One



Portadown, Northern Ireland



The killer had a good view of the house, the outline clear against a darkening sky. Set a little back from the road, it seemed to shrink from civilisation, sheltering behind the barrier of a neglected garden. He lay hidden behind a prickly hedgerow on the other side of Loughgall Road, breathing in the musky odour of composted leaves, soil and animal droppings. It was a pungent cushion as familiar as his own bed, and only slightly less comfortable. His target had passed moments before, signalling a left as he pulled the Land Rover up onto the weed-strewn drive—as he’d done on five previous occasions that week.

One word in his headset. ‘Parsifal?

One response. ‘Clear?’

Affirmative.

The agent raised a pair of night-vision glasses and saw a heavy-set man in uniform climb out of the cab, lock the door and amble up the narrow path to the house. He had no idea what the target had done to deserve his fate. He hadn’t asked, and wouldn’t have received an answer if he had. His instructions demanded the death to be blamed on the Provisional IRA, which was why half a pound of Semtex with a tilt fuse trigger sat snugly in his backpack.



*



At the age of eleven years and two months, Brendan was almost a man. At least that was how he saw it, and now he was at Big School he seized every opportunity to press the point with his mother and younger sisters. Today was no exception.

The argument had started that afternoon on his return home. He’d found himself in trouble for losing three school books, and now his mother faced a bill she didn’t want to pay. Brendan had offered to sort it himself; or rather, he was going to get the money off his Da. The problem was his parents didn’t live together, and Ma was adamant that he wasn’t allowed to make the one-mile journey on his bike to seek the required funds.

Brendan could not even phone his father, who would not return from work until after his bedtime. In the meantime, kid sister Emma had been winding him up in the way that only seven-year-olds can.

Brendan’s hit me!’

No, I didn’t! She’s lying!’

His mother threw down a tea towel and hurried into the hallway to prevent further arguments from her volatile offspring.

You two! Stop that! Brendan, you should know better than to hit a girl, and Emma, leave him alone and go play with your sister.’

But—’

No buts! Just do it! Have you started your homework yet, Brendan?’

The young man drew himself up to his full height of four feet eight inches and glared at his sister’s back.

Told you before. Not got any. I want to go see my Da.’

She took a deep breath.

No chance. I’m not having you out on your own on that bike. I’ll speak to him later and sort something. Now come and help in the kitchen.’

Brendan had suffered enough. Once done with domestic duties, he was sent off to bed but instead slipped quietly out the back door. As darkness fell, he made for the shed to retrieve his bicycle.



*



Parsifal reached the Land Rover in the gathering dusk. Anyone observing his approach would have seen a terrorist wearing a trademark black balaclava. In position next to the vehicle, he inched his body into place behind the front offside wheel.

He had between fifteen and twenty minutes before the target returned. Now off-duty, the RUC officer would be changing out of his uniform before taking a short drive into town for a drink or three at one of his regular haunts.

Everything was done by touch. Parsifal closed his eyes, letting the skill gained from practice guide his fingers as he attached the components from his backpack onto a clean portion of metal the size of his palm.

Explosive in place, positioned to impact under the driver’s footwell, the final procedure was to secure the fuse and prime it. A plastic medicine bottle was attached to a small battery and a ball bearing sat beneath a tube containing a tiny amount of mercury. Once the vehicle moved, the little ball would do the same, causing the liquid metal to travel down the tube and complete the electrical circuit. Result: death by mercury. A plastic lug the size of a pea was all that prevented the ball from moving, and Parsifal was now ready to withdraw it.

Keeping his own movements to a minimum in the cramped conditions, he packed away his tools then shuffled out from under the vehicle so that he could still reach the lug at arm’s length. His ears picked up a distant noise, and he tensed his body until he could identify the source. The growl of a powerful engine grew in volume as a motorcycle accelerated up Loughgall Road and sped past. Parsifal relaxed at the passing threat and reached back under the car until he could place his fingers round the lug.

What you doin’, Da?

The young voice forced an instinctive reaction. He rolled onto his belly and sprung to his feet. In front of him was a small figure stood next to a bicycle carrying no lights. Parsifal was shocked that someone could have got so close without signalling their approach. The motorcycle. It had drowned out any noise made by the boy’s arrival.

You’re not my—’

Brendan's words were cut short as Parsifal grabbed the boy's shoulder, spun him around and clamped his hand against his mouth, with the point of a blade against his neck. There was no time for interrogation as a light pierced the darkness, and both turned to face the doorway.

Inside the house, Patrick Faulkner had changed into civvies. He considered his reflection in the hallway mirror: a man of forty-plus in an open-collared shirt, brown jumper and green corduroy trousers. The face staring roundly back at him was more lined than he cared for, and the hair a little thinner, but he could still hack it with the ladies. He might manage a haircut next week, but right now a certain Maggie Devlin awaited him at O’Hara’s. Faulkner stroked a hand over his newly shaved chin and reached for his keys. For a moment he considered leaving the light on in the hallway. Then again, he might just get lucky. Off went the switch as he stepped into the night.

He took a few paces and then stopped dead, aware of the figures on the other side of the car.

What the fuck—’

Even in the dim evening light he could make out the shape of a tall man with pale eyes behind a black balaclava, holding a knife to his son’s throat.

Is this yer boy, Mister?’

It was not an authentic local accent, but Faulkner could not have cared less. His attention was fixed on Brendan’s terrified face.

Let him go. He’s only a boy. Let him go!’

But the man in black did not oblige. Keeping the knife in clear view, he moved away from the Land Rover with the frightened boy clamped firmly under his left arm.

Get in.’

Faulkner blinked. He knew the dangers. The damage done by the Provo’s and the UVF filled much of his weekly report.

What’s this about?’

Just get in the car. You’re going for a ride.’

Faulkner glared. He had no weapon. He had no choice. Reluctant to take his eyes off either the knife or Brendan’s face, he threw a smile of encouragement at the boy as he approached the driver’s door. As he fumbled with the lock he noticed the discarded bicycle at the side of the drive and quickly processed the scene before him. Realisation dawned, and Faulkner’s blood pressure hit overdrive. Whatever he did now, he must not further endanger the boy’s life.

As soon as his father closed the door, Brendan felt himself pushed forward.

Now get in the other side. Move!’

Spurred on by the threat of the blade somewhere behind his skull and desperate to get close to his Da, Brendan scrambled onto the bench seat. He saw his father react in horror as the armed man climbed in next to him, closing the door and bringing the knife back into view.

What are you doing?’ croaked Faulkner.

Just do it,’ was the reply.

The eyes behind the mask didn’t blink. At his side, pale as death and bathed in clammy perspiration, Brendan screamed a silent last appeal to his Da.

Faulkner fired the ignition and released the brake.