The Marching Season

the Ulster Freedom Brigade. The Ulster Freedom Brigade is a new Protestant paramilitary organization and is not a pseudonym for an existing organization such as the Ulster Volunteer Force or the Ulster Defense Association."
    "Hold on, let me catch up," Ginger said calmly, scribbling furiously. The man she had nearly dismissed as a crank sounded very much like the real thing. "All right, I've got it. Keep going."
    "The Ulster Freedom Brigade is dedicated to the preservation of the Protestant way of life in Northern Ireland and the preservation of British rule in the province. We will not stand idly by while the British government betrays its historical commitment to the Protestant people of Northern Ireland, nor will we ever permit Ulster to be annexed by the South. The Ulster Freedom Brigade will continue its campaign of armed resistance until the so-called Good Friday peace agreement is dead and buried. All those who support this betrayal of Northern Ireland's Protestant community should regard this statement as fair warning." The man paused, then said, "Did you get all that?"
    24 Daniel Silva
    "Yes, I think so."
    "Good," he said, and the line went dead.
    Alan Ramsey, the executive producer, was sitting at his desk, a phone pressed to each ear and a pile of scripts in front of him. Ginger marched across the newsroom and stood by his desk, waving her hand to get his attention. He looked up and said, "I have Belfast on one line and Dublin on the other. This better be fucking important."
    "It is."
    "Hold on a minute," he shouted into the mouthpieces of both receivers. He looked up at Ginger. "Talk."
    "A man just telephoned to claim responsibility for the bombings."
    "Probably a crank."
    "I don't think so. It sounded like the real thing."
    "Have you ever heard the real thing?"
    "No, but—"
    "Then how can you be certain?"
    "There was something about him," Ginger said. "I don't know how to put this, Alan, but he really scared the shit out of me."
    Ramsey held out his hand, and she gave him the statement. He glanced at her scrawly shorthand, frowned, and handed it back to her. "Christ, decipher this, would you?"
    She read back the statement.
    Ramsey said, "Did he have an accent?"
    She nodded.
    "Irish?"
    "Northern Irish," she said. "West Belfast, I'd say."
    "How could you tell?"
    "Because I was born in Belfast. We lived there until I was ten. Once you get that accent in your head it's very hard to forget."
    The Marching Season 25
    He looked at the large digital clock on the wall: ten minutes to air.
    "How long will it take you to type that thing up?"
    "About fifteen seconds."
    "You have exactly ten."
    "Right," she said, sitting down in front of a computer.
    Ramsey withdrew an electronic organizer from his coat pocket and punched in the last name of a friend from Cambridge who worked for MI5. He picked up the telephone, dialed, and drummed his fingers on the desk while he waited.
    "Hello, Graham, it's Alan Ramsey. Listen, we received a rather interesting telephone call a few moments ago, and I was wondering if I could impose on our friendship."
    Ginger dropped a printout of the statement on the desk. Ramsey read it over the telephone. Then he took notes furiously for thirty seconds.
    "Right, thanks much," he said. "Anytime I can return the favor, don't hesitate to call."
    Ramsey slammed down the phone and stood up at his desk.
    "All right, listen up, everyone!" he shouted, and the newsroom fell silent. "We have what appears to be a genuine claim of responsibility for the attacks in Belfast, Dublin, and Heathrow: a new group called the Ulster Freedom Brigade. We're leading the newscast with it. Get on the phone and get me every expert on Irish terrorism you can lay your hands on, especially Protestant terrorism. We have five minutes, ladies and gentlemen. If the bastard has a pulse, put him on the air."
    3
    PORTADOWN, NORTHERN IRELAND
    One object of the investigation was at that moment seated in his living room in Portadown watching television. The inhabitants of the Brownstown housing estate leave no doubts about where their loyalties lie. Faded Union Jacks fly over many of the houses, and the curbs are marked with red, white, and blue stripes. Kyle Blake did not go in for displays of allegiance. He tended to keep his political beliefs—and everything else he considered important, for that matter—quite to himself. He belonged to no Unionist organizations, attended church infrequently, and never spoke about politics in