The Double Tap

Davie turned slowly. His eyes were glassy and O’Riordan realised he was in shock, but other than that he appeared to be unharmed. O’Riordan twisted around in his seat. ‘Paulie?’ he shouted. ‘You okay?’

‘Yeah, I think so,’ said Paulie from the back of the truck. ‘What happened?’

O’Riordan couldn’t help but grin at the banality of the question. He tried to open the door but it was jammed. ‘Davie, we’re going to have to get out your side,’ he said.

There was a hiss of escaping steam and a series of clicks from the engine as if it hadn’t quite died. Davie fumbled with the handle and pushed the door open. The truck was leaning at a forty-five degree angle and they had to drop down from the open door onto the ground. Paulie was on his hands and knees, dragging himself out of the back of the truck. Davie went to help his brother as O’Riordan surveyed the damage. The offside wheels of the truck were in a ditch and it was resting on a hedge. The front axle was broken, a shattered tree branch had speared one of the tyres and the front of the vehicle was a twisted mess. The truck wasn’t going anywhere, even if they could find some way of getting it back onto the road.

Davie helped Paulie to his feet. The truck made a groaning noise like a dying elephant and lurched further to the left, its offside wheels sinking deeper into the ditch. O’Riordan rubbed his chin, wondering what the hell they were going to do.

The car they’d hit had slewed across the road and was resting nose down in the ditch on the far side of the road. Its boot had sprung open and O’Riordan could see it was filled with suitcases. On the ground next to the car lay a small bundle of clothes, but as O’Riordan looked at it closely he realised it was a child. A boy. He went over to see if there was anything that could be done but before he even got close he could see from the blood and the angle of the boy’s neck that he was dead. He’d obviously been thrown through the windscreen on impact.

Davie came up behind O’Riordan. ‘Pat, what are we going. .?’ His voice tailed off as he saw the body. ‘Oh Jesus,’ he said. ‘Is he. .?’

‘Yeah,’ said O’Riordan. ‘Go back to the truck. Keep an eye out for other vehicles.’ O’Riordan stepped around the body of the boy and peered into the car. The driver was sprawled halfway through the shattered windscreen, his throat ripped open and his lower jaw a bloody pulp. The rain washed his blood across the bonnet, a red streak on the white metal. There was a woman in the back seat, unconscious but still held in place by her seatbelt. O’Riordan wiped his forehead with his sleeve. He shaded his eyes with the flat of his hand and peered into the car. She didn’t seem to be bleeding. She was probably the wife of the dead man, mother of the dead child. Tourists, by the look of the suitcases. ‘Christ, what a mess,’ O’Riordan muttered to himself.

He went back to the Quinn brothers. O’Riordan knew he had to make a decision, and quickly. The area they were in wasn’t highly populated, but it was only a matter of time before another vehicle came along. They could wait and hope that a van or a truck appeared which they could then commandeer and use to take away the consignment, but if the police turned up they’d be in deep trouble. If only Lynch hadn’t taken the Landrover. The Quinn brothers watched him nervously, waiting for him to make up his mind. Paulie was staring wide-eyed at the body of the boy on the ground. Davie had a hand on Paulie’s shoulder as if restraining him. The rain was coming down heavier now, the drops pitter-pattering on the roof of the truck. At least the bad weather meant they were unlikely to be spotted by a passing helicopter. O’Riordan stood with his hands on his hips and stared at the disabled truck. They could carry the arms, but not far. If they buried them in a nearby field, the police would be sure to find them.

O’Riordan turned to look at the Quinn brothers. ‘On your way, lads,’ he said. ‘Cut across the fields, keep out of sight. Get as far away from here as you can. Give it a couple of hours, then hitch. Okay?’

Davie nodded but Paulie continued to stare at the small body. ‘Paulie, there’s nothing we can do,’ said O’Riordan. ‘It was an accident.’

‘He’s okay,’ said Davie. ‘I’ll look after him.’ He pulled his brother to a five-bar gate and helped him over. They disappeared into the rain.

O’Riordan climbed into the back of the truck and ripped the polythene from the disposable bazooka. He was one of half a dozen volunteers who’d attended a training course on the operation of the M72. A former Green Beret had flown over from the States to demonstrate the firing of the weapon, using a replica.

O’Riordan walked down the road until he was some fifty metres from the truck, then dropped down into the ditch. He pulled open the telescopic launcher-tube and flipped up the front and rear sights. The M72 was surprisingly light, weighing just about three pounds. He armed it and put it to his shoulder, gripping the weapon tightly in anticipation of the recoil.

‘Jesus, what a waste,’ he whispered. He fired, and immediately there was a deafening whooshing sound as the tube jerked in his hands. The missile shot towards the truck, leaving a white smoky trail behind it. It hit the truck just behind the driver’s cab and exploded in a ball of yellow flame. O’Riordan ducked his head as bits of debris flew by him. There were hundreds of smaller bangs as the ammunition exploded. O’Riordan kept down low into the ditch until the explosions subsided. A piece of metal smacked into his shoulder but not hard enough to do any damage. It lay in the sodden grass close to his foot. It wasn’t a bullet, it looked like a piece of the truck chassis.

When he looked up again the truck was burning with thick plumes of smoke spiralling up into the leaden sky. O’Riordan went as close as he could and threw the mortar tube onto the fire. The truck was burning fiercely despite the rain and O’Riordan doubted that there’d be much of it left by the time it burned out. He ran to the gate, vaulted over it, and jogged across the recently ploughed field.

Dermott Lynch was halfway through a pint of Guinness in a pub in the Temple Bar district of Dublin when he saw the news flash. The barman turned up the volume on the television set fixed to the wall by the entrance to the Gents toilet and stood watching it, his arms folded across his chest. The RTE1 announcer was reading from a sheet of paper. A man and a child killed. A woman in hospital. At first Lynch thought it was a road traffic accident, but then the picture cut away to footage of the burnt-out wreckage of the truck half-lying in a ditch.

Lynch put down his Guinness. A cold prickling feeling ran down to the base of his spine. What the hell had gone wrong? The newsreader said that the truck was believed to have contained arms and ammunition. The police were looking for the driver of the truck, but there were as yet no witnesses to the accident. Lynch frowned. If the truck had been destroyed in the accident, what had happened to Pat and the Quinn boys?

Lynch considered the consequences of the deaths. The IRA Army Council would mount an investigation and demand to know what had gone wrong. He’d have to explain why he’d left O’Riordan and the Quinn brothers, and while he didn’t think that he’d made a mistake by doing so, he doubted that McCormack would see it that way. The police would pull out all the stops to find out what had happened, and there’d be political ramifications, too. The Protestant paramilitaries wouldn’t hesitate to claim that the incident was a breach of the ceasefire. Lynch knew that he’d have to call McCormack, but he wanted to talk to the air traffic controller first. McCormack would demand an immediate meeting, Lynch was sure of that. And he’d insist that Lynch lie low, maybe even stay in Dublin until it had all blown over.

The newsreader was replaced by an American soap opera and the barman turned down the volume. Lynch stared at the screen with unseeing eyes. He wondered where Pat was, and if he was okay. He must have got away with the Quinn boys, but that didn’t explain the state of the truck. Maybe he’d set fire to the truck to destroy the evidence. That at least made sense. Lynch shook his head to clear his thoughts. There was no use crying over spilt milk. He sipped his Guinness and wiped the creamy froth from his beard with the back of his hand.

Lynch had a copy of the Daily Telegraph on the table in front of him, not because he was a regular reader of the British newspaper but because it would act as a clear signal to the man he was there to see. A stooped figure entered the smoky gloom of the pub and looked left and right. Lynch knew even before they made eye contact that it was the man he was there to meet. His name was Luke McDonough. He’d never been a member of the IRA but he was sympathetic to the Cause, and while he would never take an active role in any terrorist operation he was happy enough to supply information.

McDonough came over to Lynch’s table and looked down at the newspaper. Lynch stood up and shook the man’s hand. McDonough’s skin was pale and pasty as if he didn’t get out in the sun much, and his fingernails were bitten to the quick. Lynch wondered if it was as a result of the man’s high-pressure job or if he was just the nervous type. He asked what McDonough wanted to drink. ‘Orange juice,’ he said, almost apologetically and sat down while Lynch went to buy it. When Lynch came back to the table, McDonough was flicking through the paper. He put it down and took his drink, toasting Lynch before drinking. ‘I’m working the early shift tomorrow,’ he said, by way of explanation.

‘Yeah, I bet you need a clear head in your job, right enough,’ agreed Lynch sympathetically.

‘Tell me about it,’ said McDonough. He put down his drink, steepled his fingers under his chin and looked at Lynch as if he was studying a radar screen. There were deep crow’s feet either side of his pale grey eyes, as if he spent a lot of time squinting. ‘Your man asked me about a helicopter flying in and out of Howth a few days back. A Sea King, he said.’

Lynch nodded. ‘Yeah. It came around Ireland’s Eye, picked up two men, and flew off to the east. Did you see it on your screens?’

‘Not personally, no. I was working ground control. But I’ve checked our records and we were in contact with it. Hardly surprising, Dublin radar goes down to about thirty feet above sea level all around there. He couldn’t have got within twenty miles of Howth without being spotted.’

‘Where did it come from?’

McDonough began to bite at the flesh at the corner of a fingernail, gnawing away like a gerbil. His teeth were yellow and ratlike, and he glanced furtively around as if he feared being chastised for the habit. ‘No way of telling,’ he said. ‘They hadn’t filed a flight plan. They came in on a heading of 280 degrees but that doesn’t mean anything.’ McDonough stopped biting his nails. ‘Your man said the Sea King was red, white and blue. Red tail, white body, blue on the bottom?’

‘That’s right,’ said Lynch.

McDonough’s eyes sparkled. He folded his hands together and put them under the table as if hiding them. ‘I reckon it could have been one of the Westlands operated by the Ministry of Defence Procurement Executive.’

‘Not the army?’

McDonough shook his head. ‘Nah, they use them for radar trials and experimental work. It’s a mystery what it was doing in Howth, it shouldn’t even be in Irish airspace.’

‘Okay, so let’s assume it was an MoD chopper,’ said Lynch. ‘Where could it have gone?’

‘They certainly didn’t land at Dublin, and whichever way they went they must have given the airport a wide berth. I checked with Belfast and they’ve no record of a Sea King landing there at the time you’re talking about. They’re were plenty of army Lynxes and Pumas around and a couple of Chinooks, but no Sea Kings.’

‘But they could have landed anywhere else, away from the airports?’

‘Oh sure. A field, even on a ship at sea. From the sound of it, I’d say they went to the mainland.’

‘Yeah? Why?’ Lynch sat forward, suddenly interested.

‘Why else would they use a Sea King? It’s got a huge range, more than 750 miles with a standard fuel load. And if it was a Procurement Executive chopper, it could have easily been fitted with extra tanks. It could have gone all the way to London. A Lynx’s range would be less than 400 miles, and they’re a hell of a lot more common in Ireland than Sea Kings. Even the Westland Wessex that 72 Squadron uses in the north can only fly about 350 miles on standard tanks, maybe 500 with auxiliary fuel. No, if they went to the trouble of using a Sea King, there must have been a reason, and the range is the only thing I can think of. If they were staying in Ireland or landing at sea, they’d have used a Lynx or a Wessex for sure.’

Lynch nodded excitedly. ‘Okay, so if we assume it crossed the Irish Sea, how do I find out where it landed?’

‘You’d need to speak to someone like me over in the UK. Wales first. That’s where the pilot would have checked in. But I don’t know anyone over there, not anyone Irish, anyway. But I could have a go myself.’

‘How long will it take?’ Lynch asked.

‘Depends,’ said McDonough. He ran his finger around the rim of his glass, then licked it. ‘There are plenty of reasons why Dublin ATC might request information on a flight to the mainland. If I meet any sort of resistance I’ll back off immediately, but I don’t think there’ll be a problem. I didn’t want to try without checking with you first.’

‘Good man,’ said Lynch. ‘I’ll call you tomorrow to see how you got on.’ He drained his glass and stood up. He shook McDonough’s hand firmly. ‘Keep the paper, it’s a bit right-wing for my taste.’ Lynch left the pub and walked through Temple Bar looking for a call box. A teenager in blue denim dungarees was playing a saxophone, bent almost double at the waist as he put his heart and soul into it, the mournful notes echoing off the narrow alley where he was standing with his case open at his feet. Lynch dropped a couple of coins into the case as he went by but the guy had his eyes closed and showed no reaction. It seemed that every second building in Temple Bar was being renovated by entrepreneurs attracted by the city council’s tax breaks. Until recently the area, to the south of the River Liffey, had been the rundown haunt of drug addicts, muggers and prostitutes, but it was gradually being turned into an entertainment centre along the lines of London’s Covent Garden with restaurants, bars and speciality shops. He found a call box and McCormack answered on the third ring. ‘Thomas? It’s me.’ Lynch was as reluctant to use names on an open line south of the border as he was in Belfast.

‘Where the fuck have you been?’

Lynch frowned. It wasn’t like McCormack to use profanity, even under stress. ‘I’m here. In Dublin.’

‘You’ve heard what happened?’

‘Yeah.’

‘We need to meet. Now.’

‘Yeah. I know.’

‘Where are you?’

‘Temple Bar.’

‘I’ll pick you up in thirty minutes. College Green, in front of the Bank of Ireland.’

‘I’ll be there.’ The line clicked in his ear. Lynch tapped the receiver against the side of his head. McCormack was unhappy. Very unhappy.

The Colonel settled back in his chair and put his stick on the desk. Cramer stood at the French windows, looking out over the lawn towards the main gate where two men in jeans and sports jackets were standing, their backs to the building. Cramer had seen at least twelve different guards over the past few days, all of them members of 22 SAS. It was ironic, when he’d most need protection, when he was out in the real world taking the target’s place, he’d be more or less on his own. A Judas Goat. Bait. Waiting for the assassin to strike.

The Colonel’s voice jarred him out of his reverie. ‘You’ve read all the files in detail?’

Cramer turned to face him. ‘Yes. All of them.’

‘So you know what you’ll be up against? He’s never failed. Never been caught. Never pulls his gun until he’s up close. What do you think your chances are, Joker?’

Cramer tilted his head to the side. ‘Long term, nil.’

The Colonel cleared his throat as if something there was irritating him. ‘I meant your chances of taking him out.’

Cramer shrugged. He was wearing a denim shirt and black Levi jeans. The suits, even though they were made-to-measure, always felt confining and he took every opportunity to change out of them. ‘If I can get him in my sights I think I’ve a good chance.’ He folded his arms across his chest. ‘The problem is, I can’t pull the gun out until I’m sure it’s him. And I won’t be sure until he’s pointing his gun at me.’

The Colonel studied Cramer with unblinking brown eyes. ‘And how do you feel about that?’

‘Come on, Colonel, we both know why I’m doing this. Who shoots who first doesn’t really matter, does it?’

‘I’m not sending you on a suicide mission, Joker.’

Cramer returned the Colonel’s stare. ‘Aren’t you?’

The two men looked at each other in silence. It was the Colonel who spoke first. ‘And you’re still prepared to go ahead?’

‘That’s why I’m here.’

The Colonel tapped his fingers on the desk. ‘The next stage is to take photographs of you, and those will be sent to the FBI in Miami along with details of the target’s movements. From there they’ll be forwarded to Zurich. Once the contract is placed with Zurich, there’s no going back. You understand that, Joker? The way this killer works, there’s no further contact once the contract has been placed.’

‘Just do what you have to, Colonel.’

The Colonel nodded slowly. ‘I will.’

‘So when do I leave here?’ Cramer sat down and crossed his legs at the ankles.

‘We’ve still got some work to do,’ said the Colonel.

‘You haven’t yet explained what it is that I’ll be doing. And what’s happening to the guy I’m replacing?’

‘I wanted to be sure that you were committed to the operation, first.’ The Colonel picked up a thin blue file and passed it across the desk. ‘This is the target. Andrew Vander Mayer. A multi-millionaire, self-made.’

Cramer opened the file. There were only two sheets of paper inside. ‘This is it?’

‘That’s it. There’s very little about Vander Mayer in the public domain. And there are no photographs. That’s in our favour. No matter how much research the assassin does, he won’t get more than you have there.’

‘And who is it who wants him dead?’

‘A former business partner, a lawyer by the name of Frank Discenza.’

Cramer frowned. ‘Italian? Why didn’t he get the Mafia to do the hit?’

The Colonel smiled. ‘Not all Italians are connected to the Mafia, Joker. And the Mafia can be a double-edged sword. If they do something for you, eventually they’ll come looking for the favour to be repaid. Our man works only for cash.’

‘And how did you know this Discenza was planning to have Vander Mayer hit?’

‘The IRS and the FBI mounted a joint surveillance operation on Discenza earlier this year and they picked up the Zurich connection on one of their phone taps. Discenza was being circumspect, but one of the FBI agents heard enough to realise what was going on.’

‘Who was Discenza calling?’

‘A banker in Zurich. A very small bank, private clients only, just a brass plate on a wall and a couple of telephones. The banker’s just a middle man, a conduit. The client contacts the banker, the banker lodges the fee and passes on the details. It’s a damn near perfect system.’

‘And Discenza is cooperating?’

‘He’s got no choice. The FBI have him for conspiracy to commit murder, the IRS have him for major tax evasion. He was facing a long jail sentence on both counts, so yes, he’s cooperating.’

Cramer frowned. ‘But what exactly am I supposed to do?’

‘You live Vander Mayer’s life. You visit his homes, you travel in his personal jet.’

Cramer shook his head. ‘Live his life? How will I know what to do? Where to go?’

‘You’ll have help. He has a personal assistant who travels everywhere with him and she’ll be with you every step of the way. Vander Mayer will be on his yacht, he’ll effectively run his business from there, but he’ll act as if he’s where you are. If you’re in his London flat, he’ll say he’s calling from London, and so on.’

Cramer studied the sheets. ‘An arms dealer? He’s an arms dealer?’

‘More of a middle man than an actual dealer. You don’t go to Andrew Vander Mayer if you want to buy a couple of dozen Kalashnikovs. But if you want to equip your air force with the latest air-to-air missiles and your country is on the UN blacklist, then he’s your man.’

‘I don’t know anything about arms dealing.’

‘You don’t have to,’ said the Colonel. ‘You won’t be in on any business meetings, Vander Mayer will handle it all from his yacht. His assistant will deal with any small things that crop up.’

The second sheet in the file contained a list of dates and places. ‘This is my itinerary?’ asked Cramer. The Colonel nodded. ‘I’m getting around. London. New York. Hong Kong. Paris. St Petersburg.’

‘That’s the sort of life that Vander Mayer lives.’

Cramer looked up from the itinerary. ‘This is for the next two weeks.’

‘We don’t know how long it’ll be before the killer makes his move. Hopefully it’ll be sooner rather than later.’

‘Hopefully,’ Cramer repeated quietly. His right hand moved towards his stomach as if it had a mind of its own and Cramer stopped it. He scratched his ear instead. The fact that the cancer was gradually eating him away was never far from his thoughts, even when the pain had retreated to little more than a dull ache. Four weeks. It was a long time when you were waiting to die.

‘You’re all right with that?’ asked the Colonel.

‘Fine.’

The Colonel opened a drawer and took out a blue American passport. He held it out. ‘You’ll be needing this when you leave the country.’

Cramer took the passport. It was his photograph, but the name inside was Andrew Vander Mayer.

‘It’s genuine, you won’t have any problems with it,’ said the Colonel. ‘We’ve got the full cooperation of the US State Department.’ He tossed over three more passports of various colours: one was a European-style British passport, another was Uruguayan, a third was Israeli. Cramer frowned. ‘He’s Jewish?’

The Colonel shook his head. ‘No, but he’s done a lot of business with Israel. Done a lot of favours for them, too.’

Cramer flicked through the passports. They all contained his photograph but Vander Mayer’s details.

‘He travels with whatever passport is most convenient. His assistant will take care of all your travel arrangements, just as she does for him. She’ll tell you which one to use.’

Cramer nodded and put the passports back on the desk. ‘This girl. The assistant. How much does she know?’

‘She’s knows that Vander Mayer has been threatened, and she knows that you’ll be taking his place for a while.’

‘Does she know that she’s at risk, too?’

‘There’s no indication that she’s in danger. The killer goes for the bodyguards and the target.’

‘He hit the security guard in Harrods.’

‘But no innocent bystanders. He’s very selective.’

‘I hope for her sake you’re right. When do I meet her?’

‘Tomorrow. She’s flying in from the States.’

‘And Vander Mayer?’

‘It’s best you don’t know where he is.’

Cramer looked at the two printed sheets in the file, nodding slowly. ‘So the killer comes looking for Vander Mayer and he finds me. And how will you catch him? Assuming he gets by whatever bodyguards you give me, and assuming he manages to take me out, what then?’

‘I’ll have other men shadowing you at all times. He won’t get away, I promise you that.’

Cramer closed the file. ‘He’s got away before.’

‘We weren’t on the case then.’

‘But if your men are too close, they’ll scare him off.’

‘They won’t be too close,’ the Colonel said emphatically.

Cramer slid the file onto the desk. ‘You’re going to use snipers, aren’t you? You’ve no intention of trying to bring him in. You’re just going to blow him away.’

The Colonel raised an eyebrow. ‘There will be occasions when there will be snipers in the vicinity, yes. But you’re not going to be out in the open that often and a sniper isn’t going to offer you any protection when you’re indoors. When you’re inside, I’ll have men close by, but they are not going to be able to defend you from an attack. If they’re close enough for that, they’ll be close enough to be seen. They’re there to apprehend the killer, not to stop the attempt. Am I clear on that?’

‘As crystal, Colonel. I’m right, aren’t I? You don’t intend to apprehend him, do you? This isn’t about bringing him in, it’s about taking him out, right?’

The Colonel exhaled through his nose, his lips set in a tight line as he studied Cramer. ‘Is that a problem for you?’

Cramer shook his head. ‘Whatever it takes, Colonel. Whatever it takes.’

‘Good man.’ The Colonel opened a drawer and took out another file, this one consisting of more than a hundred A4 sheets in a clear plastic binder. ‘I’ve been wondering whether or not to show you this. It’s the report we received from the profiler, Bernard Jackman.’

‘The FBI expert you were talking about?’

‘Former FBI expert,’ the Colonel corrected.

‘I thought you said that I was going to meet him.’

‘You are. He’s expected tomorrow or the day after. But he gave me this report. It’s his profile of the man we’re looking for.’ The Colonel tapped the file with his thick, stubby fingers. ‘The problem is, if we focus on his profile and it turns out Jackman’s wrong, you might be blinded to the real killer.’

Cramer nodded. ‘Okay, but at least it might give me some clues as to who we’re looking for.’

The Colonel tossed the clear plastic file across the desk and it landed on top of the Vander Mayer file. ‘Just bear in mind that it’s not an exact science. There have been several cases where profilers have got it wrong. Sometimes with disastrous consequences. Read it with care.’

Cramer picked up the two files. A sudden pain lanced through his stomach and he grunted. A wave of nausea rippled through his guts and he took a deep breath as he tried to quell it.

‘Are you okay?’ asked the Colonel, clearly concerned.

Cramer forced a smile. ‘I will be,’ he said.

A gentle drizzle was floating down from the leaden sky when McCormack arrived in front of the Bank of Ireland in a black convertible BMW. It was the first time Lynch had seen McCormack’s car and it caught him by surprise. McCormack had to sound his horn twice before Lynch realised it was him. Lynch had expected him to be at the wheel of an estate car or a comfortable saloon, not a high-powered sports car.

Lynch climbed into the front seat. McCormack made no move to shake hands, but Lynch couldn’t tell if it was because the man was angry or because he was simply keen to get moving. The traffic was heavy and McCormack put the car in gear and moved away from the kerb, edging cautiously in front of a bus. Lynch looked at the soft top of the car and wondered what on earth had persuaded McCormack to buy a convertible. Irish summers were notoriously brief and it rained more often than not.

‘My car’s in the garage,’ said McCormack as if reading his mind. ‘This is the wife’s.’ The windscreen wipers swished back and forth, whispering like assassins.

‘Nice car, right enough,’ said Lynch. He ran a finger along the roof and wondered what Mrs McCormack was like. McCormack drove with great care, constantly looking in his mirror and twisting around to check his blind spots. He indicated religiously, rarely got the car out of second gear, and left such a big space between the BMW and the car in front that he was constantly being overtaken. Lynch didn’t know if McCormack always drove so cautiously or if it was simply because he was at the wheel of his wife’s car.

McCormack waited until they were driving through Phoenix Park before speaking. ‘So what went wrong?’ he asked.

Lynch shrugged and looked out of the side window. In the distance was the stark towering cross which marked the spot where Pope John Paul II had addressed hundreds of thousands of Catholics on his visit to the country in 1979. ‘Fucked if I know, Thomas. Have you spoken to Pat?’

McCormack shook his head. ‘No. And there’s no sign of the Quinn boys either. It’s a mess, Dermott.’

‘I only know what I saw on the TV. It must have been an accident.’

‘An accident?’ said McCormack sharply. ‘It’s a bloody disaster.’ They drove by the imposing residence of the American Ambassador. ‘This is going to cause all sorts of problems in the States,’ he said.

‘Yeah,’ agreed Lynch. ‘Tourists, the TV said.’

‘A nine-year-old boy,’ said McCormack. ‘We killed a nine-year-old boy.’ Lynch had to admire the way McCormack said ‘we’, as if he was including himself in the fiasco rather than distancing himself from it. ‘Why did you come to Dublin, Dermott?’ McCormack asked.

‘I had to see somebody.’

‘Do you mind telling me who?’ The question was put smoothly, but Lynch knew that he was being interrogated by an expert and that there was no point in lying.

‘A guy who works at Dublin Airport. Luke McDonough. Pat gave me his name.’

‘And why would you be wanting to talk to this McDonough?’ McCormack peered through the windscreen, then indicated and turned left and drove by a small lake, holding the steering wheel as if it was made of porcelain.

‘He works for air traffic control,’ said Lynch. ‘I was trying to find out what happened to the helicopter that picked up Cramer.’

McCormack’s lips pressed together so tightly that they almost disappeared. Lynch shivered as if the temperature in the car had dropped ten degrees. ‘I thought I’d made my view plain on that matter,’ McCormack said eventually.

‘I just wanted to find out where the helicopter went.’

‘And then?’

‘Then I was going to tell you I knew where Cramer was, and ask your permission to go after him.’ McCormack looked sideways at Lynch, peering over the top of his horn-rimmed spectacles like a concerned uncle. The appearance was deceptive, Lynch knew. There was nothing avuncular about Thomas McCormack.

‘And because you wanted to drive down to Dublin, O’Riordan only had the one vehicle? The truck?’

‘I suppose so. Yes.’

McCormack put the car into third gear for only the second time since Lynch had climbed into the BMW. Lynch licked his lips. He said nothing. There was nothing he could say. ‘So, because you decided to ignore what I said about chasing Cramer, we lost a stock of high grade munitions, two innocent bystanders have died, we’re set to lose God alone knows how much money from the States, and the media north and south of the border is going to be baying for our blood. Is that a fair summary of the situation, would you say?’

McCormack’s words were cold and emotionless as if he was detailing a shopping list. Lynch wasn’t sure whether or not he should apologise. He knew that an apology wouldn’t count for anything. ‘The fault was mine,’ Lynch said quietly. ‘I’ll take the responsibility. I asked Pat to finish off while I drove to Dublin. He wasn’t happy about it.’

‘At least one of you was being professional,’ said McCormack, shifting down to second gear again and braking gently. The BMW was doing just under 25mph. ‘The Army Council is meeting tonight, Dermott. I’ll do what I can.’

‘What do you think will happen?’

‘If you’re lucky, a verbal warning. A smack across the knuckles. You’re a good volunteer, you’ve done more than your share. Everyone’s allowed one mistake.’ McCormack increased the speed of the windscreen wipers, even though the rain seemed to be slacking off. ‘I’m going to have to play down your reason for coming to Dublin, though. We wouldn’t want everyone to know that you were disobeying orders, would we?’

‘Thanks, Thomas. I appreciate it.’ Lynch quietly tapped his fingers on the dashboard as McCormack put on his indicator and pulled into the side of the road. They were back in front of the Corinthian pillars and Ionic porticos of the Bank of Ireland.

‘Take care back in Belfast, Dermott,’ said McCormack. ‘And forget Cramer, okay?’

Lynch opened the door and climbed out into the drizzle. ‘Sure, Thomas. And thanks again.’ He closed the door and watched the BMW pull slowly out into the traffic, its indicator light winking. Lynch put the collar of his jacket up, hunched his shoulders, and headed towards his car. There was no way he’d be able to forget Cramer. Not until he was dead and buried and Lynch had danced on his grave.

The boy tossed and turned in his single bed, unable to sleep. He pushed back the covers and sat up. He pressed his ear against the wall, screwing up his face as he listened. His mother was crying, crying like she used to when she’d watched a sad film. Suddenly she started to scream. Screams of pain. Screams of anguish. The boy bit down on his lower lip, hard enough to draw blood. He could hear his father trying to comfort her but she was shouting at him; telling him that she’d had enough, that she wanted to die. The boy dropped down onto his bed and buried his head under the pillow, trying to shut out the screams. Despite the pillow, he could still hear her. He began to hum to himself, using his own voice to drown out the sounds of her suffering.

Cramer walked along the corridor to the gymnasium, his footsteps echoing off the green-tiled walls. Every dozen steps he passed a green-painted steel radiator, cold and unused now that the school was empty. The Colonel had explained that the institution had fallen victim to the recession and a growing reluctance among parents to send their children away to boarding schools. Planning permission had been granted to turn the building into a conference centre but in the meantime it had been requisitioned by the Ministry of Defence.

At the end of the corridor was a set of double doors. Cramer pushed them open and stepped onto the wooden floor of the gymnasium. It was large enough to contain two netball courts and its walls were lined with climbing bars. At one end of the room thick ropes hung down from the ceiling some thirty feet overhead, and various items of dust-covered gymnastic equipment were stacked against the wall: a vaulting horse, a trampoline, wooden benches, a box of netballs. At the other end stood a man in a grey sweatshirt and blue jeans. He was broad shouldered with short, dark blond hair, and was busily slotting bullets into a magazine. He looked up and nodded at Cramer. ‘Sergeant Cramer?’ he asked. He was taller than Cramer, about six feet four, with a boxer’s frame and a large chin he jutted forward as he waited for Cramer to reply.

‘The name’s Mike,’ said Cramer. ‘My soldiering days are behind me. A long, long way behind me.’

The man grinned and stuck out a large hand with perfectly manicured nails. ‘Allan,’ he said. ‘Training Wing, 22 SAS. Good to meet you, Mike. I’ve heard a lot about you.’ As Cramer shook it he felt the strength in Allan’s thick fingers. It was a killer’s hand, and even though the man was smiling Cramer knew that he was looking into a killer’s eyes. Allan had the slightly distant look that came from seeing too many men die and the knowledge that he was responsible for their deaths. It was a look Cramer recognised. He saw it every time he looked into a mirror.

Allan was standing by a long table which held a box of cartridges and several pairs of ear protectors. A wall of sandbags twice the height of a man had been built against one of the walls and in front of it were five cardboard figures with bullseye targets over the hearts. The targets were about twenty feet away from the table. ‘You favour the Browning Hi-Power, right, Mike?’ asked Allan. For the first time Cramer realised that he had a faint Irish accent. Dublin, maybe, certainly not from the North.

Cramer nodded and Allan slotted a clip into a Hi-Power and handed it to him. It was Cramer’s own gun, the one the Colonel had taken from him in the helicopter: a Belgian-made FN Hi-Power Mark 3, eight inches long and weighing just under two pounds. The double-row staggered magazine gave the gun a thick grip, just one of the reasons that Cramer favoured the weapon.

‘Most of our guys use Glocks now,’ said Allan. ‘They’re lighter and they’ve got bigger clips.’

‘Yeah, so I heard,’ said Cramer. ‘I didn’t like the recoil myself. I prefer a heavier gun.’

‘Different strokes,’ admitted Allan with a shrug, and he handed one of the sets of ear protectors to Cramer. ‘Let’s see what you can do,’ he said, putting on his own headset. ‘Take the target on the left.’

Cramer pulled back the slide and chambered a round, keeping the gun pointed down as he turned to face the targets. ‘Fast or slow?’ he asked.

‘Up to you.’

Cramer nodded. He raised the Browning in a two-handed grip, sighted along the barrel with his arms fully extended and fired once. The bullet struck just below the heart and slightly to the left. He compensated and fired again, then emptied the entire clip in groups of two.

The bitter tang of cordite filled the air and the palm of his right hand ached. He removed his ear protectors and walked over to the target. ‘Nice grouping,’ admitted Allan. ‘Very nice.’ Six of the shots were dead centre of the bullseye, all but two of the rest could have been covered by a tea cup. ‘You cheated with the sighting shot, though. You don’t get those in the Killing House.’

‘Yeah, I know. You want me to go again?’

Allan grinned, showing a small gap between his top two front teeth. ‘Mike, we’ve only just started,’ he said, patting him on the back. His huge hand felt like a shovel between Cramer’s shoulders. ‘Train Hard, Fight Easy, that’s the Training Wing’s motto.’

Allan asked Cramer to fire another clip into a second target and this time he managed to get all thirteen shots within the bullseye. Allan nodded his approval. ‘Better,’ he said. ‘You always use the double tap?’

‘Pretty much.’

Allan took the Browning from Cramer and removed the clip. ‘We’ve started teaching our recruits sustained firepower as part of our close quarter battle training. Let’s see you empty the clip as quickly as possible.’

‘Into one target?’

‘Sure. You never know whether the terrorist has a remote control on him or a hidden weapon. Two shots might not be enough to take him out instantly.’

Cramer raised an eyebrow. ‘You reckon? I’ve never had a problem.’

‘I’ve seen a guy try to crawl away with two slugs in his chest. More than enough time to detonate a bomb.’ He loaded another clip into the Browning and handed it back. ‘This time, grip tighter with your left hand and relax your right. That’ll help control the recoil and allow your trigger finger to be more flexible.’

Cramer took the gun, frowning. ‘You know what I’m going up against, right?’

Allan nodded. ‘Sure. Bear with me, Mike, we’ll get there eventually.’ Cramer stood in front of the middle target as Allan took a stopwatch out of his back pocket. ‘When you’re ready,’ he said.

Cramer steadied his breathing, steadied his arm, and fired thirteen times, pulling the trigger as fast as he could. When he finished, his trigger finger was aching and his wrist felt as if it had been broken. He ejected the clip and looked at Allan.

‘Five point two seconds,’ said Allan.

Cramer waved his right hand, trying to restore the circulation to his trigger finger. ‘Is that good?’

Allan shrugged. ‘With practice, you should get down to below three seconds.’

‘I don’t see the point.’

‘The point? You’re going to have a guy coming at you, eight, maybe nine feet away from you with a loaded gun in his hand. His adrenalin’s going to be up, he’s going to be moving towards you, you’re going to have to pull out your weapon, aim and fire in one, maybe two, seconds. With the best will in the world your aim is going to be all over the place. One shot might not cut it. Even two. You’re going to have to keep firing until the guy’s dead to have any hope of beating the clock.’

Cramer smiled thinly. In the old days SAS troopers who died in action were listed on plaques on the Regimental Clock Tower. When the SAS barracks and headquarters were rebuilt in 1984, the plaques were moved to outside the Regimental Chapel, but beating the clock still meant staying alive. Cramer realised that Allan wasn’t aware of the irony of his statement — that Cramer stood absolutely no chance of beating the clock.

Allan walked up to the target. ‘Your accuracy went to pot. Look at this.’

Cramer joined him by the cardboard target. He was right. One of the shots had hit the target in the head, and while most were still in the heart area, there was a much bigger spread than before. ‘Yeah, I see what you mean,’ Cramer said. At least three of the shots weren’t stoppers. ‘So we’re going to keep practising, right?’

Allan shook his head. ‘You’ll be practising, I’ll be watching.’

Cramer went back to the table and picked up a fresh clip. On the floor there stood a stack of boxes containing fresh rounds. Hundreds and hundreds of rounds.

Davie Quinn carried the tray of drinks over to the table and put it down in front of his brother. He handed one of the pints of Harp lager to Paulie and placed the glasses in front of the two bleached blondes. They’d been drinking with the girls for the best part of a couple of hours and Davie was having trouble remembering their names. ‘And Malibu and pineapple juice for the ladies,’ he said, sliding the tray behind his chair with a flourish.

‘Thanks,’ said the taller of the two blondes, a typist who Davie seemed to remember was called Noreen. Her friend, he was reasonably sure, was Laura, and she was unemployed, like most of the girls Davie knew. Davie and Paulie had met the girls three pubs ago, and they’d been happy to tag along with the brothers, so long as they didn’t have to buy their own drinks. The girls were pretty enough and good fun, and it looked as if they’d be happy to go the whole way. Laura certainly was, she’d allowed Davie to put his hand halfway up her skirt and once, when Noreen had gone to the Ladies and Paulie was at the bar buying another round of drinks, she’d stuck her tongue in his mouth and damn near suffocated him. She gave him a beaming smile and raised her glass to her lips. Davie winked at Paulie, encouraging him to try to enjoy himself.

Davie had taken his brother out in an attempt to cheer him up. They’d walked for the best part of four hours before hitching a ride with a delivery van which was heading for Belfast. They were cold, wet and miserable and the driver had taken pity on them, offering to share his flask of chicken soup. The man had been curious as to why they were hitching without any bags and Davie had spun him a story about having a row with their girlfriends, adding that the girls had dumped them outside a country pub and taken the car. The man had laughed uproariously at that, showing a mouthful of nicotine-stained teeth.

They’d waited in until early evening, but Pat O’Riordan hadn’t got in contact. Davie decided there was nothing to be gained by staying at home so he’d persuaded his younger brother to go out for a drink. Just a quick one, that had been the original plan, but then they’d met the girls.

Paulie was nursing his lager, his head down as if in prayer. Davie decided that Paulie had had enough to drink and that it would soon be time to call it a night. Laura put down her glass. There was a greasy smear of lipstick around the rim that matched the colour of her fingernails. Davie couldn’t take his eyes off the nails, they were the longest he’d ever seen and he kept imagining how they’d feel scraping along his back. ‘You ready to go soon?’ asked Laura, brushing her long, blonde hair behind her ears.

‘Go where?’ asked Davie.

‘My parents are down South. Visiting my uncle in Cork.’

‘Really?’ Davie couldn’t believe his luck.

‘Yeah, they won’t be back until tomorrow night.’ Her leg pressed against his under the table.

Davie sent up a silent prayer of thanks to whichever saint was watching over him that night. ‘Come on, Paulie, drink up,’ he said.

Paulie didn’t look up. ‘He’s pissed, bless him,’ said Noreen.

A can rattled by Davie’s ear and he looked around. A teenager with red hair and a straggly moustache was holding the can and he pushed it forward, almost under Davie’s nose. ‘For the Cause,’ he said. Davie shoved his hand into the pocket of his jeans and pulled out a fifty pence piece. He dropped it into the can and the teenager waved it in front of Paulie. Paulie struggled to focus on it. ‘For the Cause,’ the teenager repeated.

‘Fuck off, we’ve done our bit for the Cause today,’ said Paulie.

The teenager rattled the can again. There was a paper tricolour on it, orange, white and green, and the letters IRA stencilled on it with black ink.

‘I said fuck off. We already gave.’ Paulie sat up, his eyes bloodshot and watery. ‘We almost died for the Cause today, we almost fucking died.’

Realising he wasn’t going to get a donation from Paulie, the teenager moved to another table. A thin man in his early twenties, wearing faded jeans and a black leather motorcycle jacket, dropped several coins into the can without looking up. ‘What do you mean, you almost died?’ asked Noreen, her curiosity piqued.

‘Nothing,’ said Davie quickly. ‘He doesn’t mean nothing.’ He leant forward and pushed a warning finger in front of his brother’s face. ‘Just shut the fuck up.’

Paulie grabbed the finger and shook it solemnly. ‘Okay, Davie. Mum’s the word.’

Davie glared at his younger brother and picked up his pint of lager. He drained it and put the empty glass down. ‘I’m taking him home,’ he said.

‘What about. .?’ said Laura, but Davie ignored her and pulled his brother to his feet.

‘Maybe some other time,’ he said.

Laura looked at him pleadingly. ‘Look, why don’t we help you take Paulie home, then you can come back with me.’ She flicked her hair to the side, knowing that it was her best feature. She flashed her blue eyes. Her second best feature.

Davie succumbed to her charms. ‘Okay,’ he agreed.

‘Great,’ said Laura. She picked up her handbag, then helped Davie half carry his brother to the door. Noreen followed, walking unsteadily on white stiletto heels.

As the Quinn brothers left the pub, the man in the motorcycle jacket finished his pint of Guinness, picked up his newspaper and waved goodnight to the barman.

Stepping into the cold air, the man looked left and right, then walked slowly down the street, slapping the newspaper against his leg and whistling softly. He stopped to look into the window of a shoe shop and bent to stare at a pair of brown leather cowboy boots, using the reflections in the glass to confirm that he wasn’t being followed. The street was clear. Somewhere off in the distance a bottle smashed, and from high overhead came the clatter of an unseen helicopter, but other than that he could have been alone in the city.

Robbie Kirkbride, ‘Sandy’ to his colleagues in the army’s 14th Intelligence Company, had been working undercover in Belfast for seven months, doing little more than sign on the dole and hang around the city’s pubs, picking up tidbits here and there, a name, a face, scraps of information that the experts in the Intelligence and Security Group would hopefully be able to use to put together the bigger picture, biding his time until he felt confident enough to infiltrate the lower echelons of the IRA. Ceasefire or no ceasefire, the army was continuing to gather intelligence on the organisation, in the same way that the IRA was continuing to collate information on possible targets. Both sides were determined to be ready should violence restart.

On the way to the telephone box he dropped his paper and as he bent down to pick it up he checked behind him one last time. Still clear. He went into the call box and dialled the number of his controller.

Cramer, Allan and the Colonel sat in the dining room with cups of coffee in front of them. Cramer was dog-tired, both his hands ached from the constant firing practice and his ears were ringing. During his six-week close quarter battle training course in the Killing House in Hereford he’d fired more than a thousand rounds a day, but there was a world of difference between close quarter battle training and standing in front of a target, firing a handgun at arm’s length.

‘So how did he do?’ the Colonel asked Allan.

‘Just fine,’ said Allan. He’d changed into khaki Chinos and a white T-shirt which emphasised his weightlifter’s forearms. ‘Tomorrow we’ll see how he gets on with the smaller guns.’

‘Am I missing something here?’ asked Cramer. It was the first he’d heard of using a different gun. He’d assumed that he’d be using his Browning.

‘The man you’ll be standing in for doesn’t carry a gun,’ explained the Colonel. ‘There’s no way you’ll be able to keep a gun the size of a Browning on you without it being seen.’

‘And it’s not the sort of gun you’ll be able to draw quickly,’ added Allan.

Cramer sighed in exasperation. ‘So what was today all about? You’re saying I’ve been wasting my time?’

Allan shook his head. ‘Absolutely not. I wanted you to get used to rapid fire with the Browning, then when you use a smaller weapon you’ll find it that much easier. It’ll be like switching from a standard army issue parachute to a ramair canopy.’

The Colonel looked at Cramer, his head tilted slightly to one side as if he expected an argument. Cramer felt like complaining about the way information was being fed to him on a piecemeal basis, but he knew that that would appear unprofessional so he said nothing.

‘You’re only going to get one chance to take on this guy,’ said the Colonel. ‘I want you to be as prepared as possible.’

‘And that means using a smaller gun?’

The Colonel nodded. ‘The way this killer operates, he won’t pull out his weapon until he’s a few paces away from you. You can’t afford to react until he’s blown his cover.’

‘So when you see his gun, you’re going to have to move immediately,’ said Allan. ‘The type of gun isn’t going to matter, not at such close range. You’re just going to have to point and keep firing. What’s more important is that you get the gun out as quickly as possible. And the Hi-Power is just too big a weapon.’

Cramer drained his cup. Allan picked up the coffee pot to pour him a refill but Cramer shook his head. ‘What about bodyguards?’ he asked. ‘Does the target normally have protection?’

‘Yes, two, one of them doubling as a driver,’ said the Colonel. ‘We’re going to stick to that.’

‘And how do they feel about that?’ asked Cramer.

Allan smiled. ‘It should be fun,’ he said, raising his cup to Cramer.

Cramer’s eyes widened in surprise. ‘You?’

‘Sure. The target’s usual bodyguards are good but they’re not SAS-trained. Plus, this operation requires special skills, it’s not a straightforward bodyguarding job.’

‘What do you mean?’

The Colonel cleared his throat. ‘What Allan means is that a bodyguard’s normal function is to protect the client at all cost, to throw himself in front of the bullet if necessary. But in this case the prime function is going to be to apprehend the assassin.’

‘Apprehend? Or kill?’

The Colonel smiled thinly. ‘Whatever.’

Cramer looked at Allan with renewed respect. In most of the files he’d read, the killer had taken out the target’s bodyguards first. Allan must have known what he was letting himself in for, but he appeared to be totally calm at the prospect. Allan smiled at the look on Cramer’s face. ‘It’s not as crazy as it sounds,’ he said. ‘We’ll be wearing Kevlar body armour, and we’ll be expecting the hit.’

Cramer nodded. Allan was right, most of the bodyguards had been shot in the chest. It was only the primary targets who’d taken bullets in the face. ‘Who’s the other bodyguard?’ he asked.

‘A guy called Martin,’ said Allan. ‘Former Irish Army. Ranger Wing. He’s been running his own security firm for the last few years, bodyguarding mostly. You’ll meet him tomorrow.’

Cramer stood up and stepped away from the bench seat that ran the full length of the table. The propane gas heater hissed, its bluish flames wavering in the draught that ran the full length of the massive dining room. ‘I’m away to bed,’ he said. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow.’ He left the Colonel and Allan sitting in silence as he made his way to his bedroom.

Paulie Quinn was lying on top of his bed, reading a comic and eating his way through a packet of digestive biscuits. His window was open a few inches to allow fresh air into the room and he could hear the sound of children kicking a football around in the streets below. He brushed crumbs off his chest and took another biscuit from the packet on his bedside table.

Downstairs the telephone rang. His mother called for Davie and a couple of minutes later there was a knock on Paulie’s door. He looked over the top of his comic. It was Davie. Davie closed the door and sat down on the end of the bed. ‘That was Pat O’Riordan,’ he said.

‘Yeah? What’s he want?’

‘We’re to lie low. He heard we were out last night and he’s not happy. We’re to stay at home until we hear from him.’

‘He’s mad at me, isn’t he? He heard I was pissed. Shit. I’m sorry about last night. I was out of order.’

‘Yeah. You’ve got to be careful what you say, Paulie. We’re not kids any more. Big boys’ rules, you know?’

‘Yeah, I know. It won’t happen again, that’s for sure. At least it wasn’t a complete loss, though. You got your hole, right?’

Davie grinned lecherously. ‘That’s for me to know and you to dream about,’ he teased. ‘Did you get Noreen’s number?’ he asked.

Paulie shook his head. ‘I wasn’t really interested,’ he said. ‘She wasn’t my type, you know?’

Davie smiled at his younger brother. Eighteen years old and still nervous with girls. ‘I’ve got her number,’ he said. ‘She wants you to give her a call.’

Paulie beamed. ‘Are you serious?’

‘Sure. She liked you. God knows why.’

Paulie put the comic down on his chest and stared up at the ceiling. Davie could see that he had something on his mind. ‘What’s up?’ he asked.

Paulie wrinkled his nose. ‘What happened yesterday. With the American kid. And his dad.’

‘It wasn’t our fault, Paulie.’

‘Yeah, but we killed them. They’re dead and we did it.’

Davie rubbed his chin. He hadn’t shaved but his skin was still smooth, with only a hint of stubble. ‘We didn’t kill them, Paulie. They were driving on the wrong side of the road, for fuck’s sake. And if anyone’s to blame it was Pat for grabbing the steering wheel.’

‘I guess,’ said Paulie. He didn’t sound convinced.

Davie stood up and went over to the window. ‘Look, Pat did everything he could. He called an ambulance for the woman and she’s okay. The guy and the kid were dead, there was nothing anyone could have done for them. It was an accident, Paulie. If it hadn’t been us on the road it could have been anyone else. They were just in the wrong place at the wrong time.’ Davie put his hands on either side of the window and craned his neck to look down.

‘What is it?’ Paulie asked.

‘Cops,’ said Davie.

Paulie went to stand by his brother. Down below he saw three grey armoured Landrovers. A couple of housewives in thick wool coats and headscarves watched them drive by. In the days before the ceasefire, the RUC Landrovers would have been accompanied by rifle-carrying troops and the air would have been filled with the sound of crashing metal as the women in the area banged dustbin lids on the pavement, sounding a warning to the Catholic community that the army were coming. Now the police passed through the area without incident.

‘The bastards are out in force,’ said Davie. ‘Wonder who they’re after today?’

‘It’s us, isn’t it?’ Paulie said anxiously. ‘It’s us they want.’

Davie leant on the windowsill and peered down. ‘Relax, there’s no reason they’d be looking for us. They could be after anyone.’ The first two Landrovers sped by the building, and Davie breathed a sigh of relief. But he caught his breath when all three screeched to a halt and RUC officers wearing bullet-proof vests fanned out, guns at the ready. They rushed across the strip of grass in front of the block of flats and towards the entrance. Paulie backed away from the window. The comic fell from his hands, forgotten. ‘It is us, Davie. I know it is.’

Davie smiled reassuringly. ‘Nah, there’s lots of flats. There’s no reason for them to be after us.’

‘Yeah, but. .’

Davie interrupted him. ‘There’s no reason for them to be after us,’ he repeated. ‘Remember that.’ He was about to say more when he heard footsteps pounding up the concrete stairs, followed by the crash of a boot against the front door.

‘Oh Jesus, it is us,’ said Paulie. ‘They’ve come for us.’ His face had gone white and his hands were shaking.

‘It’s okay, we’re clean,’ said Davie. ‘Just don’t panic.’ Downstairs, their mother was screaming. The front door was kicked again, harder this time.

Paulie knelt down and pulled out an old tartan suitcase from under his bed, his hands trembling. Davie frowned as Paulie flicked the latches and opened it. Inside was his comic collection. Davie was on his way to the bedroom door when Paulie threw a stack of comics onto the floor and took out their father’s revolver. Davie stopped in his tracks. ‘Oh fuck, no,’ he said.

‘I was going to throw it away, Davie, honest I was.’

There was the sound of splintering wood, more screams from their mother, then urgent male voices telling her to get out of the way. She screamed again, but the scream was cut short. Heavy boots tramped up the stairs. Something smashed to the floor.

Paulie was sitting on the floor with the gun in his hands, staring at it as if he didn’t know what it was. Davie looked at the revolver, then at the window. He had to get rid of it, somehow. Maybe he could throw it up onto the roof, hide it in the guttering, do something, anything, before the police burst into the bedroom. He grabbed the weapon from Paulie and dashed to the window. His heart was racing, the blood pounding in his head. He pushed the sash window up but before he had it fully open he heard the door crash behind him. He whirled around, holding the gun up to show that he wasn’t going to use it, his mouth open to shout that they weren’t to shoot, but before he could get the words out he realised it was too late. Time seemed to freeze. The policeman standing in the doorway couldn’t have been much older than Davie, he had acne on his forehead and a mole with hairs growing out of it on the side of his nose. His handgun was centred on Davie’s chest and Davie could see his finger tightening on the trigger. Behind the young policeman stood another man with a gun. He shouted that Davie was to drop the weapon. Davie wanted to explain that the revolver wasn’t even loaded, but the words wouldn’t come. He felt his bladder empty and he was suddenly ashamed that he’d wet his pants like a frightened child. Paulie’s hands were up in the air as if he was surrendering on his brother’s behalf, his eyes wide and unbelieving.

Davie knew what was going to happen but he was powerless to do anything to stop it. The young policeman’s gun jerked up and Davie felt the bullets thud into his chest as he staggered backwards, his head slamming into the window. He heard the glass shatter but didn’t feel the shards tear into his scalp. He slid down to the floor, his hands clutched to his chest, his mouth opening and closing soundlessly.

Cramer was towelling himself dry when there was a knock on the bedroom door. ‘Yeah?’ he called, wrapping the towel around his waist. It was Allan, holding a large pair of scissors. He clicked them, a mischievous grin on his face. ‘What are they for?’ asked Cramer suspiciously.

‘Got to make you look decent,’ said Allan. ‘Colonel’s instructions.’

‘Yeah? What part of my anatomy are you planning to remove?’

‘Short back and sides,’ explained Allan, motioning for Cramer to sit on the bed.

Cramer sat down. ‘Do you know what you’re doing?’

‘Not really, but I’m willing to give it a go.’ He clicked the scissors menacingly.

‘You’ve got to be joking.’

‘Come on, Mike. How difficult can it be? Just keep still, that’s all.’ He move towards Cramer, the scissors held high.

Cramer put his hands over his ears and lay back on the bed. ‘Keep those things away from me, you mad bastard,’ he shouted.

Allan roared with laughter and pulled open the door to reveal Mrs Elliott standing there. ‘Afraid of a little snip.’ He handed her the scissors. ‘Mrs Elliott here’ll be doing the business.’

‘I’ve got three children, Mr Cramer, so I know what I’m doing,’ said the woman.

Cramer squinted up at Allan. ‘Why?’

‘Have you looked at yourself in a mirror lately. You look like shit.’

‘Thanks, Allan.’

‘Nah, seriously, we’ve got to get you ready for the photographs. The way you look, no one’s going to believe you’re a man worth bodyguarding. You look like you’ve been in a ditch for the past three weeks, your hair’s. .’

‘Okay, okay,’ said Cramer, sitting up. ‘I get the message.’ He saw Mrs Elliott looking at the scars on his stomach and chest with a look of horror on her face. ‘The last barber did that to me,’ he said. ‘That’s why I’m nervous of scissors.’

Mrs Elliott frowned, then realised that he was joking. She tutted, went into the bathroom and came out with another towel which she draped over Cramer’s shoulders.

‘Do you have a parting there somewhere, Mr Cramer?’

‘The left side, I think,’ said Cramer. It was almost a year since he’d been inside a barber’s shop. He usually did the job himself with a pair of nail scissors when it got too long. Allan stood watching, his hands on his hips. ‘Haven’t you got anything better to do?’ Cramer asked him.

‘No,’ said Allan, grinning at Cramer’s discomfort.

Mrs Elliott began to comb Cramer’s hair, the wet strands sticking to the side of his face. Cramer knew that Allan was right, he did look like shit. They might be able to change his appearance but he doubted if a new haircut was going to change the way he felt.

Paulie Quinn lay face down on the mattress, but even with his eyes closed there was no escape from the light. He’d banged on the cell door and yelled until his throat was raw, but they wouldn’t turn off the fluorescent lights which glared down from behind a sheet of protective glass. They’d taken away his clothes and given him a pair of green overalls to wear. They were way too big for him and rough against his skin, like fine-grade sandpaper.

This wasn’t how it was supposed to be, he knew. He should have been asked if he wanted a solicitor, he should have been allowed to make a phone call, they should have at least given him a drink of water. His throat was so painful he could barely swallow. He had no idea how long they’d keep him in the cell, or how long he’d already been there. With the constant light he had no way of knowing if it was day or night.

He rolled over onto his back and rubbed his eyes, still wet from crying. The RUC officers who’d dragged him into the armoured Landrover had refused to answer his questions, they’d just sat next to him in sullen silence, nothing but contempt and hatred in their eyes. There had been no windows in the vehicle and he had no idea where they’d taken him. He was eventually dragged out and handed over to three men in casual clothes, tough-looking men with short haircuts and wide shoulders who looked like they might be army but weren’t wearing uniforms.

Paulie sat up and rested his back against the whitewashed wall. Apart from the mattress on the floor, the cell was empty. There wasn’t even a toilet. As far as Paulie knew, there were always toilets in police cells. And observation hatches in the door so that they could look inside. The door to the cell was white-painted metal and there was no hatch, not even a keyhole. Wherever they’d taken him, it wasn’t to a police station. He buried his head in his hands and began to sob. He wanted his mother, and he wanted Davie. Thoughts of his brother made him cry all the more. Davie had been shot three times, maybe four, and Paulie had seen the life ebb from his eyes, leaving them cold and staring. The police hadn’t allowed Paulie to touch his brother, he’d begged and pleaded but they’d dragged him away.

It was his own fault that his brother had been killed. He should never have kept the gun, never given it to Davie. He began to bang the back of his head against the wall, softly at first, then harder, not caring about the pain, wanting to turn back time, wanting to die in his brother’s place.

Mike Cramer heard the gunshots as he walked along the corridor to the gymnasium. He counted the rapid-fire shots. There were eighteen in all, fired in less time than it took Cramer to take two strides. He opened the door to see Allan inspecting one of the man-size cardboard targets. ‘Morning, Mike,’ he said over his shoulder.

‘How did you do?’ asked Cramer.

‘You don’t want to know, it’d just depress you,’ grinned Allan, popping the empty magazine out of the pistol. ‘First-class haircut. Maybe I’ll ask Mrs Elliott to give me a going over.’ The floor was littered with empty brass casings. ‘Have you seen one of these?’ He handed the gun over, butt first.

Cramer shook his head. Across the barrel were the words Heckler amp; Koch and VP70 was stamped into the butt. ‘It’s a Heckler amp; Koch VP70 machine pistol. Fires double action only, so there’s no safety, muzzle velocity of 1,180 feet per second, eighteen in the clip, weighs two and a half pounds fully loaded.’

‘Feels good,’ said Cramer, weighing it in the palm of his hand. ‘Are you going to be carrying this?’ He gave it back to Allan.

‘Nah, this is Martin’s, I’m just playing with it. I’ll stick with a Glock 18.’ Allan picked up a shoulder stock from the table and slotted it into the back of the pistol. ‘This is the kicker, There’s a selector switch here on the top front of the stock that lets you set it to fire three-round bursts, fully automatic.’ He gave Cramer a pair of ear protectors. ‘Watch this.’

Allan flicked the selector switch to ‘3’ and aimed at the target, pushing the stock into his shoulder as he sighted down the barrel. He pulled the trigger and three shots rang out, so close together as to be almost indistinguishable. Allan fired all eighteen shots at the target, and Cramer was impressed to see that they all hit the centre of the bullseye. Allan was one of the best shots Cramer had ever seen.

Cramer nodded his approval. ‘Nice shooting.’

‘Yeah, well I’m not used to it. Like I said, it’s Martin’s baby really.’

He walked over to the table and waved his hand over a selection of handguns. ‘Have a look at these, Mike.’

Cramer bent over the table and studied the three handguns. All three were considerably smaller than his Browning Hi-Power.

‘The one on the right is a. .’

‘Walther PPK,’ interrupted Cramer. ‘7.65mm calibre, blowaback, semi-automatic. Seven in the clip.’ He pulled back the slide and chambered a round. ‘It’s what James Bond used, right?’

‘That I don’t know, but it was designed for the German services. PPK stands for Polizei Pistole Kurz. And that’s a 9mm version you’ve got there. We’ve given it a very light trigger, just over two pounds pull will do it. That goes for all the guns here.’

Cramer clicked the safety on and put it back down on the table. The second gun was a Beretta Model 1934. Cramer picked it up. It was shorter than the length of his hand by at least an inch.

‘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.’

Cramer sighed and nodded slowly. ‘Yeah, I keep forgetting that he’s probably going to try to slot you first.’

‘He’s always taken the bodyguards out before going for the target,’ agreed Allan.

Cramer patted Allan on the shoulder. ‘Thanks,’ he said.

Allan looked surprised. ‘For what?’

‘For the training. For pushing me.’

‘Fuck it, Mike, that’s what I do. I train people. You’re just another job.’ He grinned. ‘But fuck up on the day and I’ll swear I had nothing to do with you.’

Cramer chuckled and turned back to the mirror. ‘Let’s try it again,’ he said. He squared his shoulders again, then stiffened as he realised someone had just come into the gymnasium. It was a girl, Oriental with short black hair, and she was staring at Cramer, a quizzical look in her dark brown eyes. Cramer frowned as he looked at her reflection. He hadn’t heard the gymnasium door open, nor had he noticed her walk across the wooden floor. As he turned to face her, he saw that Allan too was momentarily confused.

‘Are you looking for something, miss?’ Allan asked.

The girl continued to scrutinise Cramer. She was a little over five feet tall though black high-heeled boots added a couple of inches to her height. She was wearing black jeans and a black jacket over a white T-shirt and had a single gold chain around her neck. He found it difficult to judge her age; she had the soft, unlined skin of a teenager but the poise and authority of a woman in her thirties. ‘He doesn’t look anything like him,’ she said.

The Colonel stepped through the door and tapped his stick on the floor. ‘He doesn’t have to,’ said the Colonel. ‘Very few people know what he looks like.’ The Colonel turned to Cramer. ‘This is Su-ming, Vander Mayer’s assistant.’

Cramer wasn’t sure how to greet the girl. He stepped forward and offered his hand, but instead of shaking it she turned it palm upwards. She had the hands of a child, soft and smooth, but the nails were long and painted a deep red. The contrast between the child-like fingers and the adult adornment was disturbing and Cramer’s throat tightened. She looked down at his palm and slowly traced the lines with her forefinger, the nail scratching across his skin. Cramer shivered.

The Colonel walked across the floor and stood behind the girl as she studied Cramer’s palm. His footsteps echoed around the huge gymnasium and it was only then that Cramer realised that Su-ming had made no noise when she walked, despite her boots.

‘See anything you like?’ joked Cramer, but she didn’t react. She ran her fingernail along the base of his thumb. The gesture was sensual, and under any other circumstances he’d have thought that the girl was flirting with him, but her concentration was total.

The Colonel sniffed impatiently, but Su-ming ignored him and continued to stare at Cramer’s hand. Cramer looked down at the top of the girl’s head. Her hair was jet black and glossy and it glistened under the fluorescent lights. Suddenly she looked up and he found himself looking directly into her eyes. ‘Do you read palms, is that it?’ Cramer asked.

‘I read people,’ she said, her voice loaded with disdain. She let go of his hand and turned to the Colonel. ‘It won’t work,’ she said.

The Colonel raised his eyebrows. ‘What do you mean?’

The girl put her head on one side and wrinkled her nose. ‘You’re wasting your time. This man is unsuitable.’

‘Unsuitable?’ repeated Cramer in disbelief. ‘What do you mean, unsuitable?’

‘Sergeant Cramer is a highly trained soldier,’ said the Colonel. ‘I have every confidence in him.’

The girl didn’t reply but gave a barely perceptible shrug that could have meant anything. To Cramer it signified contempt; for some reason the girl had taken an instant dislike to him.

‘Can you tell me why you feel this way?’ asked the Colonel quietly.

‘Mr Vander Mayer never asks me to explain myself,’ said Su-ming. ‘I merely offer observations. It’s up to you whether or not you act upon them.’

Cramer looked at his palm, as if the network of lines and creases would reveal to him whatever had upset her. ‘What did you see?’ he asked.

The girl turned back to him. She took hold of his hand again and ran her fingers across his palm. Cramer felt his spine go cold and he shivered. He was suddenly certain that Su-ming knew what was wrong with him, that she had somehow detected the cancer that was growing inside him. Cramer swallowed. His mouth had gone dry. She looked up at him and he knew that the word on her lips was death and that she was going to say it out loud. He cleared his throat. ‘What do you see?’ he repeated.

The girl’s face was devoid of emotion. She looked up at him with no more compassion than she would show a piece of machinery, as cold and impassive as a catwalk model. She tilted her head back a fraction and her lips parted to reveal perfect white teeth. The gymnasium was totally silent. Cramer was unable to take his eyes off the girl, but he could sense the Colonel and Allan straining to hear what she would say. Su-ming nodded as if she’d decided to tell him, but it was still a second or two before she spoke. ‘Sadness,’ she said softly. ‘I see great sadness.’

Cramer took back his hand and slipped it deep into his overcoat pocket as if trying to hide it from her. She carried on looking deep into his eyes and this time Cramer realised he could see something there; something that looked disconcertingly like pity.

The girl suddenly turned around and walked away, her boots making no sound on the wooden floorboards. The three men watched her go. Only when the door had closed behind her did Allan turn to look at Cramer. ‘I don’t know about you, Mike, but I’d give her one.’ Cramer didn’t laugh.

Paulie Quinn paced around his cell like a caged animal. He hadn’t slept, partly because of the light but also because someone kept banging on his cell door at irregular intervals. He hadn’t been given anything to eat or drink and he had a pounding headache. He was also scared, more scared than he’d ever been in his life. He realised that the police hadn’t stormed the house because of the old revolver. They must have known that he’d been involved in the deaths of the tourists. He was facing a murder charge. Life imprisonment. He paced faster and faster. Life behind bars. He was only eighteen years old. Did life mean life? Would they really keep him in prison until he died? It wasn’t fair. All he’d done was to dig out the stuff and sit in the back of the truck.

Paulie wondered if Lynch and O’Riordan had also been arrested. He stopped pacing as he was struck by the thought that one of them had given his name to the police. Tears welled up in his eyes again. He heard footsteps outside, then the sound of bolts being drawn back. The door was thrown open. Two men in leather bomber jackets and jeans walked in purposefully. ‘I want a solicitor,’ Paulie said, but the men ignored him. They grabbed an arm each and frogmarched him out. Waiting in the corridor was a third man, older with greying hair and reddish cheeks. He had a black hood in his hands and he thrust it over Paulie’s head.

‘I want to make a phone call,’ protested Paulie. He was dragged along the corridor and into a room. He was pushed backwards and he fought to keep his balance, but instead of falling to the floor he collapsed into a chair. He heard a door slam and then the hood was ripped off his head.

A man in a dark brown suit was sitting at a table, a notepad in front of him and a fountain pen in his hand. The tie he was wearing had little ducks on it. Paulie blinked and shook his head. He felt sick and he retched and tasted bile in his mouth. ‘Who was with you, Paulie?’ the man asked. He was in his mid-thirties, with dark brown hair that kept falling across his eyes and an upturned, almost feminine nose.

‘Who are you?’ asked Paulie.

‘Who was with you?’

Paulie realised there was another man standing with his back to the door and looked over his shoulder. He was slightly older than the man with the pen, wearing a green tweed jacket and black trousers. In his hand was the hood.

‘I want a solicitor,’ said Paulie.

‘No, you don’t,’ said the man at the door.

‘I want to phone my mum.’

‘Mummy’s boy, are we?’ said the man with the pen.

Paulie’s face flushed. ‘She’ll be worried about me.’

‘She’s going to be even more worried when she finds out what you did.’

‘I didn’t do nothing. Are you the cops?’

The man with the pen smiled and wrote something down on the pad. ‘We know your brother was with you. Who else?’

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

‘The truck. The arms. Heavy stuff, Paulie. Very heavy stuff.’

Paulie swallowed. He could still taste the bile and he snorted, trying to clear his throat. ‘I don’t know anything about no arms.’

‘You know a kid died, Paulie?’ Paulie shrugged. ‘We know you were just a hired hand, Paulie. It’s not you we want. It’s the big boys. We want their names.’

‘You know what they do to touts.’

The man with the pen smiled thinly. ‘They’re going to do it to you anyway, Paulie. Unless you help, you’re as good as dead.’

Paulie’s jaw dropped. ‘You can’t keep me here,’ he said.

‘Oh yes we can,’ said the man at the door. ‘Besides, you’re here for your own protection.’

‘What the fuck are you talking about?’

‘They know we’ve got you, Paulie,’ said the man with the pen. ‘And they know you’ll talk. You think they trust you to keep quiet? A boy like you?’ He shook his head. ‘No, Paulie. They think you’re spilling your guts right now. And the longer we keep you, the more they’re going to be convinced that you’re talking.’

‘You’re not the police?’ Paulie knew they weren’t RUC because the RUC took the IRA volunteers they arrested to their interrogation centre at Castlereagh. And wherever he was being held, it wasn’t Castlereagh. There were no cameras recording the interview and Paulie had been told that the police had to record all their questions.

‘No, we’re not. But we do have the right to screen you prior to RUC interrogation. You’ll know when that happens, Paulie, because you’ll be arrested and they’ll be over you like a rash. You’re better off talking to us, believe me. But if you really want us to hand you over to the RUC, we will.’

Paulie frowned in disbelief. ‘You will?’

The man sat back in his chair and tapped the pen on his notepad. ‘Sure. We could arrange that right now.’

Paulie stood up. ‘Okay. That’s what I want.’ The overalls were flapping around his legs and the sleeves hung down over his hands.

‘I can assure you that within twelve hours of putting you into police custody, you’ll be dead.’

‘Dead?’

‘The IRA won’t risk letting you live, Paulie. I can guarantee it. They’ll protect the big boys.’

‘Bullshit. You don’t know what you’re talking about,’ said Paulie, his voice rising in pitch. ‘Who are you anyway?’

The man with the pen smiled. ‘Five,’ he said quietly. ‘MI5.’

Paulie felt his legs go weak. He sat down and ran his hands through his greasy, unwashed hair.

‘How’s that?’ shouted Cramer, standing with his hand on the door handle of the gleaming grey Mercedes 560 SEL.

‘Too posed,’ answered the photographer from the second- floor window. ‘Look to your right, then slowly move your head back.’ Cramer did as he was told amid a series of clicks and whirrs from the camera’s motordrive. ‘Better,’ shouted the photographer. ‘Okay, Su-ming, you can get out of the car now.’ Su-ming opened the car door and climbed out, a bored look on her face. The camera clicked again.

The Colonel stood at the entrance to the building, leaning on his stick and watching. Allan moved to stand in front of Cramer as if shielding him. The camera clicked again, like an automatic weapon firing rapidly. The Colonel stepped onto the gravelled drive and looked up at the photographer. ‘Get the driver as well, will you?’ he shouted. ‘And make sure Su-ming is in all the shots.’

‘Yes, boss,’ the photographer answered.

Martin was sitting in the driver’s seat, his hands on the wheel. He climbed out of the Mercedes and went to stand next to Cramer and Allan. Su-ming brought up the rear. Above the Colonel’s head, the camera continued to click. It was vital for the photographs to look as if they’d been taken at long range and without the knowledge of the subjects.

The two bodyguards were wearing lightweight bullet-proof vests under their shirts. The vests were barely noticeable, but the Colonel knew that the assassin was a professional. He’d realise that they were wearing body armour and shoot accordingly. The Colonel hadn’t mentioned the fact to Allan and Martin but they were professionals too, and were well aware of the risks they were running. The tailored suits looked well on Cramer, as if he belonged in a boardroom and not in a hospital bed. Cramer wasn’t wearing a bullet-proof vest. There was no point. The assassin’s first shot at his intended target was always to the face.

It was a two-bedroomed flat on the second floor of a Maida Vale apartment block. The flat was long and thin and Dermott Lynch had to walk through the kitchen to get to his bedroom. The room was about the size of a prison cell, three paces by two paces, with a wooden bed, a built-in wardrobe and a single chair.

‘It’s not the Savoy,’ said the man who was showing Lynch around. He was a building contractor originally from Castlebar in County Mayo, a squat man with wide shoulders, a ready smile and a tendency to crack bad jokes. His name was Eamonn Foley and ten years previously he’d lived in Belfast and had been active in the IRA, mainly fundraising and helping to launder the organisation’s illicit revenues. He’d continued to offer whatever support he could after he’d moved to London.

‘It’s fine,’ said Lynch, dropping his suitcase onto the bed.

‘Any idea how long you’ll be staying?’ Foley asked.

‘I’ll be moving on in a week or so. Is that a problem?’

‘Stay as long as you want, Dermott. Mi casa es tu casa.’

Lynch looked out through the window at the gardens below. A small boy was playing on a swing, kicking his legs up in the air as he swung to and fro. He wondered how old the boy was. Probably the same age as the Reed kid.

‘Tea?’ asked Foley behind him.

‘Sounds good. Why don’t I make it?’ Lynch had drunk Foley’s tea before and it wasn’t an experience he cared to repeat.

The pony kept pulling to the right and it took all the little girl’s strength to keep it heading straight for the fence. She kicked it hard in the flanks with her heels and the pony snorted and jumped, clearing the red and white striped bar with inches to spare. The girl reined the pony to a halt, her face flushed with excitement. The spectators burst into applause at the announcement that it had been a clear round, the first of the afternoon.

‘She’s a natural, right enough,’ said Thomas McCormack, nodding his approval.

‘Natural, my arse,’ said Joseph Connolly, ‘she’s been trained by the best. My daughter reckons young Theodora is going to be Olympic standard by the time she’s sixteen. I tell you, Thomas, it’s costing a fortune.’

‘Worth it, though.’

‘Huh? What did you say?’

‘I said it’s probably worth it.’

Connolly tapped the hearing aid behind his right ear with his finger. ‘This damn thing’s been playing up all week,’ he complained. ‘Say something else.’

‘What do you want me to say?’

‘Anything.’

McCormack looked over the top of his horn-rimmed spectacles. ‘Testing, testing, testing. One two three.’

‘Ha bloody ha,’ scowled Connolly. ‘Come on, let’s walk.’

As they headed away from the outdoor arena, the little girl came running up. ‘Grandpa, Grandpa, did you see me?’

‘Indeed I did,’ said Connolly, bending down to beam at her. ‘A clear round.’

‘The only clear round,’ she said proudly. ‘Did you see how I nearly hit the third fence?’

‘No, you jumped it just right.’

Theodora wrinkled her nose. ‘I’ll do better in the next round, I’m sure.’

‘I just bet you will.’

‘I’m going to be needing a bigger pony soon.’

‘Yes, your mummy was telling me. We’ll see what we can do when Christmas comes around.’

‘You mean it, Grandpa?’ she said, jumping up and down. ‘Do you really mean it?’

‘We’ll see, Theodora. Now go and find your mummy.’

The little girl ran off, and Connolly smiled ruefully at McCormack. ‘It never stops, does it? You just finish paying for your children, and then a whole new generation comes along.’ Behind them a buzzer sounded as another rider started around the course. Connolly tapped his hearing aid again. ‘This Crossmaglen business. It’s a bloody nightmare.’

‘Aye, bad enough that a tourist was killed, but to kill a man related to a heavyweight American politician. Jesus, Mary and Joseph, luck doesn’t get any badder than that.’

‘And the kid. Don’t forget the kid.’

‘Aye, Joe. I hadn’t forgotten the kid.’

‘We’re going to have to do something,’ said Connolly. ‘Something drastic.’

McCormack nodded and took his pewter hip flask out of his pocket and offered it to Connolly. The old man shook his head. ‘Not right now, thanks,’ he said.

‘The Army Council is baying for blood and Sinn Fein’s nose is out of joint, too. They want to know what they were doing with the weapons in the truck. You can see their point, can’t you?’

McCormack nodded. He put the flask away, unopened.

‘I did make it clear, didn’t I? I did tell you that the arms cache was to be handed over intact, didn’t I?’

‘You did.’

Connolly narrowed his eyes. ‘You’re sure about that, Thomas?’

McCormack met his gaze steadily. ‘Dead sure, Joe.’

Connolly nodded, satisfied. ‘All we’ve got to do, then, is to tidy up the loose ends.’

‘What have you got in mind?’ Connolly didn’t answer and McCormack wondered whether or not he’d heard the question. The two men walked along a line of empty stalls. A teenage stablegirl threw a bucket of water into the end stall and began to scrub the floor with a stiff brush. The men gave her a wide berth so they wouldn’t get splashed.

‘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 twinkled 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.

‘I know,’ she said. ‘And it’s better for you than the animal fats and starch which that woman is feeding you.’

Cramer adjusted the chopsticks. His fingers felt large and clumsy. ‘How long have you worked for Mr Vander Mayer?’ he asked.

Su-ming’s chopsticks stopped in mid-air, suspended over her bowl. ‘Fifteen years,’ she said.

‘Fifteen?’ repeated Cramer. Su-ming nodded and continued to eat. Cramer frowned. He couldn’t believe that Su-ming was more than twenty-five, which meant she’d joined the arms dealer when she was just ten years old. ‘What happened to your parents?’ he asked.

Su-ming put her chopsticks down on the table. Her eyes were cold, her face impassive. ‘I am here because Mr Vander Mayer said that I should cooperate with your Colonel,’ she said in measured tones, as if she were a parent talking to an uncooperative child. ‘That is the only reason. I have already made my feelings clear on the matter, but Mr Vander Mayer insists. I am not here to make small talk with you. I do not wish to become your friend or to have you become mine. I certainly do not wish to divulge personal details to you. Do I make myself clear?’

Cramer sat stunned. She hadn’t raised her voice or shown any sign of emotion, but her words had cut right through him. ‘Hey, I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I was just. .’

‘. . making small talk,’ she said, finishing his sentence.

‘That’s right. Small talk.’

Su-ming picked up her chopsticks again. ‘Life is too short for small talk,’ she said and popped a snow pea into her mouth.

The Colonel poured himself a large whisky and held up the bottle to show Allan. ‘Are you sure you don’t want one?’ he asked.

‘No thanks, boss,’ Allan replied.

The Colonel put the half empty bottle back on the side table and went over to his desk. ‘How’s Cramer’s drinking?’

‘Under control. You were right, once we started training, he cut back.’

The Colonel sipped his whisky. ‘He needs a goal, does Mike Cramer. He needs something to aim for, to focus on. Without it he tends to fall apart. Don’t underestimate him, Allan.’

‘I won’t, boss.’

‘How’s he doing otherwise?’

‘His marksmanship is getting better. I’ll be starting him on the set pieces tomorrow, we’ll see how he does under pressure.’

‘Do you think he’ll be ready in time?’

‘I don’t know. He’s out of condition, he looks like he’s been living rough for months, but he’s all we’ve got, right?’

‘That’s right.’ The Colonel raised his tumbler in a toast. ‘And if anyone can turn a pig’s ear into a silk purse, you can.’ He drank again as Allan chuckled.

A cellular phone warbled on the windowsill. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow,’ said the Colonel. He waited for Allan to leave before taking the call. It was the last person he expected to hear from: Andrew Vander Mayer.

‘Colonel, I need a favour,’ said Vander Mayer.

‘Where are you, Mr Vander Mayer?’ the Colonel asked.

‘It’s okay, I’m on the yacht,’ said Vander Mayer.

‘I don’t think it’s a good idea to be calling,’ said the Colonel. ‘I thought I made it clear that there was to be no contact until the matter has been resolved.’

‘This is important.’

‘And a contract on your life isn’t?’

Vander Mayer ignored the rhetorical question. ‘You will be in London in two days, am I right?’

‘That’s right. For forty-eight hours. Then we move to New York.’

‘I have a business deal that requires my presence in London.’

The Colonel leaned forward, his body tense. ‘Out of the question,’ he said. ‘Absolutely, totally, one hundred per cent out of the question.’

‘Colonel, I agreed to cooperate with you on condition that my business was not affected. This meeting is vital. The man who wishes to see me is doing so at great personal risk to himself and if I do not meet him in London, I will not get the chance again. And there are plenty of other buyers for what he has to sell.’

The Colonel frowned. ‘This man, you’ve met him before?’

‘No. But I know of him.’

‘You realise that this could be the assassin?’ There was no reply from Vander Mayer. ‘This could be the hit,’ said the Colonel.

‘I see,’ said Vander Mayer.

‘So you understand why you must not come to London?’

There was another long silence. ‘Very well. But I want Su-ming to meet with him. Alone.’

‘I wouldn’t recommend that either,’ said the Colonel. ‘That would be an indication that you were not available, and if this man is our killer, it would tip him off that something was wrong. Can’t you postpone the meeting?’

‘I’ve already told you, that’s not possible.’

‘What does this man have that’s so important?’ asked the Colonel.

‘Something I’ve been trying to get hold of for a long time,’ said Vander Mayer. ‘Okay, your man will have to meet him. There’s no other way. What’s his name?’

‘Cramer. Mike Cramer. What’s the point of the meeting, Mr Vander Mayer?’

‘I’m to take delivery of a sample and some documentation.’

‘So it won’t be necessary for Cramer to have an in-depth knowledge of your business?’

‘Not really. In any case, he’s Russian and speaks little or no English so Su-ming will have to translate everything.’

The Colonel considered Vander Mayer’s suggestion. If this was the assassin making his move, the worst thing the Colonel could do would be to pull Cramer out of the firing line. ‘Very well,’ said the Colonel. ‘When and where?’

‘It’ll have to be in my Kensington office. According to the itinerary you gave me, your man Cramer is going to be there in the afternoon on Thursday, so I’ll have the meeting arranged for half past four. I’ll need to brief him first.’

‘You’ll have to do that before we leave for London,’ said the Colonel. ‘Under no circumstances are you to contact me or him once the operation is under way. We’ve no idea what scanners or listening equipment he has.’

‘No problem. I’ll just sit on deck and soak up the sun.’

‘One thing, Mr Vander Mayer. This sample, what is it?’

‘It’s an industrial compound. Nothing dangerous. But valuable.’

Dermott Lynch left the Warwick Castle public house in Little Venice and walked back to the flat along Blomfield Road. To his left, the other side of a row of black-painted railings, was a canal, its banks lined with pretty narrow boats, many of them bedecked with flowers, homes rather than working vessels. As Lynch walked along the pavement, a rusting blue Ford Transit van came up behind him and slowed to match his pace. The window on the passenger’s side wound down. Lynch looked over at the vehicle. The passenger in the front seat was in his early twenties, a long, thin face and unkempt greasy hair. ‘Is this the right way to Elgin Avenue?’ the man asked. Lynch recognised the accent. West Belfast. The man had probably been born within a mile of Lynch’s own home. It was too much of a coincidence.

Lynch kept on walking. ‘Straight on, then take the second right. You’ll find it.’

The passenger nodded. ‘Are you Dermott?’

Lynch shook his head. ‘Not me, mate,’ he said. He quickened his pace. With his beard shaved off, his hair cut short and the wire-framed glasses he was wearing, there was no way he could have been recognised. Unless they were specifically looking for him.

‘Dermott Lynch,’ said the man.

‘Don’t know him,’ said Lynch. The only way they could have known that he was the man they were looking for was if they’d staked out the flat. But there was only one person who knew where he was and that was Thomas McCormack. So if Thomas had sent them, why hadn’t they simply knocked on the door? There was no need for late night assignations on a deserted street. Lynch knew he was in trouble. There were no windows in the side of the Transit so he had no way of knowing how many people were in the back.

‘You sure? We’ve got something for you. From McCormack.’ Lynch stopped. So did the Transit.

Lynch stood with his hands free, his legs apart. He wasn’t armed, not so much as a knife. ‘Yeah? Now what would that be?’

‘This.’ The man’s hand appeared at the open window, holding an envelope.

Lynch smiled. It looked like an envelope full of cash, but he knew without a shadow of a doubt that he was being set up. The money could just as easily have been handed to him in the pub, or at the flat, or the man could have telephoned and arranged the handover. There was no reason to do it out in the open. Lynch walked towards the van, his hand outstretched, an easy smile on his face. ‘Why didn’t you say so in the first place?’ he asked.

The passenger grinned. He was holding the envelope in his left hand, his right was hidden. As he got closer, Lynch saw that the man’s jaw was clamped tight, a sure sign of tension, and his eyes had a fixed stare. They weren’t planning to kill him there and then, he decided. They had other plans for him.

‘What’s your name, son?’ asked Lynch. The question caught the man by surprise. Lynch saw him frown, but before he could reply Lynch reached out, grabbed the man’s hair and smashed his face into the window frame. The cartilage of the man’s nose cracked with a satisfying splintering sound. Lynch banged the man’s head down a second time and this time his face made more of a soft crunching noise. There was blood everywhere. The driver began yelling and Lynch heard the clatter of feet in the back of the van.

Lynch grabbed the passenger’s hair with both hands and yanked him through the window. He was struggling wildly so Lynch kicked him in the ribs, hard. The man was still holding the envelope and in his other hand was a pistol. Lynch grabbed at the weapon and wrestled it out of the man’s grasp. He pointed it at the back of the man’s neck and fired. The explosion echoed from the row of houses bordering the road. Lynch knew the police would arrive within minutes, maybe sooner.

Lynch swung around to face the van. The driver had a pistol in his hands and he pulled the trigger, gritting his teeth as he fired. To Lynch’s amazement, nothing happened. ‘Shit!’ screamed the driver and Lynch realised with a feeling of satisfaction that the man had left the safety on. Lynch fired his own weapon and the driver slumped back, a gaping red hole where his nose had been.

The back doors of the van crashed open. Lynch leaned inside the passenger window. One of the men was standing silhouetted by a street lamp, about to jump down. Lynch shot him in the back then threw himself to the ground, rolling to the side as the fourth man appeared at the side of the van, bent double with a Kalashnikov in his arms. The Kalashnikov exploded, the bullets spraying across the side of the van, thudding through the metal as if it were cardboard. Before the man could lower his aim, Lynch put a bullet in his throat. The man whirled around and dropped the assault rifle, his hands clutching at his neck. His mouth opened and closed but no words came out. Blood trickled from between his teeth. Lynch got to his feet. The man’s eyes glazed over and he fell to his knees, gurgling. Lynch walked past him and checked the back of the van. The man there was dead, lying face down on the metal floor. Lynch went through his pockets and pulled out his wallet.

In the distance he heard a siren. He ran around to the driver’s side of the van. The driver was covered in blood and there was a smear of brain matter and bone fragments across the windscreen and a strong smell of urine. Lynch prised the gun from the dead man’s fingers and patted down his bloodstained jacket until he found his wallet in an inside pocket. The siren was getting louder and Lynch heard shouts from the houses which overlooked the road. He ran down the pavement, vaulted over the railings and onto the towpath, escaping into the darkness.

Cramer’s chest heaved and he threw up, the yellow vomit splashing over the wooden toilet seat and dribbling down into the bowl. He groaned. His head was throbbing, his stomach felt on fire. He massaged his temples and spat, trying to get the bitter taste out of his mouth. As the waves of nausea subsided he struggled to his feet and drank from the cold tap, swilling the water around his mouth and then spitting it out.

There was a timid knock on the bedroom door. ‘Yeah, wait a minute,’ he called. He cleaned his teeth, using lots of toothpaste to get rid of the lingering bitterness. He splashed cold water over his face and then wiped the toilet seat with a piece of tissue and flushed it.

When he opened the door, Su-ming was waiting there. ‘Is there something wrong?’ she asked.

Oh yes, thought Cramer, there’s something very wrong. There’s a cancer growing in my guts and there’s an assassin out there with a bullet with my name on it, and if one of them doesn’t kill me soon I’m feeling so much pain that I’ll be putting a gun in my mouth and pulling the trigger myself. ‘I’m fine,’ he said.

‘Mr Vander Mayer wants to speak to us,’ she said.

‘He’s here?’

‘No. We have to telephone him.’

‘The Colonel knows about this?’

‘Mr Vander Mayer has already spoken to him.’

Cramer leant against the door frame. He felt weak but he didn’t want Su-ming to know how ill he was. ‘What’s going on?’ he asked.

‘I think Mr Vander Mayer wants to tell you himself, but it’s about a meeting he wants you to have the day after tomorrow.’

‘In London?’

Su-ming nodded. ‘Are you sure nothing’s wrong?’

Cramer straightened up. ‘Which phone?’ he asked.

‘The Colonel’s study.’ She turned and walked down the corridor. Cramer stood and watched her go, then followed her downstairs.

The only light on in the study was a green-shaded desk lamp which illuminated the desk and little else. The Colonel was sitting behind the desk, a cellular telephone in front of him.

‘I thought he was supposed to keep his head down until this was over,’ said Cramer.

‘Something came up.’

‘Something so important that he thinks it’s worth risking his life?’

The Colonel nodded in agreement. ‘I told him, but he insists. And we do need his goodwill for this to work.’

‘His goodwill? There’s a contract out on his life.’

‘He says that unless you and Su-ming meet this man, he’ll come over himself. And if he appears on the scene, the whole thing’s dead in the water.’

Cramer sat down in one of the armchairs. ‘This man I’m supposed to meet, who is he?’

‘All Vander Mayer would say is that he’s a Russian with something to sell.’

‘And I’m supposed to negotiate with this guy? But I don’t know anything about Vander Mayer’s business.’

‘Which is why he wants to brief you first.’ He handed the phone to Su-ming.

She tapped in a succession of numbers and held it to her ear. Vander Mayer answered within seconds. ‘It’s me,’ said Su-ming. She listened intently. ‘Yes,’ she said, looking at the Colonel. ‘Yes,’ she repeated. She lowered the phone. ‘Mr Vander Mayer asks if we could have this conversation in private.’

The Colonel got to his feet. He picked up his walking stick and tapped it on the wooden floor. He looked as if he was going to argue, but he walked stiffly to the door and let himself out. ‘Okay,’ Su-ming said into the phone. She listened again for what seemed to be several minutes, nodding as she held the phone to her ear. ‘Okay, I’ll put him on,’ she said eventually. She walked over to Cramer and gave him the phone.

‘Yeah,’ said Cramer, laconically.

‘Mike? Is it okay if I call you Mike?’

‘Sure,’ said Cramer. There was a distinct delay on the transmission and he could hear a faint echo of his own voice as he spoke. It was distracting and he concentrated hard.

‘Okay, Mike, has your boss told you what’s happening?’ His voice was over-friendly, the sort of cheerful bonhomie used by double-glazing salesmen and television evangelists. The accent was American, from one of the southern States, Cramer figured. The vowels were long and drawn out and there was a laziness about the voice, as if it was too much of an effort to talk quickly. It was the sort of voice that Cramer could tire of very quickly, he decided.

‘You want me to meet a Russian, that’s all I know.’

‘Okay, great. His name is Tarlanov. He speaks hardly any English but Su-ming is fluent in Russian.’ Cramer raised his eyebrows in surprise. He would have expected her to be able to speak Oriental languages, but fluency in Russian was an unexpected talent. ‘Tarlanov will have something for you, a sample of a chemical I’m interested in buying. Less than a kilo in weight, it’ll be sealed in a metal flask. I want you to look after it for me until I can get to London.’

‘What’s in the flask?’

There was a pause and all Cramer could hear was a series of clicks and faint whistles. ‘How much are you being paid for this job, Mike?’ Vander Mayer asked eventually.

‘What?’ asked Cramer, taken off guard by the direct question.

‘You’re being paid for this, right?’

Cramer realised that he’d never discussed money with the Colonel. When the job had been offered, it had been the last thing on his mind. Even when he’d been serving with the regiment, he’d never been concerned about how much he was being paid and under his present circumstances he hadn’t given it a second thought. ‘I’m not doing this for money,’ he said.

‘You’re doing it out of the goodness of your own heart, is that it?’

‘I was asked to help.’

‘You’re putting your life on the line, that’s what you’re doing. It seems only fair that you should be well paid for that.’

‘What’s your point, Mr Vander Mayer?’

‘Andrew. Call me Andrew. Seeing that you’re taking my place, it only seems fair that we’re on first name terms.’

‘What’s your point, Andrew?’

‘The point is that I’m willing to offer you a substantial fee for your help. Shall we say a quarter of a million dollars?’

Cramer caught his breath. ‘For what?’

‘I want you to work for me. I want you to see this man Tarlanov and to take what it is he gives you. But I also want your discretion.’

‘You want to buy my silence, is that it?’ Su-ming looked at him, a worried frown on her face.

Vander Mayer chuckled softly. ‘You’re not a man to beat around the bush, are you, Mike? All right, yes; I don’t want you telling anyone else about my business. You’re in a very privileged position, you’re going to be seeing and hearing things of a very confidential nature, things that a lot of my competitors would dearly love to know.’

‘Look, Mr Vander Mayer, I’m here to do one thing, and one thing only, and that’s to trap the man who’s been paid to kill you. As soon as he’s taken care of, it’s over. Paying me a quarter of a million dollars isn’t going to affect the way I do my job one way or the other. And I’m going to have to know what’s in this container you want me to take from Tarlanov.’

‘I’d rather keep that confidential,’ said Vander Mayer. ‘And please, Mike, call me Andrew.’

‘I don’t see how you expect me to meet this man if I don’t know what it is I’m supposed to be taking from him.’

‘Su-ming will handle the conversation. All Tarlanov wants is to see a man called Vander Mayer in person. There’s a lot of con men in this business, Mike, and he insists on a face to face meeting. But he’s not going to have much to say at this stage, he’s just giving me a sample to test and some documentation to back it up. If the sample is what he says it is, I’ll follow it up directly.’

‘So there’s nothing you want me to ask him?’

‘Su-ming will ask the questions.’

‘Won’t that seem a little strange, like the tail wagging the dog?’

‘Not if Tarlanov’s English is as bad as I think it is.’

‘And what if it isn’t? What if he understands more than you think?’

‘Su-ming will be able to handle it, Mike, don’t worry. Just play your part. Be polite, offer him a drink, shake his hand, then get him the hell out of my office.’

‘Is it dangerous?’

‘Is what dangerous?’

‘The material he’s giving me. Are there any special precautions I should take?’

Vander Mayer chuckled again. ‘You’re fishing, Mike. Just accept the sample and take it back to the apartment. There’s a safe in the study, Su-ming has the combination. Put the material in the safe along with any documentation he gives you. Do that for me, don’t ask any questions, respect my privacy, and you’ll receive a quarter of a million dollars when this is over. Now, would you put Su-ming back on, please?’

Cramer took the portable phone from his ear and stared at it for a few seconds, shaking his head in astonishment, almost unable to believe that a man he’d never met was offering to give him a small fortune for no apparent reason. He could only imagine how rich Vander Mayer must be to be able to offer such a sum without a second thought.

‘Cramer?’ said Su-ming, holding out her hand for the phone.

Cramer shook his head to clear it. ‘What? Oh, yeah, he wants a word with you.’

He gave her the phone. She walked to the far side of the study as if afraid that he might overhear. She stood by the curtained window, nodding into the phone as she spoke. Cramer could only hear her last few words before she cut the connection. ‘Yes,’ she said, her voice barely a whisper, ‘I love you, too.’

The phrase stuck in Cramer’s mind long after he’d got back to his bedroom. She’d said it without feeling, flat and devoid of emotion, as if Vander Mayer was forcing her to say the words.

Paulie Quinn sat on his mattress with his back to his wall, his arms wrapped around his knees, hugging them to his chest. He was praying, saying the Lord’s Prayer over and over again, but there was no solace in the words. Tears streamed down his face. He would never see his mother again, he knew that. He’d never leave the cell. He hadn’t told them anything, but he knew that he wouldn’t be able to hold out much longer. It wasn’t that they were violent, they hadn’t beaten him or even threatened to hurt him. They just kept repeating the same questions again and again, returning him to his cell when they wanted to rest but denying him the sanctuary of sleep. He knew that they wouldn’t let him go until he’d told them everything. He stared up at the lights, then at the locked door. There was only one way to escape. One way out.

He crossed himself, the way he’d done whenever he entered church, the way he’d done at his father’s funeral. ‘Dad,’ he said through the tears. ‘I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.’ He put his fingers into his mouth and took out the metal paper clip he’d managed to take from the interrogation room. It had been on the floor and he’d pretended to faint and managed to slip it under his tongue without the MI5 men seeing. He straightened the clip out, then wiped his tears away with the sleeves of his overalls. It was a mortal sin, but there was nothing else he could do. He’d tell them everything eventually, and then his life would be over anyway. At least this way his mother would be taken care of, and he’d have a hero’s funeral. At least he’d be remembered with pride and not branded forever as a tout. He held out his left wrist and looked at the blue-green veins under his skin. He believed in Heaven, and he believed in Hell. Paulie sobbed. Even after death he’d never see his father or brother. Suicides never went to Heaven. ‘I’m sorry, Dad,’ he muttered through the sobs as he ripped away at his wrist with the end of the metal clip. The first few cuts were little more than scratches, but he closed his eyes and thrust the metal deep into his flesh as he recited the Lord’s Prayer like a mantra.

Cramer found the Colonel outside, standing in front of a flowerbed which had become overgrown with weeds. ‘It’s a pity there’s no one to look after the grounds,’ said the Colonel. He sounded distracted, as if his thoughts were a million miles away from the untidy flowerbed.

An owl hooted off to Cramer’s left. He shivered. ‘I’m not happy about this meeting Vander Mayer’s arranged,’ he said. The owl flew out of an oak tree on the other side of the wall which surrounded the school’s grounds.

‘Why not?’

‘You know he wants me to take something off this Russian guy?’

‘A sample, he said. And documents.’

‘Yeah, but he won’t tell me what it is.’

‘Does that matter?’

‘Colonel, he’s an arms dealer. It could be anything. Germ warfare, nerve gas; hell, it could be a bomb, for all I know.’

‘I think that’s most unlikely,’ said the Colonel. He used the end of his walking stick to rearrange the foliage around a small flowering shrub.

‘You know he offered me a quarter of a million dollars to work for him?’

‘Did he?’ said the Colonel. ‘Now why would he do that?’

‘To stop me asking questions, and to make sure that no one else sees what the Russian is giving me.’

The Colonel walked by the side of the school along a gravel path and Cramer followed him. ‘This could be a set-up, it could be the killer making his move. You have to go through with it.’

‘I know. But what about the stuff the Russian gives me?’

‘I gave Vander Mayer an undertaking that we wouldn’t be looking into his business. He has a similar undertaking from the Americans.’

‘So even if what he’s doing is illegal, there’s nothing we can do?’

The Colonel nodded. ‘We’re not here to investigate him, we’re here to catch a killer.’

‘So I just take this sample, whatever it is, and I don’t ask any questions?’

‘What does he want you to do with it?’

‘He said to put it in the safe in his apartment.’

‘So that’s what you do.’

Cramer exhaled deeply. He could see that there was nothing he could say that would change the Colonel’s mind.

‘And, of course, you get to keep the money,’ the Colonel added without a trace of irony.

‘Terrific,’ said Cramer. They walked together around the back of the school. Two men in bomber jackets and faded blue jeans were patrolling the perimeter. One of them waved at the Colonel, who raised his stick in salute. ‘The Americans know what we’re doing, right?’ Cramer asked.

‘Absolutely. I’m liaising with the FBI in Washington, and they’ll be providing extra manpower once you get to New York on the same basis that the SAS will be covering you in London.’

‘So why are you involved? Why has this become a British operation?

‘Because we have the expertise. Because the Prime Minister has taken a personal interest.’

‘But the target’s an American and from the files I’ve read I’d say there’s a good chance that the killer’s a Yank, too.’

‘You might be right.’

‘So why are you running the operation? The Americans have got Delta Force and all sorts of covert people buried in the CIA. It’d be a great opportunity to earn a few Brownie points from the PM.’

The Colonel stopped. He held the walking stick as if it were a shotgun and sighted along it. ‘There are security considerations that I’d rather not go into,’ he said. He mimed pulling a trigger. ‘But it was felt that it would be more appropriate for the operation to be run from here.’

Cramer had a sudden flash of inspiration. ‘They’ve used him, haven’t they? The Yanks have bloody well used him.’

‘There’s no proof of that,’ said the Colonel, starting to walk again. ‘But we can’t rule it out. Like you say, there are lots of dark corners in the CIA that haven’t seen light for a long time. There are people with hidden budgets answerable to no one who wouldn’t be averse to paying a freelance to take care of a little business. And at least two of the victims wouldn’t exactly be missed by the US Government, if you get my drift.’

‘So the FBI doesn’t even trust its own people?’

‘No, the Bureau’s safe, at least the people I’m dealing with are. But the fewer Americans involved, the better.’

Cramer nodded. ‘Understood.’

‘Are you okay?’ the Colonel asked.

Cramer realised that he’d been holding his stomach. ‘Yeah,’ he said.

‘Are you sure?’ The Colonel’s concern was genuine.

‘It’s not just indigestion, Colonel. This pain isn’t going to go away.’

‘I could get painkillers from the Doc. Something strong.’

‘Not yet,’ insisted Cramer. ‘I want to go into this with a clear head, I don’t want anything that’ll slow me down.’

‘It’s your call,’ said the Colonel.

‘I know.’ Cramer wiped his face with his hands. He was sweating, despite the cold night air. He desperately wanted to change the subject; it wouldn’t take much for the Colonel’s concern to change to pity. He started walking again and the Colonel followed. ‘This banker, the guy who takes the contracts for the assassin. How do his clients know how to get in contact with him?’

The Colonel frowned. ‘What do you mean?’

‘Well, he can’t advertise, can he? So how does he drum up business?’

The Colonel pulled a face. ‘Word gets around,’ he said. ‘The sort of people and organisations who can afford his fee talk to each other. Phone numbers are exchanged. He’s a neutral, he doesn’t take sides, he’s a tool to be used by anyone with enough money.’ The Colonel narrowed his eyes. ‘Let’s face it, Joker, if you wanted someone killed, you know people who’d do it for a couple of thousand pounds. Maybe less. Hell, you probably know people who’d do it for you as a favour, right?’

‘Right,’ Cramer agreed.

‘This guy’s the same, he just operates for much bigger sums. The people who need him know how to get in touch. Word gets around.’

‘Okay, but if you and the Yanks know who the banker is, why can’t you just haul him in and put pressure on him?’ Cramer smiled without warmth. ‘We both know people who’d love the opportunity for a spot of show and tell.’

‘Wouldn’t do any good,’ said the Colonel patiently. ‘They never meet, I doubt that they even talk to each other. The banker is like a circuit breaker — if we trigger him the killer will know we’re on to him. He’ll just disappear, then start up again somewhere else. It’s a perfect system.’

‘What about the money? Can’t that be traced?’

The Colonel shook his head. ‘It’s not even worth trying,’ he said. ‘All he’s got to do is press a few buttons and it can be routed through the Cayman Islands, Paraguay, anywhere. Forget it, Joker. This is the only way we’re going to catch him.’

Cramer rubbed the back of his neck. The skin was damp there, too. ‘The way he does it. The way he shoots them in the face, then the heart.’

‘What about it?’

‘It doesn’t feel right. I’m sure the guy has a reason for doing it that way.’

‘You can ask the profiler when he gets here.’

‘There’s nothing about it in his report.’

The Colonel scraped his walking stick along the gravel path. ‘What are you getting at?’

‘You shoot a guy in the head if he’s tied up. If he can’t fight back. That’s how the IRA do it. They tie the guy up and they shoot him in the head. Bang! That’s how the Mafia do it, too, if they can. Tie the guy up and blow him away. Maybe that’s how the guy used to operate, and the head-shot became a habit.’

‘Possible,’ said the Colonel.

‘Or maybe he did it that way by accident the first time. Maybe he killed a guy before he became a pro. Maybe he got into a fight and shot a guy, got him in the head with the first shot. It worked so he figured that’s how he’d do it in future. It could be as easy as that.’

‘You’re just guessing,’ said the Colonel.

‘Maybe. But did the FBI check if there had been any other killings using the same method, killings that weren’t high profile assassinations? Killings that might have taken place while our guy was learning his trade?’

The Colonel nodded thoughtfully. ‘Okay. I’ll find out. And don’t worry about Vander Mayer’s consignment. It’s his business, not ours. You just concentrate on what you’ve got to do.’

Cramer grinned. ‘Concentrate on being bait, you mean? Sure, I can do that.’

The Colonel returned the grin. ‘Yeah, I knew you were the right man for the job.’

Dermott Lynch dropped a coin in the slot and dialled Eamonn Foley’s number. The two handguns were tucked into the back of his trousers, hidden by his jacket. They pressed into the small of his back as he leaned against the side of the call box and waited for Foley to answer the phone. Everything depended on how he reacted to the sound of Lynch’s voice. If he was in on it, Foley would be surprised and Lynch doubted if he was good enough an actor to hide that.

Foley picked up the receiver. ‘Yeah?’

‘Eamonn. It’s Dermott.’

‘Hiya, Dermott. You on the piss?’

‘Yeah. I had a few pints down the Warwick.’

‘Feeling no pain?’

‘Aye, you could say that.’ Lynch couldn’t sense any tension in Foley’s voice. ‘Has anyone been asking for me?’

‘No, mate. You expecting someone?’

‘No phone calls?’

‘What’s wrong?’ Foley’s voice was suddenly serious. Lynch decided that he could trust the man. Besides, he had no other choice.

‘I’m in deep shit, Eamonn. Can you get my stuff and bring it to me?’

‘Now?’

‘Now.’

‘What’s happened?’

‘I don’t have time to explain. Just put everything in the suitcase and bring it to Edgware Road tube station.’

‘The tube’s not running this time of night.’

‘I know, I know. I’ll be waiting outside. And Eamonn, make sure you’re not followed.’

‘Jesus, Dermott. Who’d be following me?’

‘Just be careful. Ten minutes, okay?’

‘Fifteen.’

‘Ten, Eamonn. You can make it if you leave right now. What sort of car have you got?’

‘Ford Sierra. Blue.’

‘Leave straightaway, okay?’ Lynch replaced the receiver. He waited exactly one minute and then dialled Foley’s number again. It rang out and Lynch cut the connection immediately. Foley wasn’t calling anyone. That at least was a good sign.

Lynch jumped as a siren went off and the call box was lit up by a flashing blue light. Instinctively he reached behind him, going for one of the guns, but then he smiled as he saw the ambulance rush by. ‘Easy, boy,’ he whispered to himself. He kept the phone pressed against his ear as he waited for Foley. He could see the front of the Underground station from his vantage point, its entrances now closed behind metal gates, and he was safer in the call box than he would be out in the open.

Foley arrived exactly eight minutes after Lynch’s phone call, which Lynch took as another good sign. He slipped into the passenger seat and told Foley to drive. ‘Where to?’ asked Foley.

‘Just drive.’ Lynch twisted around and quickly checked through the contents of the suitcase on the back seat. His passport was tucked into a side pocket, along with an envelope containing five hundred pounds. He took out a green pullover and closed the case.

‘Something strange happened just after you phoned,’ said Foley as he drove down the Edgware Road. ‘The phone rang, then went dead.’

‘Don’t worry about it,’ said Lynch. He bent his head to look in the wing mirror.

‘There’s no one following us,’ said Foley. ‘Are you going to tell me what happened? Maida Vale was swarming with cops.’

‘Four guys in a Transit attacked me.’ Lynch pulled out the wallet he’d taken from the driver. There was a driving licence and a Barclaycard inside. ‘They were from Belfast.’

‘UFF?’

‘The driver was from the Falls Road. Name of Sean O’Ryan. Does that sound like a Prod to you, Eamonn?’

Foley shook his head. ‘Doesn’t make sense, does it?’

Lynch pointed to a car park. ‘Drive in there and let me out,’ he said.

‘Don’t be daft. You’re safe in my flat.’

‘I don’t think so. I’m going to have to lie low.’

‘Okay, you know best.’ Foley drove into the car park and turned to face Lynch.

‘I’m sorry about this, Eamonn.’

‘Hey, don’t worry about. .’ His face fell when he saw the pistol pointed at his chest. ‘Don’t,’ said Foley. Lynch quickly wrapped the pullover around the gun to muffle the noise. ‘Dermott, please. You can’t.’

‘I don’t want to, Eamonn, but I don’t have any choice.’ The muffled bang would be loud in the confines of the car, but Lynch doubted if the sound would travel too far.

‘Let’s talk about this, Dermott. You can’t just shoot me.’

Lynch wasn’t happy at having to kill Foley, but McCormack had given him no choice. The IRA had passed a death sentence on him, and Lynch would do whatever it took to survive. ‘I’ve just killed four of the boys,’ said Lynch. ‘I don’t know what the fuck’s going on, but I’m a marked man. And they’ll use you to get to me.’

‘Shit, I don’t know where you’re going, Dermott. Just run. I’ll not say anything. I swear on my mother’s life.’ Foley’s voice was wavering, his eyes wide and fearful. ‘Please.’

Lynch looked at Foley. He gnawed his lower lip. Foley was right. He didn’t know anything. If he’d been in on it, they’d probably have waited for Lynch inside Foley’s flat.

‘Take the car, Dermott. Take my wallet. Take everything. Just don’t kill me.’

Lynch’s finger tightened on the trigger, but something held him back. The only information Foley had was that Lynch had cut his hair and shaved off his beard, but McCormack wasn’t stupid, he’d have considered that possibility anyway. His new appearance hadn’t fooled the hit team, and it wouldn’t fool anyone else they sent after him.

‘Please,’ begged Foley as if sensing Lynch’s change of heart. ‘You can keep the car. I won’t even report it stolen.’

Lynch licked his lips. He was about to agree when Foley lunged to the side, grabbing for the gun. Lynch fired instinctively. The bullet caught Foley in the throat, ripping through the soft flesh and cartilage and lodging in his lower jaw. Foley tried to speak but his voice box was shattered and all he managed was a grunting sound. Blood frothed from the wound and his chest heaved, then his eyes glassed over and he slumped forward. Lynch grabbed him by the collar and hauled him away from the steering wheel, keeping his body off the horn.

‘You stupid bastard,’ said Lynch sorrowfully. ‘You stupid, stupid bastard.’ He climbed out of the car, and when he was satisfied that the car park was deserted, he pulled Foley’s body out of the driver’s seat and dragged it around to the boot. After he’d covered the corpse with a tartan blanket he locked the boot and wiped Foley’s blood off the front seat with a rag.

Lynch sat behind the wheel as he considered his options. Going back to Ireland was out of the question, he wouldn’t last ten minutes on IRA territory. He wanted to confront McCormack, but that too would be a death sentence. He had no choice but to hide, but Lynch didn’t like the idea of running to ground like a hunted fox. He smiled as another possibility sprang to mind.

He left the car park and found a call box. He dropped a pound coin in the slot and dialled the number in Dublin. Luke McDonough answered on the third ring. ‘How did you get on?’ asked Lynch.

‘No sweat,’ answered McDonough. ‘They were in contact with Swansea ATC most of the way. Since that Chinook went down on the Mull of Kintyre and killed all those intelligence and security chiefs, MoD chopper pilots tend to play by the rules more often than not. Trouble is, they didn’t land at an airfield, civilian or military. They flew close to Swansea airspace but landed somewhere to the north. All I’ve got is a map reference.’

‘That’s fine, Luke. Just let me get a pen.’ Lynch took a black ballpoint pen from his inside jacket pocket. He didn’t have any paper but there were several postcards advertising massage services stuck to the call box wall. He took one down and turned it over. ‘Shoot,’ he told McDonough. McDonough read out the numbers and Lynch wrote them down and then repeated them to make sure he’d got it right. A mistake in just one digit and he could be out by hundreds of miles. ‘Thanks, Luke,’ said Lynch. The line went dead.

Lynch stared at the phone, his thoughts elsewhere. A plan was beginning to half-form at the back of his mind. All bets were now off, he didn’t have to obey McCormack’s instructions any more. Lynch could track down the Sass-man and exact his revenge, but for that he needed money. He had credit cards in his wallet, but his bank account was in Belfast and he’d be limited in how much he’d be able to withdraw in London. Besides, if he used his credit cards he’d leave an electronic trail that the organisation would have no problem tracking. Lynch needed cash, a lot of it.

There were several listings for M. Hennessy in London, the operator told him, but only one lived in Notting Hill Gate.

Jim Smolev walked to his Dodge which he’d parked behind the two-storey building that housed the FBI’s Miami field office. Smolev had fifteen years with the Bureau under his belt, but he’d only been attached to the Miami office for three months. Prior to that he’d been based in New York, which is where he’d first come across the assassin. It had been sheer luck that he’d been involved in the investigation into Frank Discenza, and had realised the significance of the lawyer’s phone call to Zurich.

Smolev climbed into his car, dropped the padded envelope onto the passenger seat and drove the few blocks to Interstate Route 95. The envelope contained the photographs that had just arrived from the UK, the photographs of the man who would be taking the place of Andrew Vander Mayer. As he drove, Smolev wondered how the Brits had managed to persuade the man to step into Vander Mayer’s shoes. The assassin had been responsible for at least six killings in the States and as far as Smolev knew, he’d never failed. A contract placed with the assassin was as good as a death asentence.

Smolev ran his tongue along one of his back teeth. It had been troubling him for several days but he hadn’t had time to get to the dentist. Frank Discenza was taking up all his time, and would be for the foreseeable future. Until the assassin was apprehended. Or killed.

It took Smolev half an hour to drive to the hotel where Discenza was being held. As part of the deal negotiated with the Bureau and the IRS, the lawyer was holed up in a luxury hotel with round-the-clock protection. The Bureau was quite happy with the arrangement, despite the massive cost, because it meant they were able to control the situation. Discenza spoke to no one, and no one could get in touch with him.

Two agents stood guard outside Discenza’s suite and nodded as Smolev went in. Discenza was sprawled across a sofa, a napkin tucked into his shirt collar as he ripped apart a boiled lobster. ‘Hiya, Jimmy, want some?’ he asked, dunking a chunk of white flesh into a dish of butter.

Smolev shook his head. ‘The pictures have arrived,’ he said. ‘It’s time to contact Zurich.’

‘Jeez, let me finish my dinner first, will ya? Besides, it’s past midnight in Switzerland.’

Smolev flicked the edge of the padded envelope with his thumbnail. ‘We’ll need to arrange the money transfer, too.’

‘I’m working on it,’ said Discenza. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and then took a drink from a bottle of Budweiser. ‘Wanna Bud?’ Smolev shook his head. ‘I’m gonna get this money back, right?’ said Discenza. ‘That’s what we agreed. Half a million dollars is a lot of money, you know?’

‘Yeah, Frank, I know. It’s about three per cent of what you owe the government, right?’ Smolev probed his aching tooth with his tongue. The pain was getting worse.

Discenza’s grin widened. ‘Yeah, I never thought of it like that. America, it’s a great country, isn’t it?’ He ripped a claw off the lobster, waved it in the air. ‘Where else in the world, huh?’ Smolev looked at the man, barely able to conceal his contempt. He hated doing deals with men like Discenza, but he was enough of a realist to know that there was no other way of catching the assassin. ‘And Andrew doesn’t know what’s going on, right? I mean, he doesn’t know it was me that was planning the hit, right?’

Smolev smiled. ‘No, Frank. He doesn’t know.’ A sudden thought hit Smolev, and it made him smile all the more. Andrew Vander Mayer didn’t know that Discenza had been planning to have him killed, but when all this was over, when the assassin had been captured, then maybe the arms dealer would receive an anonymous tip. An unsigned letter. Or a late night phone call. Smolev would have to be careful, of course. These days, you never knew who was listening in.

Mike Cramer sat on his bed reading the file provided by the American profiler. The first section listed the killings in the order that they happened, starting with the assassination in Miami and ending with the murder of a trial witness in a Baltimore hospital two weeks earlier. A second section detailed the common features of the killings, with the profiler focusing on the physical appearance of the assassin. The profiler had concentrated on the descriptions provided by witnesses who could be expected to be reliable — such as law enforcement officials and bodyguards — which is what Cramer himself had done when reading the individual case reports.

There were several facts which were constant. The killer was white, male, able-bodied, had no visible scars, and he was right-handed. There were other factors which were variable but fell within certain parameters, he was between five feet seven and six feet two inches tall, his weight was somewhere between one hundred and seventy pounds and two hundred and ten pounds, and estimates of his chest measurement varied between forty inches and forty six. Of less use were the characteristics which the killer changed on a regular basis — hair length, hair colour, eye colour, facial hair. Cramer scanned the lists. There was nothing that he hadn’t read for himself in the individual reports on the killings.

Jackman had compiled his own reports on each of the killings. They each came with a heading sheet which read VICAP Crime Analysis Report and a logo which spelled out what VICAP stood for: Violent Criminal Apprehension Program. Stripped across the bottom of the sheet were the address and telephone number of the FBI Academy in Quantico, Virginia. Each case had its own VICAP number as well as an FBI case number, and went on to classify the crime, the victim, the MO, the cause of death and any forensic evidence. Like the FBI Facial Identification Fact Sheets, most of the questions were answered by ticking appropriate boxes which resulted in a scientific analysis of the facts rather than subjective comments. The VICAP reports emphasised the similarities between the actual killings, but they also threw up the differences in the victims and the descriptions provided by the witnesses.

The next section was more interesting; Jackman’s profile of the assassin. The profiler said the assassin had a military background, possibly Special Forces, and was likely to have risen to the rank of non-commissioned officer. He had probably left the services, perhaps for health reasons, and had had trouble maintaining steady employment afterwards. He was gregarious and liked crowds but had a tendency to pick fights. He would be above average intelligence, with a feeling of superiority to most people he came into contact with. He was possibly divorced, or had a string of sexual contacts, and was probably good looking. He was certainly attractive to women. He would have committed a number of motoring offences, and his licence had possibly been suspended.

The killer probably came from a family where emotional abuse was the norm, but the home was stable, at least during his early childhood. He may have been a bully at school, and despite his intelligence probably didn’t go on to university.

There was plenty of detail, though the report was peppered with ‘probably’ and ‘possibly’ as if Jackman was afraid of being proved wrong and was therefore constantly hedging his bets. There was little in the way of explanation for the various conclusions, though Cramer guessed that the killer’s familiarity with different weapons would suggest the military background. He had no idea why Jackman thought that the assassin would have had his driving licence taken away.

Most of Jackman’s observations concerned the killer’s psychological make-up and his childhood, and while they made fascinating reading, Cramer knew that they wouldn’t be any use to him. The fact that the assassin didn’t have a university degree wouldn’t make him stand out in a crowd. Cramer needed a description, physical characteristics that he could watch out for. Cramer slid his feet off the bed. He padded over to the bathroom in his bare feet and drank from the tap. He wanted to use the toilet but he fought the urge. The last time, he’d seen blood in the bowl and it had frightened him.

Dermott Lynch parked the Sierra in Kensington Park Road and walked to Ladbroke Gardens. Marie Hennessy’s flat was in a terrace of white-painted stucco houses, once homes to the rich but now subdivided into flats for the almost-wealthy. Her name wasn’t on the entry-system bell but she’d told him that she was in flat C and when he pressed the button she answered immediately, as if she’d been waiting for him. ‘I’m on the third floor, come on up, I’ll buzz you in,’ she said, her voice crackling over the speaker.

The lock buzzed and Lynch pushed the door open. He could feel the Czech 9mm pistol pressing into the small of his back. The gun had a fifteen round magazine and there were ten bullets still in it. The gun he’d taken from the driver was a slightly smaller Russian-made Tokarev with eight rounds in the magazine. He’d left it in the boot along with the body of Eamonn Foley. The hallway was in darkness but as he stepped inside the lights came on. The stair carpet was dark blue and plush and there were framed watercolours on the walls. The staircase spiralled up and mahogany doors led off to the flats, two on each floor. The door to Marie’s apartment was already open when he reached the third floor, though she’d kept the security chain on. She waited until he got close before taking off the chain and opening the door wide. ‘I wouldn’t have recognised you if you hadn’t told me you were coming,’ she said.

‘I shaved off the beard,’ said Lynch, stepping inside. He had recognised her immediately. The chestnut hair, the slightly upturned nose, the blue eyes that had been brimming with tears the last time they’d met.

‘And you’ve cut your hair,’ said Marie, closing the door behind him. ‘And you weren’t wearing glasses. Go on through.’

‘You’ve got a good memory, right enough,’ said Lynch as he walked into the sitting room. It was expensively furnished with comfortable antiques, very much a girl’s room. A small circular table held a collection of painted miniatures behind which he saw several framed photographs. Lynch recognised Marie’s mother, Mary, and her father, Liam. The last time Lynch had seen Marie was at her mother’s funeral three years earlier. Lynch bent down to look at a photograph of Mary and Liam, she in a wedding dress, he in tails, a stone church in the background. Mary was in her early twenties back then, Liam maybe a decade older. ‘You look just like your mum,’ said Lynch.

‘I know,’ said Marie, closing the sitting room door.

Lynch straightened up. There was a large gilt-framed mirror hanging over the marble fireplace and in it he saw Marie studying him, a look of concern on her face. ‘Are you alone?’ he said to her reflection.

She nodded. ‘Why do you ask?’

Lynch turned to face her, smiling to put her at ease. ‘Because I wouldn’t want anyone to overhear us, that’s all.’

‘I’m alone,’ she said. ‘There’s only one bedroom. You can check for yourself if you don’t believe me.’

‘I believe you,’ he said.

‘I’m honoured.’

Lynch grinned.

‘What are you smiling at?’ she asked archly.

‘It’s the sort of thing your mother would have said.’

She narrowed her eyes and looked at him as if deciding whether or not he was trying to flatter her. Then she smiled, showing white, even teeth that would have done credit to a toothpaste advert. ‘Would you like a drink?’

‘Coffee, please. Black.’ If he was going to get through the next few hours, he was going to need a clear head.

Marie went into the kitchen. While she made his coffee he studied the photographs again. Liam Hennessy, the Sinn Fein adviser who’d been murdered by the SAS. Mary Hennessy, shot by a police sniper in Baltimore. Both had given their lives to the Cause, literally. Lynch wondered how their deaths had affected Marie, and if he could trust her.

One of the photographs was of Marie and a young man. Lynch recognised the man as her brother, Philip, one of the pall bearers at Mary Hennessy’s funeral. Philip, at twenty-five, was a couple of years older than Marie and Lynch seemed to recall that he was now working in the Far East, something to do with banking or insurance. Marie returned with his coffee. ‘How’s Philip?’ he asked.

‘Fine,’ she said. ‘I haven’t seen much of him, not since. .’

She didn’t finish and Lynch realised she had been about to say ‘the funeral’. Marie placed the tray and two coffee mugs onto a low table, then sat down in a Queen Anne chair and crossed her legs. She was wearing a short black skirt and a large beige pullover that tried but failed to conceal her figure. She had good legs, long and shapely, another thing she had in common with her late mother. ‘So, what brings you to London?’ she asked.

‘I need your help.’

Marie narrowed her eyes. ‘You? Or the organisation?’

To the best of Lynch’s knowledge, Marie had never been an active member of the IRA. Neither had her brother. ‘Me,’ he said.

Marie stirred her coffee slowly. ‘I’m not sure that there’s anything I can do for you, Mr Lynch.’

‘Dermott,’ said Lynch. ‘Mr Lynch is my dad.’

Marie gave a small shrug as if she didn’t care either way what she called him. ‘What is it you want?’

Lynch sat down on a hard, uncomfortable couch and leaned forward, his hands clasped together. ‘You know Mike Cramer. The SAS sergeant who. .’

Marie’s hand froze above her coffee mug and she spoke quickly, interrupting him before he could finish. ‘Yes. I know who Cramer is.’

‘I think I might be able to get to him.’

‘Where is he?’ Her voice was monotone, almost mechanical. The silver spoon remained suspended in her hand.

‘Best I don’t tell you too much.’ He ran his hand across his face. The beard had gone but it still itched. ‘I’ll need money.’

Marie frowned. ‘Surely the organisation would. .’

Lynch shook his head. ‘I’ve been told not to take it any further. The Army Council doesn’t want the boat rocked. They don’t want anything to derail the peace process.’

‘They what? Cramer is one of the men who killed my father. And he was directly responsible for my mother’s death.’

‘I know. I know. But they say I’m not to go after him. Let sleeping dogs lie, they said.’

‘Who said?’

‘Thomas McCormack. But he was speaking for the Army Council. Even if I find out where Cramer is, they won’t allow me to do anything.’

Marie leaned forward and put her coffee back on the tray. ‘And you’re prepared to defy the Army Council?’

Lynch put two heaped spoonfuls of sugar into his own coffee. ‘Cramer also killed my girlfriend. She was part of an ASU in London during the late eighties.’

‘ASU?’

‘Active Service Unit. Cramer was among a group of SAS soldiers who stormed the flat where she was living.’

‘And you want revenge, is that it?’

Lynch studied her, trying to read what was going on in her mind. ‘Don’t you?’ he asked quietly.

She held his look. ‘Yes,’ she said eventually. ‘Yes, I do.’

‘So you’ll help?’

‘There’s a limit to what I can do. I have a job. I have a life, I have. .’

‘It’s okay, Marie. I need money, that’s all.’

Marie relaxed. She uncrossed her legs, keeping her knees pressed primly together as if she thought Lynch might peer up her skirt. ‘That’s one thing I can provide. How much will you need?’

‘As much as you can give me. I’ve got to tell you, Marie, it won’t be a loan. I doubt that I’ll be able to pay you back.’

‘Like I said, I’ve got a job.’ She stood up and walked over to a Victorian side table. Lynch admired her legs as she bent to open a drawer. Under other circumstances maybe he would have tried to look up her skirt, but Marie Hennessy was the daughter of Mary Hennessy and as such was untouchable. Sacrosanct. She straightened up, a bank statement in her hands. ‘I can let you have two thousand tomorrow morning as soon as the bank opens. Will that be enough?’

Lynch smiled. ‘That’ll be just great.’

‘Do you have somewhere to stay?’ Lynch shook his head. ‘You can use my room,’ she said. ‘You’re too big for the sofa. I’ll sleep in here.’

‘Marie, I can’t thank you enough.’

‘You don’t have to. Just get that fucker Cramer. That’ll be thanks enough.’ She smiled sweetly, the girlish grin at odds with the obscenity.

Mike Cramer could feel the sweat trickle down his back and soak into the handmade shirt. It wasn’t a cold night but he was wearing the cashmere overcoat over his suit. Allan’s orders. Allan was standing slightly ahead of him and to his right, Martin was two paces to Cramer’s left. Both bodyguards were wearing dark suits that glistened under the floodlights. They were walking together across the tennis courts. The nets had been taken down, giving them plenty of space to work in. Cramer had been about to go to bed when Allan had knocked on his door and told him to report outside in his Vander Mayer clothing.

One of the lights was buzzing like a trapped insect but Cramer blocked it out of his mind. There were three men standing at the far end of the tennis courts, whispering. Martin moved to cover Cramer, getting between him and the three men. Cramer’s throat was dry and he was dog tired, but he forced himself to concentrate. The three men started to walk, fanning out as they headed in his direction. Cramer kept walking. The overcoat felt like a straitjacket and the shoes were rubbing his heels.

Allan’s head was swivelling left and right, keeping track of the three men. The man in the middle of the group, stocky and well-muscled with a receding hairline, moved his hand inside his jacket. Cramer tensed, but the hand reappeared holding a wallet. The man on the left of the group bent down as if about to tie his shoelace but Cramer could see that he was wearing cowboy boots under his jeans. Martin moved to block the kneeling man, but as he did the third walker pulled a large handgun from under his baseball jacket. Without breaking stride he fired at Martin, one shot to the chest. Cramer stopped dead, his right hand groping for the gun in its leather underarm holster. Allan began to scream ‘Down! Down! Down!’ and reached for his own gun. Before he could bring it out the man fired again at close range and Allan slumped to the ground.

Cramer grabbed the butt of his Walther PPK. The man walked away from Allan, holding his own gun at arm’s length. He was the tallest of the three, with a swimmer’s build, a baseball cap pulled low over his eyes as if to shield them from the glare of the floodlights. He was only six feet away from Cramer, his mouth set in a straight line, his eyes narrowed. Cramer yanked out the PPK, swinging it in front of him, trying to slip his index finger into the trigger guard but he was too late, the gun was in his face. The explosion jerked him back and he flinched, his eyes shutting instinctively so that he didn’t even see the second shot being fired.

‘Shit!’ he screamed.

Allan rolled over and looked at Cramer. ‘Bang, bang, you’re dead,’ he said.

‘It’s this fucking coat,’ said Cramer.

Martin got to his feet and dusted down his trousers before walking over to Allan. He held out his hand and pulled him to his feet.

‘You’re getting better,’ said Allan.

‘I missed the trigger,’ said Cramer. ‘I had the gun in my hand but I couldn’t get my finger on the trigger.’

‘You just need practice,’ said Allan. ‘You’re not trained in quick-draw. In the Killing House you go in with guns blazing, not stuck in underarm holsters.’ He slapped Cramer on the back. ‘You’ll be fine, Mike. Trust me. Come on, back to the starting position.’ Allan, Martin and Cramer went back to their end of the tennis courts while the three other SAS men regrouped.

Cramer slipped his PPK back into the holster, then tried drawing it quickly. It snagged on the pocket of his jacket and he cursed. As he tried again he saw the Colonel open the gate in the tall wire-mesh fence which surrounded the three tennis courts.

The Colonel walked across the red clay playing surface. ‘How’s it going?’ he called.

Cramer pulled a face. ‘Twenty-three runs and I’ve taken a bullet every time.’

‘You don’t have much longer to practice. The photographs have arrived in Miami. They’ll be sent by courier tomorrow. The money is being transferred through the banking system.’

‘I’ll be ready.’

‘Good. The profiler will be here tomorrow. Then you leave for London.’

Cramer shrugged his shoulders inside the coat. ‘I’m going to need a few more rehearsals. I’ve got to get my reaction time down.’

The Colonel nodded and tapped his stick on the playing surface, hard enough to dent the clay. ‘There’s been another killing. In South Africa.’

‘He gets around, doesn’t he? Have gun, will travel.’

‘There’s no turning back now, Joker.’ There was a flat finality about his words, a coldness Cramer hadn’t heard before, as if he was already distancing himself.

The boy heard his mother’s screams as he opened the front door. He fought the impulse to pull the door shut and run away as he stood on the threshold listening to the animal-like cries of pain. He closed his eyes and rested his forehead against the door-jamb. The screams stopped and the boy sighed deeply. He closed the door as quietly as he could but the lock clicked and his mother called out his name. The boy dropped his book-filled carrier bag on the floor and climbed the stairs with a heavy heart.

His mother was curled up on the bed, her arms wrapped around her legs, tears streaming down her cheeks. The boy stood by the bedroom door, watching her. ‘I can’t take any more of this,’ she said.

‘You’ll get better, Mum,’ he said.

‘No, I won’t,’ she said.

‘You will. I know you will.’

‘It hurts,’ she said, curling up into a tighter ball.

She was so thin, the boy realised. Her arms were like sticks and the skin seemed to be stretched tight across her face. But she was still his mum. ‘Shall I call the doctor?’ he asked, his voice trembling.

‘The doctor can’t help,’ she said. ‘He can’t make the hurt go away.’ Her breath started coming in short gasps as if she was having trouble breathing.

‘Do you want me to get you some milk?’ His mother shook her head. ‘What about something to eat?’

‘You have to help me,’ she pleaded.

‘I will,’ he said. ‘I will, Mum. I’ll do anything to make you better.’

She shook her head again. ‘You can’t make me better,’ she said. She fixed him with her tear-filled eyes. ‘But you can stop the hurting. You have to get me my medicine.’

Dermott Lynch woke instantly at the sound of the shower being turned on. At first he couldn’t remember where he was, the wallpaper with its yellow flowers and the ruffles on the curtains gave the bedroom a feminine feel and there was a fluffy white bear on the dressing table which stared at him with blue glass eyes. Sun streamed in through the thin curtains and then he heard someone step into the shower. Marie Hennessy. Lynch looked at his watch. It was just before nine o’clock but he’d only slept for a few hours. Marie had kept him up late, talking over old times, begging him to tell her stories about her mother and father.