The Double Tap mc-2

by Stephen Leather

  ‘The Quinn boy’s going to talk,’ said Connolly. ‘He’ll be crying like a baby before Five have finished with him. He’ll give up Pat and Dermott. He’ll give up his own mother.’

  McCormack’s stomach went cold. He had a good idea what was coming next. ‘Do we know where he’s being held?’

  ‘I do. But we can’t get to him. It’s totally out of the question. Where are they?’

  McCormack removed his horn-rimmed spectacles and polished them on a red handkerchief. ‘Pat’s staying with a cousin in the South. Dermott’s in the UK.’

  ‘It’s only a matter of time before they’re pulled in.’

  ‘Or taken out.’

  Connolly shook his head. ‘No, the SAS won’t kill them, I’m sure of that. The Brits will want a trial, they’ll want to show the Yanks that they’ve got the situation under control.’

  ‘We’ll get to the Quinn boy eventually. If there’s a trial, he’ll need a solicitor. We’ll get to him that way. His solicitor will explain to him what’ll happen to his family if he gives evidence.’

  ‘It’ll be too late by then. The damage will have been done.’ A cheer went up behind them and they heard the announcer say that another rider had gone around without any faults. ‘Theodora won’t be pleased about that,’ muttered Connolly, almost to himself.

  ‘The worst possible scenario is that Pat and Dermott stand trial,’ said McCormack. ‘But they won’t talk. I guarantee that.’

  ‘I know,’ said Connolly. ‘I know they won’t talk.’

  McCormack finished polishing his spectacles and put them back on. ‘They’re good men, Joe. They’ve given their lives to the Cause.’ Connolly turned his head to look at McCormack and McCormack knew exactly what was going through his mind. ‘Oh Jesus, Joe. No. There has to be another way,’ he said.

  ‘We can’t have them in court,’ said Connolly softly. ‘It’ll destroy us.’

  ‘So we help them disappear.’

  ‘Where? Where can they go where they’ll never be found? The world’s a smaller place than it used to be, Thomas. There’s nowhere to hide any more. Not for terrorists.’

  The two men walked in silence for a while. McCormack thrust his hands deep into his overcoat. He shivered. ‘I’ll take care of it,’ he said.

  ‘Good man. I knew you would. Are you still on for Saturday?’

  ‘Absolutely,’ McCormack replied. He smiled half-heartedly. ‘I’ve got this new fly I’m dying to try. I’ve used part of a peacock feather, glossy bluish-green. It’s going to be a winner, I’m sure of it.’

  Rob Taylor drummed his fingers on the steering wheel as he watched the sun go down, smearing the sky a raspberry red. Normally there was nothing he’d rather do than watch an African sunset, but the man sitting behind him was becoming increasingly impatient and even the ready supply of ice cold gin and tonics from the cooler hadn’t placated him. Taylor had to have a kill before the night was over or he’d be in big trouble.

  Taylor had written dozens of letters of applications and phoned countless times before he’d eventually landed the job of ranger on the MalaMala game reserve, and when he’d first put on the khaki uniform he’d never been so happy. Just then, however, he’d have given anything to be back on his father’s sugar cane plantation.

  There were only two guests in the Landrover, a huge bull of a man, a minister of the government of Zimbabwe who took up a bench seat normally big enough for three, and his French mistress, a strikingly pretty brunette who was sitting in the passenger seat next to Taylor and whose silky-smooth right arm kept bumping against his own far too often to be accidental. Right at the back of the vehicle, on a seat set higher than the rest, sat John, the Zulu tracker, who was scanning the area with narrowed eyes. He was as anxious as Taylor to find a kill.

  The minister had flown into the game reserve that morning en route to a meeting in Pretoria and had insisted that he be shown the big five — elephant, rhino, lion, leopard and buffalo. And he’d also insisted on watching one of the predators devouring its kill. Taylor had drawn the short straw and had spent most of the afternoon racing up and down the reserve in search of the animals. It was a good time to be in the park, the river was close to running dry so the game was sticking close to the water supply, and within hours he’d shown the minister a huge elephant with tusks more than seven feet long, a herd of water buffalo that was moving slowly westwards out of the neighbouring Kruger National Park, two rhinos and a leopard that had been patiently staking out a warthog hole. At one point Taylor had thought that he’d have it all sewn up before dusk, but try as he might he couldn’t find a lion, much less one with a kill.

  He’d suggested that they watch the sunset with a few drinks, but it seemed that the more the minister drank, the more objectionable he became, warning Taylor that he had friends in high places and that if a lion wasn’t forthcoming then Taylor’s job was on the line. Taylor doubted whether he’d get the sack just because lions were scarce, but a large part of a ranger’s job was public relations, and he didn’t want the boss to think that he wasn’t up to it. Over his headset he could hear another ranger talking about a large male king cheetah that was walking up to the Marthly waterhole, but its belly was swollen and it clearly wouldn’t be hunting for a couple of days. A king cheetah was an unusual sighting, but Taylor knew that the minister wouldn’t be satisfied with anything less than a lion.

  Taylor unclipped the microphone from the dashboard and pressed it against his lips. ‘Rob here, any sign of a lion?’

  ‘Negative,’ replied a voice. It was Karl, a recently-recruited ranger who was driving a group of Japanese tourists to see the leopard.

  ‘Nothing here,’ said Rassi, a former armoured personnel carrier driver who was clearly taking delight in Taylor’s discomfort. Taylor could tell that Rassi would have liked to have said more, but it was an open channel monitored back at camp, and fooling around on the job wasn’t tolerated by the boss.

  ‘Well?’ boomed the minister, leaning forward to massage his mistress’s neck. There was something predatory about the gesture, and Taylor could picture the man breaking her pretty little neck with one squeeze and then feeding on her soft parts. He shuddered involuntarily.

  ‘They’ve found tracks,’ he lied, knowing that the minister wouldn’t have been able to hear what had come over the headset. ‘Shouldn’t be long now.’

  ‘Good,’ said the minister, nodding like an elephant preparing to charge. ‘About time.’

  He sat back in his seat and the Landrover’s suspension squeaked as if in pain.

  ‘See anything, John?’ Taylor asked his tracker in Zulu. He’d carefully tested to see if the minister understood Zulu but had drawn a blank, so he’d carried on using the tracker’s native language when speaking with him, just in case there was bad news.

  ‘Nothing,’ John replied. He shrugged to show that he sympathised with the ranger. ‘Maybe we could try Mamba Waterhole?’

  ‘Yeah, we’ll give it a go.’ Taylor rubbed his chin and sniffed. He felt as if he was coming down with a cold. That was all he needed. The minister was telling his mistress about the time Margaret Thatcher visited MalaMala with F. W. de Klerk when he was President of South Africa. The South African President hadn’t seen the Big Five, but Thatcher had claimed to have had a glimpse of a leopard and so managed to get one up on him. The minister thought that was hilarious and he threw back his head and laughed, his gold front tooth glinting in the dying light of the sun. The girl smiled across at Taylor as if soliciting his sympathy.

  ‘So, I too am going to beat de Klerk,’ boomed the minister. ‘Isn’t that right? Tonight we’ll see a lion, and a kill, huh?’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ said Taylor. He looked back at John. ‘Put the searchlight on,’ he told the tracker, ‘let’s drive around and see if we can’t get lucky.’ He collected the minister’s empty glass, stashed it away in the coolbox at the rear of the Landrover, and climbed back into his driving seat. The sun dipped below the horizon and stars twinkle
d overhead. Over his headset Taylor heard Rassi calling in a herd of impala. The deer were as common as rabbits at that time of the year, and Taylor knew that Rassi was only doing it to annoy him.

  The minister pounded the back of Taylor’s seat impatiently. Taylor reached for the ignition key, but before he could start the engine he heard the roar of an approaching Landrover. Taylor frowned. Rassi had given his position as more than twenty kilometres away at Buffalo Bush Dam and Karl was still sitting next to the leopard. As far as he knew there was only one other ranger out and he was parked next to the Marthly waterhole.

  A Landrover came crashing through the undergrowth to Taylor’s left. Its halogen searchlight cut through the night, blinding Taylor so that he had to shield his eyes with one hand. He picked up the microphone with the other and pressed the transmit button. ‘Hey, careful with the light,’ he said.

  There was silence in his headset as the approaching Landarover revved its engine and ran over a clump of elephant grass.

  ‘Who are you talking to, Rob?’ asked Rassi’s voice.

  The Landrover stopped less than fifty feet away from Taylor’s vehicle, but the searchlight still blinded him so he couldn’t see the driver. ‘John, can you see who it is?’ Taylor asked in Zulu.

  ‘No, but it’s one of our Landrovers,’ said the tracker.

  ‘What the hell’s going on?’ asked the minister. ‘Get him to turn that light off.’

  Taylor felt a soft hand stroke his knee and his leg jerked involuntarily. The girl was insistent, and she slowly walked her fingers up his thigh. Taylor was too busy concentrating on the Landrover to even think about what the girl was doing. He heard a thud as the driver jumped down onto the sand. Taylor began to get a bad feeling about the situation. He put his right hand on the Sako.375 Magnum rifle that was strapped across the bonnet. It was already loaded.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ asked the minister, slapping the back of Taylor’s seat.

  Taylor squinted into the bright white light. Suddenly a black silhouette stepped into the beam and walked slowly towards Taylor’s Landrover. ‘Who is it?’ called Taylor. When the figure didn’t reply, the ranger yanked the rifle out of its mount. Before he could shoulder the weapon he felt a sudden blow to his chest. He looked down and was surprised to see a red stain spreading across the khaki material. He could hear his blood pounding in his ears as he began to fight for breath and the rifle fell from his nerveless fingers. The last thing he saw was the black silhouette take another step towards the Landrover, then Taylor slumped forward, his forehead smacking into the steering wheel. The girl began to scream hysterically and the minister cursed as he struggled to stand up. Before Taylor died he heard two more shots, but he didn’t see the two bullets strike the minister, one in the head, one in the heart.

  Dermott Lynch put a pound coin in the slot and dialled Thomas McCormack’s number. He didn’t identify himself when McCormack answered but McCormack recognised his voice immediately. ‘Where are you?’ McCormack asked.

  ‘London,’ replied Lynch.

  ‘Where exactly? I’ll need an address.’

  ‘Is this line safe?’

  ‘For God’s sake, Dermott, my phones are swept every day. You’re going to need cash and I have to know where to send it.’

  ‘I’m staying with Eamonn Foley.’

  ‘In Maida Vale?’

  ‘Yeah. What’s happening there? Has the Quinn boy turned up yet?’

  ‘No news. But they don’t seem to be looking for you. No one’s been to your house and O’Riordan seems to be in the clear, too.’

  ‘Maybe Quinn’s tougher than we thought.’

  ‘Yeah, maybe, but you’re better off out of it, Dermott. Stay where you are and keep your head down. We’ll get this sorted out.’

  Pat O’Riordan drove the tractor into the barn and killed the engine. It continued to run for a few seconds and he made a mental note to check the timing when he had the chance. He climbed down and arched his back. He’d been sitting on the machine for the best part of four hours and he was suffering. The farm was a bit larger than his own holding in Ballymena but the owner, Seamus Tierney, had given over two of his fields to mobile homes and caravans, a cash crop that pulled in several thousand pounds a month during the summer. Tierney was renovating several of the mobile homes and so O’Riordan had volunteered to do some work about the place. It was the least he could do, considering Tierney and his wife were giving him free room and board.

  One of the farm’s many cats walked stiff-legged into the barn, its ears pricked up and its tail flicking to and fro like a metronome. O’Riordan bent down to rub its head but it ran off. When O’Riordan straightened up he saw the two men standing in the doorway, big men wearing green anoraks and black ski-masks. One of the men was holding a sawn-off shotgun, levelled at O’Riordan’s chest. The other man was holding a cardboard box about the size of a television set. O’Riordan slowly raised his hands. He heard a noise behind him. There was another man there holding an assault rifle. He must have been hiding at the back of the barn. The cat was rubbing itself along the man’s legs.

  Another man, this one carrying a length of rope, entered the barn. The man with the shotgun gestured with the weapon. ‘Don’t go making this difficult for us, Pat.’ The accent was Belfast, hard and nasal.

  ‘What’s going on, lads?’ asked O’Riordan. The man with the box put it on the ground and opened it. He took out a large white quilt. O’Riordan frowned. ‘What’s the game?’ O’Riordan took a step back but the barrel of the assault rifle brought him up short.

  The man with the shotgun had pale blue eyes and they stared back at O’Riordan, unblinking. O’Riordan knew he was in trouble. Serious trouble. The man with the shotgun gestured again. ‘You can put your hands down now. And don’t try anything stupid.’ O’Riordan did as he was told. The man with the quilt walked towards him, holding it up.

  ‘What is it you’re after?’ asked O’Riordan. He was genuinely confused. If they were SAS they wouldn’t be using a shotgun, if they were UFF or UDV or any of the Protestant paramilitaries they’d have just blown him away and left him dead on the ground. The quilt and the rope just didn’t make any sense at all. Unless they were planning to kidnap him. Maybe that was it. But why would anyone want to kidnap him? He stood stock still as they wrapped the quilt around him, leaving his head clear. He expected them to tie him up with the rope, but to his surprise two of the men grabbed him, one around the chest, the other around his legs. It was almost comical, and if it wasn’t for the sawn-off shotgun and the weapons he’d have thought it was some sort of April Fool’s joke.

  The man with the rope threw one end up in the air and it looped over a girder up in the roof. It was only then that O’Riordan saw the noose. He began to struggle, but the noose was deftly placed over his head and pulled tight, stifling his cries. The man holding the end of the rope jumped in the air and pulled down on his end with all his strength. O’Riordan was jerked off his feet but the two men holding him kept the soft quilt pressed around him so that he couldn’t struggle. He died with only one mark on him, the rope burn around his neck.

  Cramer walked through the dining hall and pushed open the double doors which led to the kitchen, expecting to find Mrs Elliott fussing around the stove. He was surprised to see Su-ming, chopping vegetables with a large knife. She used the knife quickly and confidently, the steel flashing only millimetres from her fingers as she sliced green peppers, scallions, mushrooms and other vegetables which Cramer didn’t recognise. She had taken off her jacket and hung it over the back of a chair. In the T-shirt and jeans she looked about eighteen years old.

  She didn’t look up as Cramer went over to the fridge and took out a carton of milk. Cramer drank from the carton and watched her as she poured a splash of oil into a large steel wok.

  ‘Mrs Elliott will cook for you if you ask her,’ said Cramer, wiping his mouth with his sleeve.

  ‘I sent her away. I didn’t want her near my food.’ She put the wok
on the stove and turned on the gas. ‘You realise she’s poisoning you with all that animal fat?’

  Cramer looked at the milk carton and shrugged. He peered at the vegetables on the wooden chopping board. ‘What are they?’ he asked.

  ‘Ginger root, bamboo shoots, water chestnuts,’ she replied. She threw the vegetables into the smoking oil and stirred them vigorously with a wooden spatula.

  Steam billowed around the wok and Cramer sniffed appreciatively. ‘Do you cook for your boss?’

  ‘I do many things for Mr Vander Mayer,’ she said, dropping a handful of snow peas and bean sprouts into the mixture. ‘And yes, I advise him on his nutrition.’

  ‘And you read people for him, too?’

  She looked at him over her shoulder. ‘I advise him on many subjects.’ Cramer drank from the carton again. ‘You’re not eating, are you?’ she asked.

  Cramer shrugged. ‘Milk does me just fine.’

  ‘You’re not well.’ It was a statement, not a question.

  ‘You read that in my palm?’

  Su-ming took the wok off the burner and poured the stir-fry mixture into a bowl. She used the spatula to spoon boiled rice from a pan into another bowl and put them both on the kitchen table. She stood looking at Cramer for a few seconds then nodded as if she’d reached a decision. ‘There’s a bowl and chopsticks on the draining board,’ she said and sat down.

  Cramer joined her at the table and she spooned rice and vegetables into his bowl. He had trouble using the chopsticks and she smiled at his clumsy attempts. ‘Would you prefer a fork?’ she asked.

  Cramer shook his head and persevered. Su-ming used neat, economic movements to carry the food from her bowl to her mouth.

  ‘It’s good,’ said Cramer. The vegetables were crisp and tasty, and while he still had little appetite, at least he didn’t find the food hard to swallow.