The Marching Season

Loyalism in his blood. His great-grandfather had earned his fortune in linen during the industrial boom in Belfast in the nineteenth century and built a large estate in the Forthriver Valley overlooking the slums of West Belfast. In 1912, when the original Ulster Volunteer Force formed up to fight Irish Home Rule,
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    Morris's ancestor allowed guns and supplies to be hidden in the stables and wooded gardens of the estate.
    Morris had no financial concerns as a young man—his greatgrandfather's fortune provided him with a comfortable income— and he had planned a career in academia after graduating from Cambridge. But the Troubles got its hooks into him, the way it had so many men of his generation on both sides of Ulster's religious divide, and he turned to violence instead. He joined the Ulster Volunteer Force and spent five years in the Maze prison for bombing a Catholic pub on the Broadway. In prison he had decided to turn away from the gun and the bomb and campaign for peace.
    Now, there was little about his demeanor to suggest that Ian Morris had ever been a part of Northern Ireland's terrorist underworld. His home in the Castlereagh section of East Belfast was a sanctuary of books. He spoke Latin, Greek, and Irish—unusual for a Protestant, since most considered Irish the language of Catholics. As he drove along the Castlereagh Road through the steady rain, Mozart's Piano Concerto in D minor, performed by Alfred Brendel, played softly from the Vauxhall's sound system.
    He turned into May Street and passed Belfast City Hall at Donegall Square.
    At Brunswick Street a van in front of him appeared to stall.
    Morris gave a short, polite beep of his horn, but the van remained stationary. He had a staff meeting at nine and he was running late. He pressed the horn a second time, but the van still did not move.
    Morris shut off the Mozart. Ahead of him he saw the offside door open and a leather-jacketed man emerge. Morris let down his window, but the man in the leather jacket stepped directly in front of the Vauxhall and withdrew a large-caliber pistol.
    104 Daniel Silva
    Shortly before noon the newsroom of the Belfast Telegraph was in bedlam. The staff of Northern Ireland's most important newspaper was putting together extensive coverage of the assassination of Ian Morris: a main story, a sidebar on Morris's career with the Ulster Unionist Party and the UVF, and an analysis of the state of the peace process. All that was missing was a claim of responsibility.
    At 12:05 P.M. a telephone on the news desk rattled. A junior news editor called Clarke answered it. "Telegraph newsroom," Clarke shouted over the din.
    "Pay attention, because I'm only going to say this once," the caller said. Male, calm, authoritative, Clarke noted. "This is a representative of the Ulster Freedom Brigade. A Brigade officer, under orders from the Brigade military council, carried out the assassination of Ian Morris earlier today. The Ulster Unionists have betrayed the Protestant people of Northern Ireland by supporting the Good Friday accords. The Ulster Freedom Brigade will continue its campaign until the Good Friday agreement is nullified." The caller paused, then said, "Did you get that?"
    "Got it."
    "Good," the voice said, and the line went dead.
    Clarke stood at his desk and shouted, "We have a claim for Ian MorrisI"
    "Who is it?" came a shout from somewhere in the newsroom.
    "Ulster Freedom Brigade," Clarke said. "My God, it's Prods killing Prods."
    12
    SHELTER ISLAND, NEW YORK
    Elizabeth met Michael outside the British Airways terminal at Kennedy Airport. His body ached from travel—three very long flights in three days—and for the first time in many weeks he could feel the pulling of the scar tissue in his chest. His mouth was sour from too many cigarettes and too much airline coffee. When Elizabeth flung her arms about his body, he gave her only a brief kiss below her ear. He was really too tired to drive, but he feared inactivity more. He placed his bag into the rear storage compartment, next to a half-dozen packages of diapers and a case of Similac, and climbed behind the wheel.
    "You look like you got some sun, Michael," Elizabeth said, as Michael entered the Van Wyck Expressway. Michael switched on the radio, turning the dial from Elizabeth's adult contemporary rock station to WCBS, so he could listen to the traffic updates. "Must have been quite a warm spell in London while you were there."
    106 Daniel