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"That's all I can say."
    "Has there been a claim of responsibility yet?"
    "We did it tonight. It's hell out there, roadblocks and checkpoints from County Antrim to the border. Until things loosen up we can't even think about moving you."
    Bates struck another match, illuminating the scene for an in-
    36 Daniel Silva
    stant, the two hooded visitors, one seated, one standing, like statuary in a garden. He lit another cigarette and waved out the match.
    "Is there anything we can get for you to help pass the time?"
    "A girl of loose morals would be nice."
    The remark was greeted with silence.
    "Lie on the cot," the seated man said again. "Facedown."
    Charles Bates did as he was told. He heard the rustle of the feed sacks as the large man with the tattoos on his hands rose to his feet. He heard the barn door swing open.
    Then he felt something cold and hard being pressed against the base of his skull. He heard a faint click, saw a flash of brilliant light, then only darkness.
    Rebecca Wells slipped the silenced Walther pistol into her coat pocket as she climbed into the van. Gavin Spencer started the engine, turned around, and drove along the pitted farm track until he reached the Bl 77. They waited until they were clear of the farm before removing the balaclavas. Rebecca Wells stared out the window as Spencer drove expertly along the rolling, winding roadway.
    "You didn't have to do that, Rebecca. I would have done it for you."
    "Are you saying I'm not good enough to handle my job?"
    "No, I'm just saying that it's not right."
    "What's not right?"
    "A woman killing," Spencer said. "It's not right."
    "And what about Dame?" Rebecca said, using the code name of the woman who had carried the suitcase bomb into the London Underground. "She killed many more people than I did tonight, and she gave her life as well."
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    "Point well taken."
    "I'm responsible for intelligence and internal security," she said. "Kyle wanted him dead. It was my job to make him dead."
    Spencer let it drop. He switched on the radio to help pass the time. He turned onto the Al and headed toward Banbridge. A few moments later Rebecca groaned. "Pull over."
    He braked to a halt on the apron of the road. Rebecca opened the door and stumbled out into the rain. She fell to her hands and knees in the light from the headlamps and was violently sick.
    WASHINGTON
    The meeting between British Prime Minister Tony Blair and President James Beckwith had been scheduled well in advance; the fact that it fell just one week after the Ulster Freedom Brigade launched its wave of terror was coincidence. In fact, both men went out of their way to portray the meeting as a routine consultation between good friends, which in most respects it was. As the prime minister arrived at the White House from Blair House, the guest quarters across the street, President Beckwith assured his visitor that the mansion had been named in his honor. The prime minister flashed his famous tooth-and-gums smile and assured President Beckwith that the next time he came to London a British landmark would be named in his honor.
    For two hours the President and the prime minister met with their aides and assistants in the Roosevelt Room of the White House. The agenda included a wide range of issues: coordination
    The Marching Season 39
    of defense and foreign policy, monetary and trade policy, ethnic tension in the Balkans, the Middle East peace process, and, of course, Northern Ireland. Shortly after noon the two leaders adjourned to the Oval Office for a private lunch.
    Snow drifted over the South Lawn as the two men stood at the window behind Beckwith's desk and admired the view. A large fire burned brightly in the fireplace, and a table was set before it. The President confidently took his guest by the arm and shepherded him across the room. After a lifetime in politics, James Beckwith was comfortable with the ceremonial aspects of his job. The Washington press corps routinely said he