Cramer straightened up and put the PPK back in its holster. ‘I’m still too slow, aren’t I?’ he asked.
‘Maybe,’ admitted Allan. ‘It depends.’
‘Depends? On whether or not he forgets to tie his shoelaces and then trips over them?’ He turned to face Allan as he smoothed down the collar of his coat.
‘On whether he can get past Martin and me.’
Cramer sighed and nodded slowly. ‘Yeah, I keep forgetting that he’s probably going to try to slot you first.’
‘He’s always taken the bodyguards out before going for the target,’ agreed Allan.
Cramer patted Allan on the shoulder. ‘Thanks,’ he said.
Allan looked surprised. ‘For what?’
‘For the training. For pushing me.’
‘Fuck it, Mike, that’s what I do. I train people. You’re just another job.’ He grinned. ‘But fuck up on the day and I’ll swear I had nothing to do with you.’
Cramer chuckled and turned back to the mirror. ‘Let’s try it again,’ he said. He squared his shoulders again, then stiffened as he realised someone had just come into the gymnasium. It was a girl, Oriental with short black hair, and she was staring at Cramer, a quizzical look in her dark brown eyes. Cramer frowned as he looked at her reflection. He hadn’t heard the gymnasium door open, nor had he noticed her walk across the wooden floor. As he turned to face her, he saw that Allan too was momentarily confused.
‘Are you looking for something, miss?’ Allan asked.
The girl continued to scrutinise Cramer. She was a little over five feet tall though black high-heeled boots added a couple of inches to her height. She was wearing black jeans and a black jacket over a white T-shirt and had a single gold chain around her neck. He found it difficult to judge her age; she had the soft, unlined skin of a teenager but the poise and authority of a woman in her thirties. ‘He doesn’t look anything like him,’ she said.
The Colonel stepped through the door and tapped his stick on the floor. ‘He doesn’t have to,’ said the Colonel. ‘Very few people know what he looks like.’ The Colonel turned to Cramer. ‘This is Su-ming, Vander Mayer’s assistant.’
Cramer wasn’t sure how to greet the girl. He stepped forward and offered his hand, but instead of shaking it she turned it palm upwards. She had the hands of a child, soft and smooth, but the nails were long and painted a deep red. The contrast between the child-like fingers and the adult adornment was disturbing and Cramer’s throat tightened. She looked down at his palm and slowly traced the lines with her forefinger, the nail scratching across his skin. Cramer shivered.
The Colonel walked across the floor and stood behind the girl as she studied Cramer’s palm. His footsteps echoed around the huge gymnasium and it was only then that Cramer realised that Su-ming had made no noise when she walked, despite her boots.
‘See anything you like?’ joked Cramer, but she didn’t react. She ran her fingernail along the base of his thumb. The gesture was sensual, and under any other circumstances he’d have thought that the girl was flirting with him, but her concentration was total.
The Colonel sniffed impatiently, but Su-ming ignored him and continued to stare at Cramer’s hand. Cramer looked down at the top of the girl’s head. Her hair was jet black and glossy and it glistened under the fluorescent lights. Suddenly she looked up and he found himself looking directly into her eyes. ‘Do you read palms, is that it?’ Cramer asked.
‘I read people,’ she said, her voice loaded with disdain. She let go of his hand and turned to the Colonel. ‘It won’t work,’ she said.
The Colonel raised his eyebrows. ‘What do you mean?’
The girl put her head on one side and wrinkled her nose. ‘You’re wasting your time. This man is unsuitable.’
‘Unsuitable?’ repeated Cramer in disbelief. ‘What do you mean, unsuitable?’
‘Sergeant Cramer is a highly trained soldier,’ said the Colonel. ‘I have every confidence in him.’
The girl didn’t reply but gave a barely perceptible shrug that could have meant anything. To Cramer it signified contempt; for some reason the girl had taken an instant dislike to him.
‘Can you tell me why you feel this way?’ asked the Colonel quietly.
‘Mr Vander Mayer never asks me to explain myself,’ said Su-ming. ‘I merely offer observations. It’s up to you whether or not you act upon them.’
Cramer looked at his palm, as if the network of lines and creases would reveal to him whatever had upset her. ‘What did you see?’ he asked.
The girl turned back to him. She took hold of his hand again and ran her fingers across his palm. Cramer felt his spine go cold and he shivered. He was suddenly certain that Su-ming knew what was wrong with him, that she had somehow detected the cancer that was growing inside him. Cramer swallowed. His mouth had gone dry. She looked up at him and he knew that the word on her lips was death and that she was going to say it out loud. He cleared his throat. ‘What do you see?’ he repeated.
The girl’s face was devoid of emotion. She looked up at him with no more compassion than she would show a piece of machinery, as cold and impassive as a catwalk model. She tilted her head back a fraction and her lips parted to reveal perfect white teeth. The gymnasium was totally silent. Cramer was unable to take his eyes off the girl, but he could sense the Colonel and Allan straining to hear what she would say. Su-ming nodded as if she’d decided to tell him, but it was still a second or two before she spoke. ‘Sadness,’ she said softly. ‘I see great sadness.’
Cramer took back his hand and slipped it deep into his overcoat pocket as if trying to hide it from her. She carried on looking deep into his eyes and this time Cramer realised he could see something there; something that looked disconcertingly like pity.
The girl suddenly turned around and walked away, her boots making no sound on the wooden floorboards. The three men watched her go. Only when the door had closed behind her did Allan turn to look at Cramer. ‘I don’t know about you, Mike, but I’d give her one.’ Cramer didn’t laugh.
Paulie Quinn paced around his cell like a caged animal. He hadn’t slept, partly because of the light but also because someone kept banging on his cell door at irregular intervals. He hadn’t been given anything to eat or drink and he had a pounding headache. He was also scared, more scared than he’d ever been in his life. He realised that the police hadn’t stormed the house because of the old revolver. They must have known that he’d been involved in the deaths of the tourists. He was facing a murder charge. Life imprisonment. He paced faster and faster. Life behind bars. He was only eighteen years old. Did life mean life? Would they really keep him in prison until he died? It wasn’t fair. All he’d done was to dig out the stuff and sit in the back of the truck.
Paulie wondered if Lynch and O’Riordan had also been arrested. He stopped pacing as he was struck by the thought that one of them had given his name to the police. Tears welled up in his eyes again. He heard footsteps outside, then the sound of bolts being drawn back. The door was thrown open. Two men in leather bomber jackets and jeans walked in purposefully. ‘I want a solicitor,’ Paulie said, but the men ignored him. They grabbed an arm each and frogmarched him out. Waiting in the corridor was a third man, older with greying hair and reddish cheeks. He had a black hood in his hands and he thrust it over Paulie’s head.
‘I want to make a phone call,’ protested Paulie. He was dragged along the corridor and into a room. He was pushed backwards and he fought to keep his balance, but instead of falling to the floor he collapsed into a chair. He heard a door slam and then the hood was ripped off his head.
A man in a dark brown suit was sitting at a table, a notepad in front of him and a fountain pen in his hand. The tie he was wearing had little ducks on it. Paulie blinked and shook his head. He felt sick and he retched and tasted bile in his mouth. ‘Who was with you, Paulie?’ the man asked. He was in his mid-thirties, with dark brown hair that kept falling across his eyes and an upturned, almost feminine nos
e.
‘Who are you?’ asked Paulie.
‘Who was with you?’
Paulie realised there was another man standing with his back to the door and looked over his shoulder. He was slightly older than the man with the pen, wearing a green tweed jacket and black trousers. In his hand was the hood.
‘I want a solicitor,’ said Paulie.
‘No, you don’t,’ said the man at the door.
‘I want to phone my mum.’
‘Mummy’s boy, are we?’ said the man with the pen.
Paulie’s face flushed. ‘She’ll be worried about me.’
‘She’s going to be even more worried when she finds out what you did.’
‘I didn’t do nothing. Are you the cops?’
The man with the pen smiled and wrote something down on the pad. ‘We know your brother was with you. Who else?’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
‘The truck. The arms. Heavy stuff, Paulie. Very heavy stuff.’
Paulie swallowed. He could still taste the bile and he snorted, trying to clear his throat. ‘I don’t know anything about no arms.’
‘You know a kid died, Paulie?’ Paulie shrugged. ‘We know you were just a hired hand, Paulie. It’s not you we want. It’s the big boys. We want their names.’
‘You know what they do to touts.’
The man with the pen smiled thinly. ‘They’re going to do it to you anyway, Paulie. Unless you help, you’re as good as dead.’
Paulie’s jaw dropped. ‘You can’t keep me here,’ he said.
‘Oh yes we can,’ said the man at the door. ‘Besides, you’re here for your own protection.’
‘What the fuck are you talking about?’
‘They know we’ve got you, Paulie,’ said the man with the pen. ‘And they know you’ll talk. You think they trust you to keep quiet? A boy like you?’ He shook his head. ‘No, Paulie. They think you’re spilling your guts right now. And the longer we keep you, the more they’re going to be convinced that you’re talking.’
‘You’re not the police?’ Paulie knew they weren’t RUC because the RUC took the IRA volunteers they arrested to their interrogation centre at Castlereagh. And wherever he was being held, it wasn’t Castlereagh. There were no cameras recording the interview and Paulie had been told that the police had to record all their questions.
‘No, we’re not. But we do have the right to screen you prior to RUC interrogation. You’ll know when that happens, Paulie, because you’ll be arrested and they’ll be over you like a rash. You’re better off talking to us, believe me. But if you really want us to hand you over to the RUC, we will.’
Paulie frowned in disbelief. ‘You will?’
The man sat back in his chair and tapped the pen on his notepad. ‘Sure. We could arrange that right now.’
Paulie stood up. ‘Okay. That’s what I want.’ The overalls were flapping around his legs and the sleeves hung down over his hands.
‘I can assure you that within twelve hours of putting you into police custody, you’ll be dead.’
‘Dead?’
‘The IRA won’t risk letting you live, Paulie. I can guarantee it. They’ll protect the big boys.’
‘Bullshit. You don’t know what you’re talking about,’ said Paulie, his voice rising in pitch. ‘Who are you anyway?’
The man with the pen smiled. ‘Five,’ he said quietly. ‘MI5.’
Paulie felt his legs go weak. He sat down and ran his hands through his greasy, unwashed hair.
‘How’s that?’ shouted Cramer, standing with his hand on the door handle of the gleaming grey Mercedes 560 SEL.
‘Too posed,’ answered the photographer from the second-floor window. ‘Look to your right, then slowly move your head back.’ Cramer did as he was told amid a series of clicks and whirrs from the camera’s motordrive. ‘Better,’ shouted the photographer. ‘Okay, Su-ming, you can get out of the car now.’ Su-ming opened the car door and climbed out, a bored look on her face. The camera clicked again.
The Colonel stood at the entrance to the building, leaning on his stick and watching. Allan moved to stand in front of Cramer as if shielding him. The camera clicked again, like an automatic weapon firing rapidly. The Colonel stepped onto the gravelled drive and looked up at the photographer. ‘Get the driver as well, will you?’ he shouted. ‘And make sure Su-ming is in all the shots.’
‘Yes, boss,’ the photographer answered.
Martin was sitting in the driver’s seat, his hands on the wheel. He climbed out of the Mercedes and went to stand next to Cramer and Allan. Su-ming brought up the rear. Above the Colonel’s head, the camera continued to click. It was vital for the photographs to look as if they’d been taken at long range and without the knowledge of the subjects.
The two bodyguards were wearing lightweight bullet-proof vests under their shirts. The vests were barely noticeable, but the Colonel knew that the assassin was a professional. He’d realise that they were wearing body armour and shoot accordingly. The Colonel hadn’t mentioned the fact to Allan and Martin but they were professionals too, and were well aware of the risks they were running. The tailored suits looked well on Cramer, as if he belonged in a boardroom and not in a hospital bed. Cramer wasn’t wearing a bullet-proof vest. There was no point. The assassin’s first shot at his intended target was always to the face.
It was a two-bedroomed flat on the second floor of a Maida Vale apartment block. The flat was long and thin and Dermott Lynch had to walk through the kitchen to get to his bedroom. The room was about the size of a prison cell, three paces by two paces, with a wooden bed, a built-in wardrobe and a single chair.
‘It’s not the Savoy,’ said the man who was showing Lynch around. He was a building contractor originally from Castlebar in County Mayo, a squat man with wide shoulders, a ready smile and a tendency to crack bad jokes. His name was Eamonn Foley and ten years previously he’d lived in Belfast and had been active in the IRA, mainly fundraising and helping to launder the organisation’s illicit revenues. He’d continued to offer whatever support he could after he’d moved to London.
‘It’s fine,’ said Lynch, dropping his suitcase onto the bed.
‘Any idea how long you’ll be staying?’ Foley asked.
‘I’ll be moving on in a week or so. Is that a problem?’
‘Stay as long as you want, Dermott. Mi casa es tu casa.’
Lynch looked out through the window at the gardens below. A small boy was playing on a swing, kicking his legs up in the air as he swung to and fro. He wondered how old the boy was. Probably the same age as the Reed kid.
‘Tea?’ asked Foley behind him.
‘Sounds good. Why don’t I make it?’ Lynch had drunk Foley’s tea before and it wasn’t an experience he cared to repeat.
The pony kept pulling to the right and it took all the little girl’s strength to keep it heading straight for the fence. She kicked it hard in the flanks with her heels and the pony snorted and jumped, clearing the red and white striped bar with inches to spare. The girl reined the pony to a halt, her face flushed with excitement. The spectators burst into applause at the announcement that it had been a clear round, the first of the afternoon.
‘She’s a natural, right enough,’ said Thomas McCormack, nodding his approval.
‘Natural, my arse,’ said Joseph Connolly, ‘she’s been trained by the best. My daughter reckons young Theodora is going to be Olympic standard by the time she’s sixteen. I tell you, Thomas, it’s costing a fortune.’
‘Worth it, though.’
‘Huh? What did you say?’
‘I said it’s probably worth it.’
Connolly tapped the hearing aid behind his right ear with his finger. ‘This damn thing’s been playing up all week,’ he complained. ‘Say something else.’
‘What do you want me to say?’
‘Anything.’
McCormack looked over the top of his horn-rimmed spectacles. ‘Testing, testing, testing. One t
wo three.’
‘Ha bloody ha,’ scowled Connolly. ‘Come on, let’s walk.’
As they headed away from the outdoor arena, the little girl came running up. ‘Grandpa, Grandpa, did you see me?’
‘Indeed I did,’ said Connolly, bending down to beam at her. ‘A clear round.’
‘The only clear round,’ she said proudly. ‘Did you see how I nearly hit the third fence?’
‘No, you jumped it just right.’
Theodora wrinkled her nose. ‘I’ll do better in the next round, I’m sure.’
‘I just bet you will.’
‘I’m going to be needing a bigger pony soon.’
‘Yes, your mummy was telling me. We’ll see what we can do when Christmas comes around.’
‘You mean it, Grandpa?’ she said, jumping up and down. ‘Do you really mean it?’
‘We’ll see, Theodora. Now go and find your mummy.’
The little girl ran off, and Connolly smiled ruefully at McCormack. ‘It never stops, does it? You just finish paying for your children, and then a whole new generation comes along.’ Behind them a buzzer sounded as another rider started around the course. Connolly tapped his hearing aid again. ‘This Crossmaglen business. It’s a bloody nightmare.’
‘Aye, bad enough that a tourist was killed, but to kill a man related to a heavyweight American politician. Jesus, Mary and Joseph, luck doesn’t get any badder than that.’
‘And the kid. Don’t forget the kid.’
‘Aye, Joe. I hadn’t forgotten the kid.’
‘We’re going to have to do something,’ said Connolly. ‘Something drastic.’
McCormack nodded and took his pewter hip flask out of his pocket and offered it to Connolly. The old man shook his head. ‘Not right now, thanks,’ he said.
‘The Army Council is baying for blood and Sinn Fein’s nose is out of joint, too. They want to know what they were doing with the weapons in the truck. You can see their point, can’t you?’
McCormack nodded. He put the flask away, unopened.
‘I did make it clear, didn’t I? I did tell you that the arms cache was to be handed over intact, didn’t I?’
The Double Tap (Stephen Leather Thrillers) Page 16