The wolf at the door

8

Looking back at his life, Daniel Holley always felt it had started when he was twenty-one, when he had gone to Belfast to take a master's degree in business, but that was only because what had happened before was so ordinary.

He had been born in the city of Leeds in Yorkshire, where his father, Luther Holley, taught at the grammar school, an occupation he could afford, for there was money in the family and he had inherited early. At a rugby club dance one night, he had met a young nurse who had just finished her training at Leeds Infirmary. Her name was Eileen Coogan, and she came from a town called Crossmaglen in Ulster, a hotbed of nationalism, just across the border from the Irish Republic.

In spite of the fact that she was a Roman Catholic, he married her, for, as his first name implied, he was a Protestant, though no one had ever known him to go to church. It was enough to make him refuse to allow the boy to be christened into the Catholic faith. "No Popery here," was his rather illogical cry, but his wife, well used to his bullying ways, let it be.

She exacted payment from him when she discovered that she could have no more children and insisted on returning to nursing-a kind of victory, as it turned out, for she did well over the years, and was a nursing sister when her husband suffered a pulmonary embolism one night, was rushed to hospital, and pronounced dead on arrival.

Daniel, a bright boy, was accepted at Leeds University at seventeen, and, by the time he was twenty, he was halfway through his final year, studying business and financial planning. He took those subjects not because they were the greatest things in life but because he seemed to have a talent for it. In actuality, having served in the OTC at school, he was attracted to the idea of joining the army and entering Sandhurst, for the weapons training he'd undergone in OTC appealed to him. But, once again, his father had said no. And then his father had died.

There was a good turnout at Lawnswood Cemetery, where they had the funeral, a few teachers from the school and old pupils. Through the forest of umbrellas, as people paused outside the entrance to the crematorium, he noticed a stranger standing on the edge of the crowd, about thirty years old from the look of him, with a handsome, rugged face. He wore a raincoat and tweed cap, and he looked like he was waiting for someone, and then Daniel's mother rushed to him, flung her arms around his neck, and hugged him fiercely. Daniel hesitated, then approached.

She turned, crying, "Oh, what a blessing this is. My nephew, Liam Coogan, come to pay his respects all the way from Crossmaglen."

He was smiling as he took Daniel's hand in a strong grip. "A bad day for it with the rain, but grand to see my only aunt after all these years, and to meet you, Daniel." He gave Daniel a strong hug. "To be honest, I didn't make a special trip. Your mother phoned mine with the news, and me on the ferry from Belfast to Heysham en route to London. Lucky I called home. They gave me the sad news, so I've diverted, as you can see."

"You'll stay the night with us," Eileen said.

"God bless you, I can't even come with you for the wake. I'm delayed already for important business in London, so I must be away. It was just that, as I was over by chance, maybe it was a sign from God that I came to you in your hour of need."

"And bless you for a kind deed." She kissed him, and turned to Daniel. "Take the car and see your cousin to the railway station."

"Now, that would be wonderful," Liam said. "There's an express to London in forty-five minutes."

"Then let's get going," Daniel said, and led him to the car.

As he was driving, Daniel started to speak. "There's something I want to get straight," he said. "All these years when we never saw you, never had any contact-that wasn't us, my mother and me. It was my father and his obsessive hatred of Catholics."

"Daniel, don't we all know that at Crossmaglen? God help us, but the old bugger must have really loved her to marry her in the first place."

"He was an overbearing bully who liked his own way, but I never doubted his love for her and hers for him."

"He never allowed you to be christened, I heard."

"That's right."

"Jesus, I've got a bloody Prod for a cousin. Your mother did keep in contact over the years. Writes regularly to my mother, always telling her not to write back, but she made telephone calls."

"Maybe they can get together now," Daniel said. "My mother could visit in Crossmaglen."

Liam was still smiling but different now. "You wouldn't want to do that. Crossmaglen is IRA to the hilt, Daniel. It's what the army calls bandit country. It'd be a bad idea to come back to Ulster at this stage of the Troubles." He changed tack. "I heard some of the guests talking, and you were mentioned. Only a few more months to your graduation, and you only twenty. Business and financial planning. Well, that's useful."

"What about you?"

"I went to Queen's in Belfast. Economics, politics. I taught for a while."

"And now?"

"This and that, wheeling and dealing." They drove into the car park at the main railway station. "You have to turn your hand to anything you can in Belfast these days." He took out a wallet and produced a business card. It said "Liam Coogan, Finance amp; Business Consultant." "You can get me at that number anytime. It's an answering service."

For some reason, Daniel felt emotional. "If I'm ever over there, I will. It was kind of you to do that for my mother."

"You and she are family, Daniel, and that's the most important thing in the world."

He was out and gone, hurrying through the crowd, and Daniel switched on the ignition and drove away.

In 1981, with a first-class honors degree under his belt, it seemed natural to proceed to an MBA, and when he checked a list of suitable universities Queen's at Belfast jumped out at him. He was, after all, a half Ulsterman, though not born there. But there were roots, and perhaps it was time he sought them out.

His mother, recently appointed a matron, was slightly dubious. "Some terrible things happen over there," she said. "God knows, it's the country of my birth, but I'm happy to be out of it, and that's the truth."

"Well, let me see for myself," Daniel told her. "I'll get in touch with your nephew and see what he thinks."

It was three months since his father's funeral, and he had never tried to call the number on the card his cousin had given him. As Liam had said, it was an answering service, but it took his message, and Liam called back an hour later.

"It's grand to hear from you, and congratulations on your first-class honors."

"How did you know that?"

"Your mother talking to mine. They're at it all the time since your dad passed away. So what are you going to do? She was saying if it hadn't been for your dad, you'd have tried for Sandhurst and the army."

"Yes, I enjoyed my time with the OTC at school, but that's all in the past. I'm thinking of coming to Queen's and doing an MBA. What do you think?"

There was a long pause, then Liam said, "Jesus, Daniel, with your academic success you could take your pick of universities where life would be a lot less stressful. I'm not knocking Queen's, it's a damn good university, but Belfast is still a war zone, and you're English."

"No, I'm not, I'm half Irish," Daniel said.

"You're English every time you open your gob," Liam said. "And that won't go down well with a lot of people."

"So you're telling me not to come over?"

"Now, why would I do that? The Coogans have never taken kindly to being ordered what to do, and you're half a Coogan. Let me know when it's definite, but let me give you a piece of advice: make sure you have a passport with you when you come."

"But Ulster is part of the United Kingdom. Surely you don't need a passport when you enter the country?"

"Security is the name of the game here. The police and army have got complete power to stop, search, and question you anytime they choose. It's useful to have your passport with you as an identity card. Take care-and let me know what you decide."

"I'm going to come, Liam, that's a given."

"Stubborn young bastard, aren't you? On your own head, be it. Just stay stum when you come, and don't tell people what you are." He started his course at Queen's later than usual, at the beginning of November, winter on the horizon. It seemed to rain a lot, although he didn't let that put him off, venturing downtown with a raincoat and umbrella, obviously sticking to the city center at first. In spite of the bad weather, he found himself enjoying what many people called the most dangerous city in the world. That was a matter of opinion, of course, but it was true that the Europa close to the railway station was the most bombed hotel in the world. He ventured in for a drink one time, and marveled at the extraordinary feats of bravery that had taken place there on the part of bomb-disposal experts.

His room in a hall of residence was a short walk from the university. A great deal of his work was personal research, but there were occasional seminars and lectures, so he did get the chance to sit in with people. There were students from all over the world and from all over England, but, for the majority of them, the accent of Ulster was unmistakable. You couldn't tell who was Catholic and who Protestant, and yet the war being waged in the streets outside was as much about the religious divide as anything else. Sitting in the common room of the students' union, or drinking in the bar and observing his fellows, there didn't seem to be any difference, but there was, and occasionally it surfaced.

After a general seminar one day, he stayed on to discuss something with his professor. Visiting the bar afterwards, he was hailed by two third-year students named Graham and Green who'd also taken part in the seminar. They were local students from Derry, which was all he knew about them except that they didn't appeal, particularly Green, with his greasy, unkempt hair and shabby jeans. His liking for the drink was also clear. A nasty piece of work, Daniel had decided, and he tried to avoid him.

"Come on, man," Green said. "You need a drink. What a bloody bore Wilkinson's seminar was. He gets worse all the time. Get us some beers, why don't you?"

Daniel joined them with reluctance, returning with three bottles from the bar, determined to be off of there in ten minutes. Green was already edging into drunkenness. "How's it going, my English friend? Someone said you were from Yorkshire."

Remembering Liam's advice, Daniel hadn't advertised his Ulster roots. "That's right."

"Are the girls any good where you come from?"

Daniel shrugged. "The same as they are anywhere, no different." "Nice girls, are they, decent? Not like those cows over there?" He indicated two girls sitting in the corner, chatting over coffee. They were perhaps eighteen, in denim skirts and jumpers.

"I don't understand," Daniel said carefully.

"They're Fenian sluts," Green said. "They'd shag anybody."

Graham nodded seriously. "You'd need a condom there, they've probably got the pox."

"Because they're Catholics?" Daniel asked.

"It's a known thing," Green said. "So watch it."

"But how do you know I'm not a Catholic?"

Graham said, "Well, you've got a Yorkshire accent." He roared with laughter, then paused. "Here, you're not, are you?"

"What the hell has it got to do with you what I am?" Daniel turned and went out, angry and thoroughly depressed.

He walked back to the residence hall and discovered a message for him pinned to the bulletin board. It was from Liam, asking him to get in touch, so he did, and waited, and Liam came back to him half an hour later.

"How's everything?"

Daniel took a deep breath and swallowed his anger. There was no way he could tell Liam what had happened. "Fine, Liam, it's working out very well."

"That's good. Listen, I've a surprise for you. My wee sister, Rosaleen, is in town this weekend, staying with friends. She's a teaching assistant in an infant school. She's coming home Monday, but she's free Sunday night, Daniel, and a charmer. She'd love to meet you."

"And I'd love to meet her. Let's make it at my residence hall since we've never met, that's the easiest. I'll give you my verdict."

And she was a charmer, young and pretty, with black hair, reminding him totally of the dark Rosaleen of Irish legend. They called his room to tell him he had a visitor, but, as he was going downstairs, he knew it must be her the first time he saw her. She carried an umbrella, for it was raining outside, and wore a dark blue overcoat over a dress and ankle boots, a bag hanging by a strap from her left shoulder.

She smiled as he took her hand and reached up to kiss his cheek. "It's so grand to meet you, Daniel."

The only fly in the ointment were Green and Graham, who appeared from the common room at that moment. They looked astounded. "What's this, Holley, where have you been hiding it?"

Obviously the worse for drink again, and he took her hand. "Come on, Rosaleen, we'll go down the road and have a bite to eat."

As they wandered out, behind them Green said, "Rosaleen, did you hear that? She's a fucking Fenian."

Daniel started to turn, and she pulled him around. "Never mind them, they're just Protestant shites that can't keep their gobs shut."

She was calmly fierce, so he gave in, offered his arm, and they went down the road together. "Where would you like to go?"

"Oh, fish-and-chips in a cafe will do me fine, with a cup of tea, and you can tell me all about yourself."

They spent two hours enjoying the simple meal and discovering each other. He was extolling the joys of Wharfedale in the West Riding of Yorkshire, she the beauty of the South Armagh countryside, and they vowed to exchange visits. It was ten o'clock when they left. The rain had stopped, but the streets were Sunday-night empty.

"If we walk back to my residence hall, I could call a taxi," he said.

"Belfast taxis anytime of night cost a fortune, and that's when you can get one. It's not all that far to where I'm staying, fifteen minutes." She laughed. "Well, maybe twenty."

"Nothing at all," he said, offered her his arm. They waited for a white van that had been parked across the street to start up and drive past them, and then they began to walk.

It began to rain again, and she got the umbrella up, laughing, and they hurried on, and there was only the odd car passing, and then nothing, as they turned into an empty street, its shops locked up, with their lights on, and bare of parked cars, a police regulation to discourage bombers. A white van-was it the same one?-eased out of a street behind them, passed, and then braked, the driver and his passenger wearing black hoods. The rear doors burst open, and two more men jumped out wearing hoods, one of them holding a revolver.

Rosaleen cried out, and Daniel closed in on the man holding the revolver, grabbing for it with one hand and, in the struggle, tearing off the hood, revealing Green. Daniel shoved him away, still trying to wrench the weapon from Green's grasp, but another man had run around the van and grabbed him from behind.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" Daniel shouted as he struggled, but Green, laughing madly, cried, "I'll tell you what we're doing, you fugger. We're Red Hand Commandos, and we're going to teach you and that Fenian bitch some manners."

Behind him, Green struggled to force Rosaleen into the back of the van, and Daniel heard it and her cry of despair, and then Green reversed his grip on the gun and struck Daniel a heavy blow across the side of the head, and that was the end of it.

Daniel came to in subdued darkness, his head throbbing and matted with blood, and discovered that he was in the back of the van, street light filtering in from the windscreen. He tried to sit up and found that his wrists had been tied in front of him with some rough cord. Raising his hands, he could see that the knot was large and had obviously been done in a hurry. He had no difficulty in getting his teeth into it and was free in a couple of minutes.

Heavy rain drummed on the roof, and he slid to the rear and pushed open the doors with his feet, aware of the van's tool kit to one side. He opened it and found a tire iron. He hefted it in his hand for a moment, then got out.

He was in a cobbled courtyard, a wide gate behind him standing open, a streetlight beyond showing old and towering warehouses. He turned and found a four-story building. A light over a large painted sign revealed "Bagley Ironworks, White Lane, Belfast." The whole place looked old and decrepit, but there was a dim light inside, and he went up some stone steps and pushed the door open.

There were workbenches, a jumble of machinery, hoists hanging from above, rain drifting in, and a woman crying, then begging and pleading. He stood there frozen. Then she screamed, and somebody shouted, "Be quiet, you bitch," and there was the sound of a heavy blow.

As he started upstairs, the tire iron ready in his hand, he heard a sudden, desperate cry. "No, please, not that."

"Shut your gob" was followed by sustained blows, and a voice saying, "Stop it, you bugger, you'll kill her."

Daniel reached the top of the stairs and found the door half open. Green was sitting at a table, an open whiskey bottle beside him, fiddling with the Smith amp; Wesson. A door was open behind him, and suddenly it seemed very quiet.

A voice said, "Jesus, you fool, you have killed her."

Green turned to the open door. Daniel lurched forward and smashed him across the skull with the tire iron, then picked up the revolver just as Graham appeared in the doorway and shot him in the heart at point-blank range. As Graham was hurled backwards, Daniel took two quick paces forward and shot the next man he saw in the back of the head as the man started to turn.

The fourth man was old and wizened and shaking in terror. "For pity's sake, don't, I never laid a finger on her."

"Then why's your belt undone and your fly open, you lying bastard?" Daniel stepped close and put a bullet between the old man's eyes.

The sight of Rosaleen now was something that would stay with him always and change his life forever, make him a different man, for dead she was, beyond any doubt, and lying on what was presumably some janitor's bed. He found an old rug to cover her broken and defiled body.

He went back into the other room and he heard a moan. Green was stirring, and, almost without thinking about it, Daniel shot him in the head. He picked up the open bottle of whiskey, raised it, swallowed some down, and emptied the rest of it over Green's corpse.

"You Prod bastard, Green," he said. "Well, I'm a Prod bastard, too."

Looking around, he realized the place must have been an office of sorts in its day. There was a wall phone by the far door, and he went and tried it and, by some miracle, it still worked, so he did the obvious thing and called Liam.

Liam called back surprisingly quickly, for once. "Now then, Daniel, how are things going with you and Rosaleen?"

And Daniel told him.

He was sitting at the table, clutching the revolver, the blood oozing from the side of his skull, when Liam arrived almost an hour later, patted Daniel on the shoulder, and went straight into the janitor's room. When he came out, the look on his face was terrible to see.

There were half a dozen hard-looking men with him and two paramedics in green. Liam kicked Green's corpse, and said, "Get rid of this rubbish and his pals. Round the back in the river will do." He eased the gun from Daniel's grip. "I'll have that now, son."

"I couldn't save her, Liam."

"You did your best. I'd say four kills is a remarkable number for a beginner."

"And you're an expert, so you would know?"

"That's right, cousin. I've been with the Provisional IRA since the beginning. Red Hand Commandos are Protestants closely linked to the UVF. We'll make them pay."

"Nobody can make them pay for what they did to her."

"I know, son, I know." Behind him, two men brought Rosaleen out in a black body bag, supervised by a paramedic.

"What is this?" Daniel asked.

"We have an ambulance below. The police don't stop ambulances at night. We're going to take you to a convent down in the country, where the nuns are a nursing order and good friends of ours."

The other paramedic came forward and examined his head. "That's not good at all. We've got to do something about that and fast." He called to a couple of men. "Just take him down."

Which was really the end of it, because although Daniel remembered being on a stretcher in the ambulance across from the black bag, he couldn't recall a single thing about the journey afterwards.

St. Mary's Priory, it was called, and the Mother Superior, a Sister Bridget Blaney, was a qualified surgeon, for they were Little Sisters of Pity, a nursing order whose help was there for all who needed it, and, in troubled times, that was bound to include the IRA.

Coming to his senses, Daniel found himself coming out of an anesthetic in a recovery room. Sister Bridget herself, still wearing scrubs over her habit, was smiling gently, Liam anxious behind her.

"You'll be fine, Daniel," she said. "The faintest of cracks on the side of your forehead. Fifteen stitches will give you an interesting scar, but what you need is a solid week's rest in bed. Liam has told me of the circumstances here."

"Everything?" Daniel said weakly. "Rosaleen?"

"God rest that child's soul, for I knew her well. She is in heaven now, and I shall pray for her, and so must you."

He smiled weakly. "I'm not baptized in the faith, Sister, my father wouldn't have it, but my mother is a good Catholic and a matron at a hospital in Leeds."

"Well, I'm sure she mentions you in her daily prayers, and I will, too."

"Even though I'm a Protestant?"

"Even that," she said cheerfully. "But you must rest now, and Liam has to leave to take Rosaleen home to Crossmaglen and her family, so say your good-byes."

She went out, and Liam said, "Now, do as she says and take it easy. I'll be back."

Daniel said, "Just tell me one thing. You and Provos…"

"What about it?"

"You're not just another volunteer, you're bigger fish than that?"

Liam took his right hand and held it tight. "After what you did for my beloved sister, I count you closer than any brother. No secrets between us ever, so, yes, I am."

Daniel nodded weakly. "I understand Eamon de Valera's father was Spanish, and it was his mother who was Irish. It's the same for me, if you think of it, except my father was Yorkshire."

Liam frowned slightly. "What are you saying?"

"That maybe you could use me. I know I'm still on morphine and things are a little fuzzy, but I don't think there's a place in my life for the old Daniel anymore. I killed four men a few hours ago, face-to-face and as close as you could get, and it didn't bother me. God bless Rosaleen, and I hated them for what they did to her, but to be able to do what I did, Liam." He shook his head. "There was a devil inside me, deep and hidden, but he's found his way out."

Liam's face was grave. "Rest, son, that's what you need. I'll take your love to the family, and I can tell you now you have theirs for eternity."

Rosaleen's funeral was on Wednesday afternoon, three days after Liam left with her body, and the following morning, to Daniel's astonishment, there was a knock on his door, it opened, and his mother entered, Liam behind her.

"My God, I can't believe it," Daniel said.

She kissed him, and pulled a chair forward. "Your aunt spoke to me the moment she received the news from Liam. There's a direct flight to Belfast from Leeds Bradford Airport. I was able to be at the funeral. I know, Daniel, the whole dreadful story and what those swine did to my beloved niece."

"And what I did to them?" Daniel said.

"Trouble, violence, the gun, is the history of Ireland, Daniel. I was born to it, and the history of the Coogan family is full of it. What you did had to be done, a terrible deed. How could I love you the less for it, but I agree with Liam. It's best you go away for a while, leave the country, in case there's even the slightest chance of this being held at your door."

It was interesting that Liam had said it to her, but he let that go as she got up. "You're away, then?"

"Yes, Liam has one of his men taking me to the airport now. I love you dearly. Keep in touch any way you can," and she was away.

"The shock of my life, that," Daniel said. "Now, what's all this about me going away?"

Liam now took the chair. "What you were saying about joining us? Now that your head's clear, do you still feel the same way?"

"More than ever."

"I have a suggestion. We can't manage Sandhurst for you, though I know you had an interest in going there, but we do have good relations with our Islamic friends. We've sent people with great success to Algiers, where we have an excellent contact. All this costs money, but we have plenty of that coming in from the States, and Qaddafi's been more than friendly to us."

"What happens when I get to Algiers?"

"You'll be passed from hand to hand until you reach a training camp deep in the desert. By the time they've finished with you, you'll be an expert in weaponry of every description, explosives, the mechanics of bomb making, hand-to-hand fighting, assassination." He shrugged. "What else can I say? You're academically gifted, you could get a job in the City of London anytime you wanted. Or you could do this."

"That was then, this is now. My path has changed, Liam. I must follow it."

"Your choice, Daniel. I've had one of my people in Belfast remove your things from your room, and we've dropped a beautifully presented letter with a scrawled signature to Professor Charles Wilkinson, saying you're having to leave for urgent family reasons."

"Well, that's it, then." Daniel smiled. "When do I go?"

"As soon as Sister Bridget says you're fit."

"Can I keep in touch with you?"

"No problem. I'm your control. You have my card, remember. It was a good thing you had your passport in your pocket that night. I'll be back for you as soon as she agrees, and then it's over the border, and we'll see you off from Dublin."

The person who emerged from the desert oasis of Shabwa at the age of twenty-three bore little resemblance to the Daniel Holley who had entered it. He was a thoroughly dangerous man in every way, as he reported as ordered to the man in Algiers who had received him in the first place, one Hamid Malik, a shrewd businessman whose line was general shipping in the Mediterranean. It was a front for darker matters, and he handled the needs of a number of organizations involved, as he liked to describe it, in the "death business." The PIRA were clients, and their money was good, which was all that mattered, for he was never a man to make judgments.

Sitting opposite Daniel in the heat of his office in Algiers, with an electric fan spinning on the desk, he said, "Remarkable, Daniel. You went in a troubled boy, and the reports from the camp say you are now a man to be reckoned with."

"So what comes next?"

"Thanks to the good offices of Colonel Mu'ammar Qaddafi, the Kantara, with a substantial cargo of assorted weaponry, is waiting in the harbor now for you to board her. Her destination is the coast of County Down in Northern Ireland." He pushed a large canvas bag across. "There are fifty thousand pounds in there, Qaddafi's gift to your cause, and the arms are free. There's also a letter from Liam Coogan for you."

"Which you probably opened?"

"I am a careful man, Daniel, and you have much to prove. Allah protect you."

The Kantara proved to be a rust bucket, with a crew of ten reasonably villainous Arab seamen who showed a certain amusement when he boarded. The captain was named Omar, and he smiled a lot.

"Ah, the moneyman." He nodded at Daniel's bag. "A little large for my safe, but we can squeeze it in." They were standing at the bridge rail.

"That's not necessary," Daniel told him. "Presumably, there's a key for the cabin door?"

"Certainly, you will find it on the inside."

The crew, grouped below, seemed to find the whole thing funny, muttering amongst themselves and laughing. One of them, a Somali in a soiled white T-shirt and jeans, said, "A chicken for the plucking, this one. What will they send next?"

Daniel didn't react. He understood exactly what the man had said and the implied threat. A legacy of his time at the training camp was reasonable Arabic, but, as his chief instructor had always said, it was sensible to keep quiet about it, prepared for trouble armed with information an enemy didn't know you had.

On the first day at sea, lying on the bunk in his cabin with the bag in a locked cupboard underneath, he listened to the drunken voices of the crew, who were squatting under deck lights in the stern. It was obvious that, as far as they were concerned, he was never going to reach his destination. He reached under his pillow, took out a Browning pistol, pushed it into the waistband at the back of his linen slacks, and went out.

The ship's bosun, Hussein, had the wheel, and Omar was in the stern, having a drink and laughing with the men. Daniel slid down the short ladder, hands on the rails, and they all were suddenly aware of him.

The Somali spoke before anyone else. "So here he is, the boy trying to do a man's job."

Daniel produced the Browning and shot him between the eyes, knocking him against the rail, the skull fragmenting. The shock was complete, and the crew cowered, not knowing what to expect. The Kantara itself started to veer to port, and Daniel swung around to find that Hussein had left the wheelhouse and was raising an AK-47 rifle. He shot him twice, and Hussein bounced against the front of the wheelhouse, the rifle flying from his hands. He fell across the bridge rail and tumbled to the deck.

Daniel turned to Omar, and said in Arabic, "I'm sure you like a neat and tidy ship, so I suggest the crew dispose of these two over the side and wash the deck down, and that you get up that ladder and behind the wheel. We appear to be going round in circles, and that won't do, because my destination is Northern Ireland."

Eight days later, they drifted in to the County Down coast, fishing nets draping the deck as per Liam's instructions in the letter that Malik had given Daniel. In the early darkness, two trawlers came alongside and tied up, Liam leading the way, the man with him joining with the crew of the Kantara to transfer the cargo.

Liam embraced Daniel and followed him to his cabin, where the bag was passed over. "What the hell's been going on? This radio message to Malik? 'Two men lost overboard but proceeding'?"

"I had trouble with the crew, but I made my point early."

"You mean the two over the side had a bullet in them?"

"I do. Anyway, I don't feel disposed to the return passage."

"That's fine, we can send you back by air. I don't know what happened here, Daniel, but Malik is straight as a die."

"Then he should take more care about who he hires in future. Can I stay, Liam? Is there anything active I can do?"

"Not in Ireland. We invented the term 'informer,' and, sooner or later, most things surface. If what you did at the Bagley Ironworks that night ever came out, there are those on the other side who'd hunt you down if it was the last thing they ever did. In any case, the army is bringing in the SAS more and more, and we're feeling the effects, good men being killed or ending up in Maze Prison."

"You've trained me to be a soldier, remember that."

"Yes, and a hard man you can be, we know, but you've a top brain in that skull, especially in the ways of business, finance, and the like. You can serve us in other ways. There are people like us all over the world with aspirations in their own country. I want you to go into partnership with Hamid Malik. He's got a genuine business, and one that makes money, but with something else underneath, as you know. You're too valuable to be a foot soldier."

"And what will Malik think about the idea?"

"I think you'll find he'll discover it impossible to resist."

They walked out on deck, Liam carrying the bag, and found one trawler sailing away, the other still alongside. Someone shouted, "Are you coming or not, Liam? We're loaded."

"We're on our way." Liam crossed to the other deck, and Daniel glanced at Omar, standing at the bridge rail. "Look for me in Algiers, you bastard, and behave yourself."

As Liam had said, Hamid Malik agreed to the idea at once, and Daniel proved his worth very quickly, reorganizing the administrative side of the shipping business, introducing modern methods, technology, and computers. It meant a growth in the company's legitimate side that Malik had never anticipated. There were plenty of old-fashioned freighters available-rust buckets, perhaps, but improved at small cost-and they were perfect for the trade that Daniel expanded, working every port in the Mediterranean.

Underneath, with much assistance from Libyan sources, they supplied more arms to the PIRA, to ETA in Spain, and, on one memorable occasion, dealt with a contract brokered by Liam for a weapons expert to go to South America on behalf of the Colombian terrorist organization, FARC.

Daniel had gone himself, invoking Liam's wrath. He had ended up on the run in deep jungle, engaged in one firefight after another with pursuing Colombian special forces, and finally managed to escape across the Peruvian border.

Back in Algiers, it was business as usual, the rise of Islam inexorable. Pushed by their contacts in Libya, the firm had to concentrate on supplying the demands of people like the PLO and Fatah, and Ireland was less and less important. Besides, the SAS special forces of the British Army had affected the PIRA so much that seventy to eighty percent of the latter's planned operations had to be aborted.

The First Gulf War came and went in 1991, and, in February of that year, an attempt to fire rockets on Downing Street from a parked van narrowly failed. Daniel read about it, then phoned Liam on the same old number. It was an hour before he called back.

Daniel said, "The Downing Street business. Is it one of yours? It looks like a typical PIRA hit." Over the years, their calls had been sparing.

"Absolutely not. We've no bloody idea whose it is. How're things at your end?"

"How do you think? The death business has been booming in the Middle East, haven't you noticed?"

"I've been thinking we might have to consider taking the fight to the British mainland again. The SAS are bleeding us dry. We may have to try something else."

"Such as?"

"Hitting at the British economy. I've got sleepers in London, Daniel, people who have ordinary jobs, ordinary lives, who just wait."

"For what?"

"To be needed. Over the years, many of them have attained a reasonable level of expertise in weaponry and the handling of explosives, by spending what we call a holiday at one of our training camps in the remote part of the west of Ireland."

"And you have lists?"

"I have indeed. The thing is, if there was ever a special job, when we needed to call some of them to action, would you be interested in being their controller?"

Daniel answered without hesitation. "Of course. When would it be?"

"Perhaps never. I just wanted to know what you thought. Have they got those newfangled mobile phones in Algiers yet?"

"Not that I've seen."

"Well, we've got them here, and they'll change your life. Stay well. I'll be in touch."

But it was November 1995 when he heard from Liam again. "A long time since you called," Daniel told him.

"I've been banged up in Maze Prison for four years, missed out on the City of London bombing, but they gave me a compassionate early release. Lung cancer."

"Dammit, Liam, you should have told me. What are you up to?"

"The usual thing, organizing trouble for the enemy. We're going ahead with the idea we talked about before, a campaign in London next year that will shock the world. There's a courier package on its way to you."

"It was just delivered. I haven't had a chance to open it."

"Years ago, I organized my sleepers in cells of seven. There's one in particular, a woman and six men. I last activated them four years ago. Twelve small explosions rocked the West End of London for a two-week period. They got away with it, and I closed them down. The effect was incredible. People were walking on tiptoe for months. They all live in the Kilburn area of London. The package gives you their names and last-known addresses. I want you to go to London, speak to the woman in charge, and activate the cell. At this stage, I can't give them details of what they are required to do."

"Just hold themselves ready?"

"That's right. The whole purpose of the cell system is to maintain absolute security. I share no information about my sleepers with anyone on the Army Council, even the chief of staff."

"How do I persuade this woman I am from the right people?"

"She knows my name. What you say is: 'Liam Coogan sends you his blessing and says hold yourself ready.'"

"And that's all?"

"Tell her that when the time comes to strike, the word will be:

'The day of reckoning is here.' I'll call you and you will pass it on." He had a fit of coughing. "Jesus, I should give up the smoking. Do this for me, son."

"Of course I will, Liam."

"Take care."

Daniel thought about it for a while, then phoned the airport and booked a flight, trying to open the package with one hand as he did so.

It was Saturday, and Caitlin Daly was in the kitchen at the presbytery, enjoying a cup of tea with her mother, when the phone rang. She answered, and the voice with the slightest touch of a Yorkshire accent said, "Caitlin Daly?"

"Yes, who am I speaking to?"

"Liam Coogan sends you his blessing and says hold yourself ready."

The shock was immense, and she put a hand on the table to steady herself. "Who are you?"

"Just call me Daniel. I'm Liam's cousin."

"You don't sound Irish."

"My mother was from Crossmaglen. I'm sitting in a rear pew in the Church of the Holy Name. It's very peaceful, and not a soul here. Can I see you? My time is limited. I have a plane to catch to Algiers."

"Five minutes." She put down the phone, and her mother said, "Who was that, dear?"

"Business," Caitlin told her. "I've just got to go round to the hospital." She reached for her coat and put it on. "I shan't be long."

Reading the notes on Caitlin Daly, her tragic experience as a child in Derry, her life till now in her mid-thirties, Daniel had expected to find her interesting, but he hadn't been prepared for her beauty. It left him momentarily speechless. But not Daly.

"What's going on?" she demanded.

Recovering his wits, he said, "I'm only here as a mouthpiece for Liam. I'm to tell you that you must consider your cell activated. There will be a campaign in London next year that will shock the world, though at this stage he can't give you details of what you are required to do."

"And how will we know?"

"When the time comes to strike, the word will be: 'The day of reckoning is here.' He will tell me, and I will pass on the order to you. Those are his instructions."

"So we wait?"

"That's what he told me, and this list for you, the members of your cell. Do the names of these six men still make sense?"

"Oh, yes, they are all members of the Hope of Mary circle at the refuge here at the hospice."

"Some sort of a club?"

"Much more than that. The sound basis for all our lives. I will call them together tonight and inform them of the situation."

He stood up. "You're a remarkable young woman, Caitlin."

"And you are a remarkable young man, Daniel."

He left her then and went out, the door banging, and she stood there, leaning on the back of the pew, shaking with emotion. The vestry door opened, and Monsignor Murphy came out. "Oh, it's you, Caitlin. I thought I heard voices. Who was it?"

"A stranger from a far-off land, Monsignor, who wandered in by chance. He's gone now. I sent him on his way." She took his arm. "Let's go to the presbytery and join Mother for a cup of tea."

That evening, having called the other members of the cell in turn, she met them in the chapel at Hope of Mary. Barry, Flynn, Pool, Costello, Cochran, and Murray joined her, and, filled with excitement and awe, they recited their own special prayer together at roughly the same time that Daniel Holley arrived in Algiers, although it would be many years before he discovered that meeting had taken place.

Two months later, Liam Coogan died of a sudden heart attack. Daniel was in Hazar at the time, brokering an arms deal for the Bedu Army in that region. Malik reached him on his mobile, but protocol was a delicate matter with Arab rulers, and it was a week before Daniel could get down to the port by Land Rover and find a plane to fly out. There was no possible way he could have got to Crossmaglen to attend the funeral, and there would have been great danger for him anyway. The funerals of Provo leaders like Liam were always very public affairs and attracted a great deal of media attention.

The real shock hit him when he went in the office, and Malik said, "A terrible tragedy, Liam going like that, but maybe it was a blessing, with a prolonged death from cancer to look forward to. At least, he'll have a smile on his face, wherever he is now."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Daniel asked.

"The Provisional IRA bombed the Canary Wharf business district in London two weeks ago."

Daniel was stunned. "I can't believe it. Is my mail here?"

"On your desk."

There was no message of any kind from Liam, but, on the other hand, if he'd wanted to speak to Daniel, he could have made contact by mobile, even in such a remote country as Hazar. The truth was that if Liam had been responsible in any way for the London bombing, he would have contacted Daniel and told him to activate the cell. He hadn't, because somebody else had been responsible. The chief of staff knew Liam was a dying man and had probably taken appropriate steps. So there'd been no message to Daniel to pass on to Caitlin Daly. Her cell would doubtless have taken pleasure in the news from London but been disappointed in their failure to be a part of it.

Should he phone her? He toyed with the idea and dismissed it. The bombing had had nothing to do with Liam, that was the truth of it. He was a sick man, a dying man, and others had taken care of it.

So he put his sorrow behind him and got down to work, busy with deals to Pakistan, and then in June 1996 the Provos struck again, the center of Manchester devastated. But in the end, enough was enough, and the cease-fire of 1997 became peace the following year.

How had Caitlin Daly felt, he used to wonder, waiting for the call that never came, the call that was obviously so important to her? But it was over now and done with, until the next time. He smiled, wryly admitting to himself that nothing had changed, not really. There might be "peace," but the PIRA still ran the largest crime syndicate in Europe, so to hell with it.

Wars and rumors of wars, world terrorism, Islam on the march, Chechnya, Bosnia, there was no end to it. Business was business, as far as Malik was concerned, and Daniel went with the flow, operating on the theory that a good product and a pistol in the pocket was all you needed to get by. The life he had led had made him a total cynic, and that was all he believed in anymore.

His luck ran out in 2004. Always take care in the Balkans, Malik used to say, they kill each other at the drop of a hat. That was certainly true enough for Kosovo. Its Muslim citizens hated Serbs beyond anything else in the world and wanted independence.

Daniel had brokered three previous deals in Kosovo, for the Muslims had plenty of money to spend on arms, supplied by sympathizers in the oil-rich Gulf States. A Bulgarian agent named Kovac made the arrangements, and they were simple enough. All Daniel needed in the wild backcountry was a smuggler who knew the forest area and a suitable old Land Rover.

The driver's name was Mahmud, and he didn't speak, instead concentrating on his driving on the narrow mud tracks of the forest, a rifle at his feet. He was about fifty, unshaven, and with a walleye. Daniel had met him on one previous occasion and remembered that he'd been surprised at how good his English was, and Mahmud had explained that at nineteen he had gone to England, to Manchester, where his uncle lived.

"How far to this Lamu place?"

"Not long now," Mahmud said.

"I saw you a year ago. How are things now? Do the Serbs still raid the villages?"

"Sure they do. They rape our women, kill the children."

"Burn the mosques?

"All those things, and sometimes the Russians come."

Daniel frowned. "I hadn't heard that. The Russians aren't supposed to be here. The United Nations wouldn't sanction it."

Mahmud shrugged. "They stay round here in the border country, special soldiers they call Spetsnaz."

Daniel sat there thinking about it and wondering what the Russian game was. That they were strong supporters of the Serbs was a given, so their presence in this Muslim part of Kosovo gave him pause for thought.

"Lamu, now, just up ahead." Mahmud pointed to a crossing of tracks where the trees thinned out, and there was a sudden engine roar as a large armored vehicle plowed through small trees from the right and braked to a halt. It was a Russian storm cruiser. Daniel recognized it at once.

"We've got trouble," he said as two armed men in uniform leapt out.

Mahmud picked up his rifle and scrambled out, firing a wild shot, then turning to run and was immediately shot down.

The soldiers walked forward slowly, weapons ready. Beyond them, several more had emerged from the storm cruiser and stood watching. Daniel opened the door and got out.

He'd picked up enough Russian over the years to understand it when one of the soldiers said, "Who are you?"

So he responded as a reflex, pulling the Browning from his pocket and shooting both of them in the heart, double-tapping, first one and then the other.

As he turned to run into the forest, there were cries of dismay from the other soldiers and a fusillade of shots as they ran forward. He was hit in the right thigh, he was aware of that, and then the left shoulder. He went down, and they were on him in seconds, boots swinging.

And then somebody shouted-a voice of real authority, he knew that-and then there was only the blackness.

He came to on a bed in a room with a beaded ceiling, feeling no pain, only a general numbness. He was heavily bandaged, and a man was sitting at his bedside in a high-back chair, smoking a cigarette. He wore combat fatigues with the tabs of a full colonel, and, when he spoke, his English was excellent.

"So you return from the dead, I think, Mr. Holley?" He smiled and held up Daniel's passport. "What an interesting man you are, but then I've heard of you before. In fact, many times over the years."

"Who are you, Spetsnaz?" Daniel croaked.

"The unit I'm with is, but I'm Colonel Josef Lermov of the GRU. Both of the men you shot have died."

"They usually do."

"My men wanted to kill you, but we can't have that. I'm sure you have a fascinating story to tell. The unit paramedic has patched you up, and we'll be returning to our base in Bulgaria, where you can have proper treatment. People like Kovac are seldom trustworthy, I find."

"My own fault," Daniel said. "I've taken the pitcher to the well too often. What happens now? A short trial in Moscow?"

"Oh, we don't do that these days. Very counterproductive. Moscow, certainly, but I fear it likely to be the Lubyanka. Not the death sentence. It is unfortunate that you killed those two men, but your death would be such a waste. I'm sure you tell a good story, and I look forward to hearing it. Sleep now."

He went out, clicking off the light. Daniel lay there, trying to make sense of it all, but his brain was befuddled by morphine. It was over, that was all he could think of, after all these years it was over, and he closed his eyes and drifted into sleep.