The Double Tap mc-2

by Stephen Leather

  ‘It weighs the same as the PPK, about one and a quarter pounds, and it’s also got a seven-round magazine. It’s another 9mm. Not much to choose between it and the Walther, to be honest.’

  Cramer put it back down on the table and picked up the third handgun. It looked like a child’s toy and the word ‘Baby’ was spelled out at the bottom of the butt. Above it he noticed the FN logo that denoted the Fabrique National Herstal Lige Company of Belgium, the manufacturers of Cramer’s Browning.

  ‘That’s the baby brother of your Hi-Power,’ said Allan. ‘It was actually marketed under the name Baby Browning. FN have manufactured them since 1906 but you don’t see too many of them about these days. They’re banned in the States.’

  Cramer raised an eyebrow. ‘Because they’re so small?’

  ‘That’s right. Too easy to conceal. For you, that’s a real plus.’

  Cramer felt the weight. ‘Half a pound?’ he asked.

  ‘Seven ounces,’ said Allan. ‘It’s really something, isn’t it? Barrel length of two and one-eighth inches, total length, four inches.’

  ‘It’s a lady’s gun,’ said Cramer.

  ‘Don’t you believe it,’ said Allan. ‘Mechanically it’s the same as the.25 ACP vest pocket automatic that Colt used to make. You wouldn’t use it in a fire-fight and beyond ten feet it’s a peashooter, but close up it’ll bring a man down.’

  Cramer stared down at the gun. It was hard to believe that the tiny weapon could kill a man. The barrel was shorter than his index finger. ‘I don’t know, Allan,’ he said. ‘Doesn’t look like it’ll pack enough of a punch to me.’

  Allan shrugged vaguely. ‘It’s up to you. We don’t have to decide yet, but I’d like you to get familiar with all three.’ He handed Cramer a leather underarm holster with webbing straps. ‘Put this on. It’s time we started to practise the draw.’

  Cramer put down the Baby Browning and Allan helped him fasten the straps and adjust the holster so that it lay flat against his shirt. Cramer picked up the Walther PPK. The leather was smooth and supple and the gun slid in and out with the minimum of friction.

  ‘Take it easy at first,’ said Allan. ‘Withdraw the weapon with your right hand, then as you push the gun forward, bring your left hand over your right, same as you were doing with static firing. Remember, a strong grip with your left hand and relax the right.’

  ‘Got it,’ said Cramer, sliding the gun in and out of the holster.

  ‘Fire off a few clips to get the feel of the draw, take your time and fire with your arms fully extended. Once you’re familiar with the action, I want you to forget about the sight picture. I want you firing before your arms are extended, just empty the clip as quickly as possible. You’re going to be so close to the target, aiming will be a waste of time.’

  Cramer donned his ear protectors. ‘Okay, let’s get to it.’ Allan took down the target he’d been using and fitted a fresh one. ‘Seven shots, rapid fire,’ said Allan, standing to the side.

  Dermott Lynch yawned and opened his eyes. He rolled over and stared at the long auburn hair of the girl lying next to him, wondering how quickly he could get rid of her without causing offence. She was a nice enough girl, and an amazing lay, but Lynch liked to be alone in the morning. Maggie, her name was. Maggie O’Brien. She was voluptuous, plump even, with a pretty face and the greenest eyes he’d ever seen outside of a cat. She worked as a barmaid in a pub off Grosvenor Road and was an occasional visitor to Lynch’s bed. She had only just turned twenty and knew that the relationship had no future, but the sex was great and Lynch was perfectly happy to turn to her for physical comfort from time to time. He just wished she’d get into the habit of leaving before morning.

  Lynch had several girlfriends in Belfast. He’d made the decision many years earlier not to get married, not even to enter in a long-term relationship. His position as an active member of the IRA meant that relationships made him vulnerable, both to the security forces and to Protestant terrorist organisations. Better to be single. He came from a big family and had more than enough nephews and nieces to make up for the lack of children of his own.

  Whenever possible Lynch preferred to make love to his girlfriends on their turf, so that he could slip away afterwards, a quick kiss on the cheek and then a cab home. Maggie lived with her parents, however, so he had no alternative but to take her home with him to his small terraced house. She murmured in her sleep and pushed back against him. Her naked flesh was warm against his thighs but Lynch moved away, putting distance between them. Sex was for the night, something to be done in darkness. Maggie’s hand slid behind her and reached between his legs and he realised that she wasn’t asleep. She took him in her hand and squeezed softly, encouraging him, wanting him, but Lynch wasn’t aroused in the least. He slid out of bed and padded to the bathroom.

  ‘Dermott. Come here,’ moaned Maggie.

  Lynch pretended that he hadn’t heard and closed the bathroom door. He leant over the washbasin and stared at his reflection in the mirror. His eyes were bloodshot, the result of a heavy night’s drinking, and there were crumbs in his beard. He’d eaten a bag of salt and vinegar crisps before going to bed. He grinned wolfishly. God alone knew why Maggie wanted to touch him first thing in the morning. He looked like shit. He cupped his hand around his mouth, breathed out, and then sniffed. Yeah, he smelled rough, too.

  He ran a bath as he cleaned his teeth. As he spat foam into the sink, his front doorbell rang. He wrapped a towel around his waist and went back into the bedroom. Maggie was sprawled across the bed, covered only by a sheet. It did little to conceal her ample body, but Dermott wasn’t tempted. He went over to the window and peered out. It was Pat O’Riordan, dressed as if he’d come straight from his farm.

  Lynch went downstairs and let him in. O’Riordan looked at his wristwatch pointedly. ‘I know, I know,’ said Lynch. ‘I had a rough night. What’s wrong?’

  ‘The cops were at the Quinns’ house yesterday. Davie’s dead and Paulie’s disappeared.’

  ‘Fuck,’ said Lynch.

  ‘Yeah. Fuck.’

  ‘Do you want a coffee?’

  ‘Got anything stronger?’

  ‘Never touch the stuff,’ said Lynch with a smile. He took O’Riordan through to the sitting room and poured large measures of Jameson’s whiskey. They clinked glasses and drank. Lynch waved O’Riordan to the sofa.

  ‘It gets worse,’ said O’Riordan.

  ‘Worse? How can it get worse?’

  ‘You haven’t seen the papers, have you?’ Lynch shook his head. O’Riordan let out a sigh. ‘The guy who was driving the car, he’s related to an American politician. A member of the House of Representatives.’

  ‘Oh fuck,’ said Lynch. He rested his head on the back of his chair and stared up at the ceiling. ‘Fuck, fuck, fuck.’

  ‘Yeah, tell me about it. He’s been one of the guys pushing for more Green Cards for the Irish.’

  ‘Oh Jesus.’

  ‘There’s more. His wife’s related to the Kennedys. The Kennedys, Dermott.’

  Lynch closed his eyes. ‘Pat, if you tell me that she’s the Pope’s sister, I think I might just top myself.’

  ‘This is going to get very messy,’ said O’Riordan. ‘They’re going to move heaven and earth to get us. The Americans are going to put pressure on the Irish Government, and the Brits. We’re up shit creek.’

  Lynch sat up and ran his hand through his beard. ‘Only if they know it was us,’ he said. ‘Davie’s dead, you say?’

  ‘Shot by the cops. He had a gun.’

  ‘Not one of ours?’

  O’Riordan shook his head. ‘His father’s. From what I’ve heard, it wasn’t even loaded.’

  ‘Poor bastard.’

  ‘Yeah, well, if you ask me it serves them right for having the bloody thing.’ He paused. ‘You haven’t asked the big question,’ he said.

  Lynch sat down on an overstuffed easy chair and put his bare feet up on the coffee table. ‘You mean why were the police at
their house?’

  O’Riordan raised one eyebrow. ‘Careless talk costs lives.’

  ‘It wouldn’t have been Davie. I’m sure of that.’ He took a mouthful of whiskey and rinsed it around his mouth before swallowing. ‘Paulie’s gone, you said?’

  ‘We’ve sent a solicitor to the family, and he’s trying to find out where he is. But we don’t think the RUC have got him any more.’

  ‘What, you think Five are holding him? If they are, he’ll talk.’

  ‘Yeah. I know.’

  ‘Can we reach him?’

  ‘We don’t even know where he is.’

  The two men sat in silence for a while. Upstairs, Maggie had commandeered Lynch’s bathwater. O’Riordan grinned at the sound of splashing. ‘Anyone I know?’ he asked.

  ‘Aye. Your missus.’

  O’Riordan pulled a face and finished his whiskey. He held out the empty glass but Lynch motioned with his head for O’Riordan to help himself.

  ‘You’ve already spoken to McCormack?’ asked Lynch.

  ‘Yeah. That’s why I’m here. He wants us to lie low. Until they’ve taken care of Paulie. He’s furious.’

  ‘Terrific,’ said Lynch. He banged his glass down on the table. ‘Shit, shit, shit. It was McCormack’s fucking idea to take the Quinns with us.’

  ‘He knows that, Dermott, but I wouldn’t go throwing it in his face, if I were you.’

  ‘What are you going to do?’ Upstairs, Maggie began to sing an Irish folk song.

  ‘I’m going south. I’ve got friends in Killarney, but I’ll keep moving.’

  ‘What about the farm?’

  ‘McCormack’s going to send someone to help out.’ O’Riordan leaned over and refilled Lynch’s glass. ‘He wants you out of the country.’

  Lynch nodded. ‘No problem. I’ll cross the water.’

  ‘Where will you stay?’

  ‘Best you don’t know, Pat. I’ll keep in touch with McCormack.’ He took another drink. ‘This has got really messy, hasn’t it?’

  ‘Tell me about it.’ He looked up at the sound of splashing. ‘Are you going to introduce me to your friend?’

  ‘All I’m going to introduce is my foot to your arse,’ said Lynch.

  O’Riordan put down his empty glass and got to his feet, grinning. He stuck out his hand and Lynch stood up and shook it, firmly. O’Riordan stepped forward and held Lynch in a bear hug, squeezing him so tightly that the air exploded from his lungs. ‘You take care of yourself, yer soft bastard,’ O’Riordan said.

  ‘Aye, you too,’ replied Lynch, gasping for breath.

  After he’d shown O’Riordan out, Lynch went back upstairs. Maggie was in the bedroom, towelling herself dry. ‘Who was that?’ she asked.

  ‘No one,’ said Lynch.

  Maggie smiled slyly and let the towel fall to the floor. She put her hands on her ample hips, glanced across at the bed and then back at Lynch. She raised one eyebrow invitingly, but he turned his back on her and headed for the bathroom. ‘Show yourself out, will you, love?’ he said.

  He heard her slam the front door a few minutes later as he was shaving off his beard with short, careful strokes of a cut-throat razor.

  When Cramer and Allan walked into the dining room, the Colonel was already tucking into bacon and eggs. Sitting opposite them was a new face, a big man with close-cropped dark hair, slightly shorter than Allan but with equally wide shoulders. He introduced himself as Martin, the second bodyguard and driver.

  Cramer helped himself to scrambled eggs and then poured himself a mug of Mrs Elliott’s treacly tea. Martin’s plate was piled high — eggs, bacon, sausage, baked beans, black pudding, tomatoes, and on a side plate he had half a dozen slices of buttered toast. He smiled as he saw Cramer’s tiny portion of eggs. ‘No appetite, Mike?’ he asked through a mouthful of food.

  The Colonel looked up at Cramer and Cramer saw his eyes narrow a fraction. He realised that Allan and Martin hadn’t been told about his illness. Cramer nodded almost imperceptibly and then grinned at Martin. ‘Never was one for early-morning scran,’ he said, using the SAS slang for food.

  ‘The haircut’s a big improvement,’ said the Colonel.

  ‘Yeah, she knows what she’s doing,’ agreed Cramer.

  Allan sat down opposite Martin with a plate of fried food. ‘When did you get here?’ he asked.

  ‘Late last night. I was in London bodyguarding a Hollywood star and his boyfriend.’

  ‘Yeah? Going to name names?’

  Martin shook his head. ‘The sort of money they pay me guarantees confidentiality.’

  Allan laughed and told Cramer the names anyway. ‘I didn’t know he was queer,’ said Cramer.

  ‘Yeah, neither does his wife,’ said Martin, biting a chunk out of a slice of toast.

  They were interrupted by the arrival of the tailor, bustling in with a suitcase in either hand. ‘Good morning, good morning,’ said the tailor, hefting the cases onto one of the tables.

  Martin looked at Allan. ‘The tailor,’ said Allan. Martin nodded as if that explained everything.

  Cramer put down his fork and tried on one of the suits as the tailor walked around him, nodding and biting his lip. ‘Good, good,’ he said, brushing Cramer’s shoulders and kneeling down to check the trousers.

  ‘A perfect fit,’ said Cramer, his arms out to the sides.

  ‘Of course,’ said the tailor primly. He helped Cramer on with the overcoat and then stood back to get a better view.

  ‘First class,’ said the Colonel. The tailor nodded enthusiastically, picked up his empty cases, and half ran out of the dining room.

  ‘Is that guy on something?’ asked Martin, shaking his head in amazement.

  ‘Fastest tailor in the west,’ said Cramer, walking up and down in the overcoat. ‘He knows his stuff, though.’

  ‘We’ll be taking photographs this afternoon,’ said the Colonel. He nodded at Cramer’s scuffed Reeboks. ‘Don’t forget the shoes.’

  ‘Photographs?’ repeated Cramer, mystified. ‘What photographs?’

  ‘For the killer,’ said the Colonel. ‘He’s going to want to know what the target looks like.’

  The overcoat suddenly felt heavy, like a suit of armour. Cramer took it off and folded it over his arm. Allan and Martin both bent their heads over their plates and concentrated on their food. Cramer shivered as if he’d just noticed a draught. It was the first time he’d been referred to as the target.

  Dermott Lynch took a taxi to the airport and bought a ticket on the next Aer Lingus flight to London Heathrow. He picked up a copy of the Irish Times and sat down to read it. A large photograph dominated the front page, a middle-aged man, a pretty blonde and a young boy. Seth Reed and his family. The father and son killed in the collision with a truck full of IRA weaponry. The woman was sedated and was waiting for her relations to fly over from the States. Lynch scanned the story.

  There were the usual vitriolic quotes from Protestant politicians condemning the incident, and a brief statement from the Provisionals saying they regretted the deaths of the two tourists but that they had not been involved in the incident. An IRA spokesman claimed that they had no knowledge of the arms cache being moved and that they had launched an internal investigation, while an unnamed spokesman for the security services said that it was clear that the weapons were being taken away with a view to being hidden.

  The newspaper’s journalists had also contacted several top American politicians who were unanimous in their anger and sorrow. A spokesman for the Northern Ireland Tourist Board warned that the deaths could result in the loss of millions of pounds to the province. There had already been dozens of holiday cancellations from Americans who feared a return to the violence of the past.

  Nowhere in the paper was there any mention of the arrest of Paulie Quinn, or the shooting of his brother. Lynch wondered how long it would be before the boy talked. Harder men than Paulie Quinn had cracked under interrogation. He dropped the newspaper into a rubbish bin and walked to the
boarding gate.

  Cramer stood facing the full-length mirror. Even in the tailored suit and the bulky cashmere overcoat, he could see that he’d lost weight. The clothing helped to conceal how ill he was, and at least he didn’t look too gaunt. His eyes had always been deep-set and ever since he was a teenager he’d looked as if he needed a good night’s sleep, no matter how rested he was. Allan had brought the mirror down from one of the bedrooms and placed it in the gymnasium so that Cramer could practise drawing his weapon. It was hard going. Cramer had no problem in firing the PPK. Under Allan’s guidance he’d become as adept with the pistol as he was with his preferred Browning, and his grouping at ten metres was as good as ever he’d achieved when he was in the SAS. But he wasn’t getting any better at drawing the weapon. The action seemed totally unnatural, his arm had to move up and then in, his fingers had to reach the butt, his trigger finger had to slip into the trigger guard and he had to pull the weapon out so that it didn’t snag on his clothing.

  Cramer squared his shoulders and felt the underarm holster tighten against his chest. There was one advantage to rehearsing in the coat: when he finally took it off he’d find it that much easier to pull out the gun. He stared into his eyes and bared his teeth. ‘You talking to me?’ he asked his reflection. The reflection grinned back. ‘Are you talking to me?’ said Cramer, his voice louder this time.

  His hand darted inside his jacket and pulled out the PPK, his eyes never leaving those of his reflection. He pointed the gun at the mirror, his finger on the trigger. ‘I said, are you talking to me?’

  Allan chuckled from somewhere behind him. ‘You’re getting better,’ he said. ‘I’d leave out the De Niro impersonations, though.’

  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.’