I went into the study, crouched down by the baseboard, and, at last, was able to open the gun box. There was nothing inside but a lone floppy disk.

I put the chair back by the desk and lifted up the PC. I soon had it working. There was no password protection, probably deliberately. If anything happened to Kev, he'd want the whole world to read what was on the disk.

I clicked open various files but found nothing interesting.

Then I found one called Flavius; I knew I'd hit pay dirt. It was the code name of the Gibraltar operation.

I started reading. Kev had found out pretty much what Big Al had told me--that PIRA's connection with the cartels originated when it started running drugs for the Colombians up through North Africa and into Gibraltar for distribution in Spain and the rest of Europe. PIRA was good at the job, and the cartels paid well.

After a while, PIRA had also begun to use the drug trade to raise some of its own money, funds collected by Noraid in the USA. Big sums were involved; Kev's figures showed that Sinn Fein had been netting more than $ 1,000,000 a year.

These donations had been invested in narcotics, transported to Europe, and then bartered for arms and explosives in the old Eastern-bloc countries. It was a business marriage made in heaven; PIRA had the drugs, the East Europeans had the weapons. The downfall of the USSR and the rise of the Russian mafia couldn't have been better timed.

I had to get back into work mode. I couldn't just sit there reading. I was in a house with two policemen and one pissed-off little girl. I ejected the floppy disk and put it in my coat pocket.

The controller from hell came back on the net.

"Unit Sixty-two, do you copy?"

Shit.

I went into the hall.

"Ron, time to speak up."

Ron looked at me, and I knew he was going to fuck with me. His face was a picture of defiance. I moved over to them and pulled the tape off their mouths. Ron was the first to talk: "You answer it, because we can't. You won't kill us, not for that."

Control went up an octave.

"Unit Sixty-two!"

Ron had a point.

"Kelly! Kelly! Where are you?"

"Coming--I just found Ricky."

I stepped back over my two new friends toward Kelly, who was coming down the stairs. There was no time to be sympathetic or nice.

"Get your coat and shoes on quick!"

I got all the stuff together, put my running shoes on, and checked that Ron and Melvin weren't choking to death on the gaffer tape. Both looked quite happy with themselves but were still thinking of a good excuse for why they were in this state in the first place.

We left the same way we'd come. I was gripping Kelly's hand, more or less dragging her along, keeping an eagle eye on Jenny and Ricky. I didn't want the neighbors hearing screams for lost teddies.

As we drove, bursts of light from the streetlamps strobed into the back of the car, and I could see Kelly in the rearview mirror. She was looking miserable, her eyes puffy and wet.

She had every right to be sad. She was bright enough to realize that this was probably the last time she'd ever be here.

This wasn't her home anymore. Now she was the same as me.

Neither of us had one. I hit the Dulles Airport access road and headed for economy parking. I allowed myself a wry smile; if this kept up, it would soon be full of my stolen cars. I could hear the light patter of rain on the roof as we parked.

Ron and Melvin might have made a connection between me and the car because of the drive-by. If they were back in circulation by now, they might be able to track us down.

There was not a lot I could do about it but just sit tight and hope that the mass of cars and the rain would conceal us, because it was far too early for a child to be moving around an airport with an adult man with scabs on his face.

I turned around in the seat and said, "Are you all right, Kelly? I'm sorry I had to shout, but it was really important to get out quick."

She was looking down at one of the teddies, picking its fur, pouting.

I said, "You're not a bad girl and I'm sorry that I told you off. I didn't really mean it, I was just getting excited."

She nodded slowly, still playing with her furry friend.

"Do you want to come to England?"

She looked up. She didn't say anything, but I took it as a yes.

"That's good, because I would like you to come, too.

You've been a really good girl, you always do what I say. Do you want to help me again?"

She shrugged. I leaned over and picked up the other teddy and rubbed its face against her cheek.

"We'll get Jenny and Ricky to help me as well. How about that?"

She gave a reluctant nod.

"First of all, we've got to sort out the bag."

I got into the backseat and put the duffel between us, opening it up.

"What do you think we should take out then?"

I knew exactly what we were going to take out: the blanket and washing kit, because they were the only things I needed now. I said, "What do you reckon? Is that all?" She nodded and agreed as if she'd packed it herself.

I put everything else into the trunk. The rain was coming down more heavily. I sat with her again and pulled out the blanket.

"We have to wait here for the next couple of hours.

It's too early to go to the airport yet. You can take a nap if you like."

I folded up the bag and made a pillow.

"There, that's better--cuddle Jenny and Ricky."

She looked at me and smiled. We were mates again.

"Are you going away again. Nick?"

For once I was staying put.

"No, I'm going to do some work. You just go to sleep. I'm not going anywhere." I got out and sat in the front again. I rested the laptop on my knees and lifted the screen. I checked that the keys were in the ignition and I could easily grab the steering wheel. I had to be ready to move at once if we got spotted.

I pressed the On switch, and as the screen lit up it cast a glow through the inside of the car. I inserted Kev's floppy disk. I was desperate to read the rest of his report, but first I downloaded everything onto the laptop. As I waited, I said quietly, "Kelly?" There was no reply. The gentle rhythm of the rain had done its job.

I began reading where I'd left off. Gibraltar had always been a center for international drug trafficking, money laundering, and smuggling, but it seemed that in 1987, Spain not only still wanted Gib back, it also wanted the Brits to clean it up. Thatcher's government told the Gibraltarians to sort it out, but the high-powered speedboats still ran drugs from North Africa. The Brits threatened direct control of the colony if the trafficking didn't stop and, at the same time, ordered a highly illegal operation against police and government officials they suspected of involvement. The boys taking the hush money got the hint and suddenly ceased doing business with PIRA and everyone else.

My eyes were racing ahead of my brain.

The closure of the Gibraltar route was all well and good for the war against corruption, but the Colombians were very pissed off. A major trade artery had been clamped, and they wanted it reopened. According to Kev's findings, they'd decided a show of strength was required. They wanted Gibraltar bombed as a warning that the local officials should start co operating again, and they ordered PIRA to carry it out.

PIRA had a problem with this. It wanted the route re opened as much as the Colombians did, but, after the debacle of Enniskillen, it couldn't run the risk of killing non-UK civilians and invoking even greater international condemnation. PIRA had refused to do it.

From evidence that Kev had gathered, the cartels' reply to PIRA was blunt: either you bomb Gibraltar or we shift our drug business to the other side the Protestant UVF. For PIRA, not a good day out.

PIRA's head honchos came up with a solution, and as I read on, I couldn't help but admire it.

"Mad Danny" McCann had already been kicked out of PIRA and was rein stated against Gerry Adams's wishes. Mairead Farrell, after the death of her boyfriend, had become too fanatical for her own good "a bit of a social hand grenade," Simmonds had said other. PIRA's plan was to send to Gibraltar two players they'd be happy to see the back of, together with Sean Savage, who had the misfortune to be part of the same Active Service Unit.

The team had the technology and Semtex for the bomb but were told that the explosives were to stay behind in Spain until it had finished its recons and rehearsals. The team was told to take it in once the blocking car was in position, to guarantee the correct placement of the bomb. PIRA then gave the three players bad passports and leaked information to London. They wanted the Brits to react and stop the bombing so that when the three were arrested they could claim to the cartels that they'd given it their best shot.

We'd been duly told about the ASU, but we'd also been briefed that there would be no blocking car and that the bomb would be detonated by a handheld device. These last two pieces of intelligence meant that McCann, Farrell, and Savage had never stood a chance. They were dead from the moment we thought the bomb was in position and armed, because at some stage one of them was bound to make a hand movement that would be construed as an attempt to detonate the device.

I certainly wouldn't have taken the chance that Savage was only going for his packet of mints, and Euan obviously didn't when he initiated the contact with McCann and Farrell. In Pat's immortal words: Better to be tried by twelve than carried by six.

A dialogue box came up on the screen telling me that I was running short of power and needed to plug into another power source. Fuck! I wanted to read more. I got back to the screen and read as fast as I could to get the general idea.

Even though there hadn't been a bomb, the cartels had accepted that their Irish lackies were playing ball. After all, three of their people had been killed in the process. PIRA kept the trade with the Colombians, even though, as Big Al had said, it was thereafter routed through South Africa, then Spain.

PIRA was in seventh heaven. It had gotten rid of two trouble makers, not quite in the way that it had intended, but three martyrs had been created, with the result that PIRA's cause at home was strengthened, and even more dollars rolled into the coffers.

It was only the Brits who appeared to have been left with egg on their faces, but even so, no matter how much the inter national community publicly condemned the shootings, in secret most heads of state admired Thatcher's muscular stand against terrorism.

Fuck it. Another box came up and told me to plug into an external power source. I switched off the laptop and packed it away, full of frustration. I wanted to know more. At the same time I was on a high. If we made it back to the UK with this stuff, I'd have cracked it with Simmonds.

It was 3:30 a.m. There was nothing to do but wait for three hours or so until the first wave of aircraft started to arrive and depart, creating enough activity for us to blend in.

I let the backrest down a bit and tried to get my neck into a comfortable position, but I couldn't relax. My mind was racing. The whole operation in Gibraltar had been a setup so that PIRA and the Colombians could keep making money.

That was one thing, but where did Kev and I fit into the scheme of things? I lay there and listened to the patter of rain.

For Euan and me it had all started on March 3, less than a week before the shootings. We were both on different jobs and had got lifted off and sent to Lisbum, HQ of the British army in Northern Ireland. From there it was a quick move by Puma to Stirling Lines in Hereford, England, the home of the Special Air Service.

We were taken straight to regimental headquarters, and the moment I saw the china cups and cookies outside the briefing room I knew that something big was in the offing. Last time that had happened, the prime minister had been here.

The room was in semidarkness and packed. There was a large screen at the back of a stage and tiered seats so that everyone got a good view.

We were looking for somewhere to sit when I heard, "Hey, over here, dick spot Kev and Slack Pat were sitting drinking tea. With them were the other two members of their four-man team, Geoff and Steve. All were from A Squadron, doing their six months on the counterterrorist team.

Euan turned to Kev and said, "Know what this job is about?"

"We're off to Gib, mate. PIRA's planning a bomb."

The commanding officer got up on the stage and the room fell silent.

"Two problems," he said.

"Number one, a shortage of time. You leave immediately after this briefing. Number two, shortage of solid intelligence. However, Joint Operations Committee wants the Regiment to deploy. You will get as much information as we know now, and as it comes in during your flight and once on the ground."

I thought. What the fuck are Euan and I doing here? Surely it would be illegal for us to work outside Northern Ireland? I kept my mouth shut; if I started querying the decision, they might send me back and I'd miss out.

I looked around and saw members of RHQ, the operations officer, and the world's supply of intelligence corps. The final member of the team was an ammunitions technical officer, a bomb disposal expert on attachment to the counter-terrorism team.

Someone I had never seen before moved toward the stage, a tea cup in one hand, a cookie in the other. He stood to the right-hand side of the stage by the lectern. There was an overnight bag by his feet.

"My name is Simmonds, and I run the Northern Ireland desk for the intelligence service from London. The people behind you are a mix of service and military intelligence officers.

First, a very brief outline of the events that have brought us all here today."

Judging by the bag, it looked as if he would be coming with us. The lights were dimmed, and a slide projector lit the screen behind him.

"Last year," he said, "we learned that a PIRA team had based itself in southern Spain. We intercepted mail going to the homes of known players from Spain and found a postcard from Sean Savage in the Costa del Sol."

A slide came up on the screen.

"Our Sean," Simmonds said with a half smile, "told Mummy and Daddy he was working abroad. It rang a few alarm bells when we read it, because the work young Savage is best at is bomb making."

Was he making a joke? No, he didn't look the sort.

"Then in November two men went through Madrid airport on their way from Malaga to Dublin. They carried Irish passports, and in a routine check the Spanish sent the details to Madrid, who, in turn, passed them with photographs to London. It turned out that both passports were false."

I thought to myself. Stupid timing by them, really. Terrorist incidents in Northern Ireland tended to decrease in the summer months when PIRA members took their wives and kids to the Mediterranean for a fortnight of sun and sand. The funny thing was that the RUC--Royal Ulster Constabulary-also took their vacations in the same places, and they'd all bump into each other in the bars. These two characters had drawn attention to themselves; if they'd passed through Malaga airport during the tourist season, they might have gotten away with it.

It turned out that one of the passport holders was Sean Savage, but it was the identity of the second man that had made everybody concerned.

Simmonds showed his next slide.

"Daniel Martin McCann.

I'm sure you know more about him than I do." He gave a no-fucking-way sort of smile.

"Mad Danny" had really earned his name. Linked to twenty-six killings, he had been lifted often, but had been put away for only two years.

To British intelligence, Simmonds said, the combination of McCann and Savage on the Costa del Sol could mean only one of two things: either PIRA was going to attack a British target on the Spanish mainland, or there was going to be an attack on Gibraltar.

"One thing's for sure," he said.