The Marching Season

object on the table. The door closed again.
    "You can turn around now," Devlin said.
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    The object that had been laid on the table was a tray with a pot of tea, two chipped enamel mugs, and a small pitcher of milk. Devlin poured tea for both of them.
    "I hope you've learned a valuable lesson tonight, Mr. Os-bourne. I hope you've learned that you can't penetrate this army and get away with it. You think we're just a bunch of stupid Taigs? A bunch of dumb Micks from the bogs? The IRA has been fighting the British government for nearly a hundred years on this island. We've picked up a thing or two about the intelligence business along the way."
    Michael drank his tea and remained silent.
    "By the way, if it makes you feel any better, it was Buchanan who led us to Maguire, not you. The IRA has a special unit that follows volunteers suspected of treason. The unit is so secret I'm the only one who knows the identities of the members. I had Maguire followed in London last year, and we saw him meeting with Buchanan."
    That piece of news didn't make Michael feel any better. "Why grab me?" he said.
    "Because I want to tell you something." Devlin leaned across the table with his dockworker's hands beneath his chin. "The CIA and the British services are trying to track down the members of the Ulster Freedom Brigade. I think the IRA can be of help. After all, it's in our interests too that this violence be brought under control quickly."
    "What do you have?"
    "A weapons cache in the Sperrin Mountains," Devlin said. "It's not ours, and we don't think it belongs to one of the other Protestant paramilitaries."
    "Where in the Sperrin Mountains?"
    "A farmhouse outside the village of Cranagh." Devlin handed
    170 Daniel Silva
    Michael a slip of paper with a crudely drawn map showing the location of the farm.
    Michael said, "What have you seen?"
    "Trucks coming and going, crates being unloaded, the usual."
    "People?"
    "A couple of lads seem to live there full time. They patrol the fields around the house regularly. Well armed, I might add."
    "Does the IRA still have the farm under watch?"
    "We pulled back. We don't have the equipment to do it right."
    "Why give this to me? Why not give it to the British or the RUC?"
    "Because I don't trust them, and I never will. Remember, there are some elements within the RUC and British Intelligence who have cooperated with the Protestant paramilitaries over the years. I want these Protestant bastards stopped before they drag us into a full-scale war again, and I don't trust the British and the RUC to do the job alone." Devlin crushed out his cigarette. He looked at Michael and smiled again. "Now, was that worth a couple of cuts and scrapes?"
    "Fuck you, Devlin," Michael said.
    Devlin burst out laughing. "You're free to go now. Put on your coat. I want to show you something before you leave."
    Michael followed Devlin through the house. The air smelled of frying bacon. Devlin led him through a sitting room into a kitchen with copper pots hanging above the stove. It might have been something out of an Irish country magazine, if not for the half-dozen men seated around the table, glaring at Michael through the slits in their balaclavas.
    "You'll need this," Devlin said, taking a wool cap from the
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    rack next to the door and placing it carefully on Michael's swollen scalp. "A dirty night out tonight, I'm afraid."
    Michael followed Devlin along a muddy footpath. It was so dark he might as well have been wearing the hood again. He could see the outline of Devlin's wrestler's physique in front of him, marching along the path, and he felt himself strangely drawn to him. When they reached the barn, Devlin hammered on the door and murmured something in (Gaelic. Then he pulled open the door and led Michael inside.
    It took Michael a few seconds to realize that the man tied to the chair was Kevin Maguire. He was naked and shivering with cold and terror. He had been beaten savagely. His face was horribly distorted, and blood flowed from a dozen different cuts—above his eyes, on his cheeks, around his mouth. Both eyes were swollen shut. There were wounds on every part of his body: contusions, abrasions, lacerations from being whipped with a belt, burns from cigarettes being ground into his skin. He was sitting in his own excrement. Three men in balaclavas stood guard around him.
    "This is what we do to touts in the IRA, Mr. Osbourne," Devlin said. "Remember this the