The Marching Season

by now, the campground nearly empty, just a family of transient travelers and a group of Danish teenagers who were backpacking across Norfolk. The four members of her team were spread throughout other campgrounds along the coast. The tide was running out, and the air had the sharp tang of the mudflats and marshes. Rebecca let herself into the caravan and switched on the portable electric heater. She lit the propane stove, boiled water, and made a pot of Nescafe. She filled a thermos bottle with the coffee and poured the remainder into a ceramic mug. She drank the coffee as she walked along the beach.
    It was odd, she thought, but for the first time in a very long while she felt a strange sense of peace. It was this place, she thought: this beautiful, mystical place. She thought how strange
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    it was to pass through a village and see no signs of sectarian conflict: no Union Jacks and Tricolors, no warlike murals or political slogans scrawled on walls, no fortresslike police stations. Her entire life had been consumed by the conflict. Her father had been involved in the Protestant paramilitaries, and she had married a man from the UVF. She had been raised to hate and distrust Catholics. In Portadown, the conflict was everywhere; there was no escaping it. To be Protestant in Portadown had given her life a sense of purpose. She felt her place in history. The rituals of hatred, the cycles of killing and revenge, had provided a macabre sense of order to things.
    She thought about what would happen after the assassination. Kyle Blake had provided her with money, a false passport, and a place to lie low in Paris. She knew she would have to remain in hiding for months, if not years. She might never be able to return to Portadown.
    She finished the last of her coffee, watching the waves breaking over the beach, phosphorescent in the moonlight. I want to go someplace like this, she thought. I wish I could stay here forever.
    She walked back to the caravan through the darkness, let herself inside, and switched on her laptop computer. Using a cellular modem, she connected to her Internet server and composed a brief E-mail message.
    I'M HAVING A MARVELOUS TIME HERE IN NORFOLK. THE WEATHER IS COLD BUT QUITE BEAUTIFUL. TODAY, I SPOTTED SEVERAL RARE SPECIES OF BIRDS. I PLAN TO REMAIN HERE FOR A FEW MORE DAYS.
    She sent the message and switched off the computer. She picked up the thermos of coffee and a packet of cigarettes. She had a
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    very long drive ahead of her tonight. She let herself out of the caravan and climbed into the Vauxhall. A moment later she was speeding along the A148 toward King's Lynn, the first leg of her journey to the western coast of Scotland.
    "His real name is Oliver Taylor," Graham Seymour said to Douglas. "But I'd like you to forget you ever heard it. He's a watcher by trade, aren't you, Oliver? One of the best, actually."
    "The resemblance is remarkable," Douglas said, astonished.
    "Oliver trains new recruits for the most part now, but we still put him out in the field now and again when we need a real pro. In fact, he spent a little time following the lovely Rebecca Wells, didn't you, Oliver?"
    Taylor nodded.
    "Come this way if you would, Ambassador Cannon," Graham said. "I'd like to show you a few things."
    Graham led Douglas and Michael into a room filled with electronic equipment and video monitors. A pair of technicians acknowledged the presence of the three men and then carried on with their work.
    "This is the electronic nerve center of the operation," Graham said. "The grounds have been littered with infrared surveillance cameras, motion detectors, and heat sensors. When the Ulster Freedom Brigade make their move, we'll know about it here first."
    "How do you know they'll try it?" Douglas asked.
    "Because Rebecca Wells is in Norfolk," Graham said. "She's been here for about three days. She's staying in a caravan out on the beach a couple of miles away. She was in the North Wood a few minutes ago when you arrived. She knows you're here."
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    "Actually, she's just left the campground, sir," one of the technicians said.
    "Where's she headed?"
    "West on the coast road."
    "What about the caravan?" Michael asked.
    "Still in the campground, sir."
    Graham said, "These men are our scythes, Ambassador Cannon. Let me introduce you to our blunt instruments."
    The Special Air Service is the elite unit of the British armed forces and one of the world's most