A stillness settled in Fegan. "That's enough," he said.

"Gerry, think about what you're doing. The boys won't let it go, ceasefire or not. Stormont or not. They'll come after you."

A tear traced a warm line down Fegan's cheek and he tasted salt. "Jesus, I promised myself I'd never do this again."

"Then don't, Gerry. Listen, it's not too late. You're drunk and you're depressed, I know. You're not at yourself. There won't be any trouble if you stop now."

Fegan shook his head. "I'm sorry."

"Thirty years, Gerry. We've known each other thirty-"

The Walther barked once, throwing red and grey against the windscreen. McKenna slumped forward onto the steering wheel, and the Merc's horn screamed at the night. Fegan reached forward, pulled him back against the seat, and silence swallowed them.

He climbed out of the car and used his handkerchief to open the driver's door. In the scant light from across the water he saw McKenna's dull eyes staring up at him, his designer glasses cracked and hanging off one ear. Fegan put another bullet in his heart, just to be sure. The pistol's hoarse shout rippled across the Lagan towards the glittering buildings.

Fegan wiped the wet heat from his eyes and looked around him. The followers emerged from the dark places and jostled for position around the open door, glancing from Fegan to the body, from the body to Fegan. He studied each of them in turn, his eyes moving from one to the next. He counted them as they retreated to the shadows.

The boy wasn't among them.

One down.

Eleven to go.

ELEVEN.

3.

"That's him," McSorley said, pointing to a blurred image on a stained sheet of paper. It showed an elderly man unlocking the door of a post office.

Davy Campbell turned the page on the tabletop to get a better look. Soft target, he thought. Typical.

McSorley slurped at his beer and wiped his mouth clean. His denims were at least fifteen years too young for him. Hughes and Comiskey lounged on the other side of the booth. The drink had already reddened their eyes, and it was only lunchtime.

McSorley addressed them. "You two hold on to his wife, and me and Davy will take care of him."

Campbell looked out the window to the sun-baked car park, the two rusted vehicles sitting there, and the mountains beyond. No traffic moved along the road on the outskirts of Dundalk. The diversions for the new motorway's construction had whittled down business at the Player's Inn to the extent that Eugene McSorley could talk aloud about his plans without fear of eavesdroppers. In a few months four lanes would carry traffic from the heart of Dublin all the way to Newry, just across the border in the North, and then on to Belfast. The port town of Dundalk would be bypassed altogether, along with the Player's Inn.

The Gaelic football memorabilia on the walls used to impress the tourists who landed by the busload on their way through to Dublin. They didn't know how bad the food was until it arrived on chipped plates, wallowing in grease. The football shirts and trophies displayed around the bar looked a little sad now the only customers were this shower of shit.

The landlord's father, Joe Gribben Senior, had been on the 1957 Louth team that won the Sam Maguire Cup, and Joe Gribben Junior would never let it be forgotten. Born and raised in Glasgow, Campbell had no interest in Gaelic football. And Joe Gribben Junior wisely had no interest in this discussion, so he stayed at the far end of the bar, out of earshot.

Comiskey leaned forward and waved a finger at Campbell. "How come he gets to go? Why've I got to stay with the auld doll?"

Campbell reached out and seized the finger. "Get that out of my face before I break it off."

"Quit it," McSorley scolded as he separated their hands. "Davy's going with me 'cause he knows what he's doing. All you know how to do is sit around and scratch your arse, so shut your trap and do what you're told."

"Away and shite," Comiskey said. He sat back and folded his arms.

Campbell returned his stare until the other backed down. Were these really the best men McSorley could gather up? Taking a post office might raise enough cash to get some decent weapons, but what was the point of putting them in the hands of people like Comiskey? He'd probably shoot his own toe off.

Not for the first time, Campbell wondered what the fuck he was doing with this lot. They called themselves Republicans, truer to the cause than those sell-outs north of the border, but they could barely organise a round of beers. One insane act nine years before had almost wiped the dissidents out. The disastrous bombing of Omagh killed twenty-nine civilians and two unborn twins on a summer afternoon in 1998, just months after the signing of the Good Friday Agreement. What little support the breakaway Republican groups had evaporated overnight. The changes in the North were swelling their numbers, however, as more and more foot soldiers drifted to the dissidents; they feared becoming nobodies again now the movement had no further use for them. The peace process had left many idle hands, and the devil was busy doling out work.

Some of the boys had objected to Campbell's presence, seeing as he wasn't even Irish, but his reputation had travelled ahead of him from Belfast. When he crossed the border to Dundalk, McSorley sought the Scotsman out and made him his right-hand man. The dissidents were made up of gangs like McSorley's, some larger, some smaller, all loosely affiliated under a common cause. Soon, maybe this year, maybe next, they would pull together and be a real threat once more. Until then, they would continue bickering amongst themselves while knocking over country post offices.

A job's a job, Campbell reminded himself. He sighed inwardly and let his eyes wander while McSorley recited the plan for the tenth time.

His eyes stopped at the silent television over the bar. A photograph of a familiar face was replaced by footage of men in white paper overalls and surgical masks examining a Mercedes.

"Look," Campbell said.

McSorley was too wrapped up in his own plan to notice, so Campbell slapped his shoulder.

"What?"

"Look." Campbell jerked his head at the television. "Hey, Joe! Turn that up, will you?"

The landlord obliged and the refined tones of an RTe reporter said, "A police spokesperson has refused to speculate on who might have been behind the killing of Michael McKenna, but security analysts have indicated that Loyalists or dissident Republicans are primary suspects."

"Well, fuck, it wasn't me," McSorley said.

Comiskey and Hughes laughed. Campbell did not. A tingle of excitement sparkled in his stomach. He swallowed and pushed it down.

The reporter went on. "Although there had been rumors of a rift between Mr. McKenna and the party leadership, an internal feud has been ruled out by all observers. Security analysts have, however, specu - lated on the further political ramifications of Michael McKenna's murder. As a senior Republican, and a member of Northern Ireland's Executive at Stormont, his killing has the potential to destabilize the hard-won settlement in the North just as the newly formed government finds its feet."

"Fuck me," McSorley said. "Someone finally got Michael McKenna. Thank Christ for that. I won't have to look at that slimy bastard's face on the telly any more."

The television switched to archive footage of McKenna being interviewed in front of his office on Belfast's Springfield Road. Hughes and Comiskey jeered when the camera zoomed in on the party's logo. As the report wrapped up, the northern correspondent said, "Police forensics officers remain at the scene."

"They'll find fuck all," Campbell said. "Their forensics are shite. I'm surprised they found the bloody car." His hand went to his pocket, feeling for his mobile phone. He wondered if he'd missed a call.

McSorley snorted. "Whoever it was, I'll buy him a pint. Here, Davy, you knew McKenna, didn't you?"

"Pretty well," Campbell said. "He didn't take it too kindly when I left to come down here. Said he'd break my knees if I showed my face in Belfast again."

"Looks like someone did you a favor, then."

Campbell gave it a moment's thought. "Maybe. There'll be trouble, though. The boys in Belfast won't let that go. Somebody's going to pay. I'll tell you that for nothing."

McSorley chuckled, his red-lined cheeks glowing.

"You look pretty chuffed about it," Campbell said.

"Chuffed?" McSorley grinned and swept back his greying hair. "I'm as happy as a dog with two cocks and two lamp-posts to piss on. As the old saying goes, Davy, tiocfaidh ar la. Our day will come."

He draped his arm around Campbell's shoulder and leaned in close. His breath stirred the coarse hairs of Campbell's beard. "Those bastards in Belfast have had it their way too long. They cashed in and left us swinging. Tell you what, I'll get a round in and we'll drink a toast to whatever cunt killed Michael McKenna."

Campbell stood to let McSorley slide out of the booth, relieved to be free of his embrace. McSorley stopped halfway to the bar and came back to Campbell. He reached out his hand. Campbell gripped it in his.

"We need boys like you, Davy," McSorley said, squeezing Campbell's fingers. "I'm glad you're with us."

McSorley released Campbell's hand and turned away. Campbell wiped it on his jeans. He slipped back into the booth and noticed Hughes and Comiskey's attention.

"What?" he said.

Comiskey gave him a lopsided smile. "You might fool him, Davy, but you don't fool me. Just remember, I'll be watching you."

"Is that right?" Campbell raised his eyebrows and returned the smile.

"That's right. You put a foot wrong and I'll have you, boy." Comiskey placed his elbows on the table, formed a pistol with his fingers, and mimed cocking it. "Click-click, Davy."

"Ready when you are, pal," Campbell said. He held Comiskey's gaze just long enough to make his point before turning his eyes to the mountains beyond the window. He thought of Michael McKenna's corpse lying in a car in Belfast, and his gut twisted with a mix of sweet anticipation and cold unease.

4.

Two officers sat across the table from Fegan, and Patsy Toner at his right hand. The interview room in Lisburn Road Police Station had the bland clinical feel of a hospital.

"And Mr. McKenna just let himself out after he put you to bed?" the older officer asked.

"Mr. Fegan has already answered that question," Toner said. His rumpled navy suit looked like it had been slipped over his bony frame in a hurry.

"Well, I'd like him to answer it again. Just for confirmation." The officer smiled.

"As far as I know, yeah, he let himself out," Fegan said. "I was drunk. I passed out as soon as I hit the pillow."

The truth was he'd slept very little the previous night. It took him an hour and a half to work his way through the streets, avoiding CCTV cameras on his route home. He climbed a wall into the back yard of one of the derelict houses two streets away from his place and hid the gun under some wood in a crumbling shed. He slipped quietly into his home and went straight upstairs. For the first time in two months he lay down in peace, but the ringing in his ears and the memory of the boy's savage grin kept him staring at his ceiling. Sleep evaded him until light crept through the crack in the curtains.

"Fair enough," the officer said. "That'll do us for now."

As they walked to Toner's car, Fegan asked, "How did you know to be waiting there for me?"

Toner smiled and said, "We've got a friend inside. Have done for years. He rang me as soon as he heard the Major Investigation Team were going to question you. He doesn't see much action these days, but he's still useful to have."

Toner had a good career as a solicitor. Small and thin, he still looked like the boy Fegan had run with all those years ago, despite the thick moustache. He claimed to be a human-rights lawyer when he talked to the press, though Fegan knew exactly whose rights he fought for. And his Jaguar proved they paid well.

Toner cleared his throat as he started the engine. "I've to take you to see someone before I bring you home," he said.

"Who?" Fegan asked. He let his hand rest near the door handle, ready to pull it and run.

"An old friend." Toner gave him a reassuring smile as he pulled away.

Fegan moved his fingers away from the door handle and steeled himself. He was grateful for Toner's silence as the Jaguar made its way north along the Lisburn Road, stopping every few dozen yards for pedes trian crossings. Designer boutiques, restaurants and wine bars passed on either side. Students and young professionals crossed at the lights.

They think the city belongs to them now, Fegan thought. If the peace process meant they could buy overpriced coffee without fear, then perhaps they were right. A young woman in a business suit crossed in front of the Jaguar's bonnet, a mobile phone pressed to her ear. Fegan wondered if she was even born when they scraped the body parts off the streets with shovels.

He turned his mind away from that image, angered at his own bitterness. The quiet after weeks of clamor unsettled him. Now that the followers had left him alone, now the chill at his center and twists in his stomach had abated, he found the clarity disorienting. But seven years of shadows and glimpses would not end for the passing of Michael McKenna. The eleven were there somewhere, just beyond his vision, waiting. Fegan was sure of that.

Eventually, Toner turned left onto Tate's Avenue, heading west across the city. Back to where they belonged.

The exterior of the old Celtic Supporters Club had seen better days. Tricolors and footballs decorated the sign above the entrance, but the paint flaked away to expose rotting wood. Behind metal grilles, the grubby painted-over windows made the building appear blinded.

Toner led Fegan inside. The sole afternoon drinker kept his eyes on his newspaper as they entered. A smell of stale beer and cigarettes laced the dimness; the smoking ban would never be enforced in places like this.

They went to the rear of the club and entered a dank and narrow corridor with doors to the toilets at either side, and another marked PRIVATE at the end. As Toner went to open the door to the back room, a flash of pain burst in Fegan's head, a lightning arc between his temples. He stopped and leaned against the wall. A chill crept inward from his limbs, crawling to his core like icy spider webs.

Toner looked back over his shoulder and said, "Jesus, Gerry, what's wrong?"

Fegan breathed deep. "Nothing," he said. "I'm tired, that's all."

Eleven shadows moved along the corridor, past Toner, and became one with the darkness beyond. Toner came back to Fegan and put a small hand on his shoulder.

"He only wants a word," Toner said. "Don't worry."

Fegan brushed Toner's hand away. "I'm not worried; I'm hungover. Come on."

He pushed past Toner, went to the door, and opened it. His heart lurched at the sight of the man who waited there.

Vincie Caffola's bald head reflected light from the bare bulb above. Boxes and barrels had been moved to the outside of the room, and a single wooden chair placed at its center. Plastic sheeting covered the floor, and Caffola wore new overalls that struggled to contain his bulky shoulders.

"Gerry, how're ya?" Caffola's smile made Fegan's stomach turn.

"All right."

"I'll wait in the car." Toner patted Fegan's back and disappeared the way they had come.

"Take a seat," Caffola said.

Fegan sat down, placing his hands on his knees, fighting the urge to cover himself. The light bulb above swung lazily in the draught from Toner closing the door. It made Caffola's shadow sweep across the wall. Other shadows followed it, crossing one another, solidifying. Fegan swallowed and blinked against the ache settling behind his eyes.

"Bad news about Michael, eh?" Caffola wore a grim expression.