McCormack’s words were cold and emotionless as if he was detailing a shopping list. Lynch wasn’t sure whether or not he should apologise. He knew that an apology wouldn’t count for anything. ‘The fault was mine,’ Lynch said quietly. ‘I’ll take the responsibility. I asked Pat to finish off while I drove to Dublin. He wasn’t happy about it.’
‘At least one of you was being professional,’ said McCormack, shifting down to second gear again and braking gently. The BMW was doing just under 25mph. ‘The Army Council is meeting tonight, Dermott. I’ll do what I can.’
‘What do you think will happen?’
‘If you’re lucky, a verbal warning. A smack across the knuckles. You’re a good volunteer, you’ve done more than your share. Everyone’s allowed one mistake.’ McCormack increased the speed of the windscreen wipers, even though the rain seemed to be slacking off. ‘I’m going to have to play down your reason for coming to Dublin, though. We wouldn’t want everyone to know that you were disobeying orders, would we?’
‘Thanks, Thomas. I appreciate it.’ Lynch quietly tapped his fingers on the dashboard as McCormack put on his indicator and pulled into the side of the road. They were back in front of the Corinthian pillars and Ionic porticos of the Bank of Ireland.
‘Take care back in Belfast, Dermott,’ said McCormack. ‘And forget Cramer, okay?’
Lynch opened the door and climbed out into the drizzle. ‘Sure, Thomas. And thanks again.’ He closed the door and watched the BMW pull slowly out into the traffic, its indicator light winking. Lynch put the collar of his jacket up, hunched his shoulders, and headed towards his car. There was no way he’d be able to forget Cramer. Not until he was dead and buried and Lynch had danced on his grave.
The boy tossed and turned in his single bed, unable to sleep. He pushed back the covers and sat up. He pressed his ear against the wall, screwing up his face as he listened. His mother was crying, crying like she used to when she’d watched a sad film. Suddenly she started to scream. Screams of pain. Screams of anguish. The boy bit down on his lower lip, hard enough to draw blood. He could hear his father trying to comfort her but she was shouting at him; telling him that she’d had enough, that she wanted to die. The boy dropped down onto his bed and buried his head under the pillow, trying to shut out the screams. Despite the pillow, he could still hear her. He began to hum to himself, using his own voice to drown out the sounds of her suffering.
Cramer walked along the corridor to the gymnasium, his footsteps echoing off the green-tiled walls. Every dozen steps he passed a green-painted steel radiator, cold and unused now that the school was empty. The Colonel had explained that the institution had fallen victim to the recession and a growing reluctance among parents to send their children away to boarding schools. Planning permission had been granted to turn the building into a conference centre but in the meantime it had been requisitioned by the Ministry of Defence.
At the end of the corridor was a set of double doors. Cramer pushed them open and stepped onto the wooden floor of the gymnasium. It was large enough to contain two netball courts and its walls were lined with climbing bars. At one end of the room thick ropes hung down from the ceiling some thirty feet overhead, and various items of dust-covered gymnastic equipment were stacked against the wall: a vaulting horse, a trampoline, wooden benches, a box of netballs. At the other end stood a man in a grey sweatshirt and blue jeans. He was broad shouldered with short, dark blond hair, and was busily slotting bullets into a magazine. He looked up and nodded at Cramer. ‘Sergeant Cramer?’ he asked. He was taller than Cramer, about six feet four, with a boxer’s frame and a large chin he jutted forward as he waited for Cramer to reply.
‘The name’s Mike,’ said Cramer. ‘My soldiering days are behind me. A long, long way behind me.’
The man grinned and stuck out a large hand with perfectly manicured nails. ‘Allan,’ he said. ‘Training Wing, 22 SAS. Good to meet you, Mike. I’ve heard a lot about you.’ As Cramer shook it he felt the strength in Allan’s thick fingers. It was a killer’s hand, and even though the man was smiling Cramer knew that he was looking into a killer’s eyes. Allan had the slightly distant look that came from seeing too many men die and the knowledge that he was responsible for their deaths. It was a look Cramer recognised. He saw it every time he looked into a mirror.
Allan was standing by a long table which held a box of cartridges and several pairs of ear protectors. A wall of sandbags twice the height of a man had been built against one of the walls and in front of it were five cardboard figures with bullseye targets over the hearts. The targets were about twenty feet away from the table. ‘You favour the Browning Hi-Power, right, Mike?’ asked Allan. For the first time Cramer realised that he had a faint Irish accent. Dublin, maybe, certainly not from the North.
Cramer nodded and Allan slotted a clip into a Hi-Power and handed it to him. It was Cramer’s own gun, the one the Colonel had taken from him in the helicopter: a Belgian-made FN Hi-Power Mark 3, eight inches long and weighing just under two pounds. The double-row staggered magazine gave the gun a thick grip, just one of the reasons that Cramer favoured the weapon.
‘Most of our guys use Glocks now,’ said Allan. ‘They’re lighter and they’ve got bigger clips.’
‘Yeah, so I heard,’ said Cramer. ‘I didn’t like the recoil myself. I prefer a heavier gun.’
‘Different strokes,’ admitted Allan with a shrug, and he handed one of the sets of ear protectors to Cramer. ‘Let’s see what you can do,’ he said, putting on his own headset. ‘Take the target on the left.’
Cramer pulled back the slide and chambered a round, keeping the gun pointed down as he turned to face the targets. ‘Fast or slow?’ he asked.
‘Up to you.’
Cramer nodded. He raised the Browning in a two-handed grip, sighted along the barrel with his arms fully extended and fired once. The bullet struck just below the heart and slightly to the left. He compensated and fired again, then emptied the entire clip in groups of two.
The bitter tang of cordite filled the air and the palm of his right hand ached. He removed his ear protectors and walked over to the target. ‘Nice grouping,’ admitted Allan. ‘Very nice.’ Six of the shots were dead centre of the bullseye, all but two of the rest could have been covered by a tea cup. ‘You cheated with the sighting shot, though. You don’t get those in the Killing House.’
‘Yeah, I know. You want me to go again?’
Allan grinned, showing a small gap between his top two front teeth. ‘Mike, we’ve only just started,’ he said, patting him on the back. His huge hand felt like a shovel between Cramer’s shoulders. ‘Train Hard, Fight Easy, that’s the Training Wing’s motto.’
Allan asked Cramer to fire another clip into a second target and this time he managed to get all thirteen shots within the bullseye. Allan nodded his approval. ‘Better,’ he said. ‘You always use the double tap?’
‘Pretty much.’
Allan took the Browning from Cramer and removed the clip. ‘We’ve started teaching our recruits sustained firepower as part of our close quarter battle training. Let’s see you empty the clip as quickly as possible.’
‘Into one target?’
‘Sure. You never know whether the terrorist has a remote control on him or a hidden weapon. Two shots might not be enough to take him out instantly.’
Cramer raised an eyebrow. ‘You reckon? I’ve never had a problem.’
‘I’ve seen a guy try to crawl away with two slugs in his chest. More than enough time to detonate a bomb.’ He loaded another clip into the Browning and handed it back. ‘This time, grip tighter with your left hand and relax your right. That’ll help control the recoil and allow your trigger finger to be more flexible.’
Cramer took the gun, frowning. ‘You know what I’m going up against, right?’
Allan nodded. ‘Sure. Bear with me, Mike, we’ll get there eventually.’ Cramer stood in front of the middle target as Allan took a stopwatch out of his back pocket. ‘W
hen you’re ready,’ he said.
Cramer steadied his breathing, steadied his arm, and fired thirteen times, pulling the trigger as fast as he could. When he finished, his trigger finger was aching and his wrist felt as if it had been broken. He ejected the clip and looked at Allan.
‘Five point two seconds,’ said Allan.
Cramer waved his right hand, trying to restore the circulation to his trigger finger. ‘Is that good?’
Allan shrugged. ‘With practice, you should get down to below three seconds.’
‘I don’t see the point.’
‘The point? You’re going to have a guy coming at you, eight, maybe nine feet away from you with a loaded gun in his hand. His adrenalin’s going to be up, he’s going to be moving towards you, you’re going to have to pull out your weapon, aim and fire in one, maybe two, seconds. With the best will in the world your aim is going to be all over the place. One shot might not cut it. Even two. You’re going to have to keep firing until the guy’s dead to have any hope of beating the clock.’
Cramer smiled thinly. In the old days SAS troopers who died in action were listed on plaques on the Regimental Clock Tower. When the SAS barracks and headquarters were rebuilt in 1984, the plaques were moved to outside the Regimental Chapel, but beating the clock still meant staying alive. Cramer realised that Allan wasn’t aware of the irony of his statement – that Cramer stood absolutely no chance of beating the clock.
Allan walked up to the target. ‘Your accuracy went to pot. Look at this.’
Cramer joined him by the cardboard target. He was right. One of the shots had hit the target in the head, and while most were still in the heart area, there was a much bigger spread than before. ‘Yeah, I see what you mean,’ Cramer said. At least three of the shots weren’t stoppers. ‘So we’re going to keep practising, right?’
Allan shook his head. ‘You’ll be practising, I’ll be watching.’
Cramer went back to the table and picked up a fresh clip. On the floor there stood a stack of boxes containing fresh rounds. Hundreds and hundreds of rounds.
Davie Quinn carried the tray of drinks over to the table and put it down in front of his brother. He handed one of the pints of Harp lager to Paulie and placed the glasses in front of the two bleached blondes. They’d been drinking with the girls for the best part of a couple of hours and Davie was having trouble remembering their names. ‘And Malibu and pineapple juice for the ladies,’ he said, sliding the tray behind his chair with a flourish.
‘Thanks,’ said the taller of the two blondes, a typist who Davie seemed to remember was called Noreen. Her friend, he was reasonably sure, was Laura, and she was unemployed, like most of the girls Davie knew. Davie and Paulie had met the girls three pubs ago, and they’d been happy to tag along with the brothers, so long as they didn’t have to buy their own drinks. The girls were pretty enough and good fun, and it looked as if they’d be happy to go the whole way. Laura certainly was, she’d allowed Davie to put his hand halfway up her skirt and once, when Noreen had gone to the Ladies and Paulie was at the bar buying another round of drinks, she’d stuck her tongue in his mouth and damn near suffocated him. She gave him a beaming smile and raised her glass to her lips. Davie winked at Paulie, encouraging him to try to enjoy himself.
Davie had taken his brother out in an attempt to cheer him up. They’d walked for the best part of four hours before hitching a ride with a delivery van which was heading for Belfast. They were cold, wet and miserable and the driver had taken pity on them, offering to share his flask of chicken soup. The man had been curious as to why they were hitching without any bags and Davie had spun him a story about having a row with their girlfriends, adding that the girls had dumped them outside a country pub and taken the car. The man had laughed uproariously at that, showing a mouthful of nicotine-stained teeth.
They’d waited in until early evening, but Pat O’Riordan hadn’t got in contact. Davie decided there was nothing to be gained by staying at home so he’d persuaded his younger brother to go out for a drink. Just a quick one, that had been the original plan, but then they’d met the girls.
Paulie was nursing his lager, his head down as if in prayer. Davie decided that Paulie had had enough to drink and that it would soon be time to call it a night. Laura put down her glass. There was a greasy smear of lipstick around the rim that matched the colour of her fingernails. Davie couldn’t take his eyes off the nails, they were the longest he’d ever seen and he kept imagining how they’d feel scraping along his back. ‘You ready to go soon?’ asked Laura, brushing her long, blonde hair behind her ears.
‘Go where?’ asked Davie.
‘My parents are down South. Visiting my uncle in Cork.’
‘Really?’ Davie couldn’t believe his luck.
‘Yeah, they won’t be back until tomorrow night.’ Her leg pressed against his under the table.
Davie sent up a silent prayer of thanks to whichever saint was watching over him that night. ‘Come on, Paulie, drink up,’ he said.
Paulie didn’t look up. ‘He’s pissed, bless him,’ said Noreen.
A can rattled by Davie’s ear and he looked around. A teenager with red hair and a straggly moustache was holding the can and he pushed it forward, almost under Davie’s nose. ‘For the Cause,’ he said. Davie shoved his hand into the pocket of his jeans and pulled out a fifty pence piece. He dropped it into the can and the teenager waved it in front of Paulie. Paulie struggled to focus on it. ‘For the Cause,’ the teenager repeated.
‘Fuck off, we’ve done our bit for the Cause today,’ said Paulie.
The teenager rattled the can again. There was a paper tricolour on it, orange, white and green, and the letters IRA stencilled on it with black ink.
‘I said fuck off. We already gave.’ Paulie sat up, his eyes bloodshot and watery. ‘We almost died for the Cause today, we almost fucking died.’
Realising he wasn’t going to get a donation from Paulie, the teenager moved to another table. A thin man in his early twenties, wearing faded jeans and a black leather motorcycle jacket, dropped several coins into the can without looking up. ‘What do you mean, you almost died?’ asked Noreen, her curiosity piqued.
‘Nothing,’ said Davie quickly. ‘He doesn’t mean nothing.’ He leant forward and pushed a warning finger in front of his brother’s face. ‘Just shut the fuck up.’
Paulie grabbed the finger and shook it solemnly. ‘Okay, Davie. Mum’s the word.’
Davie glared at his younger brother and picked up his pint of lager. He drained it and put the empty glass down. ‘I’m taking him home,’ he said.
‘What about … ?’ said Laura, but Davie ignored her and pulled his brother to his feet.
‘Maybe some other time,’ he said.
Laura looked at him pleadingly. ‘Look, why don’t we help you take Paulie home, then you can come back with me.’ She flicked her hair to the side, knowing that it was her best feature. She flashed her blue eyes. Her second best feature.
Davie succumbed to her charms. ‘Okay,’ he agreed.
‘Great,’ said Laura. She picked up her handbag, then helped Davie half carry his brother to the door. Noreen followed, walking unsteadily on white stiletto heels.
As the Quinn brothers left the pub, the man in the motorcycle jacket finished his pint of Guinness, picked up his newspaper and waved goodnight to the barman.
Stepping into the cold air, the man looked left and right, then walked slowly down the street, slapping the newspaper against his leg and whistling softly. He stopped to look into the window of a shoe shop and bent to stare at a pair of brown leather cowboy boots, using the reflections in the glass to confirm that he wasn’t being followed. The street was clear. Somewhere off in the distance a bottle smashed, and from high overhead came the clatter of an unseen helicopter, but other than that he could have been alone in the city.
Robbie Kirkbride, ‘Sandy’ to his colleagues in the army’s 14th Intelligence Company, had been working undercover in Belfast
for seven months, doing little more than sign on the dole and hang around the city’s pubs, picking up tidbits here and there, a name, a face, scraps of information that the experts in the Intelligence and Security Group would hopefully be able to use to put together the bigger picture, biding his time until he felt confident enough to infiltrate the lower echelons of the IRA. Ceasefire or no ceasefire, the army was continuing to gather intelligence on the organisation, in the same way that the IRA was continuing to collate information on possible targets. Both sides were determined to be ready should violence restart.
On the way to the telephone box he dropped his paper and as he bent down to pick it up he checked behind him one last time. Still clear. He went into the call box and dialled the number of his controller.
Cramer, Allan and the Colonel sat in the dining room with cups of coffee in front of them. Cramer was dog-tired, both his hands ached from the constant firing practice and his ears were ringing. During his six-week close quarter battle training course in the Killing House in Hereford he’d fired more than a thousand rounds a day, but there was a world of difference between close quarter battle training and standing in front of a target, firing a handgun at arm’s length.
‘So how did he do?’ the Colonel asked Allan.
‘Just fine,’ said Allan. He’d changed into khaki Chinos and a white T-shirt which emphasised his weightlifter’s forearms. ‘Tomorrow we’ll see how he gets on with the smaller guns.’
‘Am I missing something here?’ asked Cramer. It was the first he’d heard of using a different gun. He’d assumed that he’d be using his Browning.
‘The man you’ll be standing in for doesn’t carry a gun,’ explained the Colonel. ‘There’s no way you’ll be able to keep a gun the size of a Browning on you without it being seen.’
‘And it’s not the sort of gun you’ll be able to draw quickly,’ added Allan.
Cramer sighed in exasperation. ‘So what was today all about? You’re saying I’ve been wasting my time?’
The Double Tap (Stephen Leather Thrillers) Page 13