The Marching Season

Gerry Adams. He spent ten years in the Maze on a
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    weapons charge. The IRA was ready to put a bullet in the back of her head, but Gerry Adams intervened and saved her life."
    "I assume Kathleen gave the IRA a description of Stella?"
    "Tall, attractive, black hair, gray eyes, good cheekbones, square jawline. Unfortunately, that's all the IRA has to work with. Stella was a real pro and damned careful. She never met Kathleen in a place with Sinn Fein surveillance cameras."
    "What does the IRA know about the Ulster Freedom Brigade?"
    "Fuck all," Maguire said. "But I'll tell you this. The IRA isn't going to sit on its hands forever. If the security forces don't get this thing under control, and soon, this fucking place is going to blow sky high."
    Michael dropped Maguire at the intersection of Divis Street and the Millfield Road. He climbed out and melted back into the Falls without looking back. Michael drove the few blocks to the Europa and left the car with the valet. Maguire hadn't given him much, but it was a start. The Ulster Freedom Brigade appeared to have a sophisticated intelligence apparatus, and one of their operatives was a tall woman with black hair and gray eyes. He also felt very good about himself; after a long time on the sidelines he had gone into the field and carried off a successful clandestine meeting with an agent. He was anxious to get back to London so he could get the information to Headquarters.
    It was late, but he was hungry and too edgy to stay in his hotel room. The girl at the reception desk sent him to a restaurant called Arthur's, just off Great Victoria Street. He sat at a small table near the door with his guidebooks for protection. He ate Irish beef and potatoes smothered in cream and cheese, washed
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    down by a half bottle of decent claret. It was eleven o'clock when he stepped outside again. A cold wind was howling through the city center.
    He walked north along Great Victoria Street, toward the Europa. Ahead of him was a girl, clattering toward him along the pavement, hands pushed deeply into the pockets of a black leather coat, a handbag over her shoulder. He had seen her somewhere in the Europa—in the bar, maybe, or pushing a cleaning cart down a hall. She looked straight ahead. The Belfast stare, he thought. No one in this town ever seemed to look at anyone, least of all on the empty pavements of city center late at night.
    When the girl was about twenty feet in front of him, she appeared to stumble over a grate in the pavement. She fell heavily, spilling the contents of her handbag. Michael moved forward quickly and knelt beside her.
    "Are you all right?" he asked.
    "Yeah," the girl said. "Just a wee spill—nothing serious."
    She sat up and began picking up her things.
    "Let me help you," Michael said.
    "It's not necessary," she said. "I'll be fine."
    Michael heard a car accelerate on Great Victoria Street. He turned around and spotted a midsize Nissan speeding toward him, headlights doused. It was then that he felt something hard pressing against the small of his back.
    "Get in the fucking car, Mr. Osbourne," the girl said calmly, "or I'll put a bullet through your spine, so help me God."
    The car skidded to a halt next to the curb, and the rear door flew open. Seated in the back were two men. Both wore balaclavas. One of them jumped out, pushed Michael into the car, and then climbed in next to him. The car accelerated rapidly, leaving the girl behind.
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    When they were clear of the city center, the two men forced Michael to the floor and began beating him with their fists and the butts of their guns. He wrapped his arms around his head and face, trying to shield himself from the blows, but it was no good. He saw flashing lights, heard ringing in his ears, and blacked out.
    18
    COUNTY ARMAGH, NORTHERN IRELAND
    Michael came awake suddenly. He had no idea how long he had been unconscious. They had moved him into the trunk of the car. He opened his eyes but saw nothing but blackness; they had placed a sack of black cloth over his head. He closed his eyes again and took stock of his injuries. The men who had assaulted him were not the kind of professionals who could beat a man half to death without leaving a mark. Michael's face felt bruised and swollen, and he could taste dried blood around his mouth. He couldn't breathe through his nose, and his skull hurt in a dozen different places. Several ribs were broken, so even a