The Colonel said nothing as the helicopter circled and then dropped so that it was hovering only feet above the harbour wall, the rotor wash flattening the water below. He motioned with his stick for Cramer to get in first. Cramer took one last look over his shoulder, deafened by the turbines. The bearded man had pulled a Kalashnikov out from under his raincoat and was holding it, seemingly unsure whether or not to fire. For one moment they made eye contact and Cramer could feel the hatred pouring out of the man, then a hand reached out of the belly of the Sea King and half pulled, half dragged him inside.
Lynch upended the Kalashnikov and slipped it back under his raincoat as the huge helicopter lifted away and banked hard to the left.
‘What the hell was that all about?’ asked O’Riordan.
‘Fucked if I know,’ said Lynch. He stared after the Sea King as it flew off across the waves, his curly black hair blowing behind him. Fitzpatrick and McVeigh ran up, panting for breath.
‘Put your guns away, boys,’ said Lynch. ‘We’re not here to shoot helicopters.’
The two men thrust their handguns into the pockets of their jackets. ‘What’s going on, Dermott?’ asked McVeigh.
Lynch ignored him. He whirled around and peered at the harbour road, half expecting to see a convoy of armed soldiers heading their way. The street was empty. It wasn’t a trap. That was something to be grateful for, but it made the Sass-man’s sudden departure all the more bemusing.
Fitzpatrick’s walkie-talkie crackled and they heard Paulie Quinn’s anxious voice. ‘What’s happening? Where’s he gone?’
‘Shut that thing off,’ barked Lynch, heading towards the car.
Mike Cramer sat with his arms folded across his chest as the massive helicopter flew low and fast across the waves. One of the Sea King crewmen handed him a set of padded headphones and Cramer put them on, grateful for relief from the deafening roar of the engines. Cramer’s head was full of questions, but he said nothing. The Colonel sat down on the seat in front of the emergency exit window and held out his hand. Cramer handed over his Browning Hi-Power.
Cramer looked around the cabin. This Sea King was like no other he’d ever been in. It was packed with electrical equipment, some of which he recognised. There was an extensive array of radar screens, far more than he’d expect to see in a search and rescue helicopter, and a Marconi LAPADS data processing station. The crewman who’d hauled him into the helicopter and given him the headset was seated in the sonar operator’s seat in front of the sonar/radar instrumentation racks. In addition there was a lot of equipment Cramer had never seen before, equipment without brand names or labels of any kind.
The helicopter banked to the right, keeping low. Through the window behind the Colonel, Cramer saw a small yacht carving through the waves. They were heading east. Cramer smiled to himself at the thought of the IRA hit team standing on the sea wall. All foreplay and no orgasm, armed to the teeth and nothing to shoot at.
He wondered if he’d done the right thing, agreeing so readily to go with the Colonel. He owed the Colonel nothing. It was now more than seven years since Cramer had left the regiment. He’d only worked for him once since, and that had almost ended in tears. Cramer closed his eyes and leaned back against the metal bulkhead. The Colonel had used him as bait then, too, sent him to the States on the trail of Mary Hennessy, the IRA terrorist who’d tortured and killed Cramer’s friend. At least this time Cramer knew what he was getting into. At least this time he knew the odds of surviving.
What had the Colonel said? A killer who loved to get up close. A killer who’d never been caught. A killer who was so successful that the only way to stop him was to use a Judas Goat. Maybe it really would be a better way to die. Cramer had seen a lot of men and women die and he knew that there were good ways and there were bad ways, and that most people didn’t get the chance to choose. He opened his eyes again. The Colonel was unscrewing the cap off a stainless steel Thermos flask. He poured black coffee into a plastic mug and offered it to Cramer. Cramer shook his head.
The Colonel had always been able to read him like a book. He’d known that Cramer would accept the mission and had made all the arrangements accordingly. Cramer wondered if the man had had a fallback position, someone else who would have accepted the job if Cramer had turned it down. He also wondered if anyone else had already refused the mission.
Once well away from land, the helicopter began to gain height and they were soon several thousand feet above the sea. At first Cramer had assumed that they would be landing on a ship, but he soon realised that the helicopter was going to fly all the way to the British mainland. He settled back. There was nothing to do but wait.
Dermott Lynch and Pat O’Riordan drove into Dublin along the Howth Road. Lynch was fuming as he stared out of the window, his lips set in a tight line. The original plan had been to drop the weapons off and drive back up to the North, but Cramer’s disappearance had changed all that.
They passed Trinity College, and Lynch scowled at the bright blue clock which topped the grey stone building. It was just after ten o’clock in the morning. ‘Forget about it, Dermott,’ said O’Riordan.
‘Why was he there?’ asked Lynch. ‘It was as if he was waiting for us. Then suddenly he’s whisked away. It doesn’t make sense.’
‘It doesn’t have to make sense. He’s gone and that’s it.’
Lynch scratched his beard. ‘The Brits are up to something, Pat. They’re fucking with us and I want to know why. Maybe McCormack will know.’
‘Do you want me to stay?’
Lynch shook his head. ‘No need. You get back to your farm. I’ll speak to McCormack then catch the train back tonight.’
O’Riordan braked sharply to avoid a bus. Lynch wasn’t wearing his seatbelt and he lurched forward. ‘Sorry,’ said O’Riordan. ‘I’m not used to driving in the city.’
‘Just think of them as cows,’ said Lynch.
‘Aye, Dermott, I’ll do that,’ said O’Riordan with a grin. The traffic was crawling along Dame Street and O’Riordan was stamping on the brake as if he was at the wheel of a tractor. ‘The Quinn brothers did all right,’ he said.
‘They were okay,’ agreed Lynch. ‘Davie has potential, Paulie’s still a bit young.’
‘They’re both keen.’
‘Yeah, but that’s not always an advantage, Pat, you know that. I’m not sure that I’d ever want my life to depend on the likes of Paulie Quinn.’ Lynch ran a hand through his beard and glared at the traffic, as if he could make it vanish through sheer effort of will. ‘I’ll get out here,’ he said.
‘Yeah, might be best.’
Lynch twisted around and picked the holdall off the back seat. It contained the Kalashnikov and the handguns they’d handled at Howth. Lynch had no qualms about carrying the weapons through the streets of Dublin. He said goodbye to O’Riordan, climbed out of the car and walked along the pavement. A crocodile of French students carrying red and green backpacks blocked his way and he moved through them with a smile. A pretty young girl with long blonde hair banged into his holdall and yelped. She rubbed her leg and looked reproachfully at Lynch. He smiled sympathetically. ‘Sorry, love,’ he said.
The helicopter started to descend and Mike Cramer swallowed to clear the pressure in his ears. Directly below were blue grey waves, to the left was a wide beach and beyond the stretch of sand were woodland and ploughed fields. He looked at his watch and did a quick calculation: assuming they’d been flying at the Sea King’s normal cruising speed of 140 knots, they were probably somewhere over Wales. In the distance he saw three hills, wooded around the base but bare at the top, like balding men. There was a microwave radio station on the top of one, but Cramer didn’t know the country well enough to be able to identify it. The helicopter banked to the right and down below he saw a large peninsula sticking out towards Ireland. As the helicopter continued to descend Cramer picked out lush green fields dotted with sheep, isolated copses and a scattering of small farms, then they flew over the ruins
of a castle towards what looked like a large country house set in its own grounds. The helicopter circled over the house before dropping down to land.
Cramer’s ears were aching from the constant roar of the Sea King’s turbines and the padded headphones were damp with sweat. He disliked helicopters, even though one had saved his life seven years earlier, rushing him to hospital in Belfast with his guts ripped open. He’d have died in an ambulance, no question about it; only the Lynx could have made it to Belfast City Hospital in time. But that didn’t mean he enjoyed travelling in the machines. He could never get over the feeling that the whole business depended on one nut keeping the whirling blades in place. If that went it was so long and good night. Still, there were worse ways of dying. Much worse.
Cramer’s stomach heaved as the helicopter flared and came in to land and he tasted acid bile at the back of his throat. He swallowed and coughed and swallowed again and then the helicopter was down, its rotors slowing. The crewman climbed out of his seat and opened the door. Cramer climbed out after the Colonel. Cramer kept his head low, even though he knew that the rotors had plenty of clearance. They jogged to the front of the Sea King, away from the whirling tail rotor, then the Colonel gave the pilot a thumbs-up and the helicopter climbed back into the sky, the downdraft flattening the grass all around them and ripping at their clothes like a thousand tiny hands.
Cramer watched the helicopter fly off to the west. ‘This way,’ said the Colonel, leading him towards the building Cramer had seen from the sky. It was built of red brick, three storeys high and topped with a slate roof. There were two wings either side of a main entrance, where a circular driveway curved around a stone fountain which didn’t appear to be working. There was an air of neglect about the place, as if it hadn’t been occupied for some time.
The helicopter had dropped them inside a stone wall which surrounded the house and several acres of lawn. Cramer saw two men standing either side of a large wrought-iron gate, big men wearing leather jackets, jeans and training shoes.
‘The building was a girls’ preparatory school until a few months ago,’ the Colonel explained. ‘It gets a little chilly at night but we won’t be disturbed.’
Another guard stood at the entrance. He greeted the Colonel with a curt nod and acknowledged Cramer with a slight smile. They walked into a huge entrance hall which rose to the top of the building. A wide stone staircase wound upwards, past a long, thin chandelier, coated with dust. Corridors led left and right and Cramer glimpsed a succession of white-painted doors, all closed. ‘Classrooms that way,’ said the Colonel, indicating the left. ‘We’ll be eating in the dining hall, to the right. I’m using an office over there. I’ve allocated you a staff bedroom on the second floor.’
‘How long will I be here?’ Cramer asked.
‘A week. Maybe longer. First I want you to read all the files, and there are some people I want you to meet.’
The Colonel headed up the stairs, his stick clicking on the stone steps. He took Cramer up to the second floor and along a corridor to a large room containing a bed, a sagging armchair, an old oak wardrobe and matching dressing table. Under a sash window stood a table piled high with files. The Colonel waved his stick at the paperwork. ‘They’re copies of the files held by the various law enforcement agencies who’ve been investigating the killings. For those in Europe I’ve only included the Interpol paperwork. Languages weren’t your forte, I remember.’
‘Mais oui, mon colonel,’ Cramer replied dryly, his accent deliberately atrocious. He went over to the table and ran his hand over the files. His window overlooked the rear of the school and he could see a large car park with half a dozen vehicles bunched together in one section and, to the right, a line of single storey buildings with large metal chimneys. Through the windows he could just make out huge ovens, cooking equipment and rows of stainless steel cupboards and shelving so Cramer guessed they were the former school’s kitchens.
‘I’ll have some food sent up to you. Read as much as you can today and we’ll start in earnest tomorrow,’ said the Colonel. He stopped at the door. ‘Do you have any questions?’
Cramer shook his head. ‘I probably will have after I’ve read all this. Just one thing.’
The Colonel smiled. ‘Famous Grouse?’
Cramer was surprised. ‘Am I that transparent?’
‘I wouldn’t have thought whisky was doing your stomach any good.’
Cramer shrugged. ‘That might have been good advice a few years ago. Now it’s a bit late.’
‘The man whose place you’re taking drinks red wine. He never touches whisky.’
‘So when I take his place, I’ll drink wine.’
‘Just so you know.’
‘I hear you, Colonel.’ It was general practice in the SAS for troopers and noncommissioned officers to refer to their officers as ‘Boss’, but Cramer had never been able to bring himself to use the more informal term with the Colonel.
The Colonel tapped his stick on the bare floorboards. ‘I’ll have it for you this evening.’ He closed the door behind him.
Half an hour later, while Cramer was still reading through the first file, there was a knock on the door. ‘Come in,’ he said, not looking up. A middle-aged woman, plump with a pleasant face, her hair tied back in a bun, elbowed the door open and carried in a tray containing a plate of sandwiches and a glass of milk. She introduced herself as Mrs Elliott, with the emphasis on the Mrs, and left the tray on the dressing table. He thought it best not to ask Mrs Elliott about the whisky. She didn’t look much like a drinker.
The dogs leapt out of the starting gate at full stretch, their paws kicking up puffs of sand on the track. The crowd yelled and screamed as the greyhounds hurtled after the mechanical hare, but Thomas McCormack seemed more interested in the programme he was holding. ‘Next race, number six,’ he said out of the corner of his mouth.
‘Yeah?’ said Dermott Lynch. ‘Is it one of yours?’
McCormack gave Lynch a crafty sideways look. ‘No, but it’s going to win.’
Lynch studied the dog’s form as the greyhounds rounded the first bend. It had finished unplaced in its last three races, but he knew better than to question McCormack’s advice. McCormack owned a string of greyhounds and on at least two nights a week he could be found at Dublin’s Shelbourne Park dog track.
Lynch looked up as the favourite crossed the finishing line and was engulfed in the waiting arms of a girl. She was a pretty young thing, shoulder length hair the colour of copper, and a figure that even the blue overalls couldn’t conceal. On any other day Lynch would have been tempted to strike up a conversation with her, but the visit to the dog track wasn’t a social event. He’d been summoned there by McCormack.
Lynch looked up at the results board at the far end of the stadium. The short odds on the favourite meant that no one would get rich on the race, but the dog McCormack had tipped would be running at twelve to one. The two men walked back inside to the betting hall and stood in a queue, waiting to place their bets.
McCormack gave the cashier a handful of notes and asked for it to be placed on number six, to win. Lynch took out his wallet. He dithered for a second or two and then took out all the banknotes it contained. He considered an each-way bet, but McCormack was standing at his shoulder, watching. Lynch handed over all the notes. ‘Number six, to win,’ he said. McCormack smiled and nodded.
They went outside to watch the dogs being walked. Number six looked good, its coat glossy, its hindquarters strong and well developed, holding its head up high as if it knew it was due for a win. ‘Have you got a dog running in this race?’ Lynch asked.
McCormack nodded at a brown dog at the far end of the line, sniffing listlessly at the shoes of its handler. ‘He’s coming on but it’ll be a few months yet before he peaks.’ They left the showing area and headed towards the track. ‘So, Dermott, what happened?’
‘A helicopter came from nowhere. Bloody nowhere. Lifted him off and flew away with him.’
&
nbsp; ‘Army?’
‘No. Not army. Red, white and blue it was. Not a soldier in sight. It’s a mystery all right, and if there’s one thing I can’t stand it’s a mystery.’
McCormack took off his horn-rimmed spectacles and polished them with his handkerchief. ‘What do you think he was up to?’
‘I don’t know. Whatever it was, I think there was a change of plan. I don’t think he was expecting the helicopter. Or the man who appeared on the sea wall.’
‘This man, any idea who he was?’
Lynch shook his head. ‘Military, I think. He walked like a soldier. Carried a stick.’
‘Armed?’
‘Couldn’t tell.’
‘What about the helicopter? Did the crew have guns?’ McCormack put his spectacles back on and peered over the top of them.
Lynch thought for a second and then shook his head. ‘No. I only saw one of the crew, he pulled Cramer in, but he wasn’t armed, I’m sure of that.’
McCormack tapped the programme against his leg as he walked, his head down in thought. He didn’t speak for almost a minute. ‘I think we’re going to have to let this one go, Dermott.’
‘I want the bastard,’ said Lynch fiercely.
‘Connolly wasn’t over happy about us going after Cramer in the first place, you know. Let sleeping dogs lie, he said. He took some persuading.’
‘Yeah?’ Lynch scratched his beard as if it itched.
‘Yes. I had to take sole responsibility for it. If it had gone wrong, I’d have been the one explaining to the Army Council. And it damn near did go wrong. We were lucky it wasn’t a trap, right?’
The Double Tap mc-2 Page 5