e play miniature golf?" Kelly said. She pointed to what  looked
like  a cross between Disneyland and  St. Andrews  with trees, waterfalls, a
pirate ship, all made to look like a floodlit Treasure Island.
     I  actually enjoyed it. There was  no  danger, and the pressure release
was tremendous, even though Kelly was cheating.
     She  started to  putt on the  eleventh hole.  A  dragon behind  us  was
blowing out water rather than fire from its cave.
     "Nick?"
     "What?" I was busy working out how to negotiate the ninety-degree angle
I needed to hole the ball.
     "Can we see your friend, what's his name David?"
     "Maybe some day." I swung, and it didn't work. I was stuck on the water
obstacle.
     "Do you have any sisters or brothers?"
     Where was this going?
     "Yes, I have."
     "How many?"
     I marked my card after six attempts on a par three hole.
     "Three brothers." I decided to cut the interrogation.
     "They are called... John, Joe, and Jim."
     "Oh. How old are they?"
     She got  me on that one. I didn't even know where they lived, let alone
how old they were.
     "I don't know really."
     "Why not?"
     I found it hard to explain because I really didn't know the answer.
     "Because." I positioned the ball for her to putt.
     "Come on or we'll hold everyone up."
     On the way back I felt strangely close to her, and that worried me. She
seemed to have latched on to me as a stand-in  parent and we'd been together
only six days. I couldn't take the place of Kev and Marsha, even if I wanted
to. The prospect was too scary.
     Next  day.  It was  ice  cream for  breakfast, then  we  logged  on  at
ten-fifteen. There  was  a message  waiting for  us, telling  us to  visit a
certain chat  room. Kelly hit a few keys and there  we were. De Sabatino was
waiting  for us, or at  least  someone called  Big Al was.  A  dialogue  box
invited us  to  a  private room for a one-on-one; thank goodness  Kelly  was
there to do the navigating.
     I got right down to it. Kelly typed with two fingers: I need your help.
     What do you want?
     I've got something here that I need you to decode or translate--I'm not
entirely sure what it is, but  I know  you'll be able to  do it, What is it?
Work?
     I needed to get him  hooked. For  him,  half  the point of stealing all
that money had been the sheer kick  of doing  it-"the juice." Thinking about
it now,  Pat had probably got the  term from Big Al in the first place. This
guy enjoyed putting  one over on the big boys;  he needed to be involved, to
be part of something, and I knew that if  I  used the right bait, he'd  come
and see me.
     I  spoke  and  she typed: I'm not going  to  tell you! Believe me, it's
good. If you want to look, you'll have to see me. I'm in Daytona. And then I
started to lie. Other people say it's impossible.
     I thought of you.
     He came back at once: What format? I'd got him.
     I told him all the details.
     He said. Can't see  you until 9 tonight. Outside Boot Hill Saloon, Main
Street.
     I'll be there.
     Big Al came back: Yeehaa! Yeehaa!
     There was nothing changed about him,  then.  Kelly logged off,  and  we
paid the twelve dollars. About a hundredth of what a private eye would  have
cost me.
     Now we had hours to kill. We bought sunglasses, and I also got  Kelly a
fashionable pair of shorts, a T-shirt, and sandals. I had to  stay as I was,
wearing  my shirt over my pants to  cover my pistol. The only addition was a
bandanna  to cover the cut on my forehead. Chrome aviators covered the lower
one.
     With the wind on our faces, we sauntered along the beach.
     It was that  time of  day when the restaurants were starting to fill up
with people wanting early lunches.
     Back  at  the hotel I made  some  calls  to  check  flights out  of the
country.  If the stuff Big Al decrypted for me  seemed to  be  what Simmonds
needed, Kelly and  I were out of here. I knew Big Al would have the contacts
and resources to get passports for our exit, even money.
     We had lunch, followed by eighteen holes with the pirates I let her win
and then it was time to start getting ready for the meet.
     At about 7:30 the  sun  started to go down and the street neon came on.
Suddenly it was another world, with music pumping out of  the stores and the
kids now driving up  and  down the  strip faster than the legal ten miles an
hour.
     I didn't  know what it was, the weather maybe, but I felt detached from
the situation  I was  in. It was just the two of  us, we  were  having  fun,
eating ice cream and  walking around looking in shops. Kelly was doing usual
kid  things, even  to the point of spotting something  in a store window and
doing the "Look at that!" act as in. Hint, hint, are you going to buy it for
me? I found  myself acting the parent, saying, "No, I think we've had enough
for today."
     I  did  worry about  her. I felt  she  should be more  upset, shouldn't
really be taking it so well. Maybe she hadn't  under stood  what I'd said to
her about  her  family; maybe her sub conscious was putting a lid on  it. At
the moment, however, that  was exactly  what I  needed: a child looking  and
behaving normally.
     We stopped outside a toy store. She asked for a ring in the window that
glowed in the dark. I lied and said I had no money left.
     "Couldn't you steal it for me?" she said.
     She was getting into this on-the-run thing too much.  We had  a serious
talk about right and wrong.
     It  was  about  a quarter of nine by now; we'd had a pizza, and at that
time of night on vacation, the next thing you should always have is a Haagen
Dazs. Afterward,  we  started to wander to the  RV with Big Al. We  squeezed
past  ranks of parked motorcycles and jostling crowds, most wearing T-shirts
with bike slogans.
     I got us into a position from which I could see both approaches to  the
Boot Hill Saloon from the  old graveyard on the other side of the street. It
was all that remained of the original town, the  only thing that couldn't be
ripped apart and have  a hotel built on it.  As bikers parked and opened the
doors,  loud rock and roll thundered from the bar. It collided  head-on with
the Latin and rap that were blaring from  the vehicles cruising up and down;
it  was  that body-fluid time of night,  and groups of breakers were hanging
out of Jeeps and pickups with banks of six or seven speakers in the back.
     Some  even had electric blue lights fitted under the car; as they drove
past, they  looked like  hovering  spaceships  playing music  from  Mars.  I
thought about our friends in the Cherokee. I  wondered if they'd gotten home
yet.
     Kelly and  I just  waited,  eating our ice cream and  sitting on a bank
next to Mrs. J. Mostyn, who  went to Our  Savior on July  16, 1924, God rest
her soul. Main Street wasn't in fact the main drag but a road that led from
the sea to a bridge over the  inland waterway.  Daytona has a bike week each
year, and this was the street on which the thousands of bikers descended. It
was a one-theme street, and that theme was Harleys. If it wasn't a bike bar,
it was a store selling spare parts, helmets, or leather goods. And even when
the convention wasn't on, bikes with helmets  on the seats were  lined up by
the dozen outside bars with names like  Dirty Harry's  or  Froggie's,  where
there was even a bike made of dusty bones in the window.
     I could spot Big  Al a  mile  away  as he  shambled  toward us from the
direction of the bridge. He  was wearing a blue,  white, and yellow Hawaiian
shirt  and pale  pink  pants, both straining against  a body that  was  even
fatter than I remembered;
     his outfit was set off by white shoes and the same shaggy hairstyle. He
looked like  an  out-of-work  extra  from  Miami Vice.  In  his left hand he
carried a  briefcase, which was  a good  sign; he'd brought the tools of his
trade  with  him. He  ducked into  the Main  Street Cigar  Store and emerged
chomping on a huge corona.
     He stopped outside the Boot Hill Saloon, Harleys all around him. He put
his briefcase down between his feet and stood  there sucking his cigar as if
he  owned  the place. Behind him was  an  enormous mural  of a  biker on the
beach, covering an entire wall of the saloon. A board announced no colors,
     CLUB PATCHES, OR LNSIGNIAS.
     I nudged Kelly: "See that man over there?"
     "Which one?"
     "The one with that really big flowery shirt on, the big fat man."
     "You mean the geekazoid?"
     "What?"
     "It's like a double geek."
     "Whatever." I grinned.
     "He's the man we're going to see."
     She said, "Why didn't we wait over there for him?"
     "No,  no--what you do is 'stand off' and watch. See what I'm doing? I'm
looking  up  and down  the  road,  just to  make sure  there's no  bad  guys
following him. Then I know we're safe. What do you think? Think it's
     OK?"
     All of a sudden she'd become very important. She looked up and down and
said, "All clear." She didn't have a clue what she was looking for.
     "Come  on  then, give me your hand. We've got to be careful  with these
cars driving so fast."
     We left Mrs. Mostyn and  stopped  at the curb. I said, "When we  go and
meet  him, I might  have to do something that looks funny, but actually it's
not--we do it all the time.
     He understands it."
     As we  dodged through the  traffic she said,  "OK." After  what she had
seen lately this would be kindergarten stuff.
     We got  closer; he was  certainly  looking older. He recognized me from
twenty yards away and was suddenly starring in The Godfather again. Cigar in
his right hand,  arms thrown  out wide, head cocked to one side, he growled,
"Aaaggghh!
     It's  Nicky  Two!"  He had a  smile  on  his face the  size  of half  a
watermelon. It was  probably shit living in hiding; at last he  had somebody
from the past he could talk freely with.
     He jammed the cigar back into his mouth, picked up his briefcase in his
right hand, and walked toward us, his fat thighs rubbing together.
     "Hey! Nicky! How's it going!" He beamed and started pumping my hand, at
the same time studying Kelly. He stank of flowery aftershave.
     "And  who's this pretty little lady,  then?"  He bent down to greet her
and I felt a slight twinge of wariness. Maybe the charm was genuine, but for
some reason it made me feel a bit revolted.
     I said, "This is Kelly, one of my friend's daughters. I'm looking after
her for a while."
     I very  much  doubted  he  knew  what had  been  going on up  north. He
certainly didn't know Kev.
     Still bending down and shaking her hand for  a  bit too long, he  said,
"Welcome to the Sunshine  State! It's great here  we've got Seaworld, Disney
World, everything to make a little lady happy!"
     He stood up and said, slightly out of breath, "Where are we  going?" He
pointed hopefully and said, "Main Street Pier?
     Shrimp?"
     I shook my head.
     "No, we'll go back to our hotel. I've got all the gear there I want you
to have a look at. Follow me."
     I held Kelly's hand  in my left and got  him on the right. As we walked
we  made small talk about how wonderful it was to  see each other again, but
he knew very well  that this meeting wasn't casual and  he liked it. He  got
off on this sort of stuff, just like Al and Bob.
     We turned right and then took  the first left, which was into a parking
area behind the shops. I  looked at Kelly and nodded to  show everything was
fine, then let go other hand. Big Al was still jabbering away. I grabbed his
left  arm with both hands and used  his own momentum to turn him against the
wall. He  hit it with quite  a bounce. I  pushed him into  the doorway of  a
restaurant's fire exit.
     "It's  cool, I'm  cool."  Big  Al was keeping a low voice. He knew  the
score.
     Just looking at  him, it was obvious he  couldn't conceal as much as  a
playing  card  under  his  clothes, let  alone  a  weapon,  the material was
stretched so tight against his skin. However, I ran my hand down the back of
his  spine  in case he had  some  thing  concealed in the lumbar region; the
natural curve makes it a wonderful place to hide odds and ends, and Big Al's
was curvier than most. I continued frisking him.
     He looked down at Kelly, who was watching everything.
     He winked.
     "I suppose you've seen him do this all the time?"
     "My daddy does it, too, in heaven."
     His answer was quick.
     "Ah, OK, yeah,  smart kid,  smart kid." He looked  at her and  tried to
work that one out.
     Then came the bit that he probably enjoyed most, me running my hand  up
his pant legs. I checked thoroughly at the top. I said, "You know  I need to
look in your briefcase now, don't you?"
     "Yeah, sure." He opened it up; I found two cigars in tubes, and all his
work tools floppy disks, a backup drive and disks, cables, wires, all sorts
of shit. I had a quick feel around to make sure there wasn't a secret panel.
     I was happy. He was also. In fact, he probably had a hard-on.
     I said, "Right, let's go."
     "Let's get some ice cream on the way," he suggested.
     We waved down a cab. Kelly and I got in the back and he squeezed in the
front, resting a pint of Ben & Jerry's on his briefcase.
     We  got  to the hotel  and  went  to the  room.  His body  language was
excited, probably because he thought it was like the old days, all spies and
shit, and the  cheapness of the room only  made it all the more exhilarating
for him. He put his briefcase on one  of the beds, opened it up, and started
taking out all his gizmos. He fished, "So what are you up to these days?"
     I didn't reply.
     Kelly and  I  were  sitting  on the bed,  not really doing much  except
watching what was going on. Kelly started to take quite an interest.
     "You got any games?" she said.
     I thought de Sabatino would look at her in disgust: I'm a technician, I
don't have games. But he went, "Yeah, loads!
     Maybe, if we get time, we can sit down and play a few. What ones do you
like?"
     They went off  on  a tangent about Quake and Third Dimension. I  cut in
and said, "So what do you do with yourself nowadays?"
     "I just  teach people  how to  work these  things." He pointed  at  the
laptop.
     "Also,  I do  a  bit of work for a  couple  of  private eyes down here,
getting into bank accounts, that sort of thing.
     It's pretty low-key but it suits me I have to keep my head down."
     Almost choking on Kouros  cologne and looking at his choice of clothes,
I wondered what his idea of high profile would be.
     Without a  reply to  his original question, he seemed to feel compelled
to fill the  silence. He started sniggering and said, "Still managed to tuck
away a few hundred thou! So, plus the resettlement, things ain't too bad." 
He was fiddling about, attaching more cables to the laptop;
     God knows what he  was doing, so  I let him get on  with  it. He  tried
again.
     "What about you? Same old thing?"
     "Yeah, same sort of stuff. Bit of this, bit of that."
     Now sitting  at the table with his  back to me, he was concentrating on
the laptop.
     "You still being a--what did you call it--a baby spy?"
     "I do that a bit."
     "You working now, are you?"
     "Yeah, I'm working."
     He laughed.
     "You  lying sonofabitch!"  He  looked at Kelly  and said, "Oops! Do you
learn  French at school?" He turned back  to me and said, "You wouldn't need
me if you were,  you'd be getting somebody else to do it. You can't bullshit
Big All" He looked at Kelly and  said, "Franfais!" Then he looked back at me
and said, "You still married?"
     The Microsoft sound chimed as Windows 95 opened on his machine.
     "Divorced about three years ago," I said.
     "I haven't heard from her for about two years. I  think she's living up
in Scotland or somewhere, I don't know."
     I suddenly realized that Kelly was hanging on my every word.
     He winked at her.
     "Just like me--young, free, and single! Yeah!" Big Al was one of life's
really sad fucks; I was probably the nearest thing he had to a friend.
     I handed him the  backup disk, and it was soon humming in the drive. It
wouldn't be long before I got a few answers.
     By now there was  a pall of cigar smoke filling the top quarter  of the
room. Between that, the Kouros, and the lack  of  air-conditioning, the room
was close to unbearable.  It was just as well we'd be moving from here  the
moment Big Al left. I checked outside by moving the curtain, then opened the
window.
     The first batch  of documents  came up on the screen, and I looked over
his shoulder as he tapped away in the semidarkness.
     I pointed at one of the spreadsheets.
     "This  is where I've  got a  problem. I  haven't got  a  clue what that
means. Any idea?"
     "I'll tell  you  what  we  have  here, Nicky." His eyes never left  the
screen.
     "These are shipment and payment records-of  what,  I don't know." As he
pointed  to  the  screen,  his finger  touched  it and squidged  the  liquid
underneath.
     "Never touch the screen!" he scolded himself  as if he were telling off
one of his students. He was really getting into this.
     "See  these  here?" His voice had changed  from  that of a no-hoper  to
someone who knew his stuff.
     I looked at columns headed  by groups of initials like MON, JC,  IN. He
said, "They refer to  shipments. They're telling you what's going where, and
to who."
     He started to scroll down the pages, confirming it to himself.
     As he was looking through he nodded emphatically.
     "These are  definitely  shipments and payments. How  did  you  get into
this, anyway? You're not exactly the world's greatest hacker, and there's no
way these files weren't password-protected."
     "I had a sniffer program."
     "Wow! Which one do you have?" The computer nerd was coming back.
     "Mexy twenty-one," I lied.
     "That's shit! Oops, garbage! There are sniffers now that do it at three
times the speed." He looked down at Kelly.
     "That's the problem with the Brits. They're still in the Steam Age."
     He was now out of the spreadsheets and looking at more file names.
     I said, "This is another group of files I was having problems with. Can
you decrypt them?"
     "I don't understand," he said.
     "Which files are you having trouble with?"
     "Well, they're in code or something--just a  lot of random letters  and
numbers. Any chance  of  you  figuring  it  out?"  He made  me  feel  like a
six-year-old child having to ask to have his shoelaces tied.
     He scrolled down the file names.
     "You mean these GIFs?"
     he said.
     "They're graphics files,  that's all. You just  need a graphics program
to read them."
     He tapped a few keys, found what  he was  looking for, and selected one
of the files.
     "They're scans of photographs," he said.
     He leaned  over and pulled open the pint of ice cream,  reached for one
of the plastic  spoons, and started to dig in. He threw a spoon to Kelly and
said, "You'd better get in here before Uncle Al finishes it all."
     The first  picture  was now on the screen.  It was  a  grainy black and
white of two people standing  at the top of a flight of  steps that led to a
grand old  building. I knew both men very well.  Seamus  Macauley  and  Liam
Femahan  were  "businessmen" who fronted  a  lot of  fund-raising  and other
operations for PIRA. They were good at the game, once even getting a project
backed  by  the British  government  to  finance revitalization  in Northern
Ireland's cities. The whole scheme was designed to provide local employment.
They convinced Westminster that if a community was  responsible  for its own
rebuilding, there would be less chance of them then wanting to go  and  blow
it up. But what the  government didn't know was  that the  contractors could
only  employ people  that  PIRA  wanted  to work; those  people  were  still
claiming unemployment and social benefits, and PIRA was getting  a kick back
from  letting  them  work  on  the  sites illegally,  so it was  costing the
government twice as much and, of  course, the businessmen got  their cut  as
well. And if the government's paying, why not blow more up and rebuild?
     Without a doubt, PIRA had come a long way from the days of rattling its
tin  cups in West  Belfast,  Liverpool, and  Boston. So  much so  that  the
Northern  Ireland Office  had established a  Terrorist  Finance  Unit  as  a
countermeasure  in 1988, staffed by  specialists in  accounting, law, taxes,
and computing. Euan and I had done a lot of work with them.
     Big Al now opened and viewed a  series of shots of Macauley and Femahan
shaking hands with two other  men, then walking down the steps  and  getting
into a Mercedes.
     One of  them was  the late Mr. Morgan McGear, looking  very smart  in a
suit I was familiar with. The fourth man I had no idea about.
     The photography was covert: I could see the darkness around the edge of
the frames  where they hadn't gotten the  aperture  right,  but it was  good
enough for me to tell,  by the cars parked in the background, that they were
on the Continent.
     I said, "Let's see the next one."
     De Sabatino  could tell that I  recognized something or someone; he was
looking at me, dying to know what, wanting to  get in on the  act.  He'd had
five years on the back burner, and now was his chance for a comeback.
     I wasn't going to tell him jack shit.
     "Let's push on."
     There was  another group of  pictures  that  he opened and  viewed, but
these meant nothing at all to me.
     Big Al looked at them. The big half watermelon was back on his face.
     "Now I know what all those spreadsheets refer to."
     "What's that?"
     "fEstd  es la coca, senorl Hey, I  know  this guy.  He  works  for  the
cartels."
     I was looking  at  a really smart-looking Latino in  his early  forties
getting out of a  car. I could tell by the  surroundings that  it was in the
United States.
     "That's Raoul Martinez," he said.
     "He's part of the Colombian trade delegation."
     This was  getting more interesting by the  minute. PIRA al ways claimed
no association with drug trafficking, but the profits were too great for it
to ignore. What I had in front of me now was close to admissible evidence of
its direct involvement with the cartels. But that  still didn't help me with
my problem.
     He looked through the pictures.
     "You'll  see Raoul with  somebody else in a minute, I guarantee it." He
flicked through a couple more.
     "There you are: big bad Sal."
     This  other  character  was about the same  age but much  taller;  he'd
probably been a weight  lifter at  some  stage,  then ballooned out to maybe
three hundred pounds. Sal was a big old boy, and very bald.
     De Sabatino said, "Martinez is never without him. We used  to do  a lot
of business with them  in the old days. A nice man, a family man. We used to
run cocaine up the East Coast, all the way to the Canadian border. We needed
things  evened  out to  ease the route--these guys  did the  necessary,  and
everybody  was  making money.  Yeah, these fellas, they're all  right. As we
went through more picture files, I saw both men eating in  a restaurant with
another bloke, a Caucasian.
     Big Al said, "I haven't got a clue who he is."
     I  was looking over  de Sabatino's shoulder, concentrating hard  on the
screen.
     Kelly perked up.
     "Nick?"
     "In a minute." I turned my head to Big Al.
     "Absolutely no idea?"
     "Not a clue."
     "Nick?"
     I cut in.
     "Not now, Kelly."
     Kelly butted in again.
     "Nick, Nick!"
     "Go back to the--" "Nick, Nick! I know who that man is."
     I looked at her.
     "Which man?"
     "The one that was in the picture." She grinned.
     "You don't know who he is--but I do."
     "This one?" I pointed at Martinez.
     "No, the one before."
     Big Al scrolled back.
     "Him! That one there!"
     It was the white guy who was sitting with Raoul and big bad Sal.
     I said, "You're sure?"
     "I'm totally sure."
     "Who is  he?"  After  our experience with the  video I expected  her to
nominate anyone from Clint Eastwood to Brad Pitt.
     "It's Daddy's boss."
     There was  a  long, palpable silence as I let  it sink in.  Big Al  was
sucking air through his teeth.
     "What do you mean, Daddy's boss?" I said.
     "He came to our house once for dinner."
     "Do you remember his name?"
     "No. I just came down for some water and he and a lady were eating with
Mommy and Daddy in the dining room.
     Daddy let  me  say hello and he said,  "Big  smile, Kelly,  this  is my
boss!"
     " It was a good imitation ofKev, and I saw a  flicker of sadness in her
eyes.
     Big Al joined the conversation in nerd mode.
     "Whoa!
     There you go! So who's your daddy?"
     I swung around.
     "Shut up!" And so she couldn't hear  it, I muttered angrily,  "I turned
up at  her parents' house a week ago. Everybody was dead. He was in the DEA,
killed by people he knew."
     I pushed him off his seat and sat down with Kelly on my knee so she had
a better view of the screen.
     "Are you definitely sure he's Daddy's boss?"
     "I'm sure Daddy told me. The next day Mommy and me made jokes about his
mustache because he looked like a cowboy."
     He  did;  he  looked like a Marlboro man. As  she pointed,  her  finger
touched the screen, and Daddy's boss was distorted.
     Having  Kelly in  my arms  and  seeing  someone  who  might  have  been
responsible  for her father's  death made me want to  do  the same to him in
person.
     I looked at Big Al.
     "Let's go back through all the photos."
     Big Al sat down  and scrolled back through the files to the pictures of
Macauley and Femahan with McGear.
     "Do  you  know these  people?" Kelly answered  with a no,  but I wasn't
really listening  to her now.  I was  in my own world. I'd noticed two other
cars  parked on the other  side  of  the road. I looked hard at  the license
plates, and then I knew where the pictures had been taken.
     "Gibraltar." I couldn't help mouthing it aloud.
     Big Al pointed to Macauley and his mates.
     "Are these terrorists from Ireland?"
     "Sort of."
     There was a gap while I tried to work this one out.
     Big Al spoke up.
     "It's obvious to me what's going on."
     "What's that?"
     "Well,  these  Irish  guys  were buying cocaine from the Colombians. It
came by  the normal route to the Florida  Keys, then the Caribbean and North
Africa.  They then  used Gibraltar  as the jump-off point  for  the  rest of
Europe. They made fortunes, and at the same time we took our cut for letting
them move it through South Florida. All of  a sudden, though, at the end of'
eighty-seven, it stopped going through Gibraltar."
     "Why was that?" I was finding it hard to stay calm.
     Big Al shrugged.
     "Some big  hullaballoo  with the locals. I  think  they now run it from
South Africa instead, into the  west  coast  of  Spain, something like that.
They're linked with some other terrorists up there."
     "ETA?"
     "Search me. Some bunch of terrorists or freedom fighters.
     Call them what you like, to me they're all just dealers.
     Anyway,  they  help the Irish now. No doubt old Raoul  organized things
Stateside with Daddy's  boss to ensure that the  route stayed open  for  the
Irish,  because  otherwise the  Colombians would  have given  it to  someone
else."
     "You make it sound like allocating air routes or something."
     Big Al shrugged again.
     "Of  course. It's business."  He spoke as if  all this stuff was common
knowledge. It was news tome.
     So who the fuck was PIRA talking to in Gibraltar? Was the PIRA there in
an attempt to keep the drug trafficking going?
     It came back to me that  in September 1988, Sir Peter Terry, who'd been
instrumental in  pressing for a crackdown on  drug smuggling and  who'd been
governor  of  Gibraltar until earlier  that  year, had narrowly survived  an
assassination attempt  at his  home in  Staffordshire. A  gunman who'd never
been  caught had  given him  the good news with twenty rounds from an  AK-47
something, as  it happened, that Mr.  McGear was not unaccustomed to  doing.
Maybe the  fourth  man in the photograph was  getting a similar warning? And
was there  some sort of connection between the ending  of  the drug runs and
the shooting of PIRA players in Gibraltar just a few months later?
     Whatever,  it  confirmed that there were some  strange things  going on
with some members of the DEA, including Kev's  boss. Maybe they were getting
a cut of the action from PIRA and Kev found out?
     Big Al sucked through his teeth once more.
     "You've  got a brilliant  package here, man. So which one are you going
to blackmail?"
     "Blackmail?"
     "Micky, you've got a  senior figure in the  DEA talking with big-cheese
cartel  members,  your  terrorist  fellas,  and  Gibraltar  government,  law
enforcement, whoever. You're not trying to tell me these pictures aren't for
the purpose of blackmail? Get real. If it's not you who's going to use them,
whoever  took these photographs is certainly intending to." We went through
all  the  pictures  one more  time. Kelly didn't recognize  any more  of the
people.
     I  asked de Sabatino  if  there  was  any  way  we  could  enhance  the
photography.
     "What's the  point? You seem  to know everybody." He was right. I  just
wanted Kelly to look at "Daddy's boss" more closely.
     There was silence for about three minutes as we  just kept  on flicking
through.
     "What else do you know about Gibraltar?" I asked.
     "Not much. What more  do  you  want?" His second  cigar was well on its
way, and Kelly was waving away the smoke.
     "It's  common  sense if you've  got  enough money, do a  deal with  the
Colombians and get the goods into Europe. Every other bunch of  bad asses is
doing it, so why not your Irish guys?"
     Big Al was looking at  me  as  if  what we'd  stumbled across was  very
mundane. And I had to admit, it didn't seem enough for Kev and his family to
have been murdered for.
     There was too much silence; Big Al had to inject some thing.
     "Whatever, someone is definitely in the blackmail biz."
     I  wasn't so sure.  Maybe  it  was some kind of insurance for  PIRA. If
Kev's boss or the Gibraltarians decided not to  play anymore, maybe this was
what would keep them in the game.
     I looked at Kelly.
     "Can you do us a favor? Will you go and get some cans of soda?"
     She  looked happy to get out of the  smoke. I followed her to the door,
gave  her a handful of  coins,  and  pulled the  curtain so  I could see the
machines.  The landing  was clear; I watched  Kelly until  she  reached  the
dispenser,  then I sat down  on the bed. Big  Al  was still playing with the
laptop.
     I pointed at the screen.
     "First  Kev is killed.  Now  we've got  Daddy's  boss  mixing  with the
cartels. It's reasonable to assume that what  we've  got here  is corruption
within the DEA, involving drug shipments  via Florida  to  Irish  terrorists
who've been getting it  into Europe via  Gibraltar. Only  now it seems there
were some problems for them in late 'eighty-seven."
     Big  Al wasn't really listening. The thought  of a corrupt DEA  officer
had taken him to another planet.
     "Way to go!
     You gonna nail the bastard?"
     "I don't know what I'm going to do."
     "Fucking  nail him, Nicky! I hate cops! I hate the DEAf I  have to live
like a fucking hermit federal witness protection program, kiss my ass!"
     I was worried that five years  of frustration were about to explode out
of him. I had no time for that.
     "Frankie, I need a car."
     He wasn't listening.
     "They used me, then they just fucked me over..."
     "I need a car."
     He looked at Kelly as she returned with a selection  of soda cans, then
slowly came back to earth.
     "Sure, OK, for how long?"
     "Two days, maybe three. And I need some money."
     "When do you want it by?"
     "Now."
     Big Al was weird and a sad fuck, too soft and stupid to be in this sort
of world,  but I felt sorry for  him. Me turning  up must have been the best
thing that had happened to him in years.  Life must be shit with no friends,
and always worrying about being hit. But that was how mine was  going to  be
if I didn't get this stuff back to Simmonds.
     Big Al used  the room phone to call a car rental agency. It would  take
about an hour  to  deliver a vehicle, so the three of us strolled to an ATM.
He drew out twelve hundred dollars from four different accounts.
     "You never know when you're going to need mucho dinero in  a hurry!" He
grinned. Maybe  he wasn't so stupid after all.  Back  in the room,  waiting
for the car, I  could sense there was more to come from him. He'd definitely
been brooding on something for the last half hour.
     "Would you like to make some money, Nicky real money?"
     I was checking my bag to make sure I hadn't left anything.
     "Why's that? Are you going to give me some?"
     "In a way." He came and stood by me as I zipped the bag closed.
     "On   those  files  there  are   some   account  numbers  stuffed  with
narco-dollars. Give me two minutes to access what I need and then I can hack
in. I could do it in my sleep." He put an arm around me.
     "Nicky, two minutes on  my  laptop  and  we could  be  talking  serious
enrichment. What do you say?"
     His head was nodding at a thousand rpm, his eyes never leaving mine.
     I let him sweat a bit.
     "How do I know that you'll pay me my half?" I thought  I'd let him know
how much I wanted.
     "I can transfer it anywhere you want. And don't  worry, once I've moved
it they'll never know where it's gone."
     I had to smile. The one thing Frank de  Sabatino was good at was hiding
money.
     "C'mon, Nicky Two, let's do it!"  He had his  arms  wide  open  and was
looking at me like a child who'd done wrong.
     I  gave  him the time  he  needed with the laptop  and  wrote  down the
account number for him to transfer my share to.
     Fuck it,  Kelly  was going to  need  money for school and stuff,  and I
wanted a payback for working against these people for so many years. It felt
good and anyway it was just business.
     He finished. There was a serious, down-to-work look on his face.
     "Where are you going now?" he asked.
     "I'm not going to  tell you; you know the  score.  People I've been  in
contact  with  are  now dead,  and I  don't want  that  to  happen to  you."
"Bullshit!" He looked at Kelly and shrugged his shoulders.
     "You just don't want me to know in case I go blurting off to somebody."
     "That's not the case," I said, though in fact it was.
     "If you did that, or didn't send the money, you know what I'd do."
     He raised an eyebrow.
     I looked at him and smiled.
     "I'd make sure the right people know where you are."
     The color  drained  from  his face  for  a while,  then  back came  the
watermelon. He shook his head.
     "I may have been out  of the loop for a  while, but I  see nothing  has
changed."
     The telephone rang. A blue Nissan was waiting outside the lobby. Big Al
signed for it and gave me a copy of the agreement for when I dropped it off.
Kelly and I got in;  Big Al stayed  on  the sidewalk  with  his briefcase. I
pressed the switch to open the windows.
     "Listen, Frankie, I'll e-mail you to let you know where the  car's been
dropped off, OK?"
     He nodded. It was sinking in that he was about to lose us.
     "Do you want a lift anywhere?"
     "No, I've got work to do. By the morning we could be seriously rich."
     We shook  hands through the open window. Al  smiled at Kelly and  said,
"Make sure  you come  and visit Uncle Al in  about ten years'  time,  little
lady. I'll buy the ice cream!"
     We  set off slowly down the strip.  It was still packed. There  was  so
much neon the street lighting was superfluous.
     Kelly was in the back, staring out the window,  then gazing into space,
lost in  her own  little world.  I didn't  tell her  that  ahead of us lay a
seven-hundred-mile drive.
     Soon Daytona Beach was behind  us  and we  were back on  the long, open
road. As I  drove, I  mulled over  Kev's words again: You  won't believe the
stuff I've got  here.  Your friends over the water  are busy! And he'd also
said: I've just got the ball rolling on something, but  I'd be interested to
know what you  think.  Did that  mean he'd spoken to his boss?  Had his boss
then got him zapped? But there  was  no way  Kev would have been talking  to
anyone in the DEA if he suspected corruption. So who the fuck did he call?
     I now had some valuable material from the PIRA office, a lot of which I
didn't understand, but maybe Kev had had  more.  The more information  I got
hold of, the better it was going to be for me when I got it to Simmonds, and
that was why we were going back to Washington, D.C.
     Once on  the interstate  I put the car into cruise  control and my mind
into neutral.
     We  drove through the night, stopping only to refuel. I bought cans  of
Coke to keep the caffeine levels up as we drove and in case Kelly woke up.
     At first light I could  begin to make out changes in the terrain, proof
that we were  moving north into a more temperate climate. Then the sun  came
up, a big burning ball to my right, and my eyes started to sting.
     We stopped at another gas station. This time Kelly stirred.
     "Where are we?" she yawned.
     "I don't know."
     "Well, where are we going?"
     "It's a surprise."
     "Were you really married?" she asked.
     "It seems so long ago I can hardly remember."
     I looked in  the mirror.  She'd slumped back down, too tired to  pursue
it.
     I wanted to have one last look at Kev's place to see what he had, and I
wanted  to do it  at  last  light  tonight. I knew there'd be a secure  area
somewhere in  the house--exactly where, we'd have to find out. Then I wanted
to be out of  the D.C. area again before first light. Big  Al didn't know it
yet, but he was  going to  get his ass into gear and help us  get out of the
US. If he didn't do it voluntarily, I'd be giving him a jump-start.
     By midmorning Kelly was wide awake, reading a comic book I'd gotten her
at  the  last stop. She was lying in the back, shoes off, totally absorbed.
We  hadn't  talked. We  were in a  world  of empty candy wrappers, Styrofoam
coffee cups,  potato chip bags, and  cans of Coke with bits of chip floating
in them.
     "Kelly?"
     "Mm?"
     "You know in your house, Daddy had the hidey-holes for you and Aida?"
     "Uh-huh."
     "Well, do you know  if Daddy had any  hidey-holes for important  things
like money, or where Mommy would keep her rings? Did he have a special place
where they'd put stuff?"
     "Sure."
     Busying myself with the cruise control, I said, "Oh, and  where is that
then?"
     "In his study."
     Which  made  sense.  But  that was  the  room that  had been torn apart
already.
     "Where is it exactly?"
     "In the wall."
     "Whereabouts?"
     "In  the  wall! I just saw Daddy doing it  once.  We're  not allowed in
there, but the door was open  and we'd  just come in from  school and we saw
Daddy putting something in there.
     We were standing right by the door and he didn't know."
     "Is it behind the  picture?" I asked, though  there was no way he'd  be
that obvious.
     "No, it's behind the wood."
     "The wood?"
     "Yeah."
     "Would you be able to show me?"
     "Is that where we're going?" She suddenly sat bolt  upright.  "I  want
Jenny and Ricky!"
     "We can't see them when we get there because they'll be busy."
     She looked at me as if I was nuts.
     "They're my teddies, I told you! They're in my bedroom. Can I get them?
They need me."
     I felt like a right dickhead.
     "Of course you can. As  long as you're quiet." I knew there was more to
come.
     "Can I tell Melissa I'm sorry I missed the sleepover?"
     "We won't have time" She sat back in her seat, brooding.
     "But you're going to phone her mother?"
     I nodded.
     I  started to see signs for  Washington, D.C. We'd been on the road for
nearly eighteen hours. My eyes  were smarting  worse than  ever, despite the
air conditioner being on full blast.  We'd get there in  two hours, but we'd
still have most of the afternoon to kill before last light. I pulled in at a
rest area and tried to sleep. It could be a busy night.
     It was about six in the evening  as we  approached the Lorton exit. For
once it wasn't raining, just overcast. Only about forty-five minutes to go.
     I couldn't see Kelly in  the mirror. She was hunkered down in  the seat
again.
     "Are you awake?"
     "I'm tired, Nick. Are we there yet?"
     "I'm  not going  to tell you.  It's going to  be  a surprise. Just keep
down; I don't want you to sit up."
     I drove  onto  Hunting  Bear  Path,  negotiating  the speed bumps ultra
cautiously so I could have a good look around.
     Everything seemed quite normal. I could see the  back of  Kev's garage,
but  I couldn't see the front of  the house yet. When I  got  up level, the
driveway was finally exposed.
     Parked outside the  front door  was a  cop car. No problem;  just  look
ahead, act normal.
     I drove on, checking in  the rearview mirror. The car's sidelights were
on and there were two cops inside. The house hadn't been boarded up yet, but
it was cordoned off with yellow tape.
     I drove straight on;  I couldn't tell if they  were looking at me. Even
if they did a plate check as I drove past, it  wouldn't matter.  They'd come
up  with  only  Big Al. If I was compromised, I'd run for it and leave Kelly
here. Maybe the police would be  good guys and look after her. At least that
would be the logical  thing to do,  but there  was a conflict. I'd  promised
that I wouldn't leave her; that promise shouldn't mean much, but it did.
     I went down to the  bottom of the road and turned  right to get out  of
sight as quickly as possible, then drove a big square to get back in  behind
them. I reached  the small parade of shops. The  parking  lot  was  about  a
quarter full, so we could pull in without attracting attention.
     Kelly shrieked, "We're at the stores!"
     "That's right,  but  we can't buy anything because I haven't much money
left. But we can go to the house."
     "Yesss! Can I get my Pollypockets and Yak-backs from my bedroom, too?"
     "Of course  you  can."  I didn't have any  idea  what she  was going on
about.
     I went around to the back, opened up  the trunk  and got  out  the bag,
then opened her door. I threw the bag beside her and leaned in.
     "Are we going to my house now?"
     I started to sort out the kit I'd be needing.
     "Yes.  I  want  you to  help me because I  want you to  show me Daddy's
hidey-hole.  Can  you  do  that?  It's important;  he  wanted  me  to  check
something. We've got to sneak in because the cops are outside. Are you going
to do everything that I say?"
     "Yeah, I'll do that! Can I get Pocahontas, too?"
     "Yep."
     I didn't give a fuck; I'd have nodded and agreed to anything as long as
she showed me the cache.
     "You ready?  Let's put  your hood up." It  was  dark  and  cloudy,  and
thankfully the  road wasn't  exactly  built for  pedestrians.  We  shouldn't
encounter any Melissas enroute.
     With  the bag slung over my shoulder,  I  held her hand and  we set off
toward  the house. It  was nearly seven o'clock, and  the street lights were
on. My  plan was to  work our way to the back of the house so I could have a
look at it and prepare to go in.
     We started to  walk over the vacant lot to the rear  of the house, past
trailers  and stockpiles of girders  and building materials. The  mud was so
treacherous in places I thought we'd lose our shoes.
     Kelly was almost beside herself with excitement but fighting it hard.
     "That's where my friend Candice lives!" She pointed to a house.
     "I helped her with their yard sale. We got twenty whole dollars!"
     "Shhh!" Smiling, I  said slowly, "We've  got to be very, very quiet  or
the policemen will get us."
     There was a look of confusion on her face.
     "Nick?"
     What now?
     "Yes,  Kelly." "Why  are  we  hiding from the police?  Aren't they good
guys?"
     I suppose I should  have anticipated that one. What  could  I  say? She
wouldn't have  understood any of the 101 reasons why we'd be up to our necks
in shit if the police caught us.
     Even if I did have a  spare couple of hours to explain them to her. Nor
did  I want to undermine forever her confidence in  the  authorities at this
early stage in her life. So I lied.
     "I don't think they're real cops; I think they're  just dressed up like
cops.  They  might be  friends of the men who came to  see Daddy." It didn't
take long for that to register.
     Finally we were standing  in the shadow of the neighbor's garage. I put
the bag down and watched and listened. The engine of the cruiser was idling.
They were less than twenty yards away  on  the other  side  of the target. I
could hear a little of their radio traffic, but I couldn't make out what was
being said.  Now  and  again  a car drove past,  braked for the speed bumps,
rattled over them, and accelerated away.
     Lights were on in some of the houses, so I could see into the rooms. It
had  always given me a strange sort of kick doing this, like  my own private
viewing of a nature documentary:
     human beings  in their natural habitat. As  young soldiers  in the late
seventies in Northern Ireland, part of our job was to "lurk"  hang around in
the shadows,  watching and  listening,  hoping to catch a glimpse of someone
with a weapon.  It  was amazing what you'd see people doing in their cars or
living rooms,  and slightly  less amazing what they'd  be  up  to  in  their
bedrooms. Sometimes  we'd watch for hours on end, all in the line of duty. I
really enjoyed it.  Here, people  were just  doing dishes  or  watching  TV,
probably  worrying  about  the  effect  of  multiple  murders on real estate
prices.
     There were no motion-detector  lights at the back  of  the  house, just
standard ones  with an on/  off switch by  the  patio  doors.  I  remembered
switching them on for a barbecue.
     I stroked Kelly's hair and looked down and smiled. Then, really slowly,
I started  to unzip  the bag and get out what I needed. I put my mouth right
to her ear and whispered, "I  want you to  stay here. It's  really important
that you look after this kit. You'll see me over there, OK?"
     She nodded. Off I went.
     I reached  the  patio  doors.  First things  first: make  sure  they're
locked. They were. I  got my Maglite  and checked to see if there  were  any
bolts at the top and bottom of the frame.
     It's no good defeating a lock if there are also bolts across;
     that's one of the reasons why you try to attack a building at the point
of last exit, because you know they can't be bolted again from the outside.
     Normally the next thing to do would  be to look  for the  spare key why
spend an  hour with the  lock-picking  kit if there's one hidden  only a few
feet away? Some people  still leave theirs dangling on a string on the other
side of the mailbox, or on the inside of a pet door. Others leave it under a
trash can  or just behind a little  pile of rocks by the  door. If a  key is
going to be left, it will nearly always be somewhere  on the normal approach
to  the door. But  this  was Kev's house:  I wouldn't  find spare keys lying
around.  I put the  photographer's blanket over  my  head and shoulders and,
with the Maglite in my mouth, got to work with the lock-pick gun.
     I  opened the doors  gently, moved the curtain aside, and looked inside
the  living  room.  The  first thing I noticed was that all the curtains and
shutters were closed,  which was good for me because, once inside, we'd have
cover. The second thing that  hit me was an overpowering smell of chemicals.
I tiptoed back to Kelly and whispered, "Come on, then!"
     Our shoes were caked with mud, so we took them off on the concrete step
and put them in the bag. Then we went inside and I pulled the doors closed.
     I held the Maglite with  my  middle finger and forefinger over the lens
to block most of the light and kept it  close to the floor so  we  could see
our way  through the living room. The carpet and underlay had been taken up,
and  all the  furniture was  pushed to  one side. All that was left were the
particle board sheets that the builders had used instead of floorboards.
     Someone had done a good job of scrubbing  the  brown stains under where
Kev  had  been  lying, which explained the chemical  smell.  The Murder  Mop
people had been in; once forensics  finished,  it was  up  to the commercial
companies to clear away the mess.
     We reached the door that led into the front hall. Kelly stood still, an
old hand at all this stuff now. I  got on my knees, eased the door ajar, and
looked through.  The  front door  was closed but light from  the streetlamps
shone through  the stained-glass  flower set  into  the window  above it.  I
switched off the flashlight and stationed Kelly by the bag in the hallway.
     I  stopped  and listened, and generally tuned in. The engine was  still
idling.
     I felt Kelly pulling my jacket.
     "Nick?"
     "Shhh!"
     "What happened to the rug--and what's that horrible smell?"
     I turned around and half-crouched down. I put my finger to her lips and
said, "We'll talk about it later."
     There was a beep beep beep from the police car's radio.
     The guys inside were probably drinking coffee, pissed off to be on duty
all night. Some radio traffic came on the net. Who  ever was Control sounded
like Hitler with a dress on.
     Indicating that Kelly  should stay where she was, I moved across to the
study and gently opened the door. I went back, picked up the bag, and guided
Kelly into the room,  propping the door open with the bag to  let  the light
come through from the hall. Everything looked very much  the same as before
except that the things that had been strewn all over the  place had now been
arranged in a neat line along  one wall. The PC was still on its side on the
desk, the printer and scanner  in position on  the  floor. They had all been
dusted for prints.
     I took the photographer's material and a box of tacks from the  bag and
lifted the chair near to the window. Taking my time, I climbed up and pinned
the  fabric along the top  and  down  the sides of the entire  wooden window
frame. I could now close the door and put the flashlight on.
     I went over  to Kelly. Even above the reek of  solvents and  cleaners I
got a waft of greasy  hair, Coca-Cola, bubblegum, and chocolate. I whispered
into her ear, "Where is it? Just point."
     I  shone the  flashlight all  around  the walls, and she pointed at the
baseboard behind  the door. This was good; nothing there seemed to have been
disturbed.
     I immediately started prying the wooden strip away from the wall with a
screwdriver.  A  vehicle passed  the house,  and I heard  laughter from  the
police car probably  at Control's expense.  They'd be there solely to  deter
people from coming  around and being nosy. Chances were, the place  would be
knocked  down soon;  who'd want to  buy a house  in which a family  had been
murdered? Maybe it would be turned into a memorial park or something.
     I kept  Kelly right next to me; I wanted to keep her reassured. She was
interested  in what was happening, so I smiled at her now and  again to show
that everything was fine.
     With a small creak the section of board started to give way.
     I pulled it right off  and put it to one  side.  Then I bent down again
and shone the flashlight inside. The beam glinted on metal. What looked like
a gun safety box,  about eighteen inches square, was recessed into the wall.
It was going to need decoding. It could take hours.
     I got out the black wallet and set to work, trying to re member to grin
at Kelly and let  her know  it  wouldn't be long, but I  could see  she  was
getting restless. Ten minutes went by.
     Fifteen. Twenty. Finally it was all too much for her. In a loud whisper
she said crossly, "What about my teddies?"
     "Shhh!" I  put  my finger to her lips again. What I meant was  Fuck the
teddies we'll get them later on. I continued decoding.
     There was a pause; then, no longer a whisper: "But you said!"  It  had
to be  stopped  right  there and  then.  Obviously, being Mr.  Smiley wasn't
working. I turned to Kelly and  hissed,  "We'll do it in a minute.  Now shut
up!"
     She was taken aback, but it worked.
     I was luckier than  I  might  have  been with  the decoding.  I'd  just
finished, had put the tools away, and was opening the box when I heard a low
moan from her.
     "I don't like it here, Nick.
     It's all changed."
     I turned around, grabbed her, and covered her mouth with my hand.
     "For  Christ's sake shut up!" It wasn't what she expected  but I didn't
have time to explain.
     With my  hand  still clamped hard over her mouth,  I  picked her up and
slowly walked to the window. I listened, waited, but there was nothing. Just
a bit of banter and laughing, and the crackle of the radio.
     As I  turned back, however, I  heard a  short, sharp metallic  dragging
sound.
     Then, for a split second, nothing.
     Then, as Kev's pewter  tankard  of pens  and pencils fell from the desk
and hit the bare floor, there was a resounding crash.
     The  noise went on as bits and  pieces scattered in  all directions. As
I'd turned, Kelly's coat must have caught on the sharp points of the pencils
and dragged the tankard off the table.
     I knew the noise was magnified twenty times in my head, but I also knew
they would have heard it.
     Kelly chose that moment to start to lose it,  but there was no time  to
worry about that. I  just left her where  she was, went to the doorway,  and
listened to the sound of car doors opening.
     Pulling the pistol from my  jeans  and checking chamber, I moved out of
the study. Three strides got  me across the hall  and into  the  kitchen.  I
closed the door behind me, took a couple of deep breaths, and waited.
     The front door opened; I  could hear both of them in the hallway. There
was a click, and light spilled under the kitchen door.
     Then footsteps, and I could  hear nervous  breathing on the other side,
and the jangle of keys on a belt.
     I  heard the study door opening.  Then a half-shouted,  half-whispered,
"Melvin, Melvin--in here!"
     "Yo!"
     I knew it was my time. I brought the pistol up into  the fire position,
put my hand on the doorknob and gently twisted. I moved into the hallway.
     Melvin  was  in the study doorway, his back toward me. He was young and
of  medium build. I took  a  couple  of big strides, grabbed him across  the
forehead with  my left  hand, yanked  his head back, and  rammed  the pistol
muzzle into his neck. In a very controlled voice that had nothing to do with
the way I was feeling, I said, "Drop your weapon, Melvin.
     Don't fuck around with me. Drop it now."
     Melvin's arm  came  down to his  side  and  he let the gun fall to  the
floor.
     I couldn't see if the other one had his pistol out or not. It was still
dark in the study. Their flashlight was no help.
     Melvin and I blocked out most of the  hallway  light. I was hoping that
he'd already reholstered, because  part  of their training  would  be not to
scare kids.  As far as he  was concerned, Kelly had been just a kid there on
her own.
     Melvin and  I  were in  the doorway. I  shouted,  "Put  the lights  on,
Kelly--do it now!"
     Nothing happened.
     "Kelly, turn  the lights on." I heard small footsteps coming toward us.
There was a click, and the lights came on.
     "Now wait there." I could see her eyes were swollen and red.
     Inside the  room  stood Michelin Man.  He must have weighed  around 250
pounds, and by the  looks of him, he had only a couple of years to go before
retirement. He was holstered, but his hand was down by his pistol.
     I said, "Don't do it! Tell him, Melvin." I prodded his neck.
     Melvin went, "I'm fucked, Ron."
     "Ron, don't start  messing around. This is  not  the one to  do it for.
It's not worth it, not just for this."
     I could see  that Ron was on top of it. He was thinking about his wife,
his mortgage, and the chances of ever seeing another bag of doughnuts.
     Melvin's  radio  sparked up. Control  snapped,  "Unit  Sixty-two,  Unit
Sixty-two.  Do you copy?" It sounded like  a demand, not a  request. It must
have been great to be married to her.
     "That's you, isn't it, Melvin?" I said.
     "Yes, sir, that's us."
     "Melvin, tell them you're OK." I jabbed the pistol a little harder into
his neck to underline the point.
     "The safety catch  is off, Melvin.  I've got my finger  on the trigger.
Just tell them everything's OK.. It ain't worth it, mate."
     Ron blurted, "I'll do it."
     Another demand: "Unit Sixty-two, respond."
     I said, "Put your right hand up and answer with your left.
     Kelly, be very quiet, OK?"
     She nodded. Ron pressed his radio.
     "Hello, Control. We've checked. Everything's fine."
     "Roger, Unit Sixty-two, your report timed at twenty-two thirteen."
     Ron clicked off.
     Kelly immediately went back into  crying mode and sank to the  floor. I
was stuck in the doorway with a  pistol to Melvin's neck, and Ron, who still
had a weapon in his holster, was facing me from the middle of the room.
     "When all's said and done, Ron,  if you don't play  the game,  Melvin's
going to die--and then you're going to die.
     Do you understand me?"
     Ron nodded.
     "OK, Ron, let's see you turn around."
     He did.
     "Get on your knees."
     He  did.  He was about four feet  from Kelly, but as long as she stayed
still she wasn't in the line of fire.
     Melvin was sweating big-time. My  hand was  slipping  on his  forehead.
There were even droplets running down the top-slide. His shirt was  so wet I
could make out the shape of his body armor underneath.
     I said,  "With your left hand, Ron, I want you to lift out your pistol.
Very slow, and use just your thumb and forefinger.
     Then I want you to move it to your left-hand side and drop it.
     Do you understand me, Ron?"
     Ron nodded.
     I said, "Tell him, Melvin, tell him not to fuck around."
     "Listen to the man, Ron."
     Ron  gently removed  his pistol from its holster and dropped it on  the
floor.
     "What  I want you  to do now, with your left hand,  is get hold of your
handcuffs, and I want you to drop them just behind you. Understand?"
     Ron complied. I turned my  attention  to  Melvin, who  was  starting to
tremble. I spoke quietly in his ear.
     "Don't worry about  it, you're going to live. You'll be talking to your
grandchildren about this. Just do exactly what I say. Understand?"
     He nodded.
     I turned to Ron and said, "Now lie down, Ron. Facedown on the floor."
     Ron spreadeagled himself and was now  under  control. I said, "What I'm
going to do next, Melvin, is take one step back, and this pistol is going to
leave your neck--but it's still going to be pointing at  your head, so don't
get any ideas.
     Once  I've stepped back, I'm  then going to tell you  to kneel down--do
you understand me?"
     He nodded,  and I  took a  swift step  backward. I wanted  to be out of
arm's reach from him right away; I didn't want him doing some kind of heroic
pirouette to grab the gun or knock it out of the way.
     "OK, kneel down, then lie down. Just  like Ron. Now put your hand  next
to Ron's."
     I now had both of them lying facedown, forearms together.
     I moved behind them, picked up the handcuffs, and with the pistol stuck
in  Melvin's ear, I locked  his  left  wrist  to  Ron's  right. I  then took
Melvin's handcuffs from  their holster, stepped back, and said, "I want  you
to  arch your bodies and move your free hands around so  they're together as
well. Both understand me? Believe me, boys, I want to get this over and done
with; I just want out of here."
     I finished the  job. They weren't going anywhere.  I took their wallets
and threw them into  the bag. I took Melvin's radio and kept it with me, and
took the battery out of Ron's and threw it into the bag. At the same time, I
grabbed the roll of gaffer tape. I  started  with their legs, then used  the
tape to bind their heads together as well. I  put a final strip around their
necks, and  another around their mouths. I checked  that both were breathing
through their noses, then dragged them into the hallway--no small job, but I
didn't want them to see what I was going to do next.
     I looked at Kelly, pressed against the study wall. She looked pathetic.
This must have been terrible for her.  She'd been looking forward so much to
coming home,  only  to  find it wasn't the  place she'd  been  expecting. It
wasn't only that her family was missing; everything that was familiar to her
was drenched in chemicals, shoved to one side, or simply not there.
     I heard  myself saying, "Why don't you go and see  if your teddies  are
there."
     She turned and ran. I heard her rattling up the now uncarpeted stairs.
     I went into  the  study, crouched down by the baseboard, and,  at last,
was able to  open the  gun box.  There was  nothing inside but a lone floppy
disk.
     I  put the  chair back  by the desk and lifted up the PC. I soon had it
working.  There  was  no  password  protection,  probably  deliberately.  If
anything happened  to Kev, he'd want the whole world to read what was on the
disk.
     I clicked open various files but found nothing interesting.
     Then  I  found one called Flavius; I knew I'd hit pay  dirt. It was the
code name of the Gibraltar operation.
     I started reading. Kev had found out pretty much  what Big  Al had told
me--that  PIRA's  connection  with the  cartels  originated when  it started
running drugs for the Colombians up through  North Africa and into Gibraltar
for distribution in Spain and the rest of Europe. PIRA was good at  the job,
and the cartels paid well.
     After  a while, PIRA had also begun to use the drug trade to raise some
of its  own  money, funds  collected  by Noraid  in the  USA.  Big sums were
involved; Kev's figures showed  that Sinn Fein had been  netting more than $
1,000,000 a year.
     These donations had been  invested in narcotics, transported to Europe,
and then bartered for arms and explosives in the old Eastern-bloc countries.
It was a business marriage  made in  heaven; PIRA had the  drugs,  the  East
Europeans  had the  weapons. The  downfall of the USSR  and the  rise of the
Russian mafia couldn't have been better timed.
     I had to get back  into work mode. I couldn't just sit there reading. I
was in a house with two policemen and one pissed-off little girl.  I ejected
the floppy disk and put it in my coat pocket.
     The controller from hell came back on the net.
     "Unit Sixty-two, do you copy?"
     Shit.
     I went into the hall.
     "Ron, time to speak up."
     Ron looked at me, and I knew he was going to fuck with me. His face was
a picture of defiance.  I moved over  to them and pulled the tape off  their
mouths. Ron was the first to talk:
     "You answer it, because we can't. You won't kill us, not for that."
     Control went up an octave.
     "Unit Sixty-two!"
     Ron had a point.
     "Kelly! Kelly! Where are you?"
     "Coming--I just found Ricky."
     I  stepped back over  my  two new friends toward Kelly, who was  coming
down the stairs. There was no time to be sympathetic or nice.
     "Get your coat and shoes on quick!"
     I got all the stuff together, put my running shoes on, and checked that
Ron and  Melvin  weren't choking  to death on  the  gaffer tape. Both looked
quite happy with themselves but were still thinking of a good excuse for why
they were in this state in the first place.
     We  left the same way  we'd come. I was gripping Kelly's  hand, more or
less dragging her along,  keeping an eagle eye on  Jenny and Ricky. I didn't
want the neighbors hearing screams for lost teddies.
     As we drove, bursts of light from the streetlamps strobed into the back
of  the car, and I  could see Kelly in  the rearview mirror. She was looking
miserable, her eyes puffy and wet.
     She had every  right to  be sad. She was  bright enough to realize that
this was probably the last time she'd ever be here.
     This wasn't her home anymore. Now she was the same as me.
     Neither of us had one. I hit the Dulles Airport access road and headed
for economy parking. I allowed myself a wry smile; if this kept up, it would
soon be full of my stolen cars. I could hear the light patter of rain on the
roof as we parked.
     Ron and  Melvin  might  have made  a connection between  me and the car
because of the drive-by. If they were back in circulation by now, they might
be able to track us down.
     There was not  a lot I could do about it  but just  sit  tight and hope
that the mass of cars and the rain would conceal us, because it was far  too
early for a child to  be moving around an airport  with  an  adult man  with
scabs on his face.
     I  turned around in the seat  and said,  "Are you all right, Kelly? I'm
sorry I had to shout, but it was really important to get out quick."
     She was looking down at one of the teddies, picking its fur, pouting.
     I  said, "You're not a bad girl and I'm sorry that I  told you  off.  I
didn't really mean it, I was just getting excited."
     She nodded slowly, still playing with her furry friend.
     "Do you want to come to England?"
     She looked up. She didn't say anything, but I took it as a yes.
     "That's good, because I would like you to come, too.
     You've  been a really good girl, you always do what I  say. Do you want
to help me again?"
     She shrugged.  I leaned over  and picked  up the other teddy and rubbed
its face against her cheek.
     "We'll get Jenny and Ricky to help me as well. How about that?"
     She gave a reluctant nod.
     "First of all, we've got to sort out the bag."
     I got into the backseat and put the duffel between us, opening it up.
     "What do you think we should take out then?"
     I knew exactly what we  were going to take out: the blanket and washing
kit, because  they were the  only  things I needed now. I said, "What do you
reckon? Is that all?" She nodded and agreed as if she'd packed it herself. 
I put everything else into the trunk. The rain was coming down more heavily.
I sat with her again and pulled out the blanket.
     "We have to wait here for the next couple of hours.
     It's too  early to go to the  airport yet.  You can  take a nap  if you
like."
     I folded up the bag and made a pillow.
     "There, that's better--cuddle Jenny and Ricky."
     She looked at me and smiled. We were mates again.
     "Are you going away again. Nick?"
     For once I was staying put.
     "No, I'm going to  do some work. You just  go  to sleep. I'm  not going
anywhere." I got out and sat in the  front  again. I rested the laptop on my
knees and lifted the  screen. I checked that  the keys were in the  ignition
and I could  easily grab the steering wheel. I had to  be ready to  move  at
once if we got spotted.
     I pressed  the  On switch, and as  the screen lit  up  it  cast a  glow
through the inside of the car. I inserted Kev's floppy disk. I was desperate
to read the rest of his report, but first I  downloaded everything  onto the
laptop. As I waited, I said quietly, "Kelly?" There was no reply. The gentle
rhythm of the rain had done its job.
     I began reading where I'd left off. Gibraltar had always  been a center
for international drug trafficking, money laundering, and smuggling, but  it
seemed that in 1987, Spain not only still wanted Gib back,  it  also  wanted
the Brits  to clean it  up. Thatcher's  government told the Gibraltarians to
sort it  out, but the  high-powered speedboats  still  ran drugs  from North
Africa. The Brits threatened direct control of the colony if the trafficking
didn't stop  and,  at  the  same  time, ordered  a highly illegal  operation
against  police and government  officials they suspected of involvement. The
boys taking the hush money got the hint and  suddenly ceased doing  business
with PIRA and everyone else.
     My eyes were racing ahead of my brain.
     The  closure of  the Gibraltar route was  all well and good for the war
against  corruption, but the Colombians were very  pissed off. A major trade
artery had been clamped,  and  they wanted it  reopened. According to  Kev's
findings,  they'd  decided  a  show  of strength was  required.  They wanted
Gibraltar  bombed  as a warning that  the local  officials should  start  co
operating again, and they ordered PIRA to carry it out.  PIRA had a problem
with this. It wanted the route re opened as much as the Colombians did, but,
after the debacle of Enniskillen, it couldn't run the risk of killing non-UK
civilians  and  invoking even  greater  international condemnation. PIRA had
refused to do it.
     From evidence that Kev had gathered,  the cartels' reply  to  PIRA  was
blunt: either you bomb Gibraltar or we shift our  drug business to the other
side the Protestant UVF. For PIRA, not a good day out.
     PIRA's  head  honchos  came up  with a solution,  and  as I read  on, I
couldn't help but admire it.
     "Mad  Danny"  McCann  had already been kicked out of PIRA and was  rein
stated against Gerry Adams's wishes. Mairead Farrell, after the death of her
boyfriend, had become too fanatical for her own good "a bit of a social hand
grenade," Simmonds had said other. PIRA's plan was to  send to Gibraltar two
players they'd be happy to see the back  of,  together with Sean Savage, who
had the misfortune to be part of the same Active Service Unit.
     The team had the technology and Semtex for the bomb but  were told that
the explosives were to stay behind in Spain until it had finished its recons
and rehearsals. The team was told to take it in once the blocking car was in
position, to guarantee the correct placement of the bomb. PIRA then gave the
three  players  bad passports and leaked information to London. They  wanted
the Brits to react and stop the bombing so that when the three were arrested
they could claim to the cartels that they'd given it their best shot.
     We'd  been duly told about the  ASU,  but we'd also  been briefed  that
there would  be no blocking  car and  that the  bomb would be detonated by a
handheld device.  These last two pieces of  intelligence meant  that McCann,
Farrell, and Savage had never stood a chance. They were dead from the moment
we thought the bomb was in position and armed, because at some  stage one of
them was bound to make a hand movement that would be construed as an attempt
to detonate the device.
     I certainly wouldn't  have taken the chance that  Savage was only going
for  his  packet of mints, and Euan obviously didn't when  he  initiated the
contact with McCann and Farrell. In Pat's immortal words: Better to be tried
by twelve than carried by six.
     A  dialogue  box came up on  the screen  telling me that I was  running
short of power  and needed to plug into another power source. Fuck! I wanted
to read more.  I got back to the screen and read  as fast as  I could to get
the general idea.
     Even  though there hadn't  been a bomb, the  cartels had accepted  that
their Irish lackies were playing ball. After all, three of their people had
been killed  in the  process.  PIRA kept the trade with the Colombians, even
though, as  Big Al had said, it  was thereafter routed through South Africa,
then Spain.
     PIRA  was in seventh heaven. It  had gotten  rid of two trouble makers,
not quite in the  way that  it  had  intended,  but three martyrs  had  been
created,  with the result that  PIRA's cause at home  was  strengthened, and
even more dollars rolled into the coffers.
     It was only the Brits who appeared to have been left with  egg on their
faces, but even so, no matter how much the inter national community publicly
condemned  the  shootings, in secret most heads of  state admired Thatcher's
muscular stand against terrorism.
     Fuck it. Another box came up and told me to plug into an external power
source. I switched off the laptop and packed it away, full of frustration. I
wanted to know more. At the same time I was on a high. If we made it back to
the UK with this stuff, I'd have cracked it with Simmonds.
     It was 3:30 a.m. There was nothing to do but wait for three hours or so
until  the  first  wave of  aircraft started to arrive and depart,  creating
enough activity for us to blend in.
     I let  the  backrest down  a bit  and  tried  to  get my  neck  into  a
comfortable position,  but  I couldn't relax. My mind  was racing. The whole
operation in  Gibraltar had  been  a setup  so that PIRA  and the Colombians
could keep making money.
     That  was one  thing,  but where did  Kev  and I fit into the scheme of
things? I lay there and listened to the patter of rain.
     For  Euan and me it had all started on March 3, less than a week before
the  shootings. We were both  on different jobs  and had got lifted off  and
sent to Lisbum, HQ of  the British army in Northern Ireland.  From  there it
was a quick move by Puma to Stirling Lines in Hereford, England, the home of
the Special Air Service.
     We were taken straight to regimental headquarters, and the moment I saw
the china cups and cookies outside the  briefing room I knew that  something
big was in the offing.  Last time that had happened, the  prime minister had
been here.
     The room was in  semidarkness and packed. There  was a large screen  at
the back of a stage and tiered seats so that everyone got a good view.
     We were looking  for somewhere to sit when  I heard,  "Hey,  over here,
dick spot Kev and Slack Pat were sitting  drinking tea. With them were  the
other  two members of their four-man team, Geoff and  Steve. All were from A
Squadron, doing their six months on the counterterrorist team.
     Euan turned to Kev and said, "Know what this job is about?"
     "We're off to Gib, mate. PIRA's planning a bomb."
     The commanding officer got up on the stage and the room fell silent.
     "Two problems," he said.
     "Number  one, a  shortage of time.  You  leave  immediately  after this
briefing.  Number  two,  shortage  of  solid  intelligence.  However,  Joint
Operations Committee wants the Regiment to  deploy.  You  will  get  as much
information as we know now, and as  it comes in  during your flight and once
on the ground."
     I thought. What the fuck are Euan and I doing here? Surely it would  be
illegal for us to work outside Northern Ireland?  I kept my mouth shut; if I
started querying the decision, they might send me back and I'd miss out.
     I looked around and saw members of RHQ, the operations officer, and the
world's supply of intelligence corps.  The final member of  the team was  an
ammunitions technical  officer, a bomb disposal expert  on attachment to the
counter-terrorism team.
     Someone  I had never seen  before moved toward the  stage, a tea cup in
one  hand, a cookie  in the other.  He stood to the right-hand  side of  the
stage by the lectern. There was an overnight bag by his feet.
     "My name is  Simmonds, and I  run the Northern  Ireland  desk  for  the
intelligence service from London. The people behind you are a mix of service
and military intelligence officers.
     First, a very brief outline of the events that have brought us all here
today."
     Judging  by the bag,  it  looked as if he would  be coming with us. The
lights were dimmed, and a slide projector lit the screen behind him.
     "Last year," he said, "we learned that a PIRA  team had based itself in
southern Spain. We intercepted mail going to the homes of known players from
Spain and found a postcard from Sean Savage in the Costa del Sol."
     A slide came up on the screen.
     "Our Sean," Simmonds  said with a half smile, "told  Mummy and Daddy he
was working abroad. It rang  a few alarm bells when we read it, because the
work young Savage is best at is bomb making."
     Was he making a joke? No, he didn't look the sort.
     "Then in November two men went through Madrid airport on their way from
Malaga to Dublin. They  carried  Irish passports, and in a routine check the
Spanish  sent  the  details  to  Madrid,  who,  in  turn,  passed them  with
photographs to London. It turned out that both passports were false."
     I thought to myself. Stupid timing by them, really. Terrorist incidents
in  Northern  Ireland tended  to  decrease in the  summer  months  when PIRA
members took their wives  and  kids to the  Mediterranean for a fortnight of
sun  and   sand.  The   funny   thing  was   that   the  RUC--Royal   Ulster
Constabulary-also took their  vacations in the same  places, and  they'd all
bump into each other in the bars.  These two characters had drawn  attention
to themselves; if they'd passed  through Malaga airport  during the  tourist
season, they might have gotten away with it.
     It turned out that one of the passport  holders was Sean Savage, but it
was the identity of the second man that had made everybody concerned.
     Simmonds showed his next slide.
     "Daniel Martin McCann.
     I'm  sure you know  more about him than I do." He gave a no-fucking-way
sort of smile.
     "Mad Danny" had really earned his name. Linked  to twenty-six killings,
he had been lifted often, but had been put away for only two years.
     To British  intelligence, Simmonds said, the  combination of McCann and
Savage on the Costa del Sol could  mean only  one of two things: either PIRA
was going  to attack a British target on the Spanish mainland,  or there was
going to be an attack on Gibraltar.
     "One thing's for sure," he said.
     "They weren't there to top off their suntans."
     At last there was a round of laughter. I could see Simmonds liked that,
as if he'd practiced  his one-liners so the  timing was  just right. Despite
that, I was warming to the man.
     It  wasn't  that  often  you got people  making  jokes at a briefing as
important as this one.
     The slide changed again to  a street map of  Gibraltar. I was listening
to Simmonds but  at  the same time thinking of my infantry posting there in
the 1970s. I'd had a whale of a time.
     "Gibraltar is a soft target," Simmonds said.
     "There  are  several  potential  locations  for  a  bomb, such  as  the
Governor's residence or the law  courts, but our threat  assessment  is that
the  most likely target will be  the garrison regiment, the  Royal Anglians.
Every  Tuesday  morning  the band of  the First  Battalion parades  for  the
changing of the guard ceremony. We think the most likely site for  a bomb is
a square that the band marches into after the parade. A bomb could easily be
concealed in a car there."
     He  might have  added that from a bomber's point of view it would be  a
near-perfect location. Because  of the  confined area,  the  blast  would be
tamped and therefore more effective.
     "Following this assessment we stopped the ceremony on  December 11. The
local  media   reported   that  the   Governor's  guardhouse  needed  urgent
redecoration" slight smile  "In fact, we needed  time while we gathered more
intelligence to stop it needing rebuilding."
     Not as good as his last one, but there were still a few subdued laughs.
     "The  local police were  then  reinforced by plainclothes officers from
the  UK,  and  their  surveillance paid off.  When  the  ceremony resumed on
February 23,  a woman, ostensibly taking a vacation  on  the  Costa del Sol,
made  a trip  to the Rock  and  photographed  the parade.  She  was covertly
checked and was found to be traveling on a stolen Irish passport.
     "The  following week  she  was  there again, only this time she  tagged
along  behind  the  bandsmen  as  they  marched   to  the  square.  Even  my
shortsighted  mother-in-law could have worked out that  she was doing  recon
for the arrival of an Active Service Unit."
     There was loud laughter. He'd done it  again. I  wasn't  too sure if we
were all laughing at his jokes or at the fact that he  kept on telling them.
Who  the fuck  was this man?  This should have been  one of the most serious
briefings  ever. Either he just didn't give  a fuck or he was so powerful no
one was going to say a word against  him. Whatever, I could already tell his
presence in Gibraltar would be a real bonus.
     Simmonds stopped smiling.
     "Our intelligence tells  us that the  bombing is to take place sometime
this week. However, there is no sign that either McCann or Savage is getting
ready to leave Belfast." He wasn't wrong. I had seen both of them, stinking
drunk, outside a  bar on the  Falls  Road just the night before. They didn't
look that ready to me. It should take them quite a while to prepare for this
one or maybe  this was part of the preparation,  having their last night out
before work started.
     "This is where we have a few problems," he went on.  He was working now
without  his notes.  Did that mean  no more one-liners? Certainly, there was
more of an edge to his voice.
     "What are we to do with  these people? If we try to move in on them too
early, that would only  leave  other  PIRA teams  free to go ahead  with the
bombing. In any case, if the ASU  travels through Malaga airport and remains
on Spanish territory  until the last minute, there is no  guarantee that the
Spanish courts will hand them over, not only because of the dispute with the
UK on the question of whom Gibraltar belongs to but because the case against
them could only be based on conspiracy, which is pretty flimsy.
     "So,  gentlemen, we  must arrest  them  in  Gibraltar." The screen went
blank; there was only the light from the lectern shining on his face.
     "And this throws up three options. The first is to arrest  them as they
cross the border from Spain.
     Easier said than  done; there's  no guarantee we'll  know what kind  of
vehicle  they're in. There would be only  about ten  to  fifteen  seconds in
which to make a positive  identification  and  effect an arrest  not an easy
thing to do, especially if they are sitting in a car and probably armed.
     "The  second option is  to arrest the team members  once they're in the
area of the  square, but again this depends on  advance warning and positive
identification, and their all being together with the device. At the present
time, therefore,  we are going for  the third option, and  that's why we are
all here."
     He took a sip of his tea and asked for the lights to come back on.
     He looked around for each group as he talked.
     "The Security Service will place surveillance teams to trigger the PIRA
team  into Gibraltar. The two soldiers  who have  just arrived from Northern
Ireland" Euan caught my eye that was him and me  "must give positive IDs  on
the terrorists before the civil authorities  will hand over the operation to
the military.  You two will not, repeat,  not, conduct any arrest or contact
action. You understand the reasons why?
     The four men from your counterterrorist team  will make  a hard  arrest
only after they have planted the device.
     "Once arrested," Simmonds went on,  "they are  to be handed over to the
civil  authorities. Of  course, the normal protection  will be  given to the
team from any court appearance."
     He managed a smile.
     "I think that's enough, gentlemen."
     He looked at the commanding officer.
     "Francis, I understand  we fly to R.A.F  Lyneham in ten minutes to link
up with the Hercules?"
     Just over three hours later I was sitting in a C-130 with Euan, who was
busy worrying about a black mark on his  new sneakers. Kev  was checking the
weapon bundles and ammunition and, more important as far as I was concerned,
the medical packs. If I got dropped, I wanted fluid  put into me as  soon as
possible.
     We landed at about 11:30 p.m. on Thursday, March 3.
     Gibraltar was still  awake;  lights were on everywhere. We moved off to
the military area, where trucks were waiting with  our advance  party to get
us away quickly and without fuss.
     Our FOB--Field  Operations Base--was in HMS Rooke, the Royal Navy shore
base. We had requisitioned half a dozen rooms in the accommodation block and
turned them into living space, with our own cooking area and ops room. Wires
trailed everywhere, telephones were ringing,  signalers ran around  in track
suits or jeans, testing radios and satellite communications links.
     Over  the din Simmonds said,  "Intelligence  suggests there could be  a
third member of the team, probably its commander.
     Her  name is Mairead Farrell. We'll  have pictures within the hour, but
here's some background for you.  She's a particularly nasty  piece of  work:
middle class, thirty-one, ex-convent schoolgirl."
     He  grinned, then told us  more about her. She'd  served  ten  years in
prison  for  planting a bomb  in the Conway Hotel, Belfast, in  1976, but as
soon as she  was released she reported straight back to PIRA for duty. There
was a slight smile on his face  as he explained that her lover, unbelievably
named Brendan Burns, had blown himself up recently.
     The meeting broke up, and a signaler came  over and started handing out
street maps.  "They've already been spotted up by Intelligence," he said.
     As we started to look at their handiwork he went on.
     "The  main routes from the border  to the square are marked  in detail,
the rest of the town fairly  well,  and of  the outlying  areas,  just major
points."
     I looked at it. Fucking hell! There were about a hundred coordinates to
learn before the ASU came over the border.
     I didn't know what was tougher--the PIRA team or the homework.
     "Any questions, lads?"
     Kev said, "Yeah, three. Where do  we sleep, where's the toilet, and has
somebody got some coffee on?"
     In  the morning, we picked up our weapons and ammunition  and went onto
the range. The four on the counterterrorism team had their own  pistols. The
ones Euan and I  had were borrowed--our own were still in Derry. Not that it
mattered much; people think that blokes in the SAS are very particular about
their  weapons, but we aren't. So  long as you know that  when you pull  the
trigger it will  fire the first  time and the  rounds will  hit  the  target
you're aiming at, you're happy.
     Once at the range, people  did  their own  thing. The  other  four just
wanted to know that their mags were working OK and  that the pistols  had no
defects after being bundled up. We wanted to do the same,  but also  to find
out the  behavior of our new  weapons at  different ranges. After firing off
all the  mags in quick  succession to  make sure  everything worked, we then
fired at five,  ten,  fifteen,  twenty, and  twenty-five  yards. Good, slow,
aimed shots,  always aiming at the same point  and checking where the rounds
fell at each  range. That way  we  knew where to  aim at  fifteen yards, for
example, and  that was at the top  of the  target's torso.  Because  of  the
distance, quite a lot for  a pistol, the  rounds  would fall lower into  the
bottom of his chest and take him down. Every weapon is different, so it took
an hour to be confident.
     Once finished we didn't strip the weapons to clean them.
     Why  do  that when we knew they  worked  perfectly? We just got a brush
into the area that feeds the round into the barrel and got the carbon off.
     Next job was  getting on the ground  to learn  the spots system, at the
same time checking our radios and finding out if there were  any dead areas.
We were still  running around doing that  when, at 2 p.m."  Alpha came up on
the net.  "Hello, all stations, return to this location immediately."
     Simmonds was already in the briefing area when we arrived, looking like
a  man under pressure.  Like the rest of us, he'd  probably had very  little
sleep. There was two days'  growth on his chin, and he was having a bad hair
day. Something  was definitely  going  on; there was  a  lot more noise  and
bustle from the machines and men in the background. He had about twenty bits
of paper  in  his hand. The  intelligence boys  were giving him  more  as he
talked, and they  distributed  copies of the  rules of engagement to us. The
operation, I saw, was now called Flavius.
     "Just about an hour and a half ago," he said, "Savage and McCann passed
through Immigration at Malaga airport.
     They were on a flight from Paris. Farrell met them. We have no idea how
she got there. The team is  complete. There is  just one little problem--the
Spanish  lost them as they got into a taxi. Triggers are now being placed on
the  border crossing as a precaution. I  have no reason to  believe that the
attack will not take place as planned."
     He paused and looked at each of us in turn.
     "I've  just  become  aware of two very critical pieces  of information.
First, the players  will not be  using a blocking car  to  reserve a parking
space in  the target area. A blocking car would mean making two trips across
the border, and the  intelligence  is that they're  not prepared to take the
risk. The  PIRA vehicle, when it arrives,  should therefore be  perceived as
the real thing.
     "Second, the  detonation  of  the bomb will  be by  a  handheld  remote
control  initiation device: they want  to be sure that the  bomb goes off at
exactly the  right moment. Remember, gentlemen, any one of the team,  or all
of them, could be in possession of that device. That bomb must not detonate.
     There could be hundreds of lives at risk."
     I was awoken  by the  noise  of engines  in  reverse  and wheels on the
tarmac. It was just after  6 a.m. I had been asleep for three hours. It  was
still dark; the rain had eased quite a bit. I leaned over to the back.
     "Kelly, Kelly,  time to wake  up." As I  shook her  there was a  gentle
moan. She sat up, rubbing her eyes.
     With the cuff of my  coat  I started to tidy her up. I didn't want  her
walking into the airport looking wrecked. I wanted us as spruce and happy as
Donny and Marie Osmond on Prozac.  We got out of the car with the bag and I
locked  up, after checking  inside to make  sure that  there wasn't anything
attractive to see. The  last thing I needed now  was a parking lot attendant
taking an  interest in my lock-picking kit. We walked  over to the  bus stop
and waited for the shuttle to take us to departures.
     The  terminal looked just like any airport at that time of the morning.
The check-in desks were already quite busy with  business fliers.  A handful
of people, mostly  student  types, looked as though  they  were  waiting for
flights  that  they'd  gotten there much too  early for. Cleaners with floor
waxers trudged across the tiled floors like zombies.
     I picked up a free airport  magazine from  the  rack at the  top of the
escalator.  Looking  at the  flight guide, I  saw  that the  first  possible
departure to the UK. was at just after five o'clock in the afternoon. It was
going to be a long wait.
     I looked  at Kelly; we both could do with  a decent wash. We  went down
the escalator to  the  international arrivals area on the lower level. I put
some money in a machine  and got a  couple of travel kits to  supplement our
washing kit and went into one of the handicap-accessible toilets.
     I shaved  as Kelly washed her face. I  scraped  the dirt  off her boots
with  toilet paper and generally cleaned her up, combed her hair, and put it
in an  elastic band  at the  back so it didn't look so greasy. After half an
hour we were looking fairly  respectable  The scabs on my face were healing.
No Prozac, but we'd pass muster.
     I picked up the bag.
     "You ready?"
     "Are we going to England now?"
     "Just one thing left to do. Follow me." I pulled at the stubby ponytail
that made her look like a four-foot-tall cheerleader.
     She acted annoyed, but I could tell she liked the attention.
     We  went  back  up  the  escalator  and walked  around  the edge of the
terminal. I  pretended  to be  studying the aircraft out  on  the tarmac. In
fact, there were two quite different things I was looking for.
     "I need to mail something," I said, spotting the FedEx box.
     I used the credit card details on the  car rental agreement to fill out
the  mailing label. Fuck it--Big Al could pay for  a few things now that he
was rich.
     Kelly was watching every movement.
     "Who are you writing?"
     "I'm sending something to England in case we are stopped." I showed her
the floppy disk and backup disk.
     "Who are you sending it to?" She got more like her dad every day.
     "Don't be so nosy."
     I  put  them  in the  envelope,  sealed it, and  entered  the  delivery
details. In the past we'd used the FedEx system to send the Firm photos from
abroad that we'd taken of a target and developed in a hotel  room, or  other
highly sensitive material.
     It saved getting caught with them in our possession. Nowadays, however,
the system was obsolete; with digital cameras you can take pictures, plug in
your cellular mobile, dial up the UK, and transmit.
     We continued walking around the edge of the terminal. I found the power
outlet I was looking for at the  end  of a row of black plastic  seats where
two students were snoring. I pointed to the last two spaces.
     "Let's sit down here. I want to look at the laptop."
     I got it plugged in. Kelly decided she wanted something to eat.
     "Give me five minutes," I said.
     From what I'd read earlier, I understood Gibraltar was  a setup, but it
still didn't explain what Kev had to do with it. It soon became clearer.
     In the late 1980s the Bush administration had been under pressure  from
Thatcher  to  do  something about Noraid fundraising for PIRA. With  so many
millions of Irish American votes on the line, however, it was a tricky call.
A deal was struck: if the Brits could expose the fact that Noraid money  was
being  used to buy drugs,  it would help discredit  PIRA in the USA and Bush
could  then   take  action.  After  all,  who  would  complain  about  a  US
administration fighting the spread of dangerous narcotics?
     When the  British  intelligence  service started to  gather data  about
PIRA's  drug  connections with Gibraltar, it  seemed to present a  window of
opportunity. After the  events of  March 6, however, the  window was slammed
shut. Those votes were  too important.  By the early 1990s the US had a new
administration and the  UK  a  new prime minister. In Northern  Ireland, the
peace process began. The US was told  and  the message was delivered  at the
highest level that  unless  it  put  pressure on  PIRA to come to the  peace
table, the UK would  ex  pose what  was  happening to Noraid funds raised in
America.
     The failure to fight the drug war in its  own backyard, by a power that
preached so readily to others, would be a serious embarrassment.
     Another deal  was  sorted out. Clinton allowed Gerry Adams into the USA
in 1995, a move that was not only good for the Irish American vote but which
made Clinton look  like  the prince of peacemakers.  He also  appeared to be
snubbing John  Major's stand against PIRA, but the British didn't mind; they
knew  the  agenda. Behind closed doors,  Gerry Adams  was told that if  PIRA
didn't let the peace process  happen, the US would come down  on them like a
ton of steaming shit.
     A  cease  fire was  indeed declared. It seemed that the years of covert
talks that had  gone nowhere were finally at an end; it was now time to talk
for real. Clinton and the British government would be seen as peace brokers,
and PIRA would have a say in the way the deal was shaped.
     On February  12,  1996,  however,  a  massive bomb exploded at London's
newest business  center,  Canary  Wharf, killing two and causing hundreds of
millions of dollars of damage.
     The cease fire was broken. It was back to business as usual.
     But it didn't  end there. Kev  had also discovered  that  PIRA had been
trying to blackmail certain Gibraltarian officials,  with  some success.  It
seemed Gibraltar was still the key to  Europe.  Spain was far too much  of a
risk. They had also targeted some important personalities in the US  so they
could  continue to  operate their drug  business with  impunity. One  of the
victims was high up in the DEA. Kev's problem was, he didn't know who.
     I did; I had the photograph of his boss.
     And  now  I  knew  why  McGear,  Fernahan,  and  Macauley had  been  in
Gibraltar. Whoever the official was,  they'd been there to give him a  final
warning  and  to try  to  blackmail  him  with  the  shipment documents  and
photographs to get the routes open again.
     I had to get back to the UK. I had to see Simmonds.
     At  ten o'clock  we  went back  down  the  escalator  to  international
arrivals. I needed passports--British or American, I didn't  care. I scanned
the international  flights on  the monitor.  Chances were we were  going to
end up with American documents  rather  than British, purely because  of the
number of families streaming back from spring vacation.
     Just like before,  there  were  people on  both sides of  the railings,
waiting with their cameras and flowers. Kelly and  I sat  on  the PVC  seats
near the domestic carousels on the other side of the  international gates. I
had my arm around her as if I were cuddling her and chatting  away. In fact,
I was talking her through some of the finer points of theft.
     "Do you think you can do it?"
     We  sat and  watched the  first wave of domestic arrivals  come,  stand
around, then leave when they collected their luggage.
     I spotted a potential family.
     "That's the  sort of thing we're looking for, but  they're two boys." I
smiled.
     "You want to be a boy for the day?"
     "No way--boys stink!"
     I put my nose into my sweatshirt. I agreed.
     "OK, we'll wait."
     A flight arrived from Frankfurt; this time we struck gold.
     The parents  were late  thirties, the kids were about ten  or eleven, a
girl and  a  boy; the mother was carrying a clear plastic handbag with white
mesh  so  you  could check  everything was where it should  be.  I  couldn't
believe our luck.
     "See them?
     That's what we want. Let's go, shall we?"
     There was a slightly hesitant  "Yeahhh." She didn't sound too keen now.
Should I  let her do this? I  could stop it right now. As they walked toward
the rest rooms  I had to  make a  decision. Fuck it. Let's  carry on and get
this done.
     "She's going in with her daughter," I said.
     "Make  sure  no  body's behind  you. Remember, I'll  be  waiting."  We
followed casually. The husband had left with the boy,  perhaps  to visit one
of the vending machines or to wait for their bags.
     Mother  and daughter  went  in via the  ladies'  entrance, chatting and
giggling. The mother had the bag over her shoulder.
     We entered via  the  men's on  the right  of the  handicap toilets, and
immediately went into one of the large stalls.
     "I'll be in this one here, OK, Kelly?"
     "OK."
     "Remember what you have to do?"
     I got a big, positive nod.
     "Off you go then." I closed the door and held it in place.
     The stalls were large enough for a wheelchair to maneuver in.
     The slightest sound seemed to echo.  The floors were wet and smelled of
bleach. The time sheet on  the back of  the door showed the place  had  been
cleaned only fifteen minutes ago.
     My heart was pumping so hard I could feel it underneath my shirt; I was
even starting to hyperventilate. My whole future pivoted on the actions of a
seven-year-old girl.  She  had  to slip  her hand under the  stall, grab the
handbag, put  it under her coat,  and  walk  away without looking back.  Not
difficult just majorly flawed. But without  passports we couldn't get out of
the  country; it was as  simple as that. I had  decided  there was no way  I
could go back to Big Al's. Besides the risk of the journey, I couldn't trust
him,  because I had no  idea what he'd been doing since I  left him.  It was
just too fucking complicated. We needed to get out of this country, and now.
     I  was  shaken from my thoughts by  a sudden knock, knock, knock and  a
nervous "Nickkk!"
     I opened the door quickly, didn't even look, and in she ran.
     I  closed and  locked  it, picked her up, and carried her  over  to the
toilet.
     I put the lid  down  and we sat together. I smiled and whispered, "Well
done!" She looked both excited and scared. I was just scared, because I knew
that at any minute all hell would break loose.
     And  then  it came.  The  mother was  running  out  of  the rest  room,
shouting, "My bag!  My bag's  been stolen! Where's Louise? Louise!"  Louise
came out and started to cry.
     "Oh, Mom, what's happened?"
     I could hear both of them running off, yelling. Now was not the time to
get out. People would be looking; attention would be focused. Let's just sit
tight and look at the passports.
     We'd just robbed Mrs.  Sarah Glazar and  family.  Fine, except that Mr.
Glazar didn't look at all like Mr. Stone. Never  mind, I  could do something
about  that later on. But the  names of  both kids were  entered  on each of
their parents' passports, and that was a problem.
     I pulled  out the  cash and her  reading glasses. The toilet tank was a
sealed unit behind  the  wall. There was nowhere to hide the bag. I go