the Irish Americans appeared to have had enough. PIRA had fucked up big-time. It had thought the bombing would be hailed as a victory in its struggle against an occupying power, but all it had done was show it up for what it really was. It might be one thing to kill 'legitimate' targets like judges, policemen, and members of the security forces, but murdering innocent civilians while they were honoring their dead at a Remembrance Day service?

That was why Gibraltar had been such a puzzle to me. I could see why Adams and company would be desperate to show their diminishing group of sympathizers that they were still in business, but why risk a repeat of the international backlash they'd suffered after Enniskillen? If they bombed Gibraltar, it wouldn't be only British civilians who might end up killed. At that time of the year, hundreds of foreign tourists pack the squares and streets of the colony, many from the cruise liners that regularly dock in the harbor.

And many of those, PIRA would have known full well, were American. I'd never been able to see a method to their madness.

It suddenly hit me that maybe I'd been looking down the wrong end of the telescope. PIRA were terrorists, but their presence here in Washington proved that they were also businessmen. There was no sectarian divide when it came to money, just normal competition and greed. They got together with Protestant para militaries on a regular basis to talk about their drug, prostitution, and extortion rackets, even to discuss demarcation lines for different taxi firms and sites for slot machines back home. They had the infrastructure, the knowledge, and the weapons to be major players in the world of crime. With cooperation from other terrorist organizations throughout the world, the possibilities were endless. If so, this was some serious shit.

Down in the parking lot the couple was having a long, lingering embrace. What was going on there was some serious shit, too. Then one final kiss and, yep, separate cars.

I wasn't expecting a phone call from Pat until noon and there were still about three hours to wait for the tape to finish recording, so there wasn't much to do apart from watch invaders from Mars and talking shoes who lived in wastebaskets.

I felt uneasy. I needed to do something.

I shook Kelly.

'Kelly, Kelly, wake up.'

She moaned, pulling the covers back over her. I spoke gently in her ear.

'I'm going downstairs to buy some stuff, OK?'

I got a very weak yes. She couldn't have cared less. I was beginning to realize she wasn't a morning person.

I used the emergency stairs again and crossed under the highway to the 7-Eleven. Inside, it looked like Fort Knox.

There was a grating in the wall with a cubbyhole behind it and an Asian face glowering out and then turning back to watch a portable TV. The store was too hot and stank of cigarettes and over brewed coffee. Every inch of wall space was plastered with signs informing the local villains cash register

HOLDS ONLY $50----EVERYTHING ELSE DEPOSITED.

I didn't really need to buy anything; we had more stuff in the room than we could eat in a year, but I wanted some time to myself, away from Kelly. I found it tiring just being around her. There was always something that needed doing, checking, or washing, and in any time that was left over I seemed to be nagging her to hurry up and get dressed.

At the magazine rack another friendly sign said, no spitting or reading the merchandise. I picked up a Washington Post and a handful of magazines, some for me and some for Kelly--I didn't even bother looking at what they were--and went and put my money through the small hole in the grille. The man looked disappointed I hadn't forced him to use the machete I was sure he had under the till.

I strolled into the lobby to get breakfast. There were seven or eight people sitting around, eating, and watching a TV mounted on a wall bracket above the table with the food and drink. As I started to load up three paper plates on a tray, above me I could hear an anchorman talking about George Mitchell and his part in the Irish peace process. I listened to a couple of sound bites from Sinn Fein and the British government, both pouring scorn on the other side's statements, both claiming that they were the ones who truly wanted peace.

A woman's voice interrupted my thoughts. She was anchoring the local news, and as I poured some orange juice for Kelly I could feel my skin tingle all over. She was talking about the Browns.

I didn't dare turn around. One of the barbecue pictures could appear on screen at any moment.

The woman told viewers that police had not come up with any new leads, but the kidnapping of seven-year- old Kelly had moved forward with a computer image of the man seen leaving with her. She gave my height, build, and hair color.

There wasn't room to pour any more coffee or juice, and the tray was overflowing with food. But I didn't dare move. It felt as if every pair of eyes in the room was fixed on me. I put a bagel into the toaster and waited, drinking coffee, not looking up or around. I felt I was in a cocoon of silence, apart from the voice of the newscaster. I prayed for her to turn to a new subject. The bagel popped up. Shit. I put some spread on it. I knew people were looking at me; they had to be.

I'd run out of things to do. I took a deep breath, picked up my tray, and turned around. The noise of the room came back.

No one was looking. They were too busy eating, talking, and reading the papers.

Kelly was still asleep. Good. I put her food on the side and started to munch on my Cheerios. I switched the TV on, muted it, and flicked through the channels, looking for local news. There was nothing more about the situation on Hunting Bear Path.

I attacked the newspaper. We were famous well, sort of.

A small piece on page five. No pictures. A police spokesman was reported as saying that they were reluctant to come up with any theories until they had more concrete evidence, but yes, the murders were being treated as drug-related. Luther and his bunch would be pleased about that. Otherwise, there were no new leads. I wasn't the only one in the dark.

I had to try to cut all the conjecture from my mind because it was getting far too confusing. As the policeman said, without information it was pointless spending time and effort trying to think of different scenarios. I determined to focus all my effort into: one, protecting Kelly and myself; two, keeping the video on target to discover if there was a connection between PIRA and Kev's death; three, getting some money from Pat so I could arrange my return to the UK; and four, getting hold ofEuan for help in dealing with Simmonds, or, if I had nothing for him, to help me negotiate with him.

I looked over at Kelly. She was on her back with her arms out in a star shape, dreaming she was Katherine, the pink ranger. I felt sorry for her. She hadn't a clue what had happened to her family. Some poor bastard was going to have to tell her one day, and after that someone would have to look after her. I just hoped it was someone nice; maybe her grand parents, wherever they might be.

At least she was alive. Those boys must be sweating now.

They'd have to assume that Kelly had given me their descriptions and that she'd overheard what all the shouting was about. They had to be desperate to get their hands on us.

I started to wonder how I could get more information out of her but gave up on that one. I was no psychologist; if any thing, I was a candidate for seeing one.

I picked up a bike magazine and by the end had changed loyalties from Ducati to BMW. Then I read in a fishing magazinc how wonderful Lake Tahoe was for men with waders. I was lost in a whole new world of hook sizes and rod materials when all of a sudden there was a knock on the door.

No time to think. I pulled the Sig, checked chamber, and looked at Kelly. I thought: We both might be dead soon.

I put my hand over her mouth and gave her a shake. She woke up scared. I put my fingers to my mouth. It wasn't in a nice manner it was saying: 'Shut the fuck up. Don't say a fucking thing.'

I called out, 'One minute, one minute!' I went through and turned the shower on, came back out, then went up to the door, sounding disorganized.

'Hello, who is it?'

A pause.

'Housekeeping.'

I looked through the peephole and saw a woman, black, mid-fifties; she had a cleaning uniform on and a cart

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