The English Spy

“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.”

“Sometimes our best decisions are made for us.”

“You sound like the don.” Keller ate another chip. “Is it true about MI6 bookkeepers?”

“I was just making conversation.”

“Are yours tough?”