"I did my bit."

"Not too well." Fegan nodded to the door. "Listen to them."

"They must've split up. How am I supposed to know they'd split up?"

"They do three-and-threes all the time. You should've waited till the first three was past and the other was coming up. You would've got all of them."

"Christ, what do we do?" Coyle pleaded again.

Fegan sighed and pulled the balaclava down over his face, leaving just his eyes and mouth exposed. Coyle did the same and followed Fegan to the street. They walked quickly towards the drifting smoke at the corner. There the remains of a litter bin were scattered across the road and the window of the shop it belonged to was blown inward. Street lights reflected off the glittering fragments of glass and sweet wrappers.

Fegan didn't pay any attention to them. Instead he looked at the six bodies on the ground. Three of the British soldiers were dead, but three still jerked and shivered. Two of them had even escaped with their limbs intact. They might have been called lucky, had it not been for Fegan. The other survivor had lost most of his right arm - he was the screamer - and shock had now reduced him to quivering silence. It was a small bomb, designed for maximum casualties within a localised area, with minimal wider damage to the surrounding property.

A woman scampered out of the house next to the shop, pointing to her living-room window. "Look what you did! I'll be hoovering up glass for a month." She noticed the men on the ground and crossed herself. "Oh, Jesus, them poor boys. God love them."

Fegan aimed the pistol at her forehead. "Go back inside," he said. The woman did as she was told without another word. Fegan readied himself to finish the job, but he and Coyle both spun on their heels when they heard the rapid slap-slap of shoe leather from behind them.

"Oh, no," Father Coulter said as he slowed to a stop, breathless. "Oh, no, no, no. Oh, God."

"We're not finished here, Father," Fegan said. He moved from body to body, kicking the soldiers' weapons away.

"Let me give them their Last Rites, for God's sake," the priest said.

"When we're finished."

Father Coulter stepped closer to the nearest three, his eyes widening as he looked from soldier to soldier. "These men are alive," he said.

"You'd better go, now, Father," Fegan said. "Come back in a few minutes."

"No," Father Coulter said. "These men can be saved. I can't let them die, no matter who they are."

"Come on, Father," Coyle said, 'you hate the Brits as much as anyone. All those times you took the boys in, hid them, gave them alibis."

Father Coulter's mouth opened and closed for a few seconds. "No," he said, 'that's not true."

Fegan shot Coyle a warning look. He turned back to the priest. "All right, Father, they haven't seen our faces. We'll let them live if that's what you want. But you'll have to explain why you stopped it when you're asked."

Fegan stepped in close to Father Coulter and whispered, "You'll have to tell McGinty when he comes calling, and believe me, he will call. You're a brave man, Father Coulter, but are you that brave?"

"I . . . I . . . I . . ." Father Coulter stammered. Something forced his stare to the ground. "Oh, Christ."

"Please," one of the Brits hissed, tugging at the priest's trouser leg, blood trickling from his ears, his helmet gone. "Help me," he whispered through blackened lips.

Father Coulter jerked his leg away and took a step back. Fegan chambered a round and pressed the pistol to the back of the soldier's skull. "Your choice, Father."

"Jesus, Gerry, quit it," Coyle said.

"Shut your fucking mouth," Fegan said. "If he wants to judge me he better be ready to go all the way."

He turned back to the priest. "You hear that, Father? You stand there in chapel every Saturday night, every Sunday morning, telling us to turn from sin. All the time you're taking handouts from McGinty to keep your mouth shut, to see nothing, to hear nothing, to turn away and be quiet. And the next Saturday, the next Sunday, you're telling us to take the other way. There's always another way, right? Now's your chance to prove it. Tell me to take the other way and I'll do it. But you better be ready to stand over it. You better be ready to answer to the boys who run these streets."

Father Coulter blinked at him. "Please, this isn't . . . it's not . . ."

Fegan pressed his pistol's muzzle harder against the back of the soldier's head. "What's it to be, Father? Have you the guts to practise what you preach? Or will you shut your eyes and say nothing like you always do?"

As the Brit held out his hands, as he whimpered on the ground, the priest's face went slack. He looked to Fegan once, and then looked to the ground. He turned and started walking.

"No!" The soldier tried to crawl after him. "No! No, no, please! Help!"

Father Coulter's stride was broken only slightly by the booming discharge as it resonated through the street.

Fegan kept his eyes closed until McGinty's speech was finished. When he opened them, she was there, facing him.

"Hello," Marie McKenna said.

Fegan blinked, unable to respond. The followers lost themselves amongst the thinning crowd.

"Sorry, I didn't mean to scare you," she said.

"It's okay." He scrambled for something else to say but could find nothing.

"Are you going to the house?" she asked.

"Yes," he said. "Just for a while."

"Do you need a lift?"

"No, I'm all right," he lied.

"Oh. Well, I'll maybe see you there." Marie smiled and left him among the gravestones.

Fegan stood in the May heat, waiting for the crowd to dissolve. When he was sure she had left, he began walking to the cemetery gates.

In his younger days Fegan had been glad of women, and the ease with which he could work his way into their beds. Some of the lads, like McKenna, had the words to charm them. But Fegan had never needed that; his reputation was enough. He knew they relished the danger of it, and he was happy to use them. Since leaving the Maze he'd had only a few encounters, moments here and there to scratch the itch, but that was all.

Marie McKenna troubled him. She was clearly not to be toyed with, but he didn't know how else to deal with women.

"What's happening to me?" Fegan asked himself. The isolation of his voice sounded strange among the gravestones. He swallowed his questions, put his head down, and kept walking. He stopped at the gates. A long silver car waited there, its engine running.

The tinted rear window rolled down and Paul McGinty, smooth-skinned and handsome, smiled out at him. "Hop in, Gerry," he said.

14.

When the Northern Ireland Office and the security forces worked in unison, they could be impressively efficient. A pity they don't do it more often, Campbell thought as he tossed the holdall on the bed. They'd organised a flat in the Holylands, the warren of streets called so in honor of their names - Palestine Street, Jerusalem Street, Damascus Street - not their inhabitants. It was a smart move, putting him here. The area was almost entirely populated by students attending Queen's University, the sprawling complex of Victorian and modern buildings at the bottom of the Malone Road. The students came and went at all hours of the day and night. They were noisy and careless of their environment. Campbell could slip in and out without drawing attention.

He went to the window of the small living room. He was on the top floor of a house on University Street, just off Botanic Avenue, overlooking a church. Students, shoppers and workers slipped past one another on the pavement below. His rusted Ford Focus sat at the curb across the way. He'd picked it up in a retail park just south of the city. An extra mobile phone and a Glock 23 were waiting for him in the glove box, the phone never to leave the flat and only to be used to dial one number.

It had almost broken his heart to swap his BMW for the Focus. The journey from Dundalk to Armagh, then up the motorway, was the first time he'd driven the Z4 in a month. He had to remind himself it was this work that paid for the car. But then, why do it if he never got to enjoy the spoils?

That was a good question, one he asked himself constantly. He was thirty-eight years old and had been an impostor for the last fifteen. He could admit a perverse pleasure in living a lie. The permanent risk of discovery had a strange sweetness. There was certainly a dark thrill in watching those around him accept a counterfeit, but surely there was more to it than that?

He had spent many nights staring at one ceiling or another, turning it over in his mind, but every time he came close to the answer he looked away. One day he might have the strength to see that part of himself.

When he joined the Black Watch Royal Highland Regiment at the age of twenty, David Campbell had no concept of where his life would lead him. He was following the path of many boys from Glasgow, and knew full well he'd end up in Belfast, patrolling the streets, dodging bricks and bottles. The first time a woman spat on his boots, he had stopped in his tracks, staring at her in shock.

"Fuck away off home," she'd said.

"Ignore her, lad," the sergeant called from behind.

Belfast was a different place now. When Campbell approached the city just an hour before, he was impressed by the number of cranes dotting the skyline. These metallic signals of prosperity towered over every corner of Belfast; in the west where the Republicans' power was strongest; in the east where the Loyalists held sway; in the south where the city's wealthy had always lived; in the north where Protestant and Catholic fought over every inch of ground.

The city's invisible borders remained the same as when Campbell first walked its streets holding a rifle eighteen years ago. The same lowlifes still fed off the misery they created, deepening the divisions wherever they could. The same hatreds still bubbled under the surface. But the city had grown fat, learning to mask its scars when necessary and show them when advantageous.

He turned from the window, went back to the sole bedroom, and dumped the holdall's contents into a drawer. A flash of color caught his eye. There, among the worn clothes, pistol and loose rounds, lay his old Red Hackle. He lifted it, feeling the plume between his fingers. He hadn't been able to wear the Black Watch's traditional insignia for long.

Campbell was just five days past his twenty-third birthday, with less than three years of service, when he had been called to see the Commanding Officer. Lieutenant Colonel Hanson was a gruff man with a deeply lined face, who instilled fear into all under his command. Campbell's chest fluttered as he knocked on the door.

"Enter," a voice barked from inside, the Scots accent thick and hard.

Campbell opened the door, stepped inside, closed the door without showing the colonel his back, marched five paces, snapped his heels together and saluted. The colonel casually returned the gesture from behind his desk. Campbell kept his eyes straight ahead, ignoring the third man present.

"You may sit." The colonel indicated the empty chair facing him. Campbell did so.

"Congratulations on your promotion, Corporal," Colonel Hanson said.

"Thank you, sir."

"I'll get straight to the point. Have you heard of Fourteen Intelligence Company?"

"I've heard rumors, sir," Campbell said. His nervousness intensified. Fourteen Intelligence Company was undercover, annexed to the SAS. It didn't officially exist, but it was no secret. Fourteen Int did the dirty work, the stuff no one owned up to, the kind of things ordinary people go to prison for.

"Then you'll know Fourteen Int is charged with intelligence gathering, and plays a vital role in our operations in Northern Ireland. It works closely with, but independently of, the Royal Ulster Constabulary, Special Branch, MI5, Force Research Unit and regular Army. It handles agents and informants in all the paramilitary groups in the Province and has saved countless lives." Major Hanson indicated the third man, seated to his right. "This is Major Ross."

"Good morning, Corporal," Major Ross said. He wore no uniform but was instead casually dressed. His accent was Birmingham, or maybe Dudley.

"Good morning, sir," Campbell said. Sweat trickled down his ribs.

Major Ross lifted a file from the desk and opened it. "David Patrick Campbell. Born in 1969 to a mixed-religion marriage, rare in Glasgow, and raised Catholic. Do you practise?"

"Sir?"

"Your religion. Do you go to Mass?"

"Not since I was at school, sir." Campbell kept his back stiff, his hands on his knees.

"You left school at sixteen, no real qualifications, despite having above-average intelligence. Various menial jobs, a few stretches on the dole, before you joined the Black Watch. Why did you sign up?"

Campbell shifted in his seat. "There was nothing else to do, sir. No job. No future."

Major Ross smiled. "I see. And what did your parents make of it?"

Campbell stared at Major Ross while he searched for a lie.

"Answer the major," Colonel Hanson said.

A lie wouldn't come, so Campbell was left only the truth. "I wasn't speaking with them at the time, sir."

"And why was that?" Major Ross asked.

"We'd had a falling-out a couple of years before, sir."

"Over what?"

"I'd rather not say, sir."

Colonel Hanson's face reddened. "You'll answer the question, corporal."

"I had some trouble with the law, sir. My parents didn't take it very well." Campbell looked down at his hands.

"Some trouble with the law," Major Ross echoed with a sly smile. "That's one way to put it. You kicked the shit out of a nightclub door-man is another way."

Campbell looked the major in the eye. "The charges were withdrawn, sir."

"Yes - very conveniently for you, several witnesses changed their stories. You wouldn't have had anything to do with that, would you, Corporal?"

"No, sir."

Major Ross looked back to the file. "Your record since joining the Black Watch has been good, but not exceptional. With your brains you should have been corporal a year ago. You're a quick thinker, you're tough, but you lack discipline. I'm told you're good in a scrap. In fact, I'm told you've got a serious mean streak. You came close to a court martial last year after assaulting a protester at a Loyalist parade. Care to comment?"

"It was self-defence, sir. The charges were dropped."

"Conveniently for you, yet again." Major Ross smiled and placed the file back on the desk. "You've no family that you're in contact with, and no friends outside this barracks, correct?"

"Yes, sir." Campbell watched the two officers share a glance. "Can I ask what this is about, sir?"

Colonel Hanson went to shout some admonishment, but Major Ross raised a hand to silence him. "I want you to come and work for me," he said.

So in the following months Campbell began to spend days at a time in England, at RAF Cosford and the Commando Training Center in Lympstone, being brutalised for the good of the country. When he flew back to Belfast he frequented some of the bars he and his colleagues had been warned to avoid. He wore a Glasgow Celtic shirt to pubs where matches were being screened, cheering loudest when they scored against Glasgow Rangers. An insider in Fourteen Int's pay introduced him to some men, vouching for him. He answered questions about his Black Watch regiment, about the patrols he walked in. When they got more specific, when they asked about times and dates, he played coy. When he was discharged from the Black Watch a few months later for a contrived disciplinary breach, he grew less shy with the details. He worked his way into the enemy's ranks, a little deeper every day, while once a week he met a handler in a car park or a country lane and reported on what he'd learned. Occasionally he would check a savings account, opened under another name, to see he had been well paid.

The first time he had to kill to protect his cover was difficult. They'd warned him it would happen eventually, but even so, the image of executing his old sergeant still woke him in the night, even fifteen years later. It was the wild hope in Sergeant Hendry's eyes that burned in Campbell's memory. Not the begging, not the weeping, but the moment Hendry recognised him, believing he was saved. Hendry's hope died an instant before he did, when he watched Campbell's finger tighten on the trigger.

Campbell shivered, suddenly cold despite the sun breaking through the bedroom window. The church bell signalled two o'clock. It was time to go. Time he went to McKenna's bar to meet his contact.