His mother shouted for him again and the boy leaned forward and turned up the volume. The rocket was a small dot in the sky with a thick white plume trailing behind it. The boy wondered at what point the rocket was actually in space and not in the sky, and if there was a line somewhere up there that separated the two.
There was a banging from his mother’s bedroom, the sound of a walking stick being pounded against the threadbare carpet. The boy got slowly to his feet. The banging was repeated, more rapidly this time. The boy went into the hallway and looked up the stairs. His legs felt like lead. His mother called his name again and the boy put a hand on the banister. He put his foot on the first step. He wished with all his heart for his father, but he was at work and wouldn’t be back for hours. From the sixth step he could see his parents’ bedroom door, painted in the same pale green colour as the rest of the doors in the house. The boy had lived in the house all his life and he couldn’t remember them ever being any other colour. He took the stairs one at a time, pausing between each step, his eyes fixed on the door. ‘Where are you?’ his mother shouted, then he heard her cough.
‘I’m coming,’ he called and ran up the last few stairs. He gripped the doorknob and pushed open the door. His mother was on the bed on her hands and knees, her body wracked with hacking coughs. Her mousy brown hair was tangled and matted, her eyes were red and puffy and there were stains down the front of her blue flannel nightie. She looked up as he walked into the room and stood at the foot of the bed.
Tears welled in the boy’s eyes. ‘What do you want, Mum?’ he asked.
His mother sat back on her heels and wrapped her arms around her stomach. ‘I just want to get better,’ she cried.
‘Me too,’ said the boy. ‘That’s what I want, too.’
She held out her arms and he climbed up onto the bed and clung to her. She smoothed the back of his head with her hands and made small shushing noises. ‘You’ve got to be strong,’ she whispered. ‘I’m going to need your help.’ The boy buried his face in the flannel nightie and its smell of sick.
The man in the wheelchair stopped to examine a rack of brightly coloured ties, running the silk through his gloved fingers. A salesman in an immaculate dark blue suit raised an eyebrow but the man in the wheelchair shook his head. Just looking. He put his hands on the wheels and pushed the chair forward. The people who passed him studiously avoided eye contact, as if they were embarrassed by his disability.
He rolled slowly towards the suit section. His legs were wrapped in a thick blue wool blanket and he felt sweat trickle down his thighs. An elderly man was being measured by a young assistant while his much younger fur-coated and clearly bored wife watched. Two Japanese tourists were pulling suits off the racks, holding them up and talking animatedly. The man in the wheelchair smiled to himself. Compared with Tokyo, the prices in Harrods were probably a bargain. He never paid Harrods prices for clothes, never wore anything with a label that could be recognised.
The Arab swept into the menswear department, flanked by two Harrods executives and a trio of bodyguards. The bodyguards were thickset men in black suits and tinted sunglasses and had matching thick moustaches. Saddam Hussein lookalikes. Their eyes swept back and forth like searchlights, but the man in the wheelchair noted with some small satisfaction that they looked right through him. Cripples were always invisible. The Arab was dressed in full desert robes and looked like something out of Lawrence of Arabia, totally out of place among the racks of tailored suits. Behind the Arab walked three black-robed women, their faces covered except for their eyes. One was clearly the Arab’s mother, she was short and squat and moved like a buoy bobbing in a rough sea. The other two were his wives. The man in the wheelchair propelled himself forward.
One of the wives was a Saudi princess, and by all accounts she was built like a Russian weightlifter. The other, his second wife, was a former Playboy centrefold from Utah who’d been about to embark on a movie career when she’d settled for the sheikh and his millions instead. In the black robes, it was impossible to tell the two wives apart. The man slipped his hand under the blanket.
The manager of the menswear department was gushing about how honoured he was to see the valued customer again, rubbing his hands together and bowing obsequiously. One of the bodyguards walked close to the wheelchair, checking out a man standing by the changing rooms. The man in the wheelchair smiled up at the bodyguard, but he was ignored. The silenced automatic coughed twice under the blanket and the bodyguard fell backwards, blood spreading across his white shirt from two large black holes.
The man in the wheelchair stood up, slipping out from under the blanket like a snake shedding its skin. He took three paces forward and shot the second bodyguard twice in the chest. The man was dead before his knees crumpled. The third bodyguard was reaching for his gun when he took a bullet in the sternum. As he slumped forward, clutching at his chest like a heart attack victim, the man shot him in the head, blowing blood and brain matter across the display of ties.
Shoppers began screaming and running for the exits, but the man was an oasis of calm among the panic. He aimed his gun at the Arab. The Arab’s eyes widened in terror, then almost at once he visibly relaxed. The old woman was backing away, her hands held up in front of her face, her mouth open and making loud snoring sounds.
The two wives stood stock still, frozen in terror. Close up the man could see that one was dark, with brown eyes, pockmarked skin. Obviously not the centrefold.
He turned to the other woman, levelled the gun between her big blue eyes and fired, then stepped forward and shot her again in the chest as she fell.
The man spun on his heels and walked quickly to the stairs, the gun at his side. People ran from him, leaving his way clear. Shouts and screams came from behind him, but he kept on walking, his head down. He reached the stairs and went down to the ground floor, keeping the gun pressed to his side. He walked to the Egyptian Hall and took the escalator to the lower ground floor. The screams and shouts had faded away by now, and by the time he stepped off the escalator no one was paying him any attention. He turned left and walked briskly through to the stationery department, as if he had nothing more pressing on his mind than the purchase of an executive writing set.
The door to the stationery stock room was unlocked, as he knew it would be. The man slid the gun into his belt and buttoned his jacket over it as he walked across the store room and into the entrance of the tunnel. Heating pipes ran along the length of the roof of the tunnel and he jumped up and dragged down a brown warehouseman’s coat he’d stuck there earlier. The tunnel curved to the right ahead and the man could see that he was alone. He dusted the coat off and slipped it on as he walked among boxes of merchandise waiting to be taken into the store. The tunnel was the main supply route into the store, and the reason why delivery trucks were rarely seen blocking the Knightsbridge streets above.
Glancing in a circular mirror positioned at the bend of the tunnel, he saw several workmen heading his way so he kept his head down and walked purposefully. He wasn’t challenged, nor had he been when he’d tried a dry run two days earlier.
Several electric carts rattled past, piled high with more boxes, but the drivers paid him no attention. The tunnel was about five hundred feet long and led to two lifts which went up to the main Harrods warehouse facilities. The man ignored the lifts and raced up the stairs to the single exit door which opened onto Trevor Square. A fresh-faced security guard, a telephone pressed to his ear, was looking his way, his mouth open in surprise, and the man pulled out his gun and shot him in the throat without even breaking stride. The security guard was still dying as the man closed the exit door and walked out into the sunshine. Ten minutes later he was on the tube, heading for Victoria Station.
Mike Cramer held the half-empty bottle of Famous Grouse in his hand, swirling the whisky around as he stared into the fire. He’d made himself a bacon sandwich earlier but it sat untouched on a plate by the chair. He could feel the whisky burning away at
the lining of his empty stomach and he knew that he should eat something, but he had no appetite. A shower of soot fell down the chimney, startling him. The flue probably hadn’t been swept in years, though the fire burned well enough.
He looked at his wristwatch, more out of habit than because he wanted to know the time. It wasn’t as if he had anywhere to go. It was almost midnight. He sat back in the old armchair. It was comfortable and seemed to mould itself to his shape like a living thing. He’d moved it so that he could see the front door and the window and keep his back to the wall — though he was still close enough to the fire to feel its warmth. Cramer rolled his head from side to side. He could feel the tension in his neck, the muscles taut and unyielding. He yawned and his jaw clicked, another sign of the strain he was under. He got to his feet and climbed the stairs.
He hadn’t been able to buy fresh sheets or a pillowcase in the village so he’d made do with the rough blankets and the stained pillow. He’d spent the night in worse places, and he had no qualms about sleeping in a dead man’s bed. Cramer was well past the stage of believing in ghosts. He smiled to himself. Famous Grouse was the only spirit he had any faith in these days. He put the bottle on the floor by the bed and then took the Browning Hi-Power 9mm automatic from his shoulder holster and placed it under the pillow. It was Cramer’s fifth night in the cottage. He didn’t think it would be much longer.
Thomas McCormack was putting the final touches to a bright red-feathered trout fly of his own design when the phone on his workbench rang. He sighed and stopped what he was doing. It was Aidan Twomey, an old friend and colleague, but after the bare minimum of pleasantries McCormack realised that it wasn’t a social call.
‘There’s a Brit here, Thomas,’ said Twomey, whispering as if he didn’t want to be overheard. ‘Looks like a Sass-man to me. Living in old man Rafferty’s cottage.’
McCormack pulled a face as he studied the half-finished fly. ‘Sure he’s not a relative?’
Twomey snorted down the phone. ‘Rafferty related to a Sass-man? You’ll have him spinning in his grave, Thomas. Nah, Rafferty didn’t have any relatives over the water. He was the last of his line. No kids and his wife died a few years back. A local solicitor sold the cottage, lock, stock and barrel. Then this Brit moves in.’
‘And you think he’s SAS?’
‘I’d bet my life on it, Thomas. He’s definitely army, that’s for sure. I’ve seen enough of the bastards in my time, you know that. He was in the pub, on his own, drinking. And he’s been taking long walks, like he was waiting for something.’
‘Doesn’t seem to be keeping a low profile, then?’ said McCormack impatiently. He wondered why Twomey was bothering him with such a trivial matter. If the SAS were conducting an undercover operation in Howth, the man would hardly be drinking in the local pub.
‘I was wondering if maybe the boys had anything going in Howth. Anything they’d rather keep to themselves.’
‘Not a thing, Aidan. Take my word for it.’
‘Aye, right enough, right enough. But it’s the way he’s carrying on. Like he was waiting for something to happen.’
McCormack clicked his tongue in annoyance. Initiative was all well and good, but he didn’t appreciate having his time wasted. ‘Well, thanks for the tip, Aidan. I’ll make a note of it.’
‘Cramer,’ said Twomey. ‘Mike Cramer. That’s his name.’
McCormack’s jaw dropped. ‘What?’ he said.
‘Mike Cramer. That’s his name. That’s what he told Padraig in the pub. I checked with the solicitor, too, and that’s the name on the deeds of the cottage.’
‘This Cramer. Describe him.’ McCormack sat hunched over the phone as he made notes on a sheet of paper, the fly forgotten.
‘Just over six feet tall, thin but looks like he can take care of himself, you know. Deep-set eyes, his nose is sort of hooked and looks like it might’ve been broken. Brown hair, a bit long. His accent is all over the place, but he’s definitely not Irish. He told Padraig he was from Scotland originally.’
‘Did he tell Padraig what he was doing in Howth?’
‘Enjoying the sea air is all he said. What do you think, Thomas? Did I do the right thing calling you?’
‘Oh yes,’ said McCormack. ‘Jesus, Mary and Joseph, you did the right thing all right. Now listen to me, Aidan, and listen well. Stay where you are. I’ll have someone down there as soon as possible. Make sure no one goes near him, I don’t want anyone asking him questions. I don’t want him frightened off, okay?’
‘Sure. But I don’t think your man’s going anywhere. He’s well settled in at the cottage.’
McCormack replaced the receiver and sat staring at his reflection in the mirror on the wall. Cramer the Sass-man back in Ireland, sitting in a pub as if he didn’t have a care in the world. It didn’t make sense. It didn’t make any sense at all.
The young man slowed the blue Citron to a walking pace as he scrutinised the numbers on the houses. ‘There it is,’ he said to his passenger. ‘Number sixteen.’
‘What’s the guy’s name?’ asked the passenger, a redhead in his late teens, pale skinned with watery green eyes.
‘Twomey. Aidan Twomey.’
‘Never heard of him.’
The driver stopped the car and turned to look at his passenger. ‘Yeah, well he’s probably not heard of you either, Paulie. The difference is, Aidan Twomey did a tenner in the Kesh for the Cause and he’s got McCormack’s ear, so I’d be careful what you say, you hear?’
Paulie held his hands up in surrender. ‘I hear you, Davie. Jesus, you’re touchy today.’
Davie shrugged. He was a couple of years older than Paulie and since their father had died he’d become accustomed to being the man of the family. He ran his hand through his thick, sandy hair. ‘This is important, Paulie. We can’t afford to fuck up.’
‘We won’t,’ said Paulie. He opened the glove compartment and took out a revolver, checking that all the chambers were loaded. It was an old gun and had once belonged to their father, though it had never been used in anger. For the last five years it had lain under the attic floorboards, wrapped in an oiled rag.
‘What the hell are you doing with that?’ hissed Davie.
‘We might need it.’
‘McCormack said we were to watch and report on this guy until the boys get here.’
‘So?’
‘So the word was watch, not shoot. We won’t be needing a gun, Paulie.’ He took it from his brother and shoved it under the front seat. ‘McCormack would have your balls if we got caught with that.’
‘Who’s gonna catch us? This isn’t the North.’
Davie glared at him. ‘Just do as you’re told, will you? We watch, we wait, and that’s it.’
‘Then the boys from Belfast get the glory?’
‘That’s the way it goes. Don’t you worry, our turn will come.’ He climbed out of the car and walked down the path to the front door of the pretty bungalow with its views of the sea below. The garden was well-ordered, the grass neatly clipped and there was a stone bird bath in the centre of the lawn. Paulie followed him, glowering resentfully.
Davie rang the doorbell and the front door opened imamediately. Twomey squinted at his two visitors as if he needed spectacles. ‘Hello, boys, your dad’s in the car, is he?’
‘No, we’re. .’ began Paulie, but Davie silenced him with a baleful stare.
‘Thomas sent us,’ said Davie.
‘Oh, it’s Thomas is it, not Mr McCormack?’ said Twomey. He grinned impishly. ‘I’m only messing with yer, lads, come on in.’
He ushered them into his sitting room and poured them large measures of whiskey without asking. He handed them brimming glasses and sat down on a flower-printed sofa. ‘Is it just the two of you, then?’ he asked.
‘There are four coming from Belfast,’ said Davie.
‘Do you know their names?’
Davie shook his head. He felt his cheeks redden as he realised it was a sign of how low down
he was in the organisation. ‘Thomas wanted us to keep tabs on the Sass-man until they get here.’
Twomey drained his glass. ‘I’d best be showing you where he is, then. We’ll use my car. I’ll get my coat, it looks like it’s going to rain.’
Mike Cramer stood on the sea wall, his back to the harbour. His face was dripping wet and when he licked his lips he tasted the tang of salt. Through the misty rain he could see the huge hump of quartzite rock called Ireland’s Eye, sitting in the boiling sea like a massive iceberg. The rain lashed against his face but it was a fine spray rather than a soaking downpour. If it hadn’t been for the chill wind it would have been refreshing.
The wall curved around the marina, sheltering the yachts from the rough water, and at the far end was a lighthouse, its beam already flashing out to sea, guiding the fishing boats home. A black Labrador, its fur shining wet, walked over and sniffed at Cramer’s boots, wagging its tail. Cramer patted it on the head absent-mindedly. He turned to walk back along the wall to the harbour. A solitary car was parked in the yacht club. There were three men sitting in it, an old man and two who couldn’t have been much more than teenagers. ‘It’s started,’ he said to the dog. The dog growled as if he understood, and Cramer smiled. An old man and two kids. There’d be more on the way, guaranteed.
The uniformed cop pushed back his wooden chair and stretched out his long legs. He yawned and turned to watch a pretty black nurse walk down the corridor. Her hips swayed sexily and as she turned a corner she looked over her shoulder and grinned. The cop grinned back. A cup of cold coffee sat untouched by the side of his chair, next to the afternoon edition of the Baltimore Sun.
The Double Tap mc-2 Page 2