Page 81 of Hang on St. Christopher

“If I ask, you’ll give it to me.”

“Why would we do that?”

“Special Branch bloody owes me. You owe me for Thatcher, and you owe me for Strong,” I said bluntly.

She sighed. “You’ve been told—repeatedly, I imagine—never to mention those two cases,” she said.

“I didn’t mention any cases. I just mentioned names: Thatcher and Strong.”

“What is it that you want, Duffy?”

“I’m being surveilled.”

“I often have that feeling too.”

“No, I’m really being surveilled.”

She sat up in her chair. “An IRA hit team?”

“My gut tells me it’s maybe something more serious.”

“Something more serious than an IRA hit team?”

“They broke into my house. They were very, very good about breaking into my house. I would never have noticed it in a million years except for the piece of paper I stick in the jamb at the bottom of the back door. It had moved. It had fluttered out into the back garden.”

“The wind.”

“It wasn’t the wind. They’ve been through my stuff.”

“Was anything taken?”

“Nothing was taken. They moved some of my papers.”

“Who did, exactly?”

“That’s what I want you to find out for me.”

“You need the Ghostbusters, not me, Sean.”

“How do you explain this, then?” I said, showing her the Polaroid I’d taken of the bug in my phone. “I was wondering if you or one of your minions would know what this is.”

She looked at the picture. “Where did you find this?” she asked.

“In my telephone.”

“This is in your telephone in your house?”

“That’s right.”

“What have you done, Sean?”

“Nothing.”

“You’re always pissing people off. Who have you pissed off this time?”

“Nobody. Look, what is this? Do you know what it is?”

“I know what it is. It’s called a CELD-33.”

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