Martin Brosnan was a killer, trained in the hard school of Vietnam, graduate of many battles for the IRA. He was also a poet and a scholar, a man who had sickened of the violence woven into the fabric of his life, an adventurer who would break into the innermost sanctum of Army headquarters and leave a rose when by all the rules there should have been found the corpse of a British general. He was also a convict, rotting in France's strongest prison, the island fortress of belle Isle.
Frank barry was a killer too, but one who belonged to that most dangerous category of terrorist, those who kill not for principle but for money or for kicks. He had to be stopped, and to the harrassed British Intelligence Service it seemed that only Brosnan could do the job.
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