly?”
“I can’t remember.”
“Problems with memory loss?”
Gabriel drank some of the tea. Keller nibbled at the chips.
“They’re not as good as the fries in the south of France,” he said.
“Did you get a receipt?”
“Why would I need a receipt?”
“I hear the bookkeepers at MI6 are very picky.”
“Let’s not get carried away about MI6 just yet. I haven’t made any decisions.”