The Marching Season

  Graham said, "How will you cover up things here?"

  "Fortunately, McDaniels has no family to speak of," Wheaton said. "State has reluctantly given us some latitude. As far as the cover story goes, McDaniels had to return to Washington for two weeks. If the woman calls here looking for him, she'll be given that story and a personal message from McDaniels."

  "The woman has a name, by the way," Graham said. "E-Four picked her up when she arrived in Belfast early this morning. Her real name is Rebecca Wells. Her husband was Ronnie Wells, a member of the Ulster Volunteer Force intelligence section who was murdered by the IRA in 'ninety-two. It looks as though Rebecca has picked up the threads of her husband's work."

  "And the RUC is giving her room to run?" Michael asked.

  "They followed her to Portadown in order to establish her identity, but that's as far as it goes," Graham said. "As of right now she's running free."

  "Is the SAS on board?"

  "I'm meeting with them at their headquarters in Hereford tomorrow to brief them. You're both welcome to attend. Strange lot, the SAS. I think you might actually enjoy it."

  Wheaton stood up and rubbed his red, swollen eyes.

  "Gentlemen, the ball is in the court of the Ulster Freedom Brigade." He pulled on his suit jacket over his wrinkled shirt and headed for the door. "I don't know about either of you, but I need some sleep. Don't bother me unless it's urgent."

  The first night had been clear and calm and bitterly cold. Kyle Blake and Gavin Spencer decided to wait; one more night would make no difference, and the forecast looked promising. The second night was perfect: thick cloud cover to weaken the infrared glasses of the SAS men, wind and rain to help cover the sound of their approach. Kyle Blake approved, and Spencer dispatched two of his best men to do the job. One was a British army veteran who had done time abroad as a mercenary. The other was a former UDA gunman, the same lad who had killed Ian Morris. Spencer had code-named the first Yeats and the second Wilde. He sent them into the field a few hours after sundown and instructed them to attack an hour or so before dawn—just like the Peep O'Day Boys.

  The farmhouse stood in the basin of a small glen. Around the farm were several acres of cleared pasturelands, but beyond the fence line rose hills covered with dense trees. It was on one of these hillsides, the one directly east of the farmhouse, that the E4 and SAS men had established their watch post. On the second night, the hillside lay beneath a blanket of low, thick cloud.

  Yeats and Wilde wore black. They used coal dust to darken their pale Ulster complexions. They approached from the east, through the thick pine, up and down the rolling terrain, moving just a few feet each minute. Sometimes they lay very still for several minutes at a time, bodies pressed to the sodden earth, peering at their quarry through night-vision binoculars. When they had closed to within a quarter mile they separated, Yeats moving off to the north, Wilde to the south.

  By 4 A.M. both men were exhausted, soaked to the skin, and bitterly cold. Yeats had been trained by the British army and was better prepared, mentally and physically, for a night on a freezing hillside. Wilde was not; he had grown up in the Shankill of West Belfast, and his experience had been on the streets, not in the field. In the final minutes before the attack, he wondered whether he could go forward. Hypothermia had set in; his hands and feet were numb, yet no longer felt the cold. He was shivering violently, and he feared he wouldn't be able to fire his gun when the time came.

  At 5 A.M. both gunmen were in position. Yeats, lying on his stomach behind a large tree, watched the SAS man. He was sitting in a blind, covered with sprigs of brush and small tree limbs. Yeats took out his gun, a Walther 9-millimeter semiautomatic with a silencer fitted into the barrel. Wilde carried the same weapon. Both men knew they were going to be heavily outgunned by their opponents. If they were to survive the encounter, they would have to make their first shots count.

  Yeats rose to one knee suddenly and began firing. The silenced Walther made almost no sound. The first shots struck the SAS man in the torso with a dull thud and knocked him backward. By the sound of it the SAS man was wearing a vest, which meant he was almost certainly still alive.

  Yeats scrambled to his feet and rushed forward through the darkness. When he was a few feet away the SAS man sat up suddenly and fired. His weapon was silenced too, and the only sound it made was a faint metallic clicking.

  Yeats threw himself to the ground, and the shots sailed harmlessly over his head, splintering trees. Yeats rolled and came to rest on his stomach, arms outstretched, the Walther in his hands. He took aim and squeezed the trigger twice rapidly, just as the army had taught him. The shots struck the SAS man in the face. He fell to the ground, dead.

  Yeats rushed forward, tore the automatic rifle from the grasp of the dead SAS man, and ran to the spot where he knew the E4 men were hiding.

  Wilde had an easier time of things. The SAS man that he was assigned to kill had reacted to the sound of bodies rustling the heather. He rose, pivoted quickly in several directions, then ran to the assistance of his comrade. Wilde stepped from behind a tree as the SAS man moved past him. He leveled the gun at the back of his head and fired. The soldier's arms opened wide and he fell forward. Wilde grabbed the dead man's gun and raced forward, following Yeats through the trees.

  The two E4 men—Marks and Sparks—were hidden in their blind, concealed by camouflage tarpaulins, tree limbs, and undergrowth. Marks was just coming awake. Yeats shot him several times through his sleeping bag. Sparks, who was on duty, was reaching for a small automatic. Wilde shot him through the heart.

  It was just after five o'clock as Gavin Spencer sped through the village of Cranagh, then along the narrow B-road toward the farmhouse. He pulled into the muddy drive and shut down the engine. He walked to the back of the house through the darkness, picking his way through broken crates and old rusting farm equipment. He spotted them a moment later, descending the hillside in the rain. Spencer stood in the yard, hands in his pockets, as the two men crossed the pasture. For a moment he would have done anything to trade places with them; then he saw their wet, soiled clothing and the haunted look in their eyes, and he knew there was nothing to celebrate.

  "It's done," the one called Wilde said simply.

  "How many?" Spencer asked.

  "Four."

  Yeats tossed a rifle toward Spencer in the darkness. Spencer deftly pulled his hands from his pockets and caught the rifle before it struck him in the chest.

  "There's a souvenir for you," Yeats said. "The rifle of a dead SAS man."

  Spencer pulled back the slider on the weapon, chambering a round.

  "Anything left in this one?"

  "He never got off a fuckin' shot," Wilde said.

  "Get in the car," Spencer told them. "I'll be along in a minute."

  Spencer carried the gun across the yard and let himself into the house. Sam Dalton, the older of the two brothers, was sitting at the kitchen table, drinking tea and smoking nervously. He wore blue warm-up trousers, moccasins, and a woolen pullover sweater. His face was unshaven, his eyes heavy with sleep.

  "What the fuck's going on out there, Gavin?" he said.

  "We eliminated your friends on the hillside. You've any more of that?" he said, nodding at the tea.

  Dalton ignored Spencer's request. "Eliminated them?" he said, his eyes suddenly wide. "And what happens when it's discovered that you've eliminated them? I said I'd hide a few guns and a wee bit of Semtex for you, Gavin. You didn't tell me you were going to bring down the Special Branch and the British army on top of my fuckin' head."

  "You've nothing to worry about, Sam," Spencer said. "I'm taking all of it tonight. Even if the Branch and the army break down the door, there'll be nothing for them to find."

  "All of it?" Sam Dalton asked incredulously.

  "All of it," Spencer replied. "Where's your brother?"

  Dalton looked up at the ceiling and said, "Upstairs sleeping."

  "Start pulling out the guns and the Semtex.
I want a word with Sleeping Beauty. I'll be down in a minute."

  Sam Dalton nodded and went downstairs into the cellar. Gavin Spencer went upstairs and found Christopher Dalton asleep in his bed, mouth open, snoring softly. Spencer withdrew a silenced Walther automatic pistol from his coat pocket, leaned down, and slipped the barrel into the sleeping man's mouth. Christopher Dalton gagged and awakened with a jolt, eyes wide. Spencer pulled the trigger; blood and brain tissue exploded onto the pillow and the bedding. Spencer put the gun away and walked out of the room, leaving Christopher Dalton's twitching body on the bed.

  "Where's Chris?" Dalton asked, when Spencer arrived in the cellar.

  "Still sleeping," Spencer said. "I didn't have the heart to wake him."

  Dalton finished packing the guns and the explosives. When he was finished, three canvas duffels lay side by side on the floor. He was kneeling, zipping up the last of the bags, when Spencer pressed the barrel of the captured SAS automatic against the back of his head.

  "Gavin, no," he pleaded. "Please, Gavin."

  "Don't worry, Sam. You're going to a better place than this."

  Spencer pulled the trigger.

  At 6 A.M. the telephone rang on Michael's bedside table in the guest bedroom at Winfield House. He rolled over and snatched the receiver before it could ring a second time. It was Graham Seymour, telephoning from his home in Belgravia.

  "Get dressed. I'll pick you up in half an hour."

  Graham hung up abruptly. Michael showered and dressed quickly. Twenty minutes later a chauffeured Rover pulled into the drive at Winfield House. Michael got in next to Graham Seymour.

  Graham handed him coffee in a paper cup. He looked like a man who had been awakened with bad news. His eyes were red-rimmed, his shave was patchy and obviously hurried. As the car sped through the dawn light of Regent's Park, Graham quietly described what had happened overnight at the farmhouse in the Sperrin Mountains.

  "Jesus Christ," Michael said softly.

  The car raced along the Outer Circle, then east a short distance on the Euston Road before heading south on Tottenham Court Road. Michael clutched the armrest as the driver wove in and out of the early-morning traffic.

  "Mind telling me where we're going?" Michael asked.

  "I thought I'd surprise you."

  "I detest surprises."

  "I know," Graham said, managing a brief smile.

  Five minutes later they were speeding along Whitehall. The car drew to a halt at the iron gates guarding the entrance of Downing Street. Graham identified himself to the security officer, and the gates opened. The car moved forward, coming to a stop in front of the world's most famous doorway. Michael looked at Graham.

  "Come along, darling," Graham said. "Mustn't keep the great man waiting."

  They entered No. 10 and walked along the front corridor and up the famous staircase hung with the portraits of Tony Blair's predecessors. An aide showed them into the prime minister's study. Blair was seated behind a disorderly desk wearing a shirt and tie. A breakfast tray was untouched.

  "When I approved Operation Kettledrum, gentlemen, I didn't expect it would come at a price like this," Blair said, without waiting for introductions. "My God, two E-Four officers and two SAS men dead."

  Michael and Graham remained silent, waiting for the prime minister to continue.

  "The whole of Northern Ireland is going to awaken to this news in a few minutes, and when it does the Catholic community is going to react strongly."

  Graham cleared his throat. "Prime Minister, I assure you—"

  "I've heard your assurances, gentlemen, but what I want now are results. If the peace process is to survive, we must get the gun out of Irish politics—decommission the paramilitaries. And in this atmosphere, the IRA is never going to give up their weapons."

  "If I may speak, Prime Minister?" Michael said.

  Blair nodded briskly. "Please do."

  "The fact that the Ulster Freedom Brigade engaged in an action like this suggests to me they've taken the bait. They are planning to assassinate Ambassador Cannon in Norfolk. And if they proceed they will be dealt a devastating blow."

  "Why not arrest Gavin Spencer and this Rebecca Wells woman now? Surely that would deal the Ulster Freedom Brigade a serious blow as well. And it would show the Catholics that we are doing something to stop these murderous thugs."

  "The RUC doesn't have the kind of evidence necessary to produce an airtight case against Spencer," Graham said. "And as for Rebecca Wells, she's more valuable to us in the field than she would be behind bars."

  Blair began shuffling papers, a sign the meeting had concluded.

  "I'm going to allow this to continue," he said, then paused for a moment. "Despite what my critics say about me, I don't often engage in hyperbole. But if this group isn't stopped, the peace process will be destroyed, truly. Good morning, gentlemen."

  27

  THE NORFOLK COAST, ENGLAND

  Hartley Hall stood two miles from the North Sea, just southeast of the town of Cromer. A Norman aristocrat built the first manor house on the site in the thirteenth century. Beneath the present structure, in the labyrinth of cellars and passages, were the original medieval arches and doorways. In 1625, a wealthy merchant from Norwich named Robert Hartley built a Jacobean mansion atop the Norman manor house. To create a barrier between his home and the storms of the North Sea, he planted several thousand trees in the sandy soil along the northern edge of his land, even though he knew it would be generations before the trees reached maturity. The result was the North Wood, two hundred acres of firs, Scots pines, maples, sycamores, and beeches. Ambassador Cannon marveled at the trees as his small motorcade passed through the dark grove. A moment later, Hartley Hall floated into view.

  Robert Hartley's descendant, Sir Nicholas Hartley, stepped

  out of the south porch as the cars pulled into the gravel drive. He was a large man with a barrel chest and a thick forelock of sandy gray hair. A pair of setters scampered at his feet. Douglas climbed out of the second car and walked a few steps across the drive with his right arm extended. The two men shook hands as though Douglas owned the manor house down the road and had been coming to Hartley Hall for fifty years.

  Hartley suggested a brief walk, even though it was not quite 40 degrees and the dusk was fading rapidly. He had no job and few interests other than chronicling the history of his ancestral home, and he lectured Douglas intensely as they moved about the grounds. A pair of Special Branch men trailed softly behind them, followed by the dogs.

  They admired the Jacobean south front, which had been designed and built by the Norfolk master mason Robert Lyminge. They meandered past the wisteria-covered east wing, with its large traceried windows and Flemish gables. They gazed upon the magnificent orangery, a large interior greenhouse overlooking the parterre where potted orange and lime trees were stored during the cold months. Beyond the walled garden lay the deer park, which once supported a herd of three hundred. They walked south along a footpath, past the stables and a terrace of servants' cottages. The five-hundred-year-old St. Margaret's Church stood atop a small promontory, a silhouette against the blue-black twilight. Around it lay the remains of a fifteenth-century village that had been abandoned after an outbreak of plague.

  By the time the two men reached the south front again, the last of the dusk was gone. Light shone through the mullion-and-transom windows, illuminating small patches of the gravel drive. They passed through the rusticated door and entered the great hall. Douglas admired the fifteenth-century English stained glass, the portraits of Hartley's ancestors, and the oak writing table beneath the window. He ingratiated himself with his host by being the first American visitor to correctly identify the table as Flemish Renaissance.

  They passed through the dining room, with its sweeping rococo plasterwork, and into the drawing room. They stood in the center of the room, necks craned at the original plasterwork ceiling, staring at the rich array of roses, orange blossoms, grapes, pears, and po
megranates. "This panel is devoted to game birds found locally here along the Norfolk Coast," Hartley said, aiming his long arm like a rifle. "As you can see, there are partridge, pheasant, plover, and woodcock."

  "It's just magnificent," Douglas said.

  "But you must be exhausted, and I could go on all evening," Hartley said. "Let me show you to your room. You can freshen up and relax for a few minutes before dinner."

  They ascended the center staircase and followed the corridor past a series of closed doors. Hartley showed Douglas into the Chinese bedroom. There was an eighteenth-century four-poster bed and a brightly colored knotted Exeter carpet. At the foot of the bed were a Japanese black lacquer cabinet and a single carved Chippendale chair.

  A man was seated in the chair, his back to the door. He stood as Hartley and Douglas entered the room. For an instant Douglas had the sensation of staring at his own reflection in a fogged glass. His mouth actually fell open as he held out his hand toward the other man and waited for him to take it. The man just stood there, smiling slightly, clearly enjoying the effect of his presence. He was precisely the same height and stature as Douglas, and his thinning gray-white hair had been cut and styled in a similar fashion. His skin had the same open-air quality: ruddy cheeks, leathery complexion, large pores. The features were slightly different—the eyes a bit narrower—but the effect was overwhelming.

  The door to the dressing room opened and Michael stepped into the room, followed by Graham Seymour. Michael noticed the look on his father-in-law's face and burst out laughing.

  "Ambassador Douglas Cannon," he said, "I'd like you to meet Ambassador Douglas Cannon."

  Douglas shook his head and said, "I'll be goddamned."

  Rebecca Wells spent the afternoon bird-watching. She had been in Norfolk for three days, living in a small caravan on the beach outside Sheringham. She had toured the coastline from Hunstanton in the west to Cromer in the east, walking the Peddars Way and the Norfolk Coast path with her field glasses and her cameras, photographing the rich variety of local birds—plover and curlew, redshank and partridge. She had never been to Norfolk, and for a little while each day she actually seemed to forget the reason she had come. It was a magical place of salt marshes, tidal creeks, mudflats, and beaches that seemed to stretch to the horizon—flat, desolate, starkly beautiful.