No, death held no fear for Mike Cramer. Not any more. He’d stared death in the face and he had been prepared to embrace it with open arms. Now it was only the manner of his death that concerned him. And the Colonel had given him a way, a way to die with honour. In battle.
Seth Reed popped the last piece of black pudding in his mouth and chewed with relish. Reed’s nine-year-old son, Mark, screwed up his face. ‘Dad, how can you? That’s pig’s blood you’re eating!’
Reed sat back in his chair and patted his ample stomach. ‘Yup. And it was dee-licious.’
‘Yuck.’ The boy was still halfway through eating his breakfast, and Reed pointed at the rasher of bacon and half a sausage that remained on his plate.
‘What do you think that is?’ he asked.
‘Bacon.’
‘Pig. That’s what it is.’
‘Yeah, but it’s not pig’s blood.’
Kimberlee Reed’s spoonful of cereal came to a sudden halt on its way to her mouth as she glared at her husband and son. ‘Guys, can we please give it a rest?’
‘He started it,’ said Reed, pointing at Mark.
‘Did not.’
‘Did too.’
Kimberlee sighed and shook her head. ‘You two are impossible. I don’t know which of you is worse.’
Reed and his son pointed at each other. ‘He is,’ they said in unison.
The landlady, a tall, stick-thin woman with her greying hair tied back in a tight bun, appeared in the doorway, a pot of coffee in her hands. ‘Is everything all right?’ she asked.
‘Perfect, Mrs McGregor,’ said Kimberlee.
‘More coffee?’
Kimberlee flashed her little girl smile. ‘Do you have any decaff?’ she asked.
Mrs McGregor shook her head. ‘I’m afraid not, dear. What about a nice cup of tea?’
‘Decaffeinated tea?’
Mrs McGregor shook her head again as she refilled Reed’s cup. ‘We don’t get much call for it, I’m afraid.’
‘That’s okay. Orange juice will be fine.’
Mrs McGregor refilled the coffee cups of the family sitting at the next table and bustled out of the dining room.
‘Are we ready to go?’ asked Kimberlee.
Reed drained his cup and smacked his lips. His son finished his orange juice and mimicked his father’s actions. ‘Sure,’ said Reed. ‘Why don’t you get the check while I get the bags?’
There was a bellpush in the entrance hall and Kimberlee pressed it while her husband went upstairs. Mrs McGregor came out of the kitchen, drying her hands. Kimberlee gave her the money for the night’s bed and breakfast and the notes disappeared underneath Mrs McGregor’s apron like a rabbit bolting into its burrow. ‘So where are you going to next, dear?’ she asked.
‘Waterford, in the south,’ said Kimberlee. ‘We’re going to look around the crystal factory. I want to buy some champagne glasses.’
‘That’ll be nice, you make sure you drive carefully now.’
‘Oh, Seth’ll be driving, Mrs McGregor. We couldn’t get an automatic and I can’t handle a stick shift. Not with my left hand.’
Reed struggled back down the stairs, a suitcase in either hand and a travel bag hanging on one shoulder. Kimberlee looked at him anxiously. He’d had a minor heart attack the previous year, and while the hospital had given him the all-clear she still worried whenever he exerted himself. The high-cholesterol fried breakfast wouldn’t have helped his arteries, either, and he was drinking too much coffee. She reached out to take one of the suitcases, but he shook his head. ‘Honey, I can manage.’
The family said goodbye to the landlady and then Kimberlee and Mark followed Reed down the path to their parked car. He loaded the cases into the boot and five minutes later they were on the A29, heading south. It was an almost 160 mile drive to Waterford but they were in no rush and Reed decided to drive on the back roads so that they could enjoy the lush countryside, a far cry from their home in Phoenix, Arizona.
They’d been driving for less than half an hour when Mark announced that he wanted to use the bathroom.
‘A bathroom?’ said Kimberlee, looking over her shoulder. ‘This is Ireland, honey, not the Interstate. There are no pitstops here.’
‘Mom. .’ Mark whined.
‘If he’s gotta go, he’s gotta go,’ said Reed.
‘Can’t you wait a while, honey?’ asked Kimberlee. Mark jogged up and down in his seat and pressed his legs together. ‘I guess not,’ muttered Kimberlee. She picked up a folded map from the dashboard. ‘Dundalk is the nearest town, Seth. Can we make a detour?’
‘Mom. .’ pleaded Mark from the back.
‘Honey, please,’ said Kimberlee. ‘Just wait a while, can’t you?’
Mark shook his head and Kimberlee sighed. She put the map back on the dashboard and patted her husband on the thigh. ‘We’ll have to stop.’
‘Here?’
‘Anywhere.’
‘How’s it going, lads?’ Lynch called. He could only see the tops of the heads of Paulie and Davie Quinn as they shovelled wet soil out of the hole. When he didn’t get an answer he walked across the field and stood looking down at the two boys. They were sweating and breathing heavily but to their credit they were digging as quickly as when they’d first started. ‘How’s it going?’ he repeated.
Davie Quinn looked up and wiped his forehead with his sleeve. ‘It’s okay,’ he panted.
Paulie Quinn attacked the soil with his spade and used his foot to drive it deeper. ‘Best start taking it easy, Paulie,’ said Lynch.
‘I’m all right,’ said Paulie, heaving the soil out of the hole with a grunt.
‘Aye, you might be, it’s the Semtex I’m worried about.’
Paulie stopped digging. He stared at the soil underfoot, then up at Lynch. ‘Semtex?’ he said.
‘Yeah,’ said Lynch laconically. ‘You know, the stuff that goes bang.’
Paulie looked at Davie. ‘Yez didn’t say anything about no Semtex,’ he said.
‘I didn’t know,’ said his brother. ‘But it doesn’t make any difference, does it?’
Paulie frowned. ‘I guess not.’ He tapped the ground gingerly with the end of his spade.
‘You’ll be okay, lads,’ said Lynch, who didn’t want to take the joke too far. He wanted to be out of the field as quickly as possible. ‘I wouldn’t be standing here if it was dangerous, now would I?’
Davie grinned and started digging again. Paulie followed his example, but he was still a lot less vigorous than before. Lynch watched. O’Riordan came up behind him, still cradling his Kalashnikov.
Davie’s spade hit something plastic. Paulie flinched as if he’d been struck and Lynch smiled at the boy’s discomfort. ‘Pass me up the spades, lads,’ he said. ‘Then scrape away the soil with your hands.’
The boys did as they were told. They dug away with their hands like dogs in search of a bone. After several minutes of digging they came across a large rubbish bin, sealed in plastic. Lynch looked at O’Riordan. ‘That’s ammunition,’ he said. ‘Armour-piercing cartridges for the M60s.’
Lynch nodded. ‘Okay, lads. Pass that here.’
The Quinn brothers heaved the bin up and Lynch and O’Riordan dragged it out of the hole.
The boys went back to digging. They unearthed two more large packages, long and thin and wrapped in thick polythene. ‘The M60s,’ said O’Riordan.
‘Them too,’ said Lynch.
Lynch and O’Riordan carried the three bulky parcels over to the truck and loaded them into the back while Davie and Paulie carried on digging. ‘Any idea what McCormack is planning to do with this?’ asked Lynch.
‘Bury it somewhere else, I suppose,’ said O’Riordan. ‘He wants to keep the good stuff and hand the old stuff over to the army.’
Lynch wiped his hands on his jeans. ‘So it looks as if we’re demilitarising when all we’re doing is throwing out our junk.’
‘It’s just public relations, Dermott, you know that. It makes Dublin and
London look good, it’s a photo opportunity for the army, and we get rid of gear that would probably blow up in our faces anyway. Seems like a hell of a good deal for everyone. The Prods are doing it, too.’
They went back to the hole. Davie and Paulie had uncovered two more plastic bins and a polythene-covered chest. O’Riordan pointed at the chest. ‘That’s the Semtex,’ he said.
‘How long’s it been here?’ asked Lynch.
‘Three years,’ replied O’Riordan. ‘But it was moved around a lot before that and it’s well past its sell-by date. It got here in 1985 but it was sitting in a warehouse in Tripoli for God knows how long before that. McCormack wants it leaving here.’ He pointed at one of the plastic bins. ‘Those are handguns and ammunition and a few hand grenades. They stay.’ He pointed at the other bin. ‘Those are Belgian disposable mortars. They’re state-of-the-art, but McCormack wants them left here, too. They’ll be a trophy for the army, and it makes it look as if we’re serious about the ceasefire.’
O’Riordan peered into the hole. ‘There should be one more package,’ he said.
Davie got down on all fours and dug with his hands. After a few minutes he sat back on his heels. ‘Got it,’ he said triumphantly.
‘Now that,’ said O’Riordan, pointing at a polythene-wrapped parcel, ‘is something really special. It’s a 66mm M72 A2.’
Lynch sighed wearily. ‘I love it when you talk dirty,’ he said. ‘What the hell is it, Pat?’
‘A bazooka,’ grinned O’Riordan. ‘From the States. It’s a one-man, single-shot throwaway, it’s got a one kilo rocket that can blow a tank wide open.’
‘Jesus,’ said Lynch. ‘How many of those have we got?’
‘Just the one that I know about,’ said O’Riordan. ‘It was sent over as a sample shortly before the 1994 ceasefire. We were going to buy more but then the FBI got hold of our supplier.’ O’Riordan leaned over the hole. ‘Pass it up, Davie. And be careful.’
Davie handed the polythene-wrapped parcel up to O’Riordan, who cradled it tenderly in his arms.
Lynch held out his hand to Davie and pulled him out of the hole. They both helped Paulie out. ‘Right, lads. Now fill it in.’
The brothers were exhausted but they set to with a will, shovelling the wet earth back into the hole. Lynch went back to the truck where O’Riordan was placing the bazooka with the rest of the arms cache. ‘Can you handle it from here on?’ Lynch asked.
O’Riordan raised an eyebrow. ‘What’s on your mind?’ he asked.
‘I want to go to Dublin to see your man. He gets off work at noon.’
‘Yeah? Then what?’ asked O’Riordan. He threw a tarpaulin over the weapons.
‘Depends on what he tells me. If I can get a lead on that chopper, I want to go after Cramer.’
O’Riordan’s eyes narrowed and he clicked his tongue. ‘Remember what I said before. You’ll need to clear it first.’
‘I know.’
‘How are you going to get to Dublin?’
Lynch grinned. ‘I was hoping I could borrow the Landrover. You’ll be in the truck, right?’
O’Riordan chuckled. ‘You’ll do anything to avoid work, won’t you?’
‘Come on, Pat, it’s all downhill from now on. The hard work’s over. It’s not like it was in the old days — the border’s no barrier at all any more. You can do it with your eyes closed. And the Quinn boys can do all the carrying for you.’
O’Riordan climbed down out of the back of the truck. ‘Aye, go on then, you soft bastard.’
As Lynch was driving off in the Landrover, he saw Davie and Paulie shovel the last of the earth into the hole. Paulie threw down his spade and showed his palms to his elder brother, obviously complaining about his blisters.
The tailor arrived just as Cramer and the Colonel were finishing their breakfast, bustling into the room as if he was behind schedule. ‘Good morning, good morning,’ he said. He was carrying two large Samsonite suitcases and he grunted as he swung them onto the far end of the table which the two men were using.
‘Voila!’ he said, opening the cases with a flourish.
‘Voila?’ repeated Cramer, amused by the portly man’s enthusiasm.
The tailor paid him no attention and began dropping brown paper parcels onto the table. ‘Shirts, white, double cuffs. Shirts, polo. Underwear, boxers, a variety of colours. Socks, black. Ties, a selection, all silk of course.’
‘Of course,’ repeated Cramer.
‘Slacks, brown. Slacks, khaki. Slacks grey.’ He held up a paper bag like a conjurer producing a rabbit from his top hat. ‘Accessories. Belts, cufflinks, I took the liberty of including a selection of tie pins.’ The tailor looked at the Colonel. ‘I would prefer to make some adjustments to the suits and the overcoat if we have time,’ he said. ‘I could have them back here tomorrow morning. It’s not essential but. .’ He gave a small shrug.
The Colonel nodded. ‘Tomorrow will be fine.’
‘Excellent, excellent,’ said the tailor. He produced a suit and held it out to Cramer.
Cramer nodded. ‘Looks great,’ he said.
The tailor tut-tutted impatiently. ‘Try it on, please,’ he said.
Cramer did as he was told, then stood stock still as the tailor fussed around him, making deft marks on the material with a piece of chalk and scribbling into his notebook. Cramer tried on the three suits, then the cashmere overcoat, and the tailor spirited them back into the cases.
‘So, I’ll see you at the same time tomorrow,’ the tailor said to the Colonel. He disappeared out of the dining hall as quickly as he’d appeared.
‘Does he do your suits?’ Cramer asked the Colonel.
‘I couldn’t afford his prices,’ said the Colonel with a tight smile.
Cramer refilled his tea from a large earthenware pot. Mrs Elliott brewed her tea in the army style, piping hot and strong, and for all he knew, with a dollop of bromide thrown in for good measure. ‘This guy I’m standing in for,’ he said. ‘When do I find out about him? I don’t even know who he is.’
‘One step at a time, Joker. First I want you to know what you’re up against.’
‘I think I’ve got a good idea.’
‘That’s as maybe, but I’d like you to read through all the files before we move on to the next stage. And there are a few more tests.’
‘Medical?’
‘No. I’m bringing in an instructor from Training Wing.’
‘Anyone I know?’
The Colonel smiled thinly. ‘I doubt it,’ he said. ‘You’ve been away a long time.’
Seth Reed brought the car to a halt by a gap in the hedgerow. He turned around and nodded at his son. ‘There you are,’ he said.
‘A field?’ said Mark, his face screwed up in disgust.
‘Beggars can’t be choosers,’ said Reed. ‘Would you rather wait until we get to Dundalk?’
‘I can’t wait,’ said Mark, reaching for the door handle.
‘Watch out for the rats,’ warned Reed.
Mark’s hand froze in mid-air. ‘Rats?’
‘As big as cats. Mrs Mcgregor told us about them.’
Mark looked at his mother.
‘Your father’s joking,’ said Kimberlee. ‘It’s his sick sense of humour.’
Mark opened the car door and looked at the thick grass running along the hedgerow.
‘Go on, kiddo. I was joking.’
‘You’re sure?’ asked Mark, still not convinced.
‘Cross my heart.’
Mark slid out of the car and walked gingerly over the damp grass, through the gap in the hedge and into the field. ‘Shouldn’t you go with him?’ asked Kimberlee.
‘What? With rats as big as cats out there?’
‘I just thought. .’
‘Honey, this is Ireland. We’re in the middle of nowhere. He’s hardly likely to get mugged in a field, is he?’
Kimberlee pouted. Reed gave it a five full seconds before opening the door and following his son. He knew from experience th
at the pout was only the first weapon in his wife’s impressive armoury. It was always less painful to concede early on. ‘Thanks, honey,’ she called after him.
Davie Quinn crashed the truck into gear and bumped along the rutted track. Pat O’Riordan put a hand onto the dashboard to steady himself. ‘Easy, Davie,’ he said. ‘Take it slowly. We’re in no rush. Remember what we’ve got in the back.’
‘Okay. Sorry.’ Davie’s face reddened.
‘Just be grateful we don’t have the Semtex on board,’ said O’Riordan. He chuckled. ‘You okay back there, Paulie?’ he called.
Paulie Quinn was in the back, making sure that the weapons didn’t shift around too much. ‘Yeah. No problem.’
Davie guided the truck off the track and onto the narrow road that ran between the fields. O’Riordan looked at his watch. ‘Are we late?’ asked Davie, clearly anxious.
O’Riordan smiled at the boy’s enthusiasm. He was so eager to please that it was almost painful. ‘A bit, but nothing to worry about.’ O’Riordan wasn’t worried in the least about crossing the border into the South. Since the ceasefire all the roads linking the Republic with Northern Ireland had been reopened and the border posts dismantled. There were no longer any soldiers checking vehicles and it was now as easy to drive across the border as it was to drive from London to Manchester.
‘What happens to the stuff we left behind?’ asked Davie.
‘It’ll be called in after a few days. Give the weather a chance to obliterate the evidence. The organisation is preparing to hand over more than a dozen arms stockpiles to the authorities as a sign of good faith.’
‘But we hold on to the good stuff, right?’
O’Riordan winked. ‘You got it.’
Seth Reed stood by the hedgerow as he waited for his son to finish going to the toilet. The South Armagh scenery was breathtaking: rolling hills, the forty-shades of green his travel agent had promised, even the cloying mist had an ethereal quality that softened the colours and gave the view the feel of a hastily-painted watercolour. It was hard to believe that until recently the area had been one of the most dangerous in the world, where British troops had to be ferried about in helicopters because they faced death and injury if they dared to venture on foot.
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