The Marching Season

shallow breath caused excruciating pain. His abdomen ached, and his groin was swollen.
    Because of the hood, the rest of Michael's senses were suddenly alive. He could hear everything taking place in the car: the groan of springs in the seats, the music on the car radio, the hard edges of spoken Gaelic. They could have been talking about the
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    weather or where they planned to dump his body, and Michael wouldn't have known the difference.
    For several minutes the car traveled at speed over a smooth road. Michael knew it was raining, because he could feel the hiss of wet asphalt beneath him. After a while—twenty minutes, Michael guessed—the car made a 90-degree turn. Their speed decreased, and the surface of the road deteriorated. The terrain turned hilly. Every pothole, every bend in the road, every incline sent waves of pain from his scalp to his groin. Michael tried to think about something, anything, besides the pain.
    He thought about Elizabeth, about home. It would be early evening in New York. She was probably giving the children one last bottle before bed. For an instant he felt like a complete idiot that he had traded an idyllic life with Elizabeth for a kidnapping and beating in Northern Ireland. But it was defeatist, so he drove it from his mind.
    For the first time in many years, Michael thought of his mother. He supposed it was because at least part of him suspected he might not make it out of Northern Ireland alive. His memories of her were more like those of an old lover than of a mother: afternoons in Roman cafes, strolls along Mediterranean beaches, dinners in Grecian tavernas, a moonlight pilgrimage to the Acropolis. Sometimes his father would be gone for weeks at a time with no word. When he did come home he could say nothing of his work or where he had been. She punished him by speaking only Italian, a language that bewildered him. She also punished him by bringing strange men to her bed—a fact she never hid from Michael. She used to tease Michael that his real father was a rich Sicilian landowner, which accounted for Michael's olive skin, nearly black hair, and long narrow nose. Michael was never certain whether she was joking. The shared
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    secret of her adultery created a mystical bond between them. She died of breast cancer when Michael was eighteen. Michael's father knew his wife and son had kept secrets from him; the old deceiver had been deceived. For a year after Alexandra's death, Michael and his father barely spoke.
    Michael wondered what had happened to Kevin Maguire. The penalty for betraying the IRA was swift and harsh: severe torture and a bullet in the back of the head. Then he thought, Did Maguire betray the IRA or did he betray me? He replayed the events of the evening. The two cars from the Europa, the red Escort and the blue Vauxhall. The two rendezvous sites Maguire had missed, the embankment on the River Lagan and the Botanic Gardens. He thought about Maguire himself—the chainsmoking, the sweating, the long journey down old roads. Had Maguire been jittery because he feared he was being watched? Or was he feeling guilty because he was setting up his old case officer?
    They turned from the roadway onto an unpaved pitted track. The car bounced and rocked from side to side. Michael groaned involuntarily when a burst of pain from his broken ribs tore through his side like a knifepoint.
    "Don't worry, Mr. Osbourne," a voice called out from inside the car. "We'll be there in a few minutes."
    Five minutes later the car drew to a stop. The trunk opened, and Michael felt a gust of wet wind. Two of the men took hold of his arms and pulled him out. Suddenly he was standing upright. He could feel the rain hammering on his head wounds despite the hood. He tried to take a step, but his knees buckled. His captors caught him before he hit the ground. Michael draped one
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    arm around each of them, and they carried him into a stone cottage. They passed through a series of rooms and doorways, Michael's feet dragging along the floorboards. A moment later he was placed in a hard straight-backed chair.
    "When you hear the door close, Mr. Osbourne, you may remove the hood. There's warm water and a washcloth. Clean yourself up. You have a visitor."
    Michael removed the hood; it was stiff with dried blood. He squinted in the harsh light. The room was bare except for a table and two chairs. The peeling floral wallpaper reminded him of the