Add Cabinet Office business to that, and he saw little of Olivia. He also saw little of Ferguson. But he himself was not forgotten, certainly not by Quinn, who was thinking a lot about the old days and about one man in particular. He’d been not only a top bomb maker, but a mechanical genius, and his name was Sean Fahy. Born in Kilburn, the Irish quarter of London, he’d lived there all his life, a problem solver of the first water. Quinn wondered . . . He went to his laptop and soon found a number and an address: Derry Street Garage. He phoned a special number from the old days and waited. It seemed to ring forever—and then, unbelievably, it was picked up. FAHY WAS SIXTY-FIVE and looked older, with sallow cheeks and a kind of eternal sadness to him, the general look of a man who had found life more disappointing than he had hoped. He wore an old raincoat over a dark suit, a shirt so old-fashioned it lacked a collar, and a battered tweed cap, touched with oil from too much time spent under automobiles.
