"Patsy, slow down. What happened?"

From a rickety chair in the corner Campbell watched McGinty and O'Kane pace the room. He chewed his lip as the balance shifted back and forth between them, O'Kane the old warhorse, McGinty the slick politico. Little more than a decade separated them, but they were generations apart.

"This changes everything," McGinty said.

"It changes nothing," O'Kane said.

A bare bulb driven by the generator outside picked out the patches where damp had peeled the wallpaper back. Downey leaned against the far wall of the living room, his thin arms folded across his chest. Quigley the driver sat cross-legged on the opposite end of a tattered couch from O'Kane's son while Coyle slouched against the wall, sparing Campbell the occasional dirty look. Malloy guarded Marie and Ellen in a room upstairs. Lazy waves of rain washed across the old sash windows and the sound of dripping water was everywhere. The smell of mold and mice lingered in Campbell's nose.

"Do you not understand, Bull?" McGinty stopped pacing and opened his arms. "Once this gets out, I'm fucked. A cop's dead body in my lawyer's car. I'll be forced out of the party. I won't have a political friend left. Even then, the Unionists will probably walk. They'll bring Stormont down and look like they're only doing what's right. Jesus, think of the party. Think of the pressure they'll be under. From London, from Dublin, from Washington."

He's right, Campbell thought. The world - especially America - didn't view terrorists with the same romantic tint these days, even if they called themselves freedom fighters.

O'Kane snorted. "We did all right for years without their help. They can fuck off."

"Christ, Bull, it's the twenty-first century. It's not the Seventies any more. It's not the Eighties. We need Stormont now. I need it. You need it. Think of the concessions the party will have to give the Unionists and the Brits just to keep Stormont together. You're a millstone around their necks as it stands. They'll cut you off as quick as me."

"Bollocks," O'Kane said, swiping the air with his shovel hand. "Nobody pushes us around. The Brits couldn't break us after thirty years of trying. I'm not rolling over just 'cause you and your mates in the suits are scared of losing those salaries and allowances."

"It's not like that." McGinty put his hands on his hips. Campbell watched the politician's leg twitch.

"Aye, it is. You've gone soft, Paul. It's easy for you boys in Belfast, all those European funds you can dip your fingers into, all those community grants. Just stick your hand out, and the money lands in it. You're forgetting us boys out in the sticks. We still have to graft for it."

McGinty was fighting his temper, Campbell could see it. "We've achieved more in ten years of politics than you did in thirty years of war."

O'Kane nodded his head in mock respect. "Oh, aye. You achieved plenty." He picked imaginary lint from McGinty's lapel. "You lined your pockets and got yourself some nice suits. You got yourself a big limousine, a big fuck-off house with a sea view in Donegal. Aye, you did all right."

McGinty's face reddened. "So did you. We always kept you right. How many raids did my contacts tip you off on? How much property did the party's legal team let you buy without your name going near it? And the security posts. We did that for you. We negotiated the dismantling of every British army post in South Armagh so you could run your laundering plants. The party did that. Don't you forget it."

Campbell's hands tightened into fists as tension rippled in the air.

O'Kane stepped up to the politician. "So, you're the big man now, are you?"

McGinty was tall, but he had to lift his eyes to meet the Bull's stare. He swallowed and his tongue peeked out to wet his lips. "No. It's not like that. But Jesus, think, Bull. There's only one way out of this now."

"And what's that, then?"

"We give Fegan to the cops. Patsy Toner can testify he was there. We let the law take care of him. We'll be seen to cooperate with the police. The Unionists can't argue with that. They can't threaten to walk, and we get off the hook."

"He'll tell them he did McKenna and Caffola. All your bullshit's going to come back at you."

That's not all he'll tell them, Campbell thought. He'll tell them about those two UFF boys and how they never posed a threat to McGinty. His heart quickened.

"It's too late to stop that now. Besides, the press about the cop will bury that. We let it be known that Anderson was leaking information to us before the ceasefires. All the attention will be on him, not us."

The Bull stood still, holding his breath, and Campbell counted five seconds before he turned away. "No," O'Kane said.

McGinty glowered at him. "What do you mean, no?"

"We let Fegan away with this, we look weak. I look weak. He's a traitor, so we treat him like one. We make an example of him, just like we've always done." The Bull's voice rose to a roar as he stabbed the air with his finger. "He killed my cousin, for fuck's sake. If I don't take care of him, every fucker with a grudge will think I'm fair game."

McGinty crossed the room to O'Kane. "For God's sake, Bull, think it through. Think what it'll cost us."

"No."

"Listen to me. Think ahead. Say the Unionists walk; say Stormont breaks down. You won't have a friend in government to grease any wheels for you. You'll suffer as much as me."

"I said no, Paul. That's all."

McGinty gripped O'Kane's massive shoulder. "Get your head out of the past, for Christ's sake. Quit acting like a fucking street thug. We're past all that now. You're a dinosaur, Bull. You're going to cost me-"

McGinty sprawled on the floor, blood spilling from his lip, before Campbell could even wince at the sound of the slap. Coyle stared. Quigley began to get to his feet, but O'Kane pointed a thick finger at him.

"You sit the fuck down."

The driver did as he was told.

Campbell thought hard and fast. Quigley was too weak. Coyle was too stupid. He was McGinty's only ally in this shell of a house. But Fegan couldn't live. Not with what he knew about Francie Delaney and the two UFF boys.

He stood up. "Mr. O'Kane's right," he said.

McGinty looked up from the red blotches on his handkerchief. "What?"

"Fegan's too dangerous. We need to finish him."

O'Kane slapped Campbell's shoulder. "Smart lad."

McGinty got to his feet, his eyes fixed on Campbell. "Whatever you say, Bull. You're the boss."

"Good." O'Kane slapped his hands together and grinned. "Now, get that woman and her kid down here."

44.

Fegan saw Mrs. Taylor's sharp blue eyes in the window for just a moment before she closed the shutter, sealing out the darkness. His hand was half raised to wave, but she was gone. The dog barked somewhere inside the cottage. There were no lights from the hotel.

He walked from the parked car round to the hotel's entrance. The door didn't budge when he pressed it. Locked. Fegan turned in a circle, no idea what he was looking for. The moon was up there somewhere above the clouds, but below was darkness. Orange street lights formed a line along the bay and reflected off the river mouth, but the sea was lost in the black. Only the hard salt tang on the air and the sound of waves gave it away.

Sweat chilled Fegan's body and his legs quivered. He'd pulled over twice on the way here to let the shakes subside. His tongue rasped against the roof of his mouth as he swallowed.

The dog settled down and its barks faded away. Quiet now, just the whisper of water on sand. Fegan hammered on the door to break the stillness. He stepped back and looked up at the windows on the first floor.

Nothing. He slammed his fist against the door again, harder. A bead of worry settled in his chest. Why had Marie let Hopkirk lock the place up? Why wasn't she waiting for him?

His palm stung as he slapped the wooden panels again. He stood back and craned his neck. "Come on," he whispered.

A dim light appeared at the center window, followed by a passing shadow. Fegan clenched and unclenched his fists. The sound of doors opening and closing came from inside. A light in the glass above the entrance. Metal moved against metal, locks snapping open, bolts sliding. The door inched open and a bespectacled eye peeked out.

"What are you doing here? What do you want?"

"I want in," Fegan said. "I want Marie."

"Who?"

"I mean Mary. My wife."

Hopkirk's brow knotted. "I thought she was with you."

"What?"

"She and the little girl went out for a walk this evening. They didn't come back. I thought they'd left with you."

"Our bags. Where are they?"

"I don't know. I assumed-"

Fegan put his hand against the door. "Let me in."

"They might still be in the room. I'll go and look."

He pressed harder. "Let me in."

Hopkirk pushed back. "I won't be a moment."

Fegan shoved with his shoulder and the door gave way. Hopkirk staggered back against one of the dust-covered tables.

"Go on," he said, his eyes narrow behind his thick glasses. "Go and look. If your bags are there you can take them and get out of here. I don't want your money."

Fegan crossed the room. "Where'd she go?"

"I don't know. She took the little girl out for something to eat at about seven. She never came back."

"Was there anyone else around?"

Hopkirk's gaze dropped to the floor. "No."

"You're lying."

The hotelier breathed hard for a few seconds. "There was a man. He said he was a policeman, but I didn't believe him."

Fegan gripped his arm. "What'd he look like?"

Hopkirk tried to pry Fegan's fingers loose. "He was tall and thin, like you, but younger. He had reddish-brown hair and a scraggy beard. He looked like he'd been in a fight, and he had a limp."

"Campbell," Fegan said. "Campbell was here."

Hopkirk got free of Fegan's grip and sidled away. "He didn't tell me his name."

"What'd he say?"

"He just asked where you were." Hopkirk rounded the table, keeping it between him and Fegan.

"What'd you tell him?"

"The truth. I didn't know."

"Christ," Fegan said. He brought his palms to his temples to hold the fear in. "Christ."

Hopkirk continued to back away. "Look, why don't you get your things and go. I can't do any more for you."

Fegan walked to the stairway in the darkened corner, his stride slowing as he passed the door to the bar. He wiped his mouth and kept his head down, even as his throat tightened. The twisting steps brought him up to the first floor. The room was at the end of the corridor. When he got to the door he realised he had no key. It didn't matter. He kicked the door hard just beneath the handle.

"I've got the key!" Hopkirk cried from the stairwell. "Don't!"

Fegan ignored him and kicked again. The door burst inward with the sound of splintering wood. He pushed his way into the room and turned on the light. The bags were where they'd been that afternoon. His own was still at the foot of the bed, zipped closed. He went to check it anyway, but Hopkirk appeared at the door.

"Get out," Fegan said.

Hopkirk faded back into the shadows of the corridor. Fegan hoisted the bag onto the bed and opened it. The familiar greasy smell of money met his nose. He pushed rolls of banknotes and the few clothes aside to make sure what he needed was still there. Yes, the loose nine-millimeter rounds still rolled across the bottom. Campbell's Glock still clanked against them. Fegan took a quick glance over his shoulder before taking the Walther from his right pocket and dropping it into the bag.

The bag almost slipped from his fingers when his phone vibrated against his chest. Fegan took it from his breast pocket and looked at the display.

His heart leaped in his chest. He thumbed the green button and brought the phone to his ear. "Marie?"

There was nothing but a soft static hiss, the sound of weight shifting on floorboards, and grating sobs.

"Marie?"

A man's voice, hard and thin, whispering words Fegan couldn't make out. Something lodged in Fegan's throat, thicker than his aching thirst.

"Marie?"

"Gerry?"

Fegan closed his eyes.

"Gerry, they've got me and Ellen . . ."

45.