The Marching Season

farmhouse for twenty minutes. Marks and Sparks tried to eavesdrop on the activity inside the house, but all they could hear was Bach blaring from a tinny hi-fi.
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    "You recognize the piece?" Marks asked.
    "Concerto Number Five in D major," Sparks said.
    "Lovely isn't it?"
    "Quite."
    Graham was peering into the glen through infrared binoculars.
    "He's leaving," he said.
    "Short stay for this time of night," Marks said.
    "Maybe he had to relieve himself," Sparks said.
    "I'd say he probably relieved himself of a few weapons," Marks said. "That bag looks a bit lighter now, don't you think?"
    Graham picked up the radio again and raised Cookstown.
    "The subject is heading east toward Mount Hamilton. Make it look like a routine stop. Plant a report on the radio of a security alert in the area. Send a few good guys through there so he doesn't feel like we're singling him out. I'll be down in a few minutes."
    The man in the Nissan sedan was Gavin Spencer, the operations chief of the Ulster Freedom Brigade, and the tennis bag—now empty and lying on the seat next to him—had contained a shipment of Israeli-made Uzi machine guns from an arms dealer in the Middle East. The weapons were to be used for the assassination of Ambassador Douglas Cannon. For now they were hidden inside a stone wall in the cellar of the farmhouse.
    Gavin Spencer had selected his team and briefed them on their mission. Rebecca Wells had gained access to the ambassador's schedule in London and was filing regular reports. All they needed now was the right moment, the moment when Cannon was most vulnerable. They would get only one chance. If they
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    made a mistake—if they failed—the British and the Americans would tighten security even further, and they would never be able to get close to him again.
    Spencer sped along the winding B47, through the darkened village of Mount Hamilton and then back onto the open roadway. A wave of relief passed over him. The weapons were out of his car and safely inside the walls of the farmhouse. If they had been discovered in his possession he would have been given a one-way ticket to the Maze. He pressed the accelerator, and the Nissan responded, rising and falling over the rolling roadway. He switched on the radio, hoping to find some music, but a news bulletin on Ulster radio caught his attention. A security alert had been declared in the Sperrin Mountains between Omagh and Cookstown.
    Three miles later he spotted the blue flashing lights of an RUC patrol car and the bulky outline of two army troop carriers. An RUC officer stood in the middle of the road, waving his flashlight for Spencer to pull to the side. Spencer stopped and rolled down his window.
    "Security alert in the area tonight, sir," the RUC man said. "Mind if I ask where you're heading tonight?"
    "Home to Portadown," Spencer said.
    "What brings you up here?"
    "Visiting a friend."
    "Where's the friend?"
    "Cranagh."
    "May I see your driver's permit, sir?"
    Spencer handed it over. A second car braked to a halt behind him. Spencer could hear another officer asking the driver the same questions he had been asked. The RUC man looked over the permit and handed it back to Spencer.
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    "All right, sir," he said. "We're just going to have a look inside your car. Mind stepping out, sir?"
    Spencer got out. The RUC man climbed in and pulled the car behind the troop carriers. A moment later the second car disappeared behind the troop trucks. The motorist was a squat, powerfully built man with short-cropped hair and a graying mustache. He stood next to Spencer with his hands in the pockets of his leather jacket.
    "What the fuck's this all about?" he said.
    "They said it's a security alert."
    "Fuckin' IRA, no doubt."
    "Suppose so," Spencer said.
    The man lit a cigarette and gave one to Spencer. It started to rain. Gavin Spencer smoked and tried to appear as calm as possible while the RUC and the army tore apart his car.
    Graham Seymour stood behind the army truck while a team of soldiers and police officers searched the Nissan. They used a portable imager to peer beneath the seat covers for hidden weapons. They tested for residue from explosives. They searched beneath the undercarriage and beneath the hood. They unscrewed the door panels and looked beneath the carpeting. They opened the trunk and picked through the contents.
    After ten minutes one of the RUC men gestured silently for Seymour to come over. Inside the