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terrorists persuaded…?”
    The major’s grin was feral. “Gave them the choice of working for us or going down for some very long, very, very hard time.” He drew on his smoke. “They worked bloody well, too, until the silly buggers in charge got ambitious.”
    â€œYou’ve lost me again, John.”
    â€œThe Freds were billeted in these semis. Their handler lived next door in the other half. Tight security. We let them out in armoured personnel carriers with an intelligence crew. The Provo, ‘Fred,’ would look through the slits. When he spotted one of his mates, the soldier-photographer took a couple of quick candids. After a patrol, Fred would put names to faces. Worked like a charm, and we took quite a few unpleasant characters out of circulation”—he shook his head, as a father might when a small child has done something particularly foolish—“until some stupid sod thought that the Freds might do even better if we let them go home and mingle with their old comrades.”
    Marcus handed the major an ashtray.
    He tapped the ash. “The information officer of D Company, Second Battalion of the Provos, began to suspect a chappie called Seamus Wright.” He gave a small, exasperated snort. “Why his handlers let him go and live back on Leeson Street with his wife, I’ll never know. I’d rather not think about his interrogation.” The major’s smile held no sympathy. “I believe it lasted for five days.”
    â€œJesus.” Marcus tried to shut out the mental pictures.
    â€œWright implicated Kevin McKee, and to save their skins the pair of them became double agents—for a while.”
    â€œWhat happened?”
    â€œThey’re not working for either side anymore.”
    Marcus felt the hairs on the backs of his arms rise.
    â€œGood thing, too. Before their friends, um, dispensed with the services of Wright and McKee, the bastards had created havoc.”
    â€œHow?”
    â€œBy feeding us duff information. Wright and McKee identified Provos as members of the Official IRA, in whom the intelligence services had little interest, and Officials as Provos.” The major hunted through a file, produced a photograph, and said, “Here’s a good example.”
    Marcus looked at the picture. Two middle-aged men stood on a street corner. The taller, a heavy-set man, had thinning grey hair and a moustache. The other had a face like a fox. “Who are these two?”
    â€œA couple of has-beens. That’s Davy McCutcheon on the left. He was with the old IRA back in the fifties, along with his mate Jimmy Ferguson. They’re both over the hill. Not much interest to us.” He grunted. “When Seamus Wright was playing at double agents, he tried to persuade us that those two were Provos along with another bunch of old Officials. We didn’t fall for that one.”
    The major took a cigarette from the silver case. Marcus noted the SAS crest. He smiled at the thought of Major Smith’s promise. The major inhaled. “It got pretty nasty at the end. Wright and McKee blew the MRF’s cover. On second October two years ago, the Provos took out three MRF operations. Two and Three Battalions, PIRA, hit a house on College Square East and a massage parlour at 397 Antrim Road.”
    â€œA massage parlour?”
    â€œHidden mikes pick up quite a lot.”
    Marcus stifled a laugh at the image of a terrorist, clad in nothing but his balaclava, ArmaLite rifle in one hand, a weapon of an entirely different kind in the other.
    The major did not smile. “I’m glad you find it amusing.”
    â€œSorry, sir.”
    â€œIt’s John.”
    â€œSorry, John.”
    â€œNot as sorry as the driver of the Four Square Laundry van. His job was to collect dirty clothes from the Republican ghettoes and rush them to a forensic laboratory before having them washed and returned to their owners. Amazing