Tuscaloosa already felt like another lifetime. But Sean was aware that this was not the first time Marie had been on his mind since he'd returned home. He thought of the night in the motel, when he'd almost slept with her. He'd registered the confusion on her face when he'd pulled away then frozen her out. He'd played the look over and over again in his mind and it didn't make him feel good. But it had been obvious even then that he would need to go back to Northern Ireland, and at some point face rlaith. The circumstances around his disappearance and the reason for leaving he could just about explain, but there was no way he could stand in front of rlaith and tell her he was in love with another woman.

Sean wished he could have explained the situation to Marie before leaving: filled in the blanks for her. But the less she knew the safer she would be. The only thing he'd left her in no doubt about was the fact that he would return. No matter what happened in the next few days, his life in Ireland was over.

The sound of dogs barking and the distant clank of chains as they strained against their tethers brought Sean's attention back to the present. They may well have caught his scent as they sniffed at the cold easterly breeze whistling between the farm buildings.

Sean climbed over the tubular-metal gate and made his way across the muddy field. He didn't feel any need to disguise his approach. As well as the dogs and regular armed patrols, O'Leary had a sophisticated security system in place. He would have been able to track Sean's car from as far back as the main road. O'Leary would already know someone was coming.

When he was just a few yards from the back door of the main farmhouse, Sean heard a familiar metallic click and a voice from somewhere in the surrounding darkness.

'Keep your hands where I can see them and state your business, mister. If you know what damage a double-barrelled shotgun can do then you won't want to be making any sudden movements.'

The dogs tied to a fence post on the other side of the yard were growling menacingly, their muzzles curled up at the edge, baring their sharp teeth.

'I'm here to see O'Leary,' he replied calmly.

'Is that right! And do you have an appointment, or d'you think you can just wander in off the street any time you like?'

'Tell him Sean McGuire's here.'

There was a moment's silence before the man with the shotgun spoke again.

'Put your hands up against the wall there, Sean, spread your fingertips and spread your legs . . . you know the routine.'

Sean did what he was told and stood spread-eagled against the white roughcast wall while he was searched for weapons.

Minutes later he was led into a low room with dark oak beams running in parallel strips along the length of its ceiling. E. I. O'Leary was standing with his back to a large blazing fire: his arms wide open like he was expecting the two of them to embrace. Before he'd even said a word Sean could tell E.I. had a drink in him.

'Well, if I wasn't seeing it with my own eyes I'd never have believed it,' said O'Leary. 'Easter's been and gone, big fella. The resurrection thing is old news. The Son of God beat you to it. What do I call you? Is it Sean, or Lazarus . . . or Finn O'Hanlon?' E.I. continued. 'Please tell me it's not the Thevshi . . . Though to be honest with you Sean, everything is so fucked up these days, nothing would surprise me. Can I get you a drink?' E.I. moved over to a large, ornate Georgian drinks cabinet that looked out of place in the rustic farmhouse. He pulled out a bottle of whiskey. 'A wee Bushmills to warm you up? It's Black Label.'

'I can't stay,' replied Sean. 'Got a few things I need to sort out, but thanks anyway.'

'Your ma must be delighted. She took your "passing" bad. Wouldn't let us anywhere near your funeral, so I've no idea if you got a good send-off. I tell you Sean, if I looked as good as you after eight years buried, I'd think about giving the death thing a go. But here, if you're in such a hurry let's not fuck about. What are you doing sneaking round a man's back yard in the dark? Are you looking to get yourself killed for real? What do you want?'

'Whose idea was it to take the wee one and the Fitzpatrick girl?'

E.I. turned and gave Sean the stare.

'Watch your tone, big fella.'

Sean heard the threat in E.I.'s voice, but he didn't care. He kept O'Leary fixed in his gaze.

E.I. grinned. 'Come on, let's not get off on the wrong foot. The kidnappings were certainly not my idea, if that's what you're suggesting,' he continued, 'although in the light of recent events I'm beginning to think it wasn't such a bad move. Your Danny is causing us a major fucking headache. I got a call in the middle of the night to say that a business associate of ours, Hernando De Garza, has been hit: long-range sniper shot, one bullet, nearly ripped his head from his body. Now whose modus operandi does that sound like to you? God only knows what the implications are for us if it turns out Danny was the triggerman. He's got the SAS after his arse too. They seem to think your brother whacked four of their comrades, and if all that isn't bad enough, he's still cutting about with $200,000 of our money that he was supposed to hand over to De Garza. Not to mention the money we paid him in advance to show you the door marked "exit". So, let's just say, the IRA would like to have a word in his ear too. For what it's worth, I think taking the wee one was a mistake: overstepped the mark. But you know what Owen O'Brien's like when he gets that look in his eyes there's no stopping the stupid big fucker. By all accounts he went after yer ma and rlaith too, but they've done a runner. Smart!'

'Where are the girls?' asked Sean.

'Where's our $200,000?'

Sean wanted to grab the whiskey bottle from E.I.'s hand and smack it over his head, but for the moment he simply turned and headed for the door.

'Here's the deal,' said E.I. as Sean reached for the door handle. 'I've known you and your family for a long time. Whatever happened to you eight years ago we can set aside for the moment. Right now I don't give a shit why you disappeared. One day, maybe, we'll sit down, crack open a bottle and you can tell me the whole story, but for now let's just say it's good to have you back. As far as De Garza goes, I know Danny will have his own version of events and I'm willing to sit down and listen: take him at his word. I know he's as straight as they come. Money is not what drives your brother. He may not be a member, but he's a believer, I know that. You guarantee the $200,000's safe return and I'll give you my word no harm will come to the wee one, or to Danny.'

Sean stood by the door with his back to E.I.

'Unfortunately,' continued O'Leary, 'I can't give you the same assurances as far as the Fitzpatrick girl is concerned. I'm still not sure what went wrong, but the word on the street is she had a pretty rough first interview with O'Brien. Shame really! Turns out I knew her father: he was a good republican man. Anyway, what d'you say, have we got a deal?'

Sean looked back at E.I. with no expression on his face and said, 'I'll see what I can do,' as he headed out the door.

Sean wiped his feet along the grass verge to get rid of the mud from his shoes, then climbed back into the car and pulled the door closed.

The Thevshi had haunted Sean for almost a decade now. The question over his identity had eaten away at his subconscious ever since he'd left Ireland in forfeit of any chance of a normal life. But Frank Thompson was right: it was now irrelevant. He was certain Thompson was trying to throw him off the scent by implying that Lep was 'The Ghost', but Lep had been inactive for as long as Sean had over eight years and never had access at a high enough level for him to pass on any useful information to the security forces.

That left the same two names as before: Owen O'Brien and E. I. O'Leary.

Sean turned the key in the ignition and waited a few moments for the warm air to start flowing through from the engine. He opened the glove compartment and pulled out two Heckler & Koch P7s, dropped the clips out of both handles and checked they were loaded. He laid one on the seat beside him and put the other back in the glove compartment, then reached over and pulled a long black coat off the back seat. Underneath the coat lay an AR15 semi-automatic assault rifle and on the floor, just in front, a plastic shopping bag with five thirty-round STANAG magazines. He slid one of the magazines home until it clicked and locked in place, then wound down the window. All he had to do now was wait for his brother.

The passenger he'd picked up from the ferry port at Larne was his brother Danny who had lain under a coat on the back seat hidden from view for the rest of the journey to O'Leary's.

When they'd arrived at the farm Danny had waited for Sean to cross the field before slipping out of the car unseen.

Sean checked his watch. Another two minutes and he'd open fire at the farmhouse.

E. I. O'Leary stood staring into the fire. He had a lot on his mind.

Over the years he had come to put more and more trust in Owen O'Brien, but now there were serious doubts creeping in; maybe there was more to him than met the eye. It was O'Brien who had first come to him with the revelation that Finn O'Hanlon was the Thevshi. He claimed to have picked up a scent coming out of Dundalk. Lep McFarlane had been overheard shouting his mouth off in the Emerald Bar that he was about to make a comeback and clear his name. He was drunk. By the time O'Brien arrived at the pub, McFarlane had disappeared, but not before telling anyone who'd listen about his contact with Finn O'Hanlon. O'Brien must have seized the opportunity to pass him off as the Thevshi but sending Danny McGuire over to kill him had screwed up the plan. No one not even Danny himself could have guessed at O'Hanlon's real identity.

The more E.I. thought it through, the more the story fell into place. Owen O'Brien had organised the break-in at Castlereagh: the whole operation had been under his command. He had kept the list of informers that Special Branch had 'supplied' to them close to his chest. Anyone associated with the break-in or who had seen the contents of the list had been murdered. Maybe O'Brien's name was on the list as well and that was why he didn't want anyone else to see it?

It would explain why he was so diligent in his role as head of internal security for the IRA. If a tout was becoming a problem for the Special Branch they could pass the details on to O'Brien and have the problem eliminated. In the event that O'Brien was spotted talking to the security forces he could haul the accuser in for questioning, charge them with being an informer and execute them without raising any suspicions: it was always his word against theirs. A reciprocal arrangement that worked well for both parties!

E. I. O'Leary had come to a decision. Whether O'Brien was the Thevshi or not didn't matter now: he was out of control and had to die. Danny McGuire because of his actions in Tuscaloosa had become too much of a liability, and he too had to die. In order to prevent any reprisals Sean McGuire would also get the bullet.

He would make it clear to whoever was dumb enough to ask that Sean McGuire was the Thevshi, and that way avoid any embarrassing questions regarding the length of time O'Brien was able to carry on informing without raising suspicions. It would also save having to make reparations to the families of those who had been wrongfully accused and murdered by O'Brien. The Thevshi would be dead. De Garza's associates would be satisfied that the IRA had acted swiftly to eliminate De Garza's assassin and a valuable link to the supply of arms would hopefully remain intact. It was a good plan.

This was the reason O'Leary was the head of the organisation: he could see the bigger picture and he wasn't afraid to make difficult decisions. No problem was so big that a few simple executions couldn't put it straight.

It was getting late, but he could at least make a few phone calls and set the wheels in motion. After that he might take the dogs for a walk.

E.I. left the lounge and made his way down the short corridor and into his study. He placed his glass of whiskey on the large oak desk and lifted the receiver before sitting down. He didn't know why, but he suddenly felt uneasy. Something was wrong. Instinct or intuition made him slide his hand under the desk and unclip his revolver.

The dogs had stopped barking.

Sean chose a lighted window and waited a few moments to make sure there was no one moving around inside. He didn't want to hit someone by mistake. When he was sure, he lifted the AR15 and fired two short bursts, then chose another window and fired again. A few seconds later there were figures running around the yard, their outlines silhouetted against the white walls of the farmhouse.

E.I. looked up from his desk. The sound of the upstairs window crashing to the floor made him start. He jumped up from behind the desk with the revolver in his hand and ran into the hallway. 'Seamus, Brendan, are you there?' he shouted down the small corridor. 'What the hell is going on?' But there was no reply. More gunfire and another window shattered. He could hear his men outside shouting to one another. E.I. ran back into his office and pulled the corner of the paisley-patterned rug aside, then lifted the heavy latch on the trapdoor and descended into the underground tunnel, letting the trapdoor fall closed behind him.

As he squeezed his way along the narrow passage the trapdoor suddenly flew open again. E.I. tried to twist round, but the confines of the tunnel and his large bulk made it almost impossible. He finally managed to turn enough to aim his revolver, but there was nothing to shoot at. The air around him filled with smoke as he fired off a couple of warning shots.

O'Leary shouted over his shoulder, 'You've picked the wrong man to fuck with,' but again, there was no reply.

Something dropped onto the ground with a dull thud and the trapdoor slammed shut. E.I. twisted sideways to allow more light from the string of worker-lamps hanging overhead to illuminate the floor. As he strained to see what the object was, he suddenly recoiled.

'Holy Mother of God!'

Sean watched the silhouetted figure sprinting across the field towards the car. There were muzzle-flashes from various locations round the farmhouse and bullets whistling overhead. He raised the AR15 and pointed it out of the window, fixing the crosshairs of the sight on the advancing figure; when it was less than twenty yards away Sean fired a short burst either side, then slid the rifle back under the coat on the back seat. A few moments later the passenger door flew open and Danny climbed in.

'Jesus, you nearly took me down there, big fella. What were you firing at me for?'

'If I'd been aiming at you, you wouldn't be sitting here now,' replied Sean. 'I was making sure O'Leary's men kept their heads down.'

Suddenly there was a loud bang and the window behind the driver's seat shattered.

'What are you waiting for?' said Danny, trying to catch his breath.

Sean crunched the gearstick and the car sped off along the narrow lane.

'How'd it go?' asked Sean.

'Fine!'

'What did O'Leary say?'

'He never said a thing,' answered Danny.

'What did you say to him?' asked Sean.

'I never said a thing,' replied Danny. 'I left him talking to a hand grenade.'

Chapter 42.

Newry late Friday night

Slim Jim McMahon took a couple of faltering steps onto the wet pavement at the front of the Bridge Bar and stopped to light a cigarette. He cupped his hands together to shield the fragile flame from being extinguished by the cold easterly wind. It took several attempts, but eventually the cigarette glowed fiery orange and a cloud of smoke swirled and twisted into the night sky. Slim stood impatiently with his head bowed against the stiff breeze and waited for a car to splash its way along the road.

He was about to cross North Street when he caught sight of a figure withdrawing into the grimy shadows of the building opposite.

Slim's brow creased to a frown. It was just before midnight. He had been drinking Guinness for nearly five hours and was willing to accept that he'd had too much to drink: his inebriated mind could be playing tricks on him. But he knew instinctively that what he had seen had nothing to do with the alcohol.

Slim's eyes narrowed, trying to detect further movement. But apart from a line of parked cars on either side, the street appeared to be empty. Slim decided to go back into the bar and put a call in to O'Brien: tell him what he'd seen . . . the rumours were true. Sean McGuire was back from the dead.

As he turned there was a flash of steel that reflected the glow from the street lamps. Slim felt a sharp stabbing pain at the top of his stomach. The blow appeared to come from nowhere. There was another bright orange flash and another stabbing pain. Before he could react or retaliate, a knife was rammed home for a third time, penetrating just below his ribcage and puncturing his left lung. Slim reeled backward and stumbled with the handle of an eight-inch 'Black Bear' combat knife protruding from his dark overcoat. He reached his arms out and tried to twist round to break his fall, but the speed and ferocity of the attack had taken him off guard; his reactions were too slow. Slim hit the ground hard, his nose and forehead striking the solid pavement with a sickening thud. He tried to stand up, but the sole of a boot stamped down on the side of his face, pinning his head to the ground, making it impossible for him to move.

'Do you know where your abdominal aorta is, big fella?' said a quiet, familiar voice.

'Fuck you,' Slim spluttered.

'The amount of blood you've got pumping out your stomach I'd say I've scored a direct hit. Blood in your mouth too, that means I got your lung. Bull's eye on both counts! Tell me where the girls are and I'll call an ambulance, but you'd better hurry up, you could drown before it gets here. Simple question: where are the girls?'

Slim Jim McMahon was already gasping for breath, the short, sharp inhalations making an unpleasant gurgling noise in his throat.

Everything was happening too quickly.

His left lung had already started to fill with fluid. That, in combination with the rapid blood loss and lack of oxygen, was making him feel nauseous and confused.

On the other side of the street the figure he had noticed earlier emerged from the darkness and stood staring across at him. No question this time; Slim definitely recognised him. 'It is Sean McGuire,' he said, answering his own question.

'He's waiting for me to give him the nod,' said the figure standing over him. 'If I do, he'll go into that telephone box over there and dial 999. But the longer you leave it the less chance you've got. The choice is yours: priest or paramedic? Where are the girls, Slim?'

McMahon was dying. His breathing was becoming increasingly noisy and laboured.

'Cochron Road, near St Joseph's,' he replied, spluttering out the words. 'I told that fucker O'Brien it was wrong. And I tell you, I played no part in what happened to the Fitzpatrick girl.'

Slim felt the pressure on his skull suddenly ease.

He tried to sit up, but the effort made the pain in his stomach worse and started a coughing fit that had him writhing around on the wet ground, moaning in agony.

A shadow passed over his face and he could feel a presence close by, but in the dim light it was impossible to make out anything other than a hazy silhouette.

'I had nothing to do with it,' he repeated, sounding increasingly desperate.

Slim could feel the figure's warm breath on the side of his face. A voice, barely raised above a whisper, said, 'You were there.'

Slim Jim McMahon was disorientated. The figure appeared to float away from him: hovering just inches above the ground like a spectre as it travelled silently across the street to join Sean McGuire on the other side. It didn't stop, nor did it turn as it moved away.

Danny and Sean McGuire walked together for less than twenty yards, then climbed into a car. There was never any intention of an ambulance being called.

The blood gurgled in Slim's throat as he rolled over and swallowed his last breath.