"He's coming," Campbell said. He stood in the shelter of the barn, dark now, trying not to gag at the stench rising up from the pit.

"And?" the handler asked.

"And what? Fegan's a dead man. They'll take care of him as soon as he gets here."

"Don't they know what's happened?"

"The cop in Toner's car. Yeah, they know."

The handler was silent for a moment. "But surely that's changed the plan. If they don't offer up Fegan to the authorities, the Unionists will hold them responsible for the cop. They'll have McGinty by the balls. They could bring down Stormont with this."

"I told McGinty that," Campbell lied. "He wouldn't listen."

"But McGinty's smarter than that. He never took a stupid breath in his life."

"They want Fegan dead. That's all."

"Christ," the handler said. Campbell listened to him breathe. "Christ. There's no way to stop it?"

"None," Campbell said.

"You've got to try. This could set the political process back years. See if you can-"

Campbell saw a shaft of light break on the concrete beyond the barn door. "Got to go," he said, and hung up.

He heard footsteps, two people, one walking steadily, the other shuffling and faltering. Campbell eased back into the shadows of the barn.

"You should've gone when you had the chance," McGinty said. "You wouldn't be in this mess if you'd just gone."

"Let me go back inside," Marie said. "Please, let me go to Ellen."

"She's all right with Eddie. Why didn't you go? I couldn't have made it easier for you."

"Because I didn't want to go. I shouldn't have to go. Things are supposed to have changed. Jesus, Paul, it was so long ago."

"It doesn't feel like it. It still hurts me to think about it."

Marie laughed, the sound dry and hateful in the darkness. "Hurts you? Nothing hurts you."

"You're wrong. People think I'm a hard man, but I've got feelings. Seeing you with Lennon - a cop, for Christ's sake - what do you think that did to me?"

"I couldn't live like that any more. Can't you see that? Pretending to myself you weren't married. Pretending all that . . . that . . . other stuff didn't matter. The things you did."

"I never did anything to-"

"You pulled the strings. Stop passing the blame, Paul."

McGinty's voice hardened. "There were people wanted you dead back then."

"You think I didn't know that? Have you any idea how scared I was?"

Campbell edged to the barn door until he could just make out their shapes in the poor light from the farmhouse.

"Maybe I should have let them kill you and that cop," McGinty said.

Campbell flinched as Marie lashed out, and the sound of her palm on McGinty's cheek reverberated around the yard. He flinched again when McGinty returned the blow, sending her sprawling on the wet concrete. She stared back up at him.

"And what are you doing with Fegan?" McGinty asked.

"Go to hell."

"Answer me."

Marie spat at him.

McGinty crouched down. "For Christ's sake, Marie, he's insane. He's sick in the head."

"Sick? Is he any more sick than you, or that thug O'Kane?" She pointed to the farmhouse.

"Don't you know what he's done? He killed a cop in Belfast just a couple of hours ago. He killed Vincie Caffola and Father Coulter." He rested his hand on her shoulder as she shook her head. "He killed your uncle Michael."

"No," she said. "You're lying. You said the police killed Vincie Caffola. You're twisting things the way you always do."

McGinty brushed hair away from her forehead. "It's the truth, Marie. You can put your act on for everyone else, but I know you. You're more like your uncle than you let on. You've got that same cold streak in you, like stone. And now you've latched onto Gerry Fegan. What are you using him for? It's the same as the cop, isn't it? Just a way to get back at me." He sighed. "You always went for the wrong type, didn't you?"

Her gaze dropped. "Let me go back inside."

"All right," McGinty said. He stood upright and helped her to her feet. "Away you go."

Marie wiped her eyes as she went back to the farmhouse. She was silhouetted in the doorway for just a second. A second was long enough for the light to find Campbell. He ducked his head back inside the barn.

"Davy?" McGinty called. "Davy, is that you?"

Campbell screwed his eyes shut and cursed under his breath. He stepped out into the yard. "Yeah, it's me, Mr. McGinty."

McGinty took a slow step closer. "What are you doing there?"

"It stinks in that house. I was just out getting some air."

"In the barn?"

"I heard talking. I thought you'd want some privacy."

A step closer. "What'd you hear?"

"Nothing," Campbell said. "Just voices. Nothing I could make out."

Light cut across the yard once more, only to be blocked by the hulking form of Bull O'Kane. He came trudging across the concrete, his heavy feet slapping on the ground.

"Come on back inside now, lads."

McGinty stood still for a few seconds, then gave a slow nod. "We're coming. I think you wanted a word with Davy, here, didn't you?"

"That's right." A smile split O'Kane's ruddy farmer's face.

Campbell took a sideways step. "What about?"

O'Kane, impossibly quick for his size, had Campbell's upper arm in his grip before he could move. "Just a word, son."

McGinty came to his other side. "Just come inside, Davy."

Campbell made one desperate grab for the gun tucked into the small of his back, but McGinty got his wrist first.

"Don't, Davy." McGinty's voice was as soft and warm as the rain. "You'll only make it worse."

46.

Bull O'Kane walked a slow and steady circle around the room, eyeing each of the other occupants in turn. He drew on his cigarette and hot fingers of smoke probed his throat. Padraig took up almost half of the old couch while that idiot Coyle sat at the other end, grinning a lopsided grin. McGinty stood opposite, resting against the windowsill, smoking a cigarette. His driver had taken over from Coyle, keeping an eye on the woman and her child. O'Kane couldn't read the politician's face. He was a slippery bastard, that one. Always thinking, always finding the angles. O'Kane wouldn't trust him for a second, but he was smart, there was no getting away from it. Lately, he'd been getting too smart. The balls of him, arguing with the Bull in front of the others.

Downey and Malloy were down the lane, waiting for Fegan. The regular boys had been sent home. This was secret business, only for those who needed to know.

And there was Davy Campbell, standing alone at the center of the room, the Black Watch turncoat, the Scotsman fighting for Ireland. O'Kane wondered how he'd gotten away with it for so long. He stank of tout. You could smell it on his sweat. Any fucker could see it.

"You want to tell us something, Davy?" O'Kane ground the cigarette into the floorboards with his heel.

Campbell's voice was steady, but his eyes flickered. "What do you mean?"

O'Kane continued to circle, keeping Campbell fixed in his gaze. "Just what I said. Do you have something to tell us? Anything on your mind?"

"I don't know what you're talking about."

O'Kane kicked the back of his knee. Campbell went down hard, his kneecap cracking off the wooden floor. He cried out, then grabbed for his side, his face reddening.

"We're not fucking about here, Davy. No games."

O'Kane could have told him he'd live if he spoke the truth, but Campbell wasn't stupid. The Scot would know he was dead if he let the lie slip. He would string it out, hoping they'd eventually believe him. But O'Kane was certain of his facts. That stuck-up English ponce from the Northern Ireland Office was getting a holiday home in the Algarve for this information, along with a significant contribution to his retirement fund. Anyone in the NIO knew Bull O'Kane was not to be lied to, not for any price. The information was solid. Now he wanted more.

"You tell me the truth," the Bull said. "Stop your shite-talking and you'll go easy. Tell me who else is touting for your handler and I might make it even easier. I can't be fairer than that."

Campbell looked up from the floor. "I don't know what you're-" O'Kane drove his boot into Campbell's ribcage with a solid thud. The Scot writhed in tortured spasms, his mouth wide in a soundless scream. Silent tears sprang from his eyes, giving O'Kane a sweet satisfaction. It took something to make a hard man cry, but he'd never found it difficult.

He looked at Coyle. "You want a go?"

"Too fucking right." Coyle stepped forward, his battered face twisted in a pained sneer.

O'Kane moved back. "Work away, but stop when I tell you, right?"

Coyle reached down and grabbed a handful of hair. He pulled Campbell's head upwards. "I'm going to enjoy this, you cunt."

Campbell got his knees under him. "Fuck you," he hissed.

Coyle swung his foot into Campbell's crotch. The Scot gave a low groan and started to slip towards the floor, but Coyle held his hair firm. "Fuck me?" Coyle's laugh was raw and savage. He leaned over and spoke into Campbell's ear. "Fuck me? It looks like you're the one getting fucked, Davy."

Coyle drew his right arm back, made a fist, and punched Campbell's jaw. The hard smacking sound made McGinty wince. O'Kane had to suppress a laugh when he saw Coyle grimace at the pain in his knuckles.

Campbell went limp, but still Coyle held him by his hair, keeping him from collapsing to the floor. He slapped the Scot hard across the cheek. "Come on, you fucker. Look at me."

A small whisper came from Campbell's lips. Unease pricked at O'Kane's gut, but he held his tongue.

Coyle slapped him again. "What?"

Campbell lifted his eyes. His mouth moved as he mumbled softly.

Coyle leaned down, his ear close to Campbell's mouth. "What?"

"Stupid bastard," O'Kane said as Campbell's teeth locked on Coyle's ear. He sighed and shook his head at the scream. "All right, that's enough, for Christ's sake."

Another kick to Campbell's injured rib took the fight out of him and he sprawled on the floor, twisting his arms and legs, blood dribbling from his mouth. Coyle's blood. Coyle fell to the floor beside him, crying and pressing his hands to his ear.

"Holy Mother of Christ," O'Kane said to McGinty, 'where'd you get this stupid shite? He's as much use as tits on a boar."

McGinty just shook his head as he ground his cigarette butt into the windowsill.

"Here." O'Kane took a handkerchief from his pocket and tossed it to the floor. "It's clean. Hold it against your ear. Padraig, help the silly cunt up, will you?"

"Right, Da." Padraig heaved himself out of the couch and huffed over to Coyle. He picked up the handkerchief, wadded it into a ball, and held it to Coyle's ear. "Come on, now. You're all right."

Coyle struggled to his feet and went to kick Campbell's exposed cheek. Padraig held him back.

"I want to do him." Coyle's voice was choked by tears. "When you're finished, you let me do him."

"Get him out of here," O'Kane said. "There's bandages and stuff for the dogs over in the barn. There's a bottle of chloroform in there, too. Bring it and some cotton wool over, there's a good lad."

"Right, Da." Padraig led the weeping Coyle out of the room, into the kitchen. The sound of barking drifted in as the outer door opened to the night, and then disappeared as it closed again.

O'Kane stood over Campbell's wretched form. "You know the score, Davy. You know there's no getting out of this. You're going to die tonight."

He looked at his watch as he crouched down, his knees creaking. "Well, morning, actually. You're going to die, and that's all there is to it. The only thing you've got to worry about is how much you suffer. Can you hear me, Davy?"

He stroked Campbell's sweat- and rain-soaked hair.