“Sure you do, Billy. You know everything.”

Conway said nothing.

“His name,” said Keller, pointing the gun at Conway’s face. “Tell me his name.”

Conway lifted his face to the gray sky and spoke his own name. Keller’s vision blurred with rage and he felt his legs begin to buckle. The gun provided him a sense of balance. He never remembered pulling the trigger, only the controlled recoil of the weapon in his hand and a flash of pink vapor. He knelt with Billy Conway until he was certain he was dead. Then he rose to his feet and headed back to the car.

77

RANDALSTOWN, COUNTY ANTRIM

ON THE OUTSKIRTS OF RANDALSTOWN, Keller’s MI6 mobile phone vibrated. He drew it from his coat pocket and frowned at the screen.

“Graham Seymour.”

“What does he want?”

“He’s wondering why Billy Conway is no longer in the car.”

“They’re watching us.”

“Obviously.”

“What are you going to tell him?”

“I’m not sure. This is uncharted territory for me.” Keller held up the phone and asked, “Do you think this is acting as a transmitter?”

“Could be.”

“Maybe I should throw it out the window.”

“MI6 will dock your pay. Besides,” added Gabriel, “it might come in handy in Bandit Country.”

Keller placed the phone in the center console.

“What’s it like?” asked Gabriel.

“Bandit Country?”

“Crossmaglen.”

“It’s the kind of place they wrote songs about.” Keller stared out the window for a moment before continuing. “South Armagh was totally under the control of the Provos during the war, a de facto IRA state, and Crossmaglen was its holy city.” He glanced at Gabriel and added, “Its Jerusalem. The IRA never had to adopt a cell structure there. It operated as a battalion. An army,” added Keller. “They would spend their days plowing their fields and at night they would kill British soldiers. Before every patrol we were reminded that beneath every gorse bush or pile of stones there was probably a bomb or a sniper. South Armagh was a shooting gallery. And we were the targets.”

“Go on.”

“We referred to Crossmaglen as XMG,” Keller continued after a moment. “We had a watchtower in the main square called Golf Five Zero. You took your life in your hands every time you entered. The barracks were windowless and mortarproof. It was like serving on a submarine. When I escaped from Jimmy Fagan’s farm that night, I didn’t even try to get to XMG. I knew I would never make it alive. I went north to Newtownhamilton instead. We called it NTH.” Keller smiled and said, “We used to joke that it stood for ‘No Terrorists Here.’”

“Do you remember Fagan’s farm?”