Reading the notes on Caitlin Daly, her tragic experience as a child in Derry, her life till now in her mid-thirties, Daniel had expected to find her interesting, but he hadn't been prepared for her beauty. It left him momentarily speechless. But not Daly.
"What's going on?" she demanded.
Recovering his wits, he said, "I'm only here as a mouthpiece for Liam. I'm to tell you that you must consider your cell activated. There will be a campaign in London next year that will shock the world, though at this stage he can't give you details of what you are required to do."
"And how will we know?"
"When the time comes to strike, the word will be: 'The day of reckoning is here.' He will tell me, and I will pass on the order to you. Those are his instructions."
"So we wait?"
"That's what he told me, and this list for you, the members of your cell. Do the names of these six men still make sense?"
"Oh, yes, they are all members of the Hope of Mary circle at the refuge here at the hospice."
"Some sort of a club?"
"Much more than that. The sound basis for all our lives. I will call them together tonight and inform them of the situation."
He stood up. "You're a remarkable young woman, Caitlin."
"And you are a remarkable young man, Daniel."
He left her then and went out, the door banging, and she stood there, leaning on the back of the pew, shaking with emotion. The vestry door opened, and Monsignor Murphy came out. "Oh, it's you, Caitlin. I thought I heard voices. Who was it?"
"A stranger from a far-off land, Monsignor, who wandered in by chance. He's gone now. I sent him on his way." She took his arm. "Let's go to the presbytery and join Mother for a cup of tea."
That evening, having called the other members of the cell in turn, she met them in the chapel at Hope of Mary. Barry, Flynn, Pool, Costello, Cochran, and Murray joined her, and, filled with excitement and awe, they recited their own special prayer together at roughly the same time that Daniel Holley arrived in Algiers, although it would be many years before he discovered that meeting had taken place.
Two months later, Liam Coogan died of a sudden heart attack. Daniel was in Hazar at the time, brokering an arms deal for the Bedu Army in that region. Malik reached him on his mobile, but protocol was a delicate matter with Arab rulers, and it was a week before Daniel could get down to the port by Land Rover and find a plane to fly out. There was no possible way he could have got to Crossmaglen to attend the funeral, and there would have been great danger for him anyway. The funerals of Provo leaders like Liam were always very public affairs and attracted a great deal of media attention.
The real shock hit him when he went in the office, and Malik said, "A terrible tragedy, Liam going like that, but maybe it was a blessing, with a prolonged death from cancer to look forward to. At least, he'll have a smile on his face, wherever he is now."
"What's that supposed to mean?" Daniel asked.
"The Provisional IRA bombed the Canary Wharf business district in London two weeks ago."
Daniel was stunned. "I can't believe it. Is my mail here?"
"On your desk."
There was no message of any kind from Liam, but, on the other hand, if he'd wanted to speak to Daniel, he could have made contact by mobile, even in such a remote country as Hazar. The truth was that if Liam had been responsible in any way for the London bombing, he would have contacted Daniel and told him to activate the cell. He hadn't, because somebody else had been responsible. The chief of staff knew Liam was a dying man and had probably taken appropriate steps. So there'd been no message to Daniel to pass on to Caitlin Daly. Her cell would doubtless have taken pleasure in the news from London but been disappointed in their failure to be a part of it.
Should he phone her? He toyed with the idea and dismissed it. The bombing had had nothing to do with Liam, that was the truth of it. He was a sick man, a dying man, and others had taken care of it.
So he put his sorrow behind him and got down to work, busy with deals to Pakistan, and then in June 1996 the Provos struck again, the center of Manchester devastated. But in the end, enough was enough, and the cease-fire of 1997 became peace the following year.
How had Caitlin Daly felt, he used to wonder, waiting for the call that never came, the call that was obviously so important to her? But it was over now and done with, until the next time. He smiled, wryly admitting to himself that nothing had changed, not really. There might be "peace," but the PIRA still ran the largest crime syndicate in Europe, so to hell with it.
Wars and rumors of wars, world terrorism, Islam on the march, Chechnya, Bosnia, there was no end to it. Business was business, as far as Malik was concerned, and Daniel went with the flow, operating on the theory that a good product and a pistol in the pocket was all you needed to get by. The life he had led had made him a total cynic, and that was all he believed in anymore.
His luck ran out in 2004. Always take care in the Balkans, Malik used to say, they kill each other at the drop of a hat. That was certainly true enough for Kosovo. Its Muslim citizens hated Serbs beyond anything else in the world and wanted independence.
Daniel had brokered three previous deals in Kosovo, for the Muslims had plenty of money to spend on arms, supplied by sympathizers in the oil-rich Gulf States. A Bulgarian agent named Kovac made the arrangements, and they were simple enough. All Daniel needed in the wild backcountry was a smuggler who knew the forest area and a suitable old Land Rover.
The driver's name was Mahmud, and he didn't speak, instead concentrating on his driving on the narrow mud tracks of the forest, a rifle at his feet. He was about fifty, unshaven, and with a walleye. Daniel had met him on one previous occasion and remembered that he'd been surprised at how good his English was, and Mahmud had explained that at nineteen he had gone to England, to Manchester, where his uncle lived.
"How far to this Lamu place?"
"Not long now," Mahmud said.
"I saw you a year ago. How are things now? Do the Serbs still raid the villages?"
"Sure they do. They rape our women, kill the children."
"Burn the mosques?
"All those things, and sometimes the Russians come."
Daniel frowned. "I hadn't heard that. The Russians aren't supposed to be here. The United Nations wouldn't sanction it."
Mahmud shrugged. "They stay round here in the border country, special soldiers they call Spetsnaz."
Daniel sat there thinking about it and wondering what the Russian game was. That they were strong supporters of the Serbs was a given, so their presence in this Muslim part of Kosovo gave him pause for thought.
"Lamu, now, just up ahead." Mahmud pointed to a crossing of tracks where the trees thinned out, and there was a sudden engine roar as a large armored vehicle plowed through small trees from the right and braked to a halt. It was a Russian storm cruiser. Daniel recognized it at once.
"We've got trouble," he said as two armed men in uniform leapt out.
Mahmud picked up his rifle and scrambled out, firing a wild shot, then turning to run and was immediately shot down.
The soldiers walked forward slowly, weapons ready. Beyond them, several more had emerged from the storm cruiser and stood watching. Daniel opened the door and got out.
He'd picked up enough Russian over the years to understand it when one of the soldiers said, "Who are you?"
So he responded as a reflex, pulling the Browning from his pocket and shooting both of them in the heart, double-tapping, first one and then the other.
As he turned to run into the forest, there were cries of dismay from the other soldiers and a fusillade of shots as they ran forward. He was hit in the right thigh, he was aware of that, and then the left shoulder. He went down, and they were on him in seconds, boots swinging.
And then somebody shouted-a voice of real authority, he knew that-and then there was only the blackness.