The Marching Season

respected military organizations. Based in Hereford, about 140 miles northwest of London, it has one active regiment, 22 SAS, and about 550 members. The SAS is an insertion force, designed to operate behind enemy lines. It is divided into four operational squadrons, each with a different specialty: airborne, amphibious, mountain, and assault vehicles. The unit demonstrated its antiterrorist prowess in May 1980, when it successfully ended the siege of the Iranian embassy in London before a worldwide television audience. SAS recruiters seek out soldiers of above-average intelligence who demonstrate the ability to improvise and to act alone. SAS soldiers are notorious for egotism, brashness, and sarcasm, and therefore the SAS is mistrusted by much of the British military establishment. The organization's motto is "Who dares, wins." True to form, SAS men deliberately mutilate their own creed, sacrilegiously proclaiming, "Who cares who wins."
    The eight men in the large game room didn't look much like any soldiers Douglas had ever seen. They had shaggy hair or no hair at all and a few wore drooping mustaches. Two were playing billiards; two more were engaged in a noisy flailing game of table tennis. The rest lay around a wide-screen television, watching a
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    video— The Double Life of Veronique —and occasionally pleading for quiet. The billiards game and the Ping-Pong match fell quiet as the SAS men noticed that Douglas was in the room.
    "When the Ulster Freedom Brigade makes its move, these men will be waiting for them," Graham said. "I can assure you it will all be over very quickly. These gentlemen know what happened to their colleagues in County Tyrone the other night. The SAS is a small unit. As you might expect, they're anxious to make amends."
    "I can understand that," Douglas said. "But if it is possible to avoid needless bloodshed—"
    "They will do their very best to take the terrorists alive," Michael said. "It depends on how the Ulster Freedom Brigade reacts once they discover they're walking into a trap."
    "Time to get you out of here, Ambassador Cannon," Graham said. "You've done your bit. I'm afraid the ride home isn't going to be quite as scenic as the journey here."
    Michael and Douglas parted in the great hall. As they shook hands, Douglas put an arm on his son-in-law's shoulder and said, "Take care of yourself, Michael."
    Graham led Douglas through the house to a service entrance. A paneled van waited outside the door, engine idling. The name of a local catering service was stenciled on the side. Douglas climbed in and sat down in a special chair that had been anchored in the rear storage compartment. He winked. Graham closed the rear doors, and the van sped away.
    Early the following morning, Rebecca Wells stood on the beach at Ardnacross Bay on the western coast of Scotland. It was misting, bitterly cold, and still quite dark, even though it was an hour after sunrise. She walked along the narrow rocky beach, smoking
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    a cigarette, drinking the last of the Nescafe she had made more than twelve hours earlier. She was exhausted, running on nerves and adrenaline. The morning was windless, the water flat and calm. Beyond the bay lay Kilbrannan Sound. To the southwest, across the North Channel, was the Antrim coast of Northern Ireland.
    Twenty more minutes passed. Rebecca was beginning to grow nervous about whether the boat would come. It would be a Zodiac, Kyle Blake had said, lowered from the side of a Protestant-owned freighter bound from Londonderry. On board would be a member of the Brigade with a duffel bag of guns for the assault on Hartley Hall.
    Another ten minutes passed, while Rebecca considered whether she should abort. The sky had lightened, and the first morning traffic was moving on the road behind the beach. Only then did she hear the put-put of a small engine echoing across the flat water. A moment later, a tiny Zodiac broke through the fog on the bay.
    As the boat drew closer to shore, Rebecca studied the man seated in the stern, tiller in hand. It was Gavin Spencer. He raised the propeller, and the Zodiac grounded itself on the beach. Rebecca rushed forward and pulled on the bowline.
    "What in God's name are you doing here?" she asked.
    "I wanted to be a part of it."
    "Does Kyle know?"
    "He'll know soon enough, won't he?" Spencer stepped out of the Zodiac and lifted the duffel from the prow. "Help me get this thing off the beach."
    Together, they