The Double Tap

Lynch had taken care to sanitise what he told her. While her parents had both died for the IRA, Marie had never shown any interest in joining the organisation and Lynch didn’t think she knew the full extent of their involvement. Liam Hennessy had been an adviser to Sinn Fein, the political wing of the IRA, during several bombing campaigns on the mainland during the late Eighties. He had also been the driving force behind the bomb attack on the Brighton hotel which had come close to taking the life of the then Prime Minister, Margaret Thatcher. Following the death of Liam Hennessy, his wife Mary had assumed an even more active role, going underground and taking part in several high profile bombings, or spectaculars as the IRA Army Council liked to call them. A lot of people had died.

He sat up in bed and rubbed his face with his hands. It still felt strange without the beard, as if the skin belonged to someone else, but he was pleased with the shorter hair as he no longer had to keep pushing it out of his eyes. He leant over the side of the bed and put his hand on the pistol to reassure himself that it was still there. He got out of bed and was about to pull the curtains aside when he had second thoughts. The flat was overlooked by the houses on the other side of the road and it would be smarter not to let the neighbours know that Marie had had a visitor. It was warm in the bedroom and Lynch suddenly remembered the body in the boot of the Ford Sierra, parked down below. It would soon start to smell and it would only take one curious passer-by to have the whole area flooded with police.

The bedroom door opened and he turned to see Marie standing there, swathed in a purple towel, her hair dripping wet. She showed no embarrassment at his nakedness, and in fact it was Lynch who blushed. ‘Shower’s free,’ she said brightly.

Lynch stood with his hands across his groin like a footballer in a defensive wall. ‘Great, thanks,’ he said.

Marie’s grin widened and she raised one eyebrow. For a moment it looked as if she was going to say something else, but then she turned and left him alone.

Lynch went into the bathroom and locked the door before running the shower. Above the washbasin was a mirrored cabinet and he stared carefully at his own reflection. He ran a hand through his hair, wondering what else he could do to change his appearance. Marie hadn’t recognised him but the man in the van clearly had, despite the absence of a beard and the wire-framed glasses. He opened the cabinet door and looked inside: aspirins, contact lens cleaning solution, bottles containing different coloured contact lenses, cotton-wool balls, tweezers, a bottle of witchhazel, and several packets of contraceptive pills. ‘Tut, tut, Marie, a good Catholic girl like you,’ Lynch muttered to himself. She was a fine looking girl, and Lynch couldn’t help but wonder who she was sleeping with and what she was like between the sheets.

The coloured contact lenses were a good idea but he had perfect eyesight and whatever Marie’s prescription, they’d be an irritant if he tried to wear them. What he’d really hoped to find was hair dye.

He closed the cabinet door and stared at his reflection again. He looked younger without the facial hair, and the glasses made him resemble a vicar welcoming the faithful to a church garden party. There was a sudden knock on the door. ‘Tea or coffee, Dermott?’ called Marie.

‘Coffee. You don’t dye your hair, do you?’

There was a short pause as if Marie was trying to work out why he’d asked the question. Then realisation must have dawned. ‘No,’ she said through the door. ‘But I can get you some stuff from the local chemist, if you want. After breakfast.’

Lynch smiled to himself. Smart and beautiful. Just like her late mother.

Martin was tucking into a cooked breakfast when Cramer walked into the dining hall. His plate was piled high with sausages, bacon and scrambled eggs and there was a stack of buttered toast on a side plate. Martin winked, and raised his coffee mug in salute.

Cramer shook his head in amazement. Martin swallowed. ‘Hollow legs, Mike. Family trait.’ He picked up two pieces of toast, slapped a sausage and two rashers of crispy bacon between them, and slotted them into his mouth, as if posting a letter.

Cramer poured himself a mug of coffee and sat down opposite. A neighbouring table held a large television set and a video recorder, and a white power cord trailed across the oak floorboards to a socket in the wall. Cramer nodded at the television. ‘What’s going on?’ he asked.

Martin shrugged and washed his food down with a mouthful of coffee. ‘Dunno. The Colonel set it up first thing.’

‘Where’s Allan?’

‘On the tennis courts with the boys. Running through a few set pieces.’

‘How do you think it’s going?’

‘Could go either way, Mike. I wish I could say I was confident that we’d get him, but we’ve got so little time to react, you know?’

‘Yeah. I know.’ Under Allan’s guidance, Cramer’s reaction times were getting shorter and shorter, but he was still failing to draw his weapon more often than not. And even when he did manage to get his gun out, he’d yet to get in a killing shot before being shot himself.

‘Allan and I’ll do everything we can to give you extra time, but at the end of the day it’s like two gunfighters, except that you don’t know who you’re drawing against.’ Cramer sipped his coffee. ‘Not eating?’ Martin asked.

‘Is there anything left?’

Martin grinned and made himself another bacon and sausage sandwich. Cramer heard the Colonel walk into the dining room behind him. ‘Good morning,’ said the Colonel, lifting the lids off the stainless steel serving dishes and sniffing like a golden retriever tracking game. ‘How are the sausages this morning?’

‘First class,’ said Martin. ‘I don’t know why Mike here isn’t tucking in.’

‘Maybe later,’ said Cramer.

The Colonel spooned scrambled eggs onto a plate and used tongs to pick up two grilled tomato halves. ‘I spoke to our friends in the States,’ the Colonel said to Cramer. ‘They’re going to run a check on previous murders using shots to the head. They’ll get back to us if they turn up anything.’

Cramer nodded in acknowledgement. The dining room was cold despite the portable gas heater and the Colonel was wearing his Barbour jacket. He went over to the video recorder and put in a cassette before sitting down next to Cramer. Martin slid to the side so that they could all get a good view of the screen. From his pocket, the Colonel took a remote control device. Before pressing the ‘play’ button, he pushed the plate of eggs and tomatoes in front of Cramer. Cramer started to protest but the Colonel silenced him with a wave of his hand. ‘Eat,’ he ordered and Cramer reluctantly picked up a fork. The television flickered into life. ‘These were taken by the security cameras in Harrods,’ said the Colonel. ‘The quality isn’t as good as it might be, but as you’ll see, it doesn’t really matter.’

On screen an Arab in desert robes moved through the store, preceded by three bodyguards. There were two other men in suits either side of the Arab, but they looked more like store executives than protection, and behind the Arab walked three women in black robes, their faces covered. Cramer didn’t hear the shots but he saw the first bodyguard slump to the floor and then the killer appeared on the screen, his arm outstretched as he aimed his weapon at the second bodyguard. The silenced gun fired twice again, two shots to the man’s chest. The third bodyguard died before he could draw his own weapon. Cramer’s mouth was dry. The killer was fast. Fast and accurate, faster even than the SAS men he’d been practising with on the tennis courts. The killer’s face was turned away from the security camera as he walked past the Arab and shot one of the women, a bullet in the face, one in the chest, then he walked quickly out of range of the security camera.

Cramer put a forkful of scrambled eggs into his mouth and chewed slowly as the screen flickered. This time the view was of the stairs. Two elegant blondes in designer coats were smiling and nodding and a young man in a denim jacket turned to admire their legs. The killer came into view, walking quickly, his head down and his face turned away from the camera, a handgun pressed to his side. One of the blondes put a hand to her mouth, her eyes wide and fearful, and then the killer was gone. Cramer frowned. ‘Was he limping?’ he asked.

‘Left leg,’ agreed Martin. Allan arrived, wearing a dark blue blazer and grey flannels, looking for all the world like an Olympic referee. Allan stood behind the Colonel, his arms folded across his chest. He nodded a silent greeting to Cramer, then studied the screen.

‘This is the Egyptian Hall,’ said the Colonel as the screen flickered again. The killer walked by a life-size copy of the Rosetta stone and past a display of small statues. Cramer put down his fork. There was no doubt about it, the man was limping. Again it was impossible to identify the man, his head was turned away from the security camera. As he passed out of the camera’s field the screen flickered and was replaced by a shot of the stationery department.

‘He’s really camera-shy, isn’t he?’ mused Martin as he assembled another bacon and sausage sandwich. No one seemed to be paying attention to the killer as he walked purposefully to a stock room door, even though he was still holding the silenced gun. He opened the door and disappeared behind it and the screen flickered once more.

The next shot was of the underground tunnel. This time the killer was wearing a warehouseman’s coat and there was no sign of his gun. He walked past two workmen but they ignored him. The limp seemed to be less pronounced, Cramer noticed.

The final section of the video showed a young security guard on the telephone. The guard looked to his left, opened his mouth to speak and then fell back, blood pouring from his throat. The killer appeared briefly at the bottom left of the screen, revealing nothing more than the back of his head and his shoulders. The Colonel used the remote control to switch off the television set. ‘That’s the only time our man has been captured on film,’ he said. ‘I want you all to play it as many times as it takes until you get a feel for the way he moves.’

‘The limp,’ said Allan. ‘He was faking it?’

The Colonel nodded. ‘We had an orthopaedic surgeon take a look at it and he says it’s not genuine. It’s redirection. You spend so much time looking at the limp that you’re not aware of his other characteristics.’

‘He knew where all the security cameras were,’ Cramer pointed out. ‘He must have staked the store out first.’

‘Agreed,’ said the Colonel, ‘but the security tapes are wiped regularly. We have tapes for the forty-eight hours prior to the assassination and we’ve gone through them, but there’s no sign of him.’

‘Well, we know he’s white and we know he’s right-handed,’ said Martin. ‘And he’s cool.’

‘Cool? He’s ice,’ said Allan. ‘There’s no nervousness about him, no tension. It’s like he’s on a Sunday afternoon stroll in the park. I’ve never seen anything like it. He takes out three bodyguards and his target and then he walks away without even looking back.’

‘It’s like he doesn’t care,’ said Cramer.

Martin shook his head. ‘No, he’s a real pro. He knows that hurrying or looking around will just draw attention to him.’

Allan put a large hand on Cramer’s shoulder. ‘Ready, Mike?’

Cramer drained his mug and stood up. The Colonel raised an eyebrow at Cramer’s unfinished breakfast but said nothing.

‘We’ll run through some moves in the gymnasium,’ said Allan. Cramer walked out of the dining hall with Allan and Martin either side. The suit felt like a straitjacket, even though it was a perfect fit. He would have much preferred to have been wearing a bomber jacket and jeans, but he realised how important it was to dress the part. It was camouflage, as vital to the role he was playing as the green and brown fatigues he’d worn in the Falklands and in the border country of Northern Ireland. He reached inside his jacket and touched the butt of his PPK as if to reassure himself it was still there.

Their footsteps echoed off the tiled walls of the corridor as they headed towards the gymnasium. Martin pushed open the door and stood to the side to allow Cramer in first. ‘Cheers,’ said Cramer. He felt rather than heard the man behind the door, and as he turned his right hand reached for the PPK. His fingers were still inches from the butt when the first shot rang out, and he felt the heat from the explosion on his cheek. He carried on turning and he saw his assailant, a blond-haired man in his late twenties holding a Smith amp; Wesson. The second shot rang out, aimed at Cramer’s chest.

Cramer whirled around and pointed his finger at Allan. ‘What the hell are you playing at?’ he shouted.

‘We’re not playing at anything, Mike,’ said Allan calmly. ‘This isn’t a game. There’s no bell between rounds. The moment you accepted this job, your life was at risk. You can’t afford to let your guard down. Ever.’

Cramer calmed himself. He took a deep breath and nodded. He could hear his pulse pounding in his veins and his fists were clenched tight. He forced himself to relax. He knew that Allan was right, he was just annoyed at his own stupidity. Martin should have gone into the room first, to check that it was clear, but from the way he was grinning it looked as if he’d deliberately set him up. Cramer nodded. ‘Okay, Allan. You made your point.’

Allan slapped Cramer on the back. The man who’d shot Cramer with blanks was already walking back into the gymnasium. Three others were standing by the wall bars, dressed casually and wearing shoulder holsters. ‘You’ll be okay, Mike,’ said Allan. ‘I just want to make sure you get through this in one piece.’

Cramer’s ears were still ringing from the shots and he massaged his temples. ‘I know, Allan. I know. Let’s get on with it.’

‘I’ve got something I’d like to show you,’ said Allan. ‘You and the guys come at me and Martin, you decide who’s going to be the trigger man.’

Cramer grinned. It would be nice to be on the winning side for once. He went over to the four men at the far side of the gymnasium and explained what they were to do.

‘Ready?’ called Allan.

Cramer gave him a thumbs-up. Martin stood by Allan’s side and together they began to walk slowly across the wooden floor. Cramer and the four men fanned out, all keeping their hands swinging freely by their sides. One of them pretended to sneeze and Martin tensed as the man’s hands went up to cup his nose. Allan straightened his tie with his right hand, his eyes hard and watchful. Cramer waited until he was six feet away from Allan before pulling out his PPK. Allan reacted immediately, his right hand slipping inside his left sleeve and reappearing with a stiletto. He stepped forward, thrusting the knife upward towards Cramer’s chin. Cramer’s finger tightened on the trigger but he was too late, Allan’s left hand had whipped up, knocking Cramer’s arm to the side in a blur of blue blazer. The stiletto pricked Cramer’s neck. Allan froze, holding Cramer’s stare. He smiled. ‘What do you think?’ He removed the stiletto and handed the weapon to Cramer.

Cramer examined it, frowning. The spike wasn’t made of metal but of black plastic-like material. ‘You knew I’d be the one firing, didn’t you?’ he said.

Allan shrugged. ‘I guessed you’d want a crack at me, but it wouldn’t have made any difference. As long as I see you going for your gun, I should be able to get the knife out first.’ He held out his left arm and pulled back the sleeve. There was a leather sheath strapped to his forearm over his shirt. ‘With your hands down by your sides, it’s always going to be quicker to draw the knife than to pull a gun. But you’re going to have to move forward, towards the killer. Towards the gun.’

‘What’s it made of?’ Cramer asked.

‘It’s the latest thing from the States,’ said Allan. ‘I got a sample from a friend in Delta Force. It’s a composite carbon fibre mixture, a spin-off from the space programme, very lightweight, practically unbreakable and never loses its edge.’ He grinned. ‘You can even shave with it. The advantage from your point of view is that it’s virtually impossible to detect.’

Cramer nodded thoughtfully, his eyes on the stiletto. ‘Let me try it.’

Marie Hennessy put a jug of milk and a box of muesli on the kitchen table next to a plate of wholewheat toast, Flora margarine and honey. ‘I’m a vegetarian,’ she said as Lynch looked up.

‘Aye, well you look good on it,’ said Lynch, grinning. He wondered if he should say anything about the Charles Jordan shoes he’d seen lying in the hall but decided against it. They were clearly expensive and definitely not plastic. There were also several leather-bound books scattered through the two bookcases in the sitting room. Whatever else she might be, Marie Hennessy was obviously selective about her moral stances.

‘I’ll go and get your money,’ she said, taking a quick look at her watch. She slipped into a blue blazer and checked her hair in the gilt-framed mirror over the mantelpiece before leaving the flat.

As she closed the front door behind her, Lynch picked up the box of muesli and sniffed it. ‘Rabbit food,’ he muttered to himself and put it back down. Spreading honey thickly onto the toast, he ran through a mental list of what he still had to do. The only location he had for Mike Cramer was a map reference, lines of longitude and latitude, and for that to mean anything he’d need an Ordnance Survey map of the area. There was no doubt in his mind that he would kill the Sass-man. He had two guns, the Czech Model 75 in the bedroom and the Tokarev in the car, and he’d been well trained in the use of small arms. When in Ireland he generally preferred to use a Kalashnikov, but the handguns would be easier to conceal. He leaned over to go through the pockets of his jacket which was hanging on the back of a chair. He pulled out the two wallets which he’d taken from the hit team in Maida Vale. There was more than three hundred pounds in cash, along with the Barclaycard and driving licence. Lynch had been surprised to find the driving licence, as IRA volunteers on active service were instructed to remove all means of identification. He picked up the licence and looked at it. It appeared real enough, as did the Barclaycard, but Lynch doubted if they were genuine. He just hoped they would stand up to scrutiny when he went to pick up a rental car. But first he’d have to get rid of the Ford Sierra parked in the street outside.

Cramer was practising pulling the stiletto from its leather sheath when a helicopter roared overhead and rattled the gymnasium windows. He saw a flash of green through the dirt-streaked windows and then it was gone. ‘Ready, Mike?’ asked Allan.

Cramer nodded. He adjusted his sleeve and dropped his hands to his sides. Allan walked away, then stood facing Cramer with his hands on his hips. Martin joined him. Allan and Martin moved together as if some unspoken signal had passed between them, but whatever it was, Cramer missed it. They walked at a medium pace across the wooden floor. Cramer stayed where he was. Waiting. It was Allan who made the first move, reaching inside his jacket and pulling out his Glock automatic. Cramer’s right hand slid into his left sleeve and grabbed for the stiletto. As Allan swung up his arm to take aim with the gun, Cramer thrust out with the stiletto, but Allan swayed out of the way. The big man was deceptively light on his feet and moved as fluidly as a flyweight in an opening round, keeping the Glock pointed at Cramer’s face as Cramer lashed out with the knife again. Allan pulled the trigger twice in quick succession and Cramer was almost deafened by the explosions. ‘Shit,’ said Cramer dejectedly.

Allan ejected the clip and slotted in two more blanks. ‘You got it out all right, but you weren’t moving forward,’ he said, replacing the gun in its holster. ‘It’s only going to work if you get in close. In close and under the chin, straight up into the brain.’

‘Yeah, I know,’ said Cramer.

‘We’re getting there,’ said Martin, opening a pack of Wrigley’s gum and offering Cramer a piece. Cramer shook his head.

They were interrupted by the gymnasium doors opening. Blackie, one of the Colonel’s troopers, shouted that Cramer’s presence was required in the headmistress’s study. Allan and Martin grinned. ‘Sounds like six of the best to me,’ said Martin.

Cramer walked along the corridor to the study. He took off his overcoat, draped it over his right arm, and knocked on the door. The Colonel ushered Cramer in. A man stood looking out of the window and didn’t turn around as the Colonel closed the door. The man was just under six feet tall and had his hands clasped behind him like an undertaker overseeing a funeral. There was something funereal about the man’s attire, too; a black suit and black shoes polished to a shine and an inch of starched white cuff protruding from each sleeve. He had dark brown hair which he’d pulled back into a small ponytail which curved on his collar like a carelessly-drawn comma. Cramer didn’t generally make snap judgements about people, but he took an instinctive dislike to the man. It was partly the way the man dressed, partly the ponytail, but mainly it was the man’s crass rudeness — unless he was stone deaf, his posing by the window was solely for effect.

The man turned slowly as if he had only just become aware of Cramer’s presence. His hair was swept back from an unlined boyish face and for a second or two he studied Cramer through a pair of red-framed spectacles, then he grinned and reached out his hand. ‘You must be Mike Cramer,’ he said. He shook hands with Cramer. He had a strong grip and Cramer noticed that his nails were perfectly clipped. They reminded Cramer of Allan’s neatly manicured hands. ‘I’m Bernard Jackman.’ He pronounced his first name with the emphasis on the second syllable in a slow Texan drawl.

‘The profiler?’ said Cramer.

Jackman tilted his head on one side. ‘At your service.’

The Colonel walked over to his desk and sat down, nodding to Cramer and Jackman to take leather armchairs by the unlit fireplace. Jackman straightened the creases of his trousers before crossing his legs. There was something very precise and measured about all the man’s movements, as if he was giving a performance.

‘Bernard is passing through on his way to South Africa,’ said the Colonel, placing his walking stick on the desk. ‘We thought it would be a good opportunity for a briefing.’

‘Do we have a report on the South African killing yet?’ asked Cramer.

‘It’s on its way,’ said the Colonel.

‘I’ve already spoken to one of the investigating officers,’ said Jackman. ‘All the signs are that it was as professional as the rest. He was dressed as a ranger and driving a Landrover, obviously well planned. I’ll be visiting the crime scene to see what else I can get. I’ll compile my reactions while I’m there and either fax or phone you.’

‘Any idea who paid for the hit?’ asked Cramer.

‘He had plenty of enemies, both in Zimbabwe and South Africa,’ said the Colonel. ‘The sort of enemies who’d have no problem coming up with our man’s fee.’

Jackman turned to Cramer. ‘You’ve read my profile of the killer?’

Cramer nodded. He eased a finger into his shirt collar. ‘It was interesting,’ he said noncommittally.

‘Interesting?’ repeated Jackman. ‘I hoped you’d find it more than interesting.’

Cramer flexed his shoulders inside the suit. ‘No offence, but a lot of it seemed to be guesswork.’

‘Guesswork?’ Jackman repeated slowly, stressing the two syllables.

Cramer looked across at the Colonel. The Colonel nodded that he should continue. ‘You say that the guy we’re after is intelligent, but that’s a given because he couldn’t do what he does if he was stupid,’ Cramer said.

‘Sure,’ said Jackman.

‘Yet you go on to suggest that he was a bully at school, and that he didn’t go to university.’

Jackman steepled his fingers under his chin and studied Cramer. ‘And I stand by that.’

‘That has to be guesswork, right?’

‘What else aren’t you happy with?’ asked Jackman, ignoring Cramer’s question.

‘You say he has a military background, and again I’d say that would be a given. But you say he left and had trouble keeping a job afterwards. I’d have thought that someone with army training, someone with above-average intelligence, wouldn’t have a problem finding and keeping a job.’

‘Like yourself?’ said Jackman quietly. Cramer held the profiler’s look for a few seconds. Jackman smiled tightly. ‘Anything else?’

‘Yeah. What makes you think he lost his driving licence?’

The Colonel made a soft snorting sound as if he was suppressing a laugh, but Jackman kept his eyes on Cramer. Jackman pushed his spectacles higher up his nose with his forefinger. ‘I feel like Sherlock Holmes about to explain himself to Dr Watson. But it won’t be the first time.’ He uncrossed and recrossed his legs, taking care to adjust his creases again. ‘How much do you know about profiling?’

‘I saw Silence of the Lambs.’

Jackman gave Cramer another tight smile. ‘Okay, I can see how an outsider would think that what I do is guesswork, but you’ve got to remember that I’ve got thousands of case histories to draw on, data on murderers and their victims from all around the world. Those cases allow me and profilers like me to draw certain conclusions, to assign certain characteristics to killers. In about five per cent of the cases dealt with by FBI profilers, the profiles lead directly to the arrest of the perpetrator. In another ten per cent of cases, the perpetrator is arrested as a result of the investigation being refocused following the profile. And in almost all cases, when a successful conviction is made, the criminal closely matches the profile. Profiling works, Mike, there’s no doubt about that.’

Jackman rubbed his hands together, making a soft whispering sound. His eyes were fixed on Cramer’s with almost missionary zeal. ‘Leaving aside the specifics of the man we’re looking for in this case, it’s a general rule that serial killers are white and male. That holds true almost without exception, so even if we didn’t have witnesses I’d be assuming that our killer fits those two characteristics.’

‘So you’re assuming that a paid assassin fits the same criteria as a serial killer?’ asked Cramer. ‘I thought serial killers were all crazy.’

Jackman shook his head. ‘It’s a common misconception,’ he said. ‘In fact, only two per cent of serial killers are ever classified as insane. My research leads me to believe that there is a valid comparison to be made between a serial killer and the man we’re looking for. He kills on a regular basis, the killings appear to be happening at decreasing intervals, and he has a consistent method of killing. These are all characteristics of an organised serial killer.’

Cramer frowned. ‘Organised? What do you mean, organised?’

‘We divide killers into two types: organised and disorganised. Basically, an organised killer plans his crime in advance, a disorganised killer is an opportunist. An organised killer will take his weapon with him, a disorganised killer might pick up a knife at the scene of the crime and use that. An organised killer will often travel to carry out his murder and will cover his traces afterwards, a disorganised killer will kill close to home and won’t care about how quickly the body is found or whether he’s left fingerprints.’

‘We know our man is organised,’ said Cramer. ‘He’d have to be to be a contract killer.’

‘Exactly,’ said Jackman. ‘The man we’re looking for is the ultimate organised killer. Which means there’s every reason to assume that he fits the profile of an organised serial killer.’ The profiler stood up and went over to the window. He stood there looking out, his hands clasped behind him as he continued his lecture.

‘Organised killers and disorganised killers tend to come from different backgrounds,’ Jackman added. ‘We know this not because of some great psychological insight, but because at the FBI’s Behavioral Science Unit they’ve constructed profiles of every serial killer that’s ever been caught. I used to be with the BSU and part of my job was to interview these guys, to get inside their heads and to find out what makes them tick. By comparing their backgrounds, we can start to draw conclusions about their common characteristics.’

Jackman turned around and faced Cramer. He held up his left hand and began counting off on his fingers. ‘One, organised serial killers tend to be of above average intelligence. It isn’t unusual for them to have an IQ above 120.

‘Two, partly because of their generally high IQs, organised killers tend to have feelings of superiority, and that leads them to pick fights, to drive too fast, to argue with their bosses at work. You asked why I thought our man has lost his driving licence. That’s because most of the organised killers profiled by the BSU had a string of driving offences, and more than half had had their licences taken away. Telling them they’re driving too fast doesn’t have any effect, because they think they know best.

‘Three, organised killers tend to come from families where the father had a job but where there was little discipline at home. Disorganised killers often have a family background of mental illness or drugs and more often than not there’s also a history of abuse. Not necessarily sexual, but almost certainly beatings and the like.

‘Four, organised killers are usually very sociable, on the surface at least. Disorganised killers are loners, organised killers are happier in groups.

‘Five, organised killers generally have numerous sexual partners and are good in bed.’ He saw the look of disbelief on Cramer’s face and grinned. ‘It’s true. They’re often very good-looking and great talkers, but because of their nature they usually can’t sustain long-term relationships.’

‘They bore easily,’ said the Colonel.

Jackman nodded his agreement. ‘That, and they have a tendency to pick faults in their partners. Also, despite their success with women, a lot of organised killers have a deep-seated hatred of the opposite sex. You’ve got to remember that most serial killers choose women as their victims, but that might not apply in this case. I think it’s reasonable to assume that our killer comes from some form of dysfunctional family. I doubt he suffered sexual abuse. Divorce, maybe, or an early parental death.’

‘You’re saying that the loss of a parent makes a child more likely to grow up to be a serial killer? That seems like a hell of a generalisation.’

Jackman folded his arms. ‘The way you put it, it is. And it’s obviously not true. Plenty of children from single parent families grow up to be perfectly respectable, hard-working citizens. I lost my mother when I was ten, but I didn’t grow up to be a killer. It’s what happens afterwards that’s important, it’s how the remaining parent treats the child that counts. Children have to be taught the difference between right and wrong, they have to be taught to be sociable, they have to realise that they’re not the centre of the universe, that other people matter, too. It’s the lack of that training that produces the sort of personality which is capable of becoming a serial killer. Are you with me so far?’

Cramer nodded. He didn’t like being lectured, and he didn’t like Jackman’s overbearing confidence, but if Jackman held any clue to the killer’s identity, Cramer wanted it.

‘The Bureau began compiling profiles of convicted killers in the late Seventies,’ Jackman continued. ‘They started with assassins and would-be assassins, guys like Sirhan Sirhan and James Earl Ray, running them through a sixty-page questionnaire, looking for common features, something that sets assassins apart from other people.’

‘Other than the fact that they kill people,’ said Cramer. The Colonel flashed Cramer a warning look but Jackman ignored the interruption.

‘Most assassins kill to attract attention to themselves,’ Jackman continued. ‘They might claim to be acting in the name of some political cause or another, but generally they’re seeking attention. Often they keep diaries, for instance. When you get your man, I think you’ll find that somewhere he kept a diary or a record of what he’s been doing. Almost certainly with photographs, newspaper clippings, maybe even video recordings of news broadcasts.’

Cramer shifted in his chair. ‘Okay, I see what you’re saying,’ he said. ‘But I don’t see how it’s going to help me identify the killer.’

‘In terms of being able to pick him out of a crowd, you’re right,’ Jackman admitted. ‘Profiles don’t work like that. What the FBI and other law enforcement agencies do is to use the profile to select the most likely suspects, so that they concentrate their resources in the most productive way.’

Cramer exhaled deeply and rubbed the back of his neck. It seemed that the more he tried to get specifics from the profiler, the more nebulous he became. It was like grabbing mist. ‘What about his nationality?’ Cramer asked.

Jackman shrugged. ‘American or British would be the most likely, possibly Australian or South African.’

‘Why?’

‘The man’s calmness under pressure and his marksmanship suggest Special Forces training.’

‘So why not German?’

Jackman removed his glasses and twirled them around in his right hand. ‘German is a possibility, yes. But whatever his nationality it’s clear he has an affinity for languages. Witnesses who heard him talk disagree completely as to his voice and accent. He was working as a waiter for three days before the killing of the Kypriano girl and spoke fluent Greek. We have witnesses in Miami who were sure that he had a New York accent and a bodyguard whose client was shot in Bangkok says the assassin is Scottish.’

‘Scottish?’

‘The bodyguard was from Glasgow and he swears that the accent was genuine. I’m not convinced that a German would be able to speak perfect Greek and English without a trace of a German accent.’

There was a knock on the door and Mrs Elliott appeared pushing a tea trolley. The Colonel smiled his thanks as she placed the trolley by the side of his desk and left the room.

‘There was something I didn’t read in your report that I thought would have been worth mentioning,’ said Cramer.

Jackman raised his eyebrows and stopped twirling his glasses.

‘The way he kills. Close up, one shot to the face, one to the chest.’

Jackman nodded. ‘It’s his signature. It’s a way of telling the world that he did it. Like Zorro carving a Z with his sword.’

‘There are easier ways of killing. The head-shot is risky. It’s not the way we’re trained to shoot.’

‘How would you do it?’ Jackman leaned forward, eager to hear Cramer’s reply.

Cramer shrugged. ‘The chest. It’s the biggest area, you’re less likely to miss. Rip through the heart or a lung, the liver even, and it’s all over.’

‘Faster than a shot to the head?’

‘A head’s easier to miss.’

‘And you think it’s significant?’

‘You don’t?’

‘I just think it’s his way of letting the client know that he did the job.’

Cramer put a hand up to his mouth and tapped his lips thoughtfully. ‘Maybe,’ he said.

‘You don’t seem convinced. But he can’t very well leave a business card, can he?’ Jackman smiled and there was something canine about the gesture, like a dog contemplating a bone.

Dermott Lynch was washing up when he heard a key slot into the front door lock. He picked up a large carving knife but almost immediately heard Marie call down the hallway, ‘It’s me.’ Lynch replaced the knife in the soapy water.

Marie walked into the kitchen and put a plastic carrier bag onto the table. ‘You’re very domesticated,’ she said.

Lynch shrugged. ‘You have to be when you live alone. You soon learn that if you don’t do it, it never gets done.’

‘Why Dermott, you mean there’s no young lady in your life to clear up after you?’

Lynch chuckled and rinsed the cutlery under the cold tap. ‘There are several young ladies, Marie, but I don’t think any of them are the type who’d do my housework.’ He picked up a towel and dried his hands. Marie took a bulging envelope out of her handbag and opened it. ‘It’s in fifties and twenties,’ she said. ‘Will that be enough?’

‘That’s great,’ he said, running his thumb over the notes. He slipped the envelope into the back pocket of his jeans, then impulsively stepped forward and kissed her on the cheek. To his surprise she turned her face so that her lips brushed his and for a few seconds she returned his kiss. Lynch put his hands on her hips and tried to kiss her harder but she reached up and put her hands on his shoulders and pushed him away. She looked at him, one eyebrow raised archly, a lock of her hair across one cheek. ‘I don’t think this is a good idea, is it, Dermott?’ she said.

Lynch grinned. ‘Aye, right enough,’ he said.

Marie kept looking at him and he could see his own reflection in the pupils of her eyes. She smiled and put her head on one side as if reconsidering. ‘Maybe later,’ she said.

‘Aye, maybe,’ said Lynch. He knew that she didn’t mean later that day. She meant afterwards, after Cramer was dead. He nodded, still looking deep into her eyes.

She held his gaze for a few seconds then twisted around and pulled three cartons out of the carrier bag. ‘Hair dye,’ she said, handing them to him. ‘I wasn’t sure what to get, so I got one black, one blonde and one red.’

Lynch juggled the boxes thoughtfully and Marie slipped away to the other side of the kitchen, where she busied herself filling the kettle. ‘What do you think?’ asked Lynch.

‘I’d go for black,’ she said. ‘Red is always a risky colour. And it’ll only advertise the fact that you’re Irish. And I’m not sure you’ll suit the bleached surfer look. But I wanted to give you the choice.’

Lynch put down two of the packs and took the carton of black dye into the bathroom. Marie appeared at the doorway with an old towel as Lynch was reading the instructions. ‘Use this,’ she said, ‘and try not to get it everywhere.’

She was right; it was a messy business, and by the time Lynch had finished the bathroom looked as if a wet dog had shaken itself dry. He wrapped his wet hair in the towel and did his best to wipe the sink and mirror clean. When he walked back into the kitchen Marie was pouring him a cup of tea. Lynch took it and sniffed it appreciatively. She hadn’t made the mistake of brewing it too long and she’d poured the milk into the cup first so that the milk hadn’t scalded. He sipped it and sat down at the table. Marie reached over and unwound the towel. ‘Who cut this?’ she asked.

‘I did it myself,’ admitted Lynch. ‘Not good, huh?’

‘Not great,’ she agreed, running her fingers through the thick locks. ‘Let’s see if I can improve it.’

She took a pair of scissors from a drawer and led Lynch through to her bedroom and sat him down in front of her dressing table. Lynch watched her in the mirror as she combed his hair. She had a thoughtful frown on her face, like a little girl facing a difficult decision. She used the scissors carefully as if she was frightened of making a mistake. She tidied up the front and gave him more of a parting, then concentrated on the back, tapering it so that it just brushed the collar of his shirt. When she was satisfied she stood behind him and patted him on the shoulders. ‘How’s that, sir?’ she asked.

Lynch turned his head from side to side. She’d done a good job. ‘Excellent. Really good. Who taught you to cut hair?’

She leant across him to put the scissors on the dressing table and her hair brushed his cheek. ‘You’re my first customer,’ she said. Lynch turned towards her and his lips met hers. This time the initiative came from her, her lips pressed hard against his and her soft tongue forced its way between his teeth. She took sugar in her tea and Lynch could taste the sweetness on her tongue. She moved around him, still keeping her mouth pressed against him, sat on his lap and put her arms around his neck.

It was Lynch who broke away first, gasping for breath. ‘Hey, I thought this wasn’t a good idea,’ he said.

‘It’s not,’ she said. She kissed him again, harder this time. Lynch stood up and carried her over to the bed. He knelt on the quilt and lowered her gently. She lay there, her arms outstretched, a lazy smile on her face.

‘Are you sure?’ asked Lynch.

‘Just get on with it, Dermott,’ she laughed, reaching up for him.

Simon Chaillon flicked through his copy of Euromoney, looking for anything of interest. The magazine seemed to get bigger each year and if it continued to grow it would soon be the size of a telephone directory. There still seemed to be precious little to hold his attention, though. The brass plate on his office door gave his profession as personal banker and financial adviser, but Chaillon wasn’t a typical Swiss financier.

Chaillon’s secretary knocked gently on his door and walked into his office. ‘Courier delivery,’ she said, placing a Federal Express envelope on his desk.

‘Thank you, Theresa,’ said Chaillon, looking up from the magazine. If it came to a choice between reading the latest World Bank projections or watching the twenty-five-year-old blonde walk across his plush green carpet, it was no contest. Theresa walked slowly back to the door, swinging her hips as if she knew that he was watching, and swishing her mane of hair like an impatient racehorse. At fifty-eight, Chaillon was old enough to be her father, but there was nothing parental about his affections, or his intentions. She’d been with him for eighteen months — his previous secretary had died in a road accident — and he didn’t quite trust her yet, which was why he left the envelope unopened on the desk until she’d closed the door. Chaillon looked out of his window, across the River Limmat and its flat-roofed river boats towards the twin-towered Grossmunster Cathedral. Maybe today would be the day he’d suggest that they go out for dinner. Chaillon had no reservations about mixing business and pleasure. If anything, a sexual relationship would bind her closer to him.

He opened the envelope. Inside were three colour photographs taken with a long lens. They were slightly grainy but the images were clear: a man, tall with deep-set eyes and a worried frown, was stepping away from a large Mercedes, a bodyguard to his right, a young Oriental girl just behind him; the same man, coming out of a doorway; and a close-up, just of the man. Chaillon wondered how long it would be before the man in the photograph was dead. Chaillon’s client was the ultimate professional. He had never failed, he had never had to refund his fee. That was why he was so expensive.

Along with the photographs were three A4 typewritten sheets. Chaillon didn’t read them, he preferred to know as little as possible about the targets. It wasn’t that he was squeamish, it was simply a matter of self-protection. There was only one thing he needed to know. He picked up the telephone connected to his private line and called an office less than half a mile away. Chaillon gave a nine-digit identification number and asked if there had been any deposits made within the previous forty-eight hours. The answer was affirmative. Five hundred thousand dollars. Chaillon replaced the receiver. He put the photographs and typewritten sheets in another envelope and sealed it. The envelope went inside a fresh Federal Express packet.

Chaillon swivelled his chair around to face an IBM PC which was displaying a list of Japanese share prices. He manipulated the mouse to activate the computer’s modem and within seconds he was connected to a bulletin board on the West Coast of the United States. There was one word on the board: London. Chaillon cut the connection. His fingers played across the keyboard of his computer. From the screen he copied an address in London onto the Federal Express airbill, and then he pressed his intercom and asked Theresa to come back into the office.

She knocked again before entering. Chaillon was always amused by her politeness. As she sashayed over to his desk he wondered if she’d be as polite in bed. He smiled at the thought. ‘Send this right away, Theresa,’ he said, handing her the packet. He had no qualms about her seeing the name or the address: it was an accommodation agency, one of more than a dozen that his client used around the world.

‘Shall I be mother?’ asked the Colonel.

Jackman frowned. ‘Mother?’ he repeated.

‘It’s an English expression,’ said the Colonel, picking up the teapot. ‘It means I’ll pour.’ He poured steaming tea into a white china mug and handed it to the profiler. Jackman helped himself to milk and two lumps of sugar. ‘When are you going to South Africa?’ asked the Colonel.

‘I’m catching the red-eye,’ said Jackman. He stirred his tea thoughtfully. ‘Cramer didn’t seem very impressed with my work.’

‘He has a lot on his mind.’

Jackman nodded and pulled a face. ‘He’s got guts, that’s for sure.’ He tapped his spoon against the mug. ‘The target, he’s safely out of the way?’

‘Well out of reach,’ agreed the Colonel.

‘Good. What have you done with him?’

‘That’s need to know.’

‘And I don’t need to know, I suppose,’ said Jackman. ‘What about the man who placed the contract?’

‘Discenza? The FBI have him in protective custody in Miami. No one can get to him.’

Jackman stirred his tea again, staring at the brown liquid as it whirled around. ‘Does Cramer realise how closely he himself fits the profile of the man we’re looking for?’

The Colonel sipped his tea, then shook his head. ‘If he does, he hasn’t mentioned it.’

‘Set a thief to catch a thief?’

‘Not really. He was chosen for other reasons. The similarities hadn’t occurred to me until you read his file and pointed it out.’

Jackman walked over to the trolley and put down his spoon. ‘He lost his mother at a relatively young age, his father was rarely at home when he was in his teens, he wasn’t exactly well liked at school, SAS-trained, never been in steady employment since he left the regiment. I suppose you can account for his whereabouts over the past two years?’

The Colonel smiled thinly. ‘No, I can’t. But Mike Cramer is not our killer, I can guarantee that. He’s not the type.’

Jackman looked at his wristwatch. ‘That’s the problem, Colonel. He’s exactly the type.’

Lynch lay on his back, his arm around Marie. She toyed with the hair on his chest, winding it gently around her fingers and tugging it softly. ‘Still think it’s not a good idea?’ he asked.

‘Definitely,’ she giggled. ‘But I wouldn’t have missed it for the world. Who taught you to make love?’

‘You’re my first customer,’ said Lynch.

Marie laughed and slapped his chest. ‘I don’t think so,’ she said. She kissed the side of his neck and nuzzled against him. ‘I want to come with you,’ she whispered.

‘You just did.’

‘You know what I mean.’

‘No.’

‘I could help.’

‘No,’ he repeated.

‘Why not?’ Her hand began to move inexorably downwards.

‘Because it’s my fight, not yours.’

Her hand lingered between his legs, caressing and touching him. ‘They killed my father and my mother, Dermott. It’s as much my fight as yours.’

‘I know that, Marie. But this isn’t a sanctioned operation, it’s personal. I want Cramer because of what he did to Maggie.’

‘And I want him because of what he did to my father.’

‘No.’

‘You have to let me help you.’

Lynch rolled on top of her and took his weight on his elbows so that he could look down on her. ‘You have helped. More than you know.’ He kissed her again and she opened her legs, drawing them up and fastening them around his waist. She squeezed him, hard. ‘And that’s not going to make me change my mind,’ he said. He rolled off her and headed for the bathroom.

Cramer sat between Allan and Martin in the dining hall watching the Harrods video again. It was the tenth time they’d studied the footage. Cramer felt that he knew every second by heart, but he realised the importance of getting a feel for the killer, for the way he moved, the way he held himself. He’d spent countless days on surveillance operations in the border country watching and waiting for IRA terrorists, and on many occasions he’d been able to identify targets by the way they walked, the tilt of a head, the shrug of a shoulder. At a long distance bodies were often more distinctive than faces. The problem with the video was the faked limp. It affected everything about the man’s movement, and Cramer was starting to think that the video might actually prove counter-productive.

‘What do you think, Allan?’ Cramer asked. ‘Do you think you’d spot him in a crowd.’

Allan shrugged. ‘I’m getting a feel for his shape. The problem is that he can change that with padding.’

‘Or dieting,’ said Martin, who was munching his way through a stack of ham and pickle sandwiches that Mrs Elliott had prepared earlier.

‘Yeah. I think you were right when you said that all we know is that he’s white and right-handed.’

‘Could be ambidextrous,’ said Martin, reaching for another sandwich.

‘Terrific,’ said Cramer.

‘I’ll tell you something, Mike,’ said Allan, rewinding the tape to the beginning again. ‘The guy actually looks a bit like you.’

‘What?’ exclaimed Cramer, then he saw that Allan was grinning and he faked a punch to his chin. Allan ducked and pressed the ‘play’ button and walked back to his seat as the screen flickered. Martin looked over his shoulder and the others turned to see what he was looking at. It was Su-ming. She was wearing blue jeans and a black pullover with the sleeves pulled up to her elbows. Cramer stood up and introduced her to Martin. She nodded a greeting but made no move to shake his hand.

‘Are you Chinese?’ Martin asked her.

‘No,’ she said, curtly, and turned away from him. ‘Have you eaten?’ she asked Cramer. He shook his head. ‘I shall prepare you something,’ she said and headed towards the kitchen.

Outside they heard the helicopter turbine start up. ‘The profiler,’ said Cramer as Allan threw him a questioning look.

‘He didn’t hang around for long.’

‘There wasn’t much for him to say. Long on opinions, short on facts.’

‘Yeah?’

‘Yeah. About as much use as one of those psychics that reckon they can tell the police where the bodies are buried by using a pendulum or a crystal ball.’

Allan helped himself to one of Martin’s sandwiches. ‘Pity. I was hoping he might come up with a few specifics.’

‘The man we’re looking for was probably abused as a child,’ said Cramer.

Martin grinned. ‘Great. We’ll be on the look-out for a bedwetter, then.’ One of the guards came out of the kitchen carrying a fresh pot of coffee. Martin drained his cup. ‘Just in time,’ he said.

Cramer watched the killer on the screen walk up to the second bodyguard. Two shots to the chest. Cramer wondered why it was only the targets who were shot in the face. Jackman’s explanation that it was his signature seemed too glib. He looked up to see the man with the coffee pot walking behind the television. Cramer had last seen him standing guard at the entrance to the school. He was in his mid-twenties, broad-shouldered and narrow-waisted, the build of a ballet dancer. Cramer felt himself tense inside. There was something about the way the man was holding the coffee pot that didn’t look right, as if he was trying to keep it away from his body. It might simply have been that he was scared of spilling the hot liquid, but then he saw the man’s eyes flick in his direction and he knew that he wasn’t wrong. Cramer pushed Allan to the side as he leapt to his feet, his right hand reaching inside his sleeve for the stiletto.

The man dropped the coffee pot and turned towards Cramer. His mouth opened in surprise when he saw that Cramer was already pulling out the knife. As the stiletto emerged from Cramer’s sleeve, he kept moving, keeping the momentum going, his left hand outstretched, his eyes focused on the man’s throat. The coffee pot smashed onto the floor. The scalding liquid splashed Cramer’s trousers but he felt nothing, he was totally focused on the man in front of him. The man’s right hand had disappeared inside his leather jacket but Cramer was already close enough to slap his hand against the man’s chest and jam the stiletto up under his chin, hard enough to indent the flesh but not hard enough to draw blood. The man glared at him, his eyes wide and fearful, his mouth open. ‘Gotcha!’ screamed Cramer.

‘Yes!’ shouted Martin, leaping to his feet and punching the air.

Allan’s praise was more muted; he stood up and patted Cramer on the back. ‘Well done, Mike,’ he said.

Cramer stepped away and slid the stiletto into its sheath. The man in the leather jacket rubbed his chin and smiled ruefully. ‘I almost got you,’ he said.

‘Almost is what it’s all about,’ said Cramer, sitting down again. His heart was racing and he took several deep breaths to calm himself down. He looked up to see Su-ming standing at the kitchen door, a large bowl in her hands, a look of horror on her face. He realised she must have seen the attack. Before he could explain what had happened, she disappeared back into the kitchen.

Allan stood looking down at Cramer. ‘Now we’re getting there, Mike. We’re definitely getting there. One thing, though. Why did you use the knife, why didn’t you go for the gun? You had time.’

Cramer grinned. ‘Jesus, Allan, won’t you ever be satisfied?’

Allan shook his head. ‘Not until this is over.’

Cramer stood up and went into the kitchen. Su-ming was chopping asparagus spears but she stopped when she saw Cramer. ‘We were practising,’ he said before she could speak. ‘We don’t know when or how he’s going to strike, so Allan is testing me all the time.’

‘You’re going to kill him, aren’t you?’

‘The man has been paid to kill your boss,’ said Cramer. ‘He’s an assassin. A hired killer. He’s paid to kill people, we can’t just pull out a warrant card and tell him he’s under arrest.’

‘You scared me,’ she said, avoiding his eyes. ‘Not just what you did, but the way you did it. You were like a machine. A killing machine. There was a blood lust in your eyes.’

‘I was in control, Su-ming. That’s what Allan is doing, he’s training me to react instinctively. I won’t have time to think, it’ll be him or me.’

Su-ming put down the knife and folded her arms across her chest as if hugging herself. She looked absurdly young in the oversize pullover. ‘You’ve killed before, haven’t you?’ she asked.

‘Yes. Several times.’

‘And that doesn’t worry you?’

Cramer didn’t answer for a few seconds. ‘No, it doesn’t worry me,’ he eventually replied. ‘Not any more.’

‘When you kill this man, this assassin, I’ll be there, won’t I?’

‘Probably. Yes.’

‘So either I’m going to see you kill a man, or I’m going to see you killed. That’s not much of a choice, is it? Either way, I’m going to have a man’s death on my hands.’

‘We’re doing this to save your boss’s life, Su-ming, and the rest of the people this maniac could end up killing. This man has never failed. If we don’t stop him, there’s nowhere that your boss can hide, nowhere he can go where he’ll be safe. We have to take him out.’ Su-ming shuddered as if she was standing in a draught. ‘Are you all right?’ he asked. She shrugged. ‘Didn’t the Colonel explain what was going to happen?’

‘I was told that I was to accompany you, that we were to follow Mr Vander Mayer’s itinerary.’

‘You must have realised what was being planned?’ He reached out to touch her shoulder, but she edged away from him.

‘I suppose so. But I don’t think anyone actually said the words. No one actually said that we were setting up a man to be killed.’

Cramer rubbed his stomach softly. He wasn’t sure whether she meant that he, or the assassin, was the one being set up, or whether she cared either way. ‘We’ll make sure that you don’t get hurt,’ he said as soothingly as he could. ‘Allan and Martin will do everything they can to keep you out of it. And it’s me that he’ll be after. Not you.’

‘That’s not the point,’ she said, shaking her head.

‘What do you mean?’

She narrowed her eyes and shivered again, then quickly turned her back to him and picked up the knife. She chopped the asparagus spears with slow, precise movements. Cramer watched, not sure what to say. Su-ming continued to cut the asparagus into small chunks, the knife making a soft crunching sound. Cramer stood watching her in silence, but realised that the conversation was over. She’d shut him out, like a clam closing itself up for protection.

Sandra Worthington looked at her watch for the hundredth time and pursed her lips, wondering if Philip would be at the office yet. She couldn’t call him at home, the last time she’d done that he’d hit the roof and made her promise not to do it again. It had been a stupid thing to do. They were both married and both had a lot to lose if their affair was discovered, but there were times when she just had to hear his voice. A hurried ‘I love you’ or ‘I miss you’ was all she wanted. She checked her watch again.

‘Any chance of a cup of tea?’ asked her husband. He was sprawled across the sofa in front of the television set, watching Sky Sports and scratching himself.

‘Sure,’ she said and went into the kitchen. Their liver and white cocker spaniel followed her, wagging his stub of a tail good-naturedly. Her husband was nothing like Philip. Philip was tall and well-muscled, Philip was good-looking and kind, Philip made her laugh. Her husband just bored her, and had done for the past five years. If it wasn’t for the children, she’d have left him long ago, but her own parents had split up when she was eight and she’d promised herself that she would never put her two children through the same emotional roller-coaster.

Philip had children too, three boys, and he’d made it clear that his wife would never give him a divorce, and that even if she did the alimony and child support would consign him to a dingy bedsit for the rest of his life. They had to settle for what they had: hurried couplings in the back of his Volvo, lunchtime walks in the park, the occasional luxury of a hotel room, stolen moments when her children were at school. It wasn’t much, but it was better than nothing. Now even what little she had was under threat. Her husband had been made redundant and had spent the last three weeks lying about the house, watching television and only leaving to visit the pub or the betting shop. He was driving her crazy.

Sandra poured him a mug of tea and spooned in two sugars on autopilot. Philip didn’t take sugar. He looked after his body. She glanced at her watch again. She had to hear Philip’s voice, just to know that he cared, that he was thinking about her. The dog whined and put his head on one side. ‘Stop trying to look cute, Robbie,’ she said. The dog wagged his tail faster and made a soft growling noise. ‘Ah, I get it,’ Sandra whispered, and she winked conspiratorially at the dog.

She put the mug of tea down on the coffee table next to her husband. He grunted his thanks, his eyes fixed on the screen. ‘I think I’ll take Robbie for a walk,’ she said.

‘No need, I’ll take him to the pub with me,’ said her husband.

‘It’s a walk he needs, not a pint of lager,’ said Sandra, picking Robbie’s lead off the sideboard. Robbie rushed over, barking.

‘Shush!’ shouted her husband. ‘Can’t you do something about that damn dog?’

‘I’ll take him out,’ said Sandra, grabbing her coat. She checked that she had change in her pocket and hurried to the door. ‘See you later.’ Her husband grunted again and she slipped out, clipping the lead to Robbie’s collar as she walked down the stairs to the ground floor. Her heart was racing. There was a telephone box a hundred yards down the road but she decided against using it as it could be seen from their sitting room window. Robbie headed towards the park but Sandra pulled him back with a jerk. ‘Let me call Philip first, then you can play to your heart’s content,’ she said.

As she walked along the pavement, Sandra wondered what she’d say to Philip. Until her husband got off his damned sofa and went looking for a job, it was going to be practically impossible for her to slip away for a few hours. Perhaps he could come around in his car and she could take Robbie for another walk in the evening? It wouldn’t be the first time that the dog had sat on the front seat of Philip’s Volvo while they made love in the back. She smiled at the thought.

Robbie began pulling to the gutter. ‘Oh, Robbie, wait, can’t you?’ The dog pulled harder and Sandra relented. She let him step off the pavement. His nose was down and his tail was twitching. His feet scrabbled on the tarmac as he tried to pull away from her. ‘Oh come on, Robbie, don’t give me a hard time,’ Sandra moaned. The dog headed towards a blue Ford Sierra. Sandra yanked on the lead but Robbie wasn’t in the least deterred. He began to sniff the Sierra’s bumper and his tail started to wag even faster. Sandra knelt down by his side and stroked the back of his head. ‘Shit or get off the pot, Robbie,’ she said testily. ‘I’ve got a telephone call to make.’

She grabbed Robbie’s collar and pulled him away. As she did so she noticed a red smear on the black bumper. She frowned. It wasn’t glossy enough to be paint. She rubbed her finger on it and stared at the rusty stain on her skin. Robbie licked her finger then went back to sniffing the boot. That was when Sandra noticed the smell for the first time. She’d brought up two children and the smell immediately brought back memories of soiled nappies and filled potties. She hurriedly rubbed her finger on the tarmac, trying to get rid of the stain. She knew what it was now. Blood.

Lynch poured boiling hot water into the teapot and swirled it around, then tipped it into the sink. He knew how important it was to warm the pot first, though in an age of teabags it was something that fewer people seemed to insist on. He opened Marie’s stainless steel caddy and spooned tea into the pot.

‘Dermott?’ Marie called from the sitting room.

‘What?’ he replied, as he poured water into the pot and stirred it quickly.

‘Your car? Is it a blue one?’

Lynch dropped the spoon and rushed into the sitting room. Marie was standing at the window, looking out. He stood behind her and put his hands on her shoulders. Down below in the street a police car had stopped behind the Ford Sierra. A uniformed policewoman was talking to a dark-haired woman with a dog while her colleague was bending down and examining the boot. ‘Shit,’ cursed Lynch.

‘Is it yours?’ asked Marie. ‘What’s he looking for?’

Lynch didn’t reply. He turned away from the window and went to the spare room. He retrieved the handgun from under the bed and pulled out the magazine. He checked the firing mechanism, then slotted the magazine back in and made sure that the safety was on. Marie walked into the room and stopped dead when she saw the gun. ‘You brought a gun into my house?’ she asked.

‘Marie, love, I didn’t have any choice.’ He slid the gun down the back of his trousers, then pulled on his jacket, so that it covered the weapon.

‘Is the car stolen?’ she asked.

Lynch walked past her and back into the sitting room. He stood at the side of the window and looked down. The policeman was peering through the rear window of the car, the policewoman was talking into her radio as the woman with the dog stood behind her, looking at her wristwatch. He wasn’t sure how much to tell Marie. She’d offered to help and she knew that he was an IRA volunteer, but he didn’t know how she’d react to the news that he’d killed five men and that one of them was in the boot of the Ford Sierra. ‘Yeah, it’s stolen. And my prints are all over it.’ He pounded the wall with the flat of his hand. ‘Hell, I shouldn’t have left the car there. I shouldn’t have hung around here, I should have legged it.’

‘Thanks, Dermott. Thanks a bunch.’

Lynch turned and went over to Marie and put his arms around her. ‘Hey now, love, that’s not what I meant. I’m just angry at myself, that’s all.’ He rested his chin on top of her head, his mind racing. The Russian gun was also in the boot of the car, next to Foley’s body. How could he have been so bloody stupid? He’d left the clean gun in the car and was carrying just about the hottest weapon in the country shoved down the back of his pants. The police would match the bullet that killed Foley to the bullets that had killed the IRA hit team. Then they’d go through Foley’s place and his own prints would be all over the back bedroom. ‘I’m going to have to go,’ he said.

‘I’ll come with you.’ She said the words urgently, and she held him close as if afraid that he’d push her away.

‘This is going to get really messy, love,’ he said.

‘Are you still going after Cramer?’

‘Yes.’

‘Let me come with you.’

Lynch closed his eyes. He could smell the apple fragrance of her shampoo and something that reminded him of a field in summer. She was so fresh, so young. She didn’t realise what she was asking. ‘No, love. I can’t. It’s too dangerous.’ He unpeeled her arms from around his waist and went back to the window. The policeman was down on his knees, sniffing at the boot. Lynch wondered if he’d try to force it open or if they’d call out a locksmith. Either way, he didn’t have long. ‘I have to go,’ he repeated. He patted down his pockets, checking that he had the two wallets and the money that Marie had given him.

‘You won’t stand a chance on your own,’ she said. ‘They’ll be looking for you. But if I was with you. .’

‘They’d miss you at work.’

‘I can call in sick.’

‘They’ll be starting a house-to-house search soon.’

‘All the more reason for me not to be here. We can use my car.’

‘You’re crazy.’

‘No, I’m not crazy, Dermott. This man Cramer destroyed my family, and I’ll do anything I can to help you get him.’ She stood before him, her hands defiantly on her hips, her chin up like a boxer at a weigh-in.

Lynch smiled.

‘Damn you, Dermott, what are you grinning at?’

‘I was just thinking how like your mother you are.’

‘Don’t try to sweet talk me.’

Lynch held up his hands as if trying to ward her off. ‘I’m not.’

‘We can use my car. I can help, Dermott. And I want to.’

Lynch narrowed his eyes as he looked at her. He genuinely didn’t want to get her involved, but she did have a point: the police would be looking for a man travelling alone. And there was another advantage in having her with him, for a while at least. It wouldn’t be long before details of the Maida Vale killings and the body in the car boot were made public, and it would be useful to see how Marie reacted to the news. It was one thing to offer her help, quite another for her to accept that she was tied in to five murders. ‘Okay,’ he said. ‘But just until I’m safely out of London. Then we split up.’

Marie grinned. ‘Deal,’ she said. She took a battered sheepskin jacket from a closet and disappeared into her bedroom. Lynch paced up and down nervously until she reappeared with a large Harrods carrier bag.

Lynch raised an eyebrow. ‘Marie, love, I said you’re driving me out of London. That’s all.’

‘Relax, Dermott. It’s cover. It’s far less suspicious if I’m carrying something.’ She opened the front door and ushered him out.

‘Where’s the car?’ he asked, as they walked downstairs.

‘Around the corner,’ she said. She opened the front door. As they stepped onto the pavement a second police car went by and Lynch turned away so that the occupants wouldn’t see his face. Marie looked over her shoulder. ‘Don’t look,’ hissed Lynch.

She jerked her head around. ‘Sorry,’ she whispered.

Lynch forced himself to walk slowly, trying to make it look as if they were nothing more sinister than a married couple going shopping. ‘Give me the keys,’ he said. ‘I’ll drive.’

She did as he asked. The keys were on a keyring with a tiny teddy bear attached. ‘Down here,’ she said, leading him into a side road. Lynch relaxed a little as they turned the corner, out of sight of the policemen.

Marie’s car was a red Golf GTI convertible. She climbed in and sat next to Lynch. ‘Where are we going?’ she asked as Lynch started the engine.

‘Wales,’ he said. He looked over his shoulder and drove away from the kerb.

Cramer, Allan and Martin stood behind a long table as they checked their weapons: Cramer his Walther PPK, Allan his Glock 18 and Martin his Heckler amp; Koch VP70. ‘Okay?’ Allan asked and the two other men nodded. They turned as one, raised their guns and fired at the line of cardboard targets, emptying their clips as quickly as possible. Cramer finished first because the much smaller PPK only held seven cartridges. Martin was the last to stop firing as his weapon held eighteen.

Cramer’s ears were ringing as they walked forward to check their accuracy. Allan had refused ear plugs or protectors so that they would get used to being under fire. It was hell on his eardrums, but Cramer knew that Allan was right; unless he was used to the sound of gunfire, his first reaction would be to flinch and to close his eyes and, with the assassin moving towards him, the slightest delay would be fatal. All of Cramer’s shots were dead centre.

Allan slapped him on the back. ‘Good shooting, Mike.’ He looked across at Martin’s target and pulled a face. ‘Fuck me, Martin, is your blood sugar low or something?’

Martin sniffed. ‘It’s not so bad,’ he said.

‘Bad? It’s crap.’

‘Yeah, well I’m not going to be firing at paper terrorists, am I? I was never that hot on the range.’

‘You can say that again.’ Allan began to stick small black paper circles over the holes made by the bullets.

‘Yeah, but I was shit hot in the Killing House, wasn’t I?’

‘You did okay,’ said Allan begrudgingly. He gave a handful of the paper circles to Cramer. ‘Martin came over to Hereford with a group from the Ranger Wing of the Irish Army to brush up on his counter-terrorist tactics,’ he explained.

‘Great crack,’ said Martin.

‘Was this in the old days, live targets and all?’ asked Cramer.

‘Nah. Shit, I forgot, you did the single room system, didn’t you?’ asked Martin. ‘That must have been something.’

‘Yeah. It was. The good old days.’ During Cramer’s time with the SAS, the close-quarter battle building had a single room where the troopers perfected their hostage-release technique, with dummies as terrorists and the SAS men taking it in turn to play hostages. Live ammunition was used and the room was often in near or total darkness, to make the exercise as real as possible. Eventually it became too real and in 1986 a sergeant playing the role of hostage was shot and killed. The fatal accident put an end to the single room system, and the Killing House was replaced with two rooms connected by a highly sophisticated camera and screen system. The terrorists and hostages were in one room, the SAS stormed another, shooting at life-size wrap-around screens. It wasn’t one hundred per cent realistic but it meant that there were no further accidents. As Martin said, it had been something in the old days.

The three men finished covering the holes and went back to the table. ‘What do you make of Su-ming?’ asked Martin.

Cramer shrugged. ‘Inscrutable,’ he said.

‘Yeah. That’s it exactly. Inscrutable. What’s her story?’

Cramer began slotting fresh cartridges into the PPK’s clip. ‘She’s the target’s assistant,’ he said.

Martin grinned lecherously. ‘Assistant my arse. He’s giving her one. Bound to be.’

‘What makes you say that?’

Martin raised his eyebrows. ‘Wouldn’t you?’

Cramer shook his head, smiling to himself. ‘You’re an animal, Martin.’

‘She keeps herself to herself,’ said Allan. ‘I wanted her to go through a few rehearsals with me, just so she’d get a feel for what’s going on. She wouldn’t.’

‘She’s unhappy about the whole business,’ said Cramer. ‘She might even be a Buddhist or something.’

‘I thought Buddhists shaved their heads?’ asked Martin.

‘Only the monks,’ said Allan.

‘Yeah? Well, just so long as she shaves her armpits. That’s one thing I can’t stand, you know? Hairy armpits.’

‘That’s a relief to us all, Martin,’ said Cramer.

‘Anyway, what’s being a Buddhist got to do with it?’ Martin asked.

‘She’s against killing,’ said Cramer.

‘Fucking terrific,’ laughed Martin. ‘Some nutter’s going to blow the head off her boss, and she’s worried about the sanctity of life.’

Allan put his loaded Glock on the table. ‘This guy’s no nutter, Martin. Don’t forget that. He’s not crazy, he’s as highly trained as you are. He knows exactly what he’s doing.’

Martin raised his hands in mock surrender. ‘Okay. Okay. No more crazy jokes.’

Cramer clicked the magazine into his PPK and checked that the safety was on. ‘She’ll be okay, won’t she?’

‘So long as she doesn’t get in the way,’ Allan replied. ‘Why, are you worried?’

‘I’d be happier if she took part in the rehearsals. Like you said, it’d be better if she knew what to expect.’

Allan shrugged. ‘The killer doesn’t shoot innocent bystanders, or at least he hasn’t so far.’

‘There was the doorman at the Harrods delivery entrance,’ Cramer pointed out.

‘He was wearing a uniform. And he was part of the security staff.’

‘Yeah, but he wasn’t armed.’

Allan rubbed his nose with the back of his hand. ‘We’ll make sure she stays in the background whenever you’re vulnerable. I wouldn’t worry, Mike. This guy doesn’t care about witnesses. He’s totally focused on the target and any bodyguards. That’s you, me and Martin. I’d be more concerned about yourself than her.’ Allan turned to face the targets.

Cramer followed his example and flicked the safety off. ‘Yeah, I know you’re right, but I just worry about her.’

‘He’s got the hots for her, that’s all,’ said Martin.

‘Fuck you,’ said Cramer.

‘Whatever turns you on,’ said Martin, grinning.

‘When you’re ready, ladies,’ said Allan. The three men began firing and the air was soon full of bitter cordite fumes as streams of empty cartridges rattled onto the floor. Cramer fought to concentrate on the paper targets, but he couldn’t block Su-ming out of his mind. Martin was wrong, Cramer wasn’t in the least bit sexually attracted to Vander Mayer’s assistant. And even if he was, there was nothing he could do about it; setting aside his medical condition, he was embarking on a mission which was more than likely to end in his own death. Romance was the last thing on his mind. His clip emptied a fraction of a second after Allan finished shooting and he stared at the cardboard cutout as Martin continued to fire with his machine pistol. Three of Cramer’s shots had gone wide.

Dermott Lynch drove down the M4, keeping the GTI below 70mph. He was keen to get as far as possible from London but he knew it would be reckless to exceed the speed limit, especially as he still had a loaded gun tucked into the back of his trousers. They stopped at a petrol station near Windsor and while Lynch topped up the tank, Marie telephoned her office and told them that she had flu and wouldn’t be in for a few days.

‘Where in Wales are we going?’ Marie asked as she settled back in her seat.

‘Near Swansea,’ said Lynch. ‘Cramer flew by helicopter from a place called Howth, just north of Dublin, and I know where it landed. I’ve got the map reference.’

‘How did you manage that?’

‘Best you don’t know,’ said Lynch.

‘You can trust me, Dermott.’ She patted his leg, then squeezed him just above the knee.

‘It’s not a matter of trust. It’s for your own good. The less you know, the safer you’ll be.’ Marie took her hand away from his leg. She looked out of the passenger window and made a soft tutting noise. Lynch smiled. ‘Come on, love. Don’t sulk.’

‘I’m not sulking,’ she said, but she still wouldn’t look at him.

Lynch tapped the steering wheel. A red Audi screamed past in the outside lane. It must have been doing more than a hundred and ten miles an hour. Lynch shook his head. The guy was just asking to be picked up. He looked across as Marie. She pouted and shrugged her shoulders. Lynch chuckled. ‘Marie, love, this is serious.’

‘I know that.’

‘You’re a civilian. You’re not involved. You’re not a player.’

Her eyes blazed. ‘I’m here, aren’t I?’

‘Against my better judgement.’

She turned away again. Her breath fogged up the window and she rubbed it with her sleeve.

Lynch drove in silence for a while as tight-lipped young men in shirt sleeves whizzed by in company cars. ‘You were never a volunteer, were you?’ he asked eventually.

‘Don’t you know?’

‘Why would I know?’ She shrugged, but still didn’t look at him. ‘Marie, the IRA isn’t a series of levels like a regular army. It used to be, but the organisation was too vulnerable to infiltration. Now it’s made up of small cells, usually just four people. Of those four, only one will have contact with another cell. The other three only know the members of their own cell. It’s much safer that way. If one of them is caught, it restricts the numbers they can inform on.’

‘Why would they talk?’

Lynch snorted softly. ‘Marie, love, sooner or later virtually everyone talks. Anyway, that’s not my point.’

‘I’m not a child, Dermott.’

‘I know you’re not a child. I’m just trying to explain why I don’t want to tell you how I know where Cramer went. If I tell you who told me, he becomes twice as vulnerable. When he gave me the information, he put himself at risk and I have to respect that. If I tell you, that risk is doubled. It doesn’t matter how much I trust you, it doesn’t matter how reliable you are, it’s just a matter of minimising risk.’

Marie nodded thoughtfully. She turned to look at him. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘You’re right.’ She put her hand back on his leg. They drove in silence for a while. Occasionally Marie absent-mindedly scratched Lynch’s leg with a fingernail. ‘This cell system, is that still in operation?’ she asked.

‘One hundred per cent,’ said Lynch. ‘Same as it ever was.’

‘But I thought that after the ceasefire the IRA was winding down.’

Lynch snorted dismissively. ‘The ceasefire is temporary, never forget that,’ he said. ‘It lasts only for as long as Sinn Fein makes progress towards its political aims. The organisation is as well-organised and well-armed as it ever was. Don’t let the rhetoric fool you, love. The hard men on the Army Council would love to pick up their guns again.’

‘Do you think that will happen?’

Lynch nodded grimly. ‘Yeah, love. I’m afraid I do. I’m in a minority, but I believe that it’s only a matter of time before the violence starts again.’

Cramer was in his room, sitting on the bed and rereading Jackman’s report, when there was a timid knock on the door. ‘Come in,’ he said, placing the thick plastic-bound file on the pillow.

It was Su-ming, carrying a tea tray. ‘Mrs Elliott said you didn’t eat lunch,’ she said.

‘Yeah, I wasn’t hungry.’

She put the tray down on the bed next to him. It contained a small bowl of white rice, and another bowl with thin strips of white flesh and bean sprouts. ‘It’s fish,’ she said. ‘Sea bass.’

‘Thanks.’ He picked up the chopsticks and held them as best he could. One of them spun out of his hand and she retrieved it from the floor. Cramer pulled a face. ‘It’s not as easy as it looks,’ he said.

‘It takes practice,’ she agreed. ‘But you’re getting better.’

Cramer smiled as he recalled Allan saying pretty much the same thing to him, albeit under different circumstances. He tried again, with more success this time. ‘So you can speak Russian, huh?’

‘Yes.’

‘What other languages can you speak?’

‘Mandarin Chinese. Cantonese. Thai. Vietnamese. French. German.’ She didn’t appear to take pride in the number of languages she spoke, as if it was the most natural thing in the world.

‘That’s pretty impressive.’

She shrugged dismissively. ‘And English, of course.’

‘Of course. How did you learn so many languages?’

‘Some I learned as a child. Some I studied. Mr Vander Mayer said it would be useful if I spoke Russian. I attended a course in New York.’

‘And now you’re fluent?’

‘Almost.’

Su-ming sat down on a chair in front of the dressing table and watched him eat. ‘Why did they choose you?’ she asked.

Cramer swallowed a mouthful of beansprouts. They were crisp and fresh, with a hint of garlic and something he couldn’t quite identify. ‘Why do you ask?’

‘Because you don’t look anything like Mr Vander Mayer. He’s older, he’s not as tall as you, and his face isn’t as. .’ She groped for the right word. ‘Sharp,’ she said eventually.

‘Sharp?’ said Cramer, grinning.

She nodded. ‘Sharp. Like a hawk.’

‘It’s the nose,’ said Cramer, trying unsuccessfully to pick up some rice.

‘You’re never serious, are you? About anything?’

Cramer shrugged. ‘Sometimes it’s better not to take things too seriously.’

‘No, it’s an act with you. You pretend not to care. .’

‘But you can see through me, is that it?’ Cramer finished for her. ‘Don’t try to read too much into me, Su-ming. I’m a soldier, that’s all. I obey orders.’

‘So you were ordered to do this? You were ordered to take Mr Vander Mayer’s place?’

Cramer’s mouth felt suddenly dry. There was a cup of green tea on the tray and he sipped it. ‘No,’ he said. ‘It wasn’t an order.’

‘Because you aren’t in the army any more. You’re not a soldier now, are you?’

‘That’s true,’ agreed Cramer. She’d obviously been asking about him. He wasn’t sure whether to be flattered or worried.

‘So why, Mike Cramer? Why are you doing this?’ Her dark brown eyes bored into his. Cramer met her gaze levelly. For several seconds they stared into each other’s eyes. Cramer looked away first.

‘A man’s got to do what a man’s got to do,’ he said lamely.

Su-ming stood up. ‘Why are you like this?’ she asked quietly. ‘Why won’t you ever be serious? Life is not a joke. What you’re doing isn’t funny.’ Cramer didn’t say anything. ‘You’re empty,’ she said. ‘You’re a hollow man. Something inside you died a long time ago.’

Cramer looked up at her. ‘Yeah? Is that a professional opinion?’

She walked out of the bedroom, her arms swinging backwards and forwards, like a small child being sent to bed. Cramer put down his chopsticks. He wasn’t hungry any more.

Lynch left the M4 at Bristol. Marie had fallen asleep and she was snoring softly, her chin against her chest. Lynch smiled as he looked across at her. She was a pretty girl and under other circumstances Lynch would have enjoyed spending time with her. The digital clock on the dashboard said it was just before two o’clock. ‘Marie?’ he said softly. There was no reaction so he switched on the radio and twisted the tuning dial until he found a news station. He kept the volume down low and he strained to hear the headlines. The Maida Vale shooting was the second item: four men, as yet unidentified, shot, three of them dead, a man reported running away from the scene. Lynch frowned as he wondered which of the IRA men had survived. He’d have put money on the fact that he’d killed all of them. Not that it mattered, it wasn’t as if the man would be helping the police with their enquiries. There was no description of the man the police were looking for, but Lynch knew that it wasn’t the police he’d have to worry about. The IRA wouldn’t need a description.

There was no mention of Foley, though Lynch was certain that the police would have opened the boot and discovered the body by now. Lynch cursed his own stupidity for the thousandth time. He should never have left the car parked on the street, he should have wiped the car clean of prints, he should have taken the second gun with him. He wondered how he could have been so careless. Marie sniffed and moved in her seat, turning so that her right cheek lay against her headrest. Her lips were slightly parted and he caught a glimpse of perfect white teeth. Lynch reached over and switched off the radio.

He drove into the city and made for a centrally located car park. Marie opened her eyes as he switched off the engine. ‘Are we there?’ she asked sleepily.

‘Bristol,’ answered Lynch.

Marie sat up and rubbed her eyes with the back of her hands. ‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘I didn’t mean to fall asleep. I’ll drive the next bit if you like.’

‘I don’t mind,’ said Lynch. He’d actually enjoyed the drive, it had given him time to think.

‘Why have we stopped?’

‘Provisions for me,’ he replied. ‘And a train ticket back to London for you.’

Marie’s jaw dropped. ‘What?’

‘Don’t look so surprised, love,’ said Lynch. ‘The deal was that you help me get out of London. I shouldn’t even have brought you this far.’

‘Dermott, I want to help. I want to stay with you.’

Lynch opened the door. ‘We’ve been through this, Marie. It’s for the best.’ They walked together out of the car park and along Redcliffe Way, one of the main shopping streets. Marie slipped her arm through Lynch’s as if they were a courting couple. ‘And don’t think you can make me change my mind,’ said Lynch.

Marie raised her eyebrows. ‘This is just cover,’ she laughed. ‘There’s no ulterior motive.’ She squeezed his arm tightly. Lynch nodded at a sign that indicated they were walking towards Temple Meads Station but Marie pretended not to notice. ‘Are you hungry?’ she asked.

‘I could eat,’ replied Lynch, half-heartedly.

‘So let’s,’ she said, pulling him towards a cafe.

‘There’s something I want to buy first,’ said Lynch. He found a camping store in Redcliffe Way, its window filled with tents, portable stoves and climbing ropes. Inside was a rack of maps and Lynch went through them. Several were Ordnance Survey maps but others were commercial versions which utilised their own reference systems. He found several of Wales but only one which used lines of longitude and latitude. It was a large scale map of the country and he had considerable trouble unfolding it. He had memorised the reference numbers that the Irish air traffic controller had given him and he ran his finger across to where the two lines met. ‘Swansea?’ asked Marie, looking at where he was pointing.

‘Somewhere close by,’ he said. ‘I need a larger scale.’

Marie nodded. ‘West Glamorgan, isn’t it?’ She went through the rack as Lynch refolded the map, laughing at his unwieldy attempts to put it back into its original form. Minutes later, Marie handed him a large scale map of West Glamorgan and took the map of Wales from him. She folded it with a few deft movements and slid it back into the rack.

Lynch opened the map of West Glamorgan and checked whether it too had lines of longitude and latitude. It did. ‘Perfect,’ he said. He went over to a display case. An elderly man in brown overalls came across and Lynch asked to see a pair of high powered binoculars. He bought them, the map, and a compass and then left the shop with Marie.

They went back to the cafe and after ordering himself a cheeseburger and coffee, and Marie a salad and Diet Coke, Lynch spread the map out over the table. Marie switched seats so that she was sitting next to him. ‘There’s Swansea,’ she said. ‘And there’s the airport to the west.’

Lynch shook his head as he ran his finger down the map. ‘They didn’t land at the airport,’ he said. He tapped the map. ‘Here. This is where they went down.’

Marie peered at the name Lynch was indicating, a small village close to the tip of a peninsula which stuck out fifteen miles into the Bristol Channel, separating Carmarthen Bay and Swansea Bay. ‘Llanrhidian,’ she read.

‘About half a mile to the north-east of it.’

Marie sat back and brushed the hair from her eyes. ‘What makes you think he’s still there?’

Lynch refolded the map. This time he managed to do it first time and he smiled to himself. ‘I don’t, but it’s the only clue I’ve got,’ he said. ‘If he was going on somewhere else, I think they’d have taken him straight to the airport.’ He stood up. ‘I’m going to the toilet,’ he said.

In the bathroom, Lynch splashed cold water onto his face and stood for a while appraising his reflection in the mirror above the sink. The new hairstyle suited him, and the colour looked natural enough. He dried his face on the roller towel then went back into the cafe.

Marie’s head was bent over a newspaper. Lynch frowned. She hadn’t had time to go and buy a paper. Then he saw copies of the Daily Mirror and the Daily Telegraph by the cash register and realised that the cafe owners supplied them free for customers. Marie turned the front page and ran a hand through her hair as she read. Lynch had a pretty good idea what had grabbed her attention. He slid into the seat opposite her. She looked up sharply. ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’ she snapped. Lynch was taken aback. Anger wasn’t the reaction he’d expected — he’d assumed she’d feel scared. He smiled, trying to put her at ease. ‘Don’t fucking grin at me like a chimpanzee with a hard on,’ she hissed angrily.

‘What?’ he said, stunned.

‘Don’t give me what, you know exactly what I’m talking about.’ She closed the paper and tossed it at him. It was that morning’s Daily Mail. The story splashed across the front page had been written by the paper’s chief reporter and he clearly had better sources than the radio reporter Lynch had listened to in the car. The Mail story identified the four shooting victims as an IRA team and named the man who had survived as Declan McGee of Belfast. Lynch didn’t recognise the name, but that meant nothing. According to the Mail, the police were treating the incident as an internal IRA dispute. Yeah, thought Lynch, they were dead right there. The UFF and the UVF had issued separate statements saying that they weren’t involved in the killings and that they remained committed to the peace process.

‘So?’ said Marie, jarring his concentration. Lynch held his hand up to her lips as he continued to read, but she pushed it away. She sat back in her seat and folded her arms defensively across her chest.

The reporter quoted an unnamed Security Service source as saying that the Maida Vale shootings were thought to be connected to the death of Pat O’Riordan in the Republic, which was now being treated as murder and not suicide. Lynch’s eyes widened. Pat O’Riordan, dead? The news hit him like a punch to the solar plexus. Any doubts that the IRA had signed his death warrant evaporated. He was a marked man.

The reporter suggested that the killings were the result of a struggle for power in the top echelons of the IRA, with the hardliners being unhappy at the lack of progress on the political front. Lynch wondered who had fed the reporter that particular line. It could have been someone within the organisation, trying to steer the flak away from McCormack, or a Protestant source trying to discredit the IRA. Either way, Lynch knew that the deaths were nothing to do with any power struggle: the IRA was trying to distance itself from the deaths of the Americans, and O’Riordan and Lynch had been tagged as the fall guys. The story continued inside the paper but it was mostly background material on previous IRA activities on the mainland, along with a piece written by an Oxford don speculating on the effect the killings might have on the Irish political situation and the peace process. The piece came to no conclusion, which was hardly a surprise to Lynch. Most of what was written in the media about the organisation was speculation; uninformed at best, misinformation spread by the Security Services at worst. He closed the paper and rested his arms on it. Marie was waiting for him to speak. ‘I should have told you,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry.’

‘That’s not good enough, Dermott.’

A waitress carried over a tray and put Lynch’s cheeseburger down in front of him. Lynch nodded his thanks and poured milk into his coffee as the waitress passed Marie her salad. He waited until the waitress was out of hearing range before speaking. ‘I wasn’t sure that I could trust you,’ he said.

‘Well I’m damn sure I can’t trust you,’ she replied. She picked up a fork and prodded a slice of tomato. ‘How can they call this a salad? A tomato, three lettuce leaves that any self-respecting rabbit wouldn’t look at twice and half a dozen slices of week-old cucumber.’

‘I’m sorry,’ said Lynch.

‘Who do you think I am? Some tout who’d go running to the police at the first sign of trouble?’

Lynch shrugged. He looked down at his cheeseburger but he’d lost his appetite. Pat O’Riordan, dead. He remembered how the big man had clasped him to his chest on the day they’d said goodbye. ‘Take care of yourself,’ O’Riordan had said. Lynch intended to do just that. He took a mouthful of coffee and swallowed it as he considered what to say to her. ‘I was going to tell you,’ he said.

‘When?’

‘Eventually.’

‘That’s no answer.’ She put down her fork and leaned across the table. ‘I’m in this with you and I’ll do whatever it takes to help. I don’t expect you to compromise the organisation or to name names, but I don’t expect to be treated like I was the enemy or something.’ She nodded at the newspaper. ‘Four volunteers shot in Maida Vale just before you arrive on my doorstep. Coincidence? I think not. So what am I supposed to think, Dermott? Either you were with them and you managed to get away, or you killed them. You want to know what I think?’ Lynch nodded slowly. ‘I think if it was the UVF or the UDA or even the SAS after you then you’d have told me. In fact, you probably wouldn’t even have come to me for help, you’d have called up someone in the organisation. There’s plenty of safe houses in Kilburn where they’d take good care of you.’

‘Not such good care,’ he said, smiling.

‘A winning smile isn’t going to get you off the hook that easily,’ she said. ‘That’s something else that pisses me off. You lied your way into my bed, Dermott. It’ll be a long time before I forgive you for that.’

‘It wasn’t a lie, Marie. Okay, I admit that I didn’t tell you the whole truth, but I didn’t lie. I am going after Cramer, and the organisation isn’t happy about it.’

‘Semantics,’ she said dismissively. ‘You’re playing with words. Anyway, like I was saying, I don’t think that you were working with the men who were killed last night. Am I right?’

‘You’re right,’ he said. ‘They tried to kill me. I was defending myself.’

‘And why would they want to kill you, Dermott? They can’t all have been jealous husbands.’

Lynch pointed at the paper. ‘You read about the farmer who died? Pat O’Riordan?’ Marie nodded. ‘The IRA murdered him. It might even have been the same four guys who tried to kill me.’

‘That’s who. I asked why.’

‘Pat and I were involved in an operation in the border country. It went wrong, two tourists were killed. Americans. I’m not sure what happened then. We were told to get out, to lie low for a while, but it looks as if someone decided that a more permanent solution was called for.’

‘They’d do that?’

‘Of course. They don’t want anyone else to take care of their dirty laundry. They want to show that they can discipline their own. Plus, if the authorities had got hold of us, we might have talked. I’m not saying we would have, I’m saying that the Army Council would worry about the possibility. So rather than take the risk, they decided to have Pat and me killed.’

Marie’s mouth fell open. She shook her head, then gulped half her Diet Coke. ‘This is unreal,’ she said as she put down her glass.

‘I wish it was,’ said Lynch. He picked up his cheeseburger and bit into it.

‘So they attacked you and you killed them?’

Lynch swallowed and nodded. ‘I was on my way to the flat where I was staying. A van pulled up, a guy asked me if I was Dermott Lynch. They were all armed. If they hadn’t been planning to kill me there and then, it would only have been a matter of time. Somewhere nice and quiet, out in the country maybe. Perhaps they were planning to make it look like a suicide or an accident, but Marie, love, there was no way I was going to hang around to find out.’

Marie began to prod her salad again, but she made no move to eat it. ‘So why didn’t you just make a run for it? Why didn’t you just take your car and drive? And why were the police looking at your car this morning?’

Lynch put down his cheeseburger and wiped his hands on a paper napkin. He realised that there was no point in lying to her. The discovery of Foley’s body would be front page news in the following day’s papers, but that wasn’t why he had decided to tell her everything. She was right — he owed her his honesty. ‘There’s a body in the boot.’

‘What?’ She looked around, left and right, as if she feared that somebody would overhear, but the nearby tables were all empty and their waitress was busying herself at a hissing cappuccino machine.

‘There was another guy, the guy I was staying with.’

‘You killed him as well?’

‘It was an accident.’

Marie’s eyes widened. ‘An accident? Jesus, Dermott, how the hell do you accidentally kill someone?’

A thick scum was forming on the top of Lynch’s coffee and he used a fingernail to drag it to the side of his mug. ‘He tried to grab my gun. It went off. Honest to God, I had no intention of shooting him.’

Marie used both hands to brush her hair behind her ears as she studied Lynch. ‘Do the police know it was you?’

‘My fingerprints were all over the car.’

‘So the police are going to be after you, as well as the IRA? And you’re still going after Cramer?’

‘That’s about the size of it, love.’

‘You don’t exactly make it easy for yourself, do you?’

‘Marie, if it was easy, everyone would be doing it.’ He smiled, though he was watching her carefully to assess her reaction. Helping him get back at the British soldier who’d been partly responsible for the death of her parents was one thing; helping a murderer on the run was quite another.

The door to the cafe opened and Lynch looked over to see who was coming in. It was an elderly couple, both overweight and wrapped up in wool coats and matching tartan scarves. They fussed over each other as they sat down at a table by the window, then they both put on glasses so that they could read the menu.

Marie pushed her plate away. ‘I can’t eat this,’ she said.

Lynch looked down at his burger. Grease was congealing on the plate. ‘Yeah, I’ve had enough, too,’ he said.

‘We can get something else in Wales,’ said Marie. She looked at him as if daring him to argue.

Lynch sipped his coffee. It was lukewarm. He watched her over the top of his mug. Any thoughts about arguing with Marie disappeared when he saw the intensity in her eyes. He knew that nothing he could say would dissuade her. Besides, now that she knew the trouble he was in and where he was heading, it made more sense to keep her close to him. ‘Are you sure?’ he asked.

Marie nodded, her eyes fixed on his. ‘Oh yes, Dermott, I’m quite sure. I wouldn’t miss this for the world.’

Cramer sat in the rear seat of the Mercedes and stared at the back of Martin’s head. ‘You okay, Mike?’ Martin asked.

Cramer realised that Martin was watching him in the rear-view mirror. He forced a smile. ‘Yeah. Just fine.’ Actually he felt far from fine. He felt as if a metal clamp was biting into his intestines. The previous night the pain had been worse than anything he’d ever felt before in his life, worse even than on the two occasions when he’d been brutally tortured. At least then he’d had someone to blame for his pain, someone he could curse and hate. Having a focus for his anger had helped take his mind off the damage that was being done to his body, but with the cancer there was nothing to fight against. The pain was the result of his own body working against itself; he had no one to hate but himself.

Allan was walking around the rear of the Mercedes, his head swivelling from side to side. As his hand gripped the handle of the door next to Cramer, Martin nodded. ‘Here we go,’ said Martin, opening his own door. Cramer grunted as he stepped out of the car. Martin moved to stand directly in front of him as Allan closed the door, then the three men moved together towards the steps that led up to the front door of the school. Cramer’s stomach churned and he tasted something bitter and acidic at the back of his mouth. He forced himself to swallow whatever it was that he’d thrown up and then took several deep breaths.

One of the guards came along the gravel path from the croquet lawn and Martin stepped to the side to provide cover. The man was too far away to be a threat but Martin kept a wary eye on them as Allan stepped up to the front door and checked that the hallway was clear. Cramer looked up and saw Su-ming at one of the upstairs windows. ‘Focus, Mike,’ Allan whispered. Cramer had stopped at the foot of the steps and both the bodyguards had been forced to stop too, so that they wouldn’t get too far ahead of him. His protection depended on them never being more than a step or two from his side. The further away they were, the more he was at risk. ‘In the car you’re safe,’ said Allan, coming back down the stone steps. ‘We’ll always be using vehicles with bullet-proof glass. Besides, our man has never taken a shot through a window. It’s always face to face. Entering and leaving vehicles and buildings is where you’re in the most danger, so you must be aware of everything that’s going on around you.’

A ripple of nausea washed across Cramer’s stomach and he felt his legs go weak. Allan put a hand on Cramer’s shoulder. ‘You tired?’ he asked.

‘A bit. I didn’t sleep much last night.’

Allan looked at his watch, a rugged Russian model that looked as if it had come straight off a Soviet tank commander’s wrist. ‘We could take an hour off. We’ve been pushing it hard today.’

‘I wouldn’t mind,’ said Cramer gratefully. He hated having to show weakness, but this wasn’t a question of fatigue, he was really sick and if he didn’t rest up he knew he’d collapse. He wasn’t sure how much Allan and Martin knew about his medical condition, but one thing he was sure of, he didn’t want their sympathy and he didn’t want them to treat him like an invalid. That was the main reason he’d rejected the offers of treatment made by the doctors in Madrid. Radiation therapy, chemotherapy, operations; they had a host of suggested remedies none of which had more than an outside chance of extending his life by more than a few months. The doctors had admitted as much, and they had made no attempt to dissuade him when he refused treatment. There was no way that Cramer was prepared to die in a hospital bed, no way that he was prepared to see the pity in the eyes of the doctors and nurses as they waited for the cancer to run its course. He wanted to die on his feet with the blood coursing through his veins, and if everything went according to plan he’d be getting his wish within the next few days.

Allan patted him on the back. ‘Let’s take a break, then. Grab some scran, if you like.’

‘Cheers,’ said Cramer, though food was the last thing on his mind.

Martin headed towards the kitchen and Allan followed him. Cramer took off his overcoat and draped it over his arm. ‘I’ll be in my room,’ Cramer called after Allan. He walked slowly up the stairs, taking deep breaths, willing the pain to dissipate.

He took the stairs one at a time, shuffling like an old man, one hand on the banister for balance, the other clutching the coat. When he reached the top, he leant against the wall and closed his eyes. Gradually the waves of pain subsided, though a dull ache remained, like a small block of ice lodged among his intestines. The Spanish doctors had warned him that the pain would get worse as the disease progressed, and that eventually it would become more than he could bear. Cramer opened his eyes. His jaw was aching and he realised he must have been grinding his teeth.

On the way to his room, he walked past the bedroom which had been allocated to Su-ming. Her door was open and as he went by he saw her sitting on her bed. He stopped and knocked quietly. ‘Hello, Mike Cramer,’ she said, without looking up. Cramer wondered if she was trying to impress him, to demonstrate that she could recognise his footfall.

‘Hi. You busy?’

‘Yes,’ she said.

‘Ah. Right.’ He turned to go but she looked up and smiled at him.

‘Come in,’ she said.

Cramer walked into her room and dropped his overcoat over the back of a leather armchair. The room was similar in size and layout to his own, with a small bathroom leading off to the left. He looked out of the window and watched as Martin drove the Mercedes away from the front of the building, presumably to park it around the corner with the rest of the vehicles.

‘More rehearsals?’ she asked.

‘Yeah. Allan sets high standards.’

‘He cares about you. He doesn’t want you to get hurt.’

Cramer turned to look at her. She was sitting cross-legged on the single bed with a leather-bound book and a notepad in front of her. She was holding something. ‘He’s just doing his job,’ said Cramer, trying to see what she had in her hand.

Su-ming shook her head without looking up. ‘You’re mistaken. There’s more to it than that.’ She unclenched her fist and tossed three coins up into the air. They spun slowly and then fell onto the bedcover. She looked at them and then wrote in her notepad.

‘What are you doing?’ he asked.

Su-ming picked up the three coins and held them tightly in her left hand. ‘Seeking guidance,’ she said. She tossed the coins and made another note.

Cramer sat down in the armchair and leaned forward to watch her, intrigued. She threw the coins in again. Cramer peered at the notepad. She had drawn a series of lines, one above the other, several of them broken in the centre. ‘May I?’ he asked, pointing at the leather-bound volume.

‘Help yourself,’ she said, tossing the coins again.

Cramer picked up the book. The leather was old and the pages yellowing, but it had obviously been well cared for. He opened it. It was Chinese. He flicked through the well-thumbed pages. There were several illustrations, black and white drawings of Chinese figures, birds, animals and landscapes. The book appeared to be divided into chapters, each one headed by a diagram similar to the one Su-ming had drawn on her notepad. Six lines, one above the other, some broken in the middle, others unbroken. Cramer put the book down and looked at the diagram on Su-ming’s notepad. She saw him frowning. ‘It’s a hexagram,’ she said.

‘A hexagram?’

‘It tells you where to look in the I Ching.’

Cramer smiled. ‘Are you being deliberately inscrutable?’ he asked.

Su-ming handed him the three coins. They were covered with Chinese characters and had small holes in the middle. Like the book, they were clearly very old, the impressions almost worn away. ‘The I Ching is the Book of Life Changing. Or the Book of Changes. The Chinese title can be translated several ways. The idea behind it is more than five thousand years old. The copy I have is more than three hundred years old.’

Cramer raised his eyebrows. ‘Three hundred years?’ he repeated.

‘The coins are even older.’

‘How old?’

‘At least eight hundred years.’

Cramer stared at the coins in the palm of his hand. He wondered how many thousands of hands the coins had passed through over the years. He couldn’t even begin to imagine how the world had changed as the coins had passed down through the generations, the metal growing smoother and darker as the humans who made them turned to dust. ‘I don’t think I’ve ever touched anything so old,’ he said.

‘It puts things into perspective, doesn’t it?’ said Su-ming.

‘This I Ching, it works?’

‘It’s not a television set, Mike Cramer. It’s not something you plug in and watch. The I Ching helps you to interpret what’s happening to you. It’s an oracle, and the skill is in the interpretation of the book.’

‘Like Tarot cards?’

‘It’s more detailed than the Tarot. But a similar idea, yes.’

‘Fortune-telling?’

‘No, Mike Cramer, it is not fortune-telling.’ She held out her hands for the coins and he gave them to her.

‘Do you do readings for your boss?’

Su-ming rubbed the coins between her hands as if trying to warm them. ‘Every day,’ she said.

‘He must believe in it, then?’

Su-ming sighed as if deeply disappointed. ‘It’s not a question of belief. You don’t have to believe in an aeroplane for it to carry you through the skies. Yes, Mr Vander Mayer believes in the integrity of the I Ching and in my interpretation of it, but that is irrelevant so far as its veracity is concerned.’

‘So it does work?’

Su-ming’s eyes flashed, then she smiled as she realised he was teasing her. ‘Yes, Mike Cramer, it works. Are you happy now?’

‘Will you do me?’ He held her gaze for several seconds.

She stopped smiling. ‘Is this a test, is that it? You want to test me?’

Cramer shrugged. ‘I thought it might be interesting, that’s all. If you don’t want to. .’

‘It’s not that I don’t want to, but I’m not some sort of guinea pig. I don’t need to have my abilities tested. I consult the I Ching for myself and for Mr Vander Mayer. I don’t do party tricks.’ She held out the coins and Cramer took them.

‘You have to ask a specific question,’ she said. ‘Not a question which can be answered with a yes or a no, and it must be a question which is significant to you. The I Ching is not to be used for fun, do you understand?’

‘Yes,’ said Cramer meekly.

Su-ming nodded. ‘When you have the question fixed in your mind, you toss the coins six times. Depending how they fall, each toss will be either yin or yang. If it’s yang, I draw an unbroken line, if it’s yin, I draw a broken line. The six throws produce a hexagram. Do you understand?’

Cramer shrugged. ‘I guess so.’

‘It doesn’t matter. All you have to do is to frame the question and throw the coins. I will use the hexagram and the coin combinations to interpret the answer from the book.’

‘Do I have to tell you the question?’

Su-ming shook her head. ‘No.’

Cramer wondered what he should ask. He toyed with something frivolous but he knew that Su-ming wouldn’t be amused. She clearly took it very seriously. ‘Okay. I’m ready.’

He threw the coins and Su-ming drew a short line on the notepad. He tossed the metal discs another five times and when he had finished Su-ming held up the six lines she’d drawn on the pad. The top, third and fifth lines were broken, the second, fourth and bottom lines were unbroken. ‘Chi Chi,’ she said. ‘Completion and what happens afterwards.’

Cramer frowned. ‘What’s that? What do you mean?’

‘The hexagram is called Chi Chi. The top three lines represent k’an, water. The bottom three lines represent li, fire. Together they form Chi Chi. It’s a good omen, so long as you remain alert. It’s like a kettle burning over a fire. If it’s controlled, then everything is fine. But if you are careless, the kettle will boil over and the water will evaporate. You will have lost that which you hoped to achieve. You must not become complacent, that’s the message of the I Ching.’ Su-ming looked down at her notepad again. ‘The hexagram is only the start,’ she said. ‘It provides an overall guideline, a framework. According to the way the coins are thrown, some of the lines are called changing lines. Any combination of the six could be changing lines.’ She looked at the notepad. ‘In your case it’s the fourth line. It was yang, but a changing yang. So I consult the I Ching to see what it says about the fourth line. Then we change the fourth line from yang to yin, from a broken line to a complete line, and that produces a second hexagram. The oracle’s advice is a combination of the first hexagram, the second hexagram, and the changing lines. There are thousands of possibilities. That’s why the book is so thick.’

She opened the leather-bound volume and slowly went through it. ‘Here we are. Chi Chi. The fourth line.’ She read it silently, then looked at him. ‘You must be on your guard. You must be careful. Things can very easily go wrong.’

‘Tell me about it,’ laughed Cramer. Her face fell as he laughed and he immediately composed himself. ‘I’m sorry, I wasn’t laughing at you. It’s just that under the circumstances. . you know. Obviously I’m going to be on guard.’

She looked at him seriously. ‘The I Ching is referring to your question, remember? It is with regard to the question you asked that it is offering advice. This is not fortune-telling, Mike Cramer. The I Ching only answers specific questions asked of it.’

‘I understand, Su-ming.’

She picked up the notepad again and drew a second hexagram, changing the fourth line from broken to unbroken. ‘This is now ko. Revolution. A combination of tui, lake, over li, fire. The image is of a lake over a volcano, when the lava bursts through the water is vaporised. Great change. It’s not a bad sign, the opposite in fact. It suggests that the present situation is about to give way to a more beneficial one. An end to sadness. But you yourself must make the change possible. It must first come from within.’

Cramer nodded. ‘An end to sadness,’ he repeated. ‘That can’t be bad, can it?’

Su-ming closed the book carefully as if she was afraid of damaging the pages. ‘I suppose not,’ she said. ‘Was the advice helpful?’

‘Of course. I must be careful, but if I try hard there’ll be a happy ending.’

Su-ming looked at him with narrowed eyes. ‘You sound as if you don’t believe what you’ve been told.’

Cramer shrugged. ‘It’s the sort of advice I’d get in a fortune cookie. Or in the horoscope of any tabloid newspaper.’

‘Your mind is closed,’ she said brusquely. ‘If you refuse to listen to what the I Ching has to say, how can you hope to be helped by it?’

‘I’m just not sure how throwing coins can give me the answer to a problem that I have.’

‘Because everything in the universe is connected,’ said Su-ming.

‘Well, I’m not convinced,’ he said. ‘It’s like when you read my palm. I don’t believe that the lines on my hand are an indication of what has happened to me in my life, much less a guide to what lies ahead of me.’

Su-ming picked up a small leather bag with a leather drawstring and dropped the coins in one by one. She put the bag on her bedside table and held out her hand. At first Cramer didn’t realise what she wanted, then he slowly held out his own right hand, palm upwards. She bent forward, her face only inches away from the palm as she traced the lines with her index finger. Occasionally her fingernail scraped his skin and he felt a tingle run down his spine like a mild electric shock. He shivered, but Su-ming didn’t appear to notice. She stared at his palm for several minutes, then released his hand.

‘So?’ said Cramer, his curiosity piqued.

Su-ming raised her eyebrows. ‘So what?’ she asked.

‘So what did you see?’

Su-ming shrugged. ‘I was just checking.’

‘Checking? Checking what?’

She tilted up her chin. ‘There’s no point in telling you if you don’t believe, is there?’

Cramer nodded slowly as he realised that she was toying with him. ‘Right,’ he said. He stood up. ‘Thanks,’ he said.

Su-ming picked up her coins again and smoothed them between her hands. She avoided Cramer’s gaze. ‘Are you frightened?’ she asked.

‘Frightened?’ he repeated, genuinely confused by her question. ‘Frightened of what?’

‘Of what lies ahead,’ she said.

Cramer rubbed his chin. ‘Allan’s trained me well. I stand a pretty good chance of getting through it.’

Su-ming looked up sharply. ‘That’s not what I meant, Mike Cramer,’ she said.

Cramer swallowed. His mouth had suddenly gone dry. She continued to look at him, waiting for him to reply. ‘Yes,’ he said eventually. ‘Yes, I’m frightened.’

She nodded. ‘An end to sadness,’ she said. ‘Remember that, Mike Cramer.’ She threw the coins and they fell silently onto the bed. Cramer walked out of the room as Su-ming drew a line on her notepad.

Lynch left the M4 and followed the A483 over the River Tawe and into Swansea. The sky was beginning to darken and he wanted to reach Llanrhidian before nightfall. Marie gave clear instructions that took them through the city centre and onto the A4118, the main road that cut through the fifteen-mile long limestone peninsula. She had the map on her lap, neatly folded with the area they were driving through uppermost. Lynch didn’t know whether or not she’d been joking about being a Girl Guide but her navigation had been faultless.

‘Are you sure you don’t want me to drive, Dermott?’ Marie asked, massaging the back of his neck with her right hand.

‘I’ll be okay. I prefer driving to being driven.’

‘Most men do.’

Lynch threw her a quick glance. ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

‘Nothing.’

‘You’re saying that driving is a male ego thing, is that it?’

Marie held up her hands. ‘Hey, if the cap fits. .’ She laughed and squeezed his neck harder. ‘Don’t be so sensitive. Besides, you’re a very good driver.’

Lynch grinned, then just as quickly, frowned. ‘You wouldn’t be trying to massage my ego, Marie, love, would you?’

Marie laughed. ‘Just your neck, Dermott. Just your neck. We take the B4271 after Upper Killay. The A road goes to the airport and then to the south. We keep heading west.’

‘How far?’

‘To Llanrhidian? About eight miles. What’s the plan?’

The question set Lynch thinking. He’d been so busy getting out of London and worrying about the mess he’d left behind that he’d scarcely thought about what he would do when he got to the point on the map where Cramer’s helicopter had landed. For all he knew, Cramer could have been whisked into a car and driven anywhere in Wales or beyond. ‘We’ll take a look around, see if we can work out where he went,’ he said.

‘That’s the plan?’ she said.

‘It’s not really a plan,’ said Lynch.

‘I’ll say.’

Lynch cleared his throat. ‘Do you have any suggestions?’

‘No suggestions. I just want to get him. We’ll find out where he is and we’ll get him.’

Lynch shook his head. ‘No, Marie, love. I’ll do it.’

Marie nodded slowly. ‘Whatever you say.’

‘I mean it. I don’t want you anywhere near him. He’s a trained killer. He’s one of the most dangerous men you’ll ever meet.’

Marie raised an eyebrow innocently. ‘What, more dangerous than you, Dermott?’

Lynch grinned despite himself. The road to Llanrhidian was narrow and winding and he drove carefully, aware of how easily he could lose control of the spirited Golf GTI.

The village was tiny and looked down upon a long stretch of salt marsh which ran into the Loughor estuary to the north. To the west were the gaunt ruins of a castle. ‘What’s that?’ Lynch asked, nodding at the ruins.

‘Weobley Castle,’ Marie answered, looking at the map. ‘The place we’re looking for is to the east, just the other side of the B4295.’

They drove by the village pub. Lynch resisted the urge to stop. While he would have enjoyed a pint and a rest from driving, the pub was in such an isolated spot that the arrival of two strangers would be bound to attract attention. Marie stared at the map, rechecking the coordinates that Lynch had given her. They followed the B4295 past a sprawling caravan park, then Marie pointed to the right. ‘There,’ she said.

Lynch peered through the windscreen at what appeared to be nothing but farmland, most of it freshly ploughed. ‘Are you sure?’ he asked. Marie nodded. Lynch braked. The road curved around to the right, and as he guided the Golf into the curve, a high stone wall came into view. ‘Could this be it?’ he asked.

She nodded. ‘According to the map, the coordinates are about half a mile inside the wall.’ Lynch slowed the car to little more than a walking pace. Marie twisted around in her seat and tried to look past Lynch. ‘What is this place?’ she asked.

‘I can’t see.’

‘There’s a gate up ahead.’

Lynch accelerated smoothly. They passed a faded wooden sign affixed to the wall. ‘Did you see that?’ Lynch asked, looking over his shoulder.

‘Sorry. I missed it.’

Lynch stopped and reversed the Golf down the road. The lettering on the board had once been dark brown but it was now streaked with greenish mould. LLANRHIDIAN GIRLS’ PREPARATORY SCHOOL, the sign said, but a white strip with red lettering had been plastered across the board announcing that the building had been sold, along with the name and telephone number of a local estate agent. Marie took a pen from her handbag and copied the name and telephone number into the back of her diary. Lynch put the car into first gear and drove down the road towards the entrance to the school. They were about twenty yards away when he saw the two men standing just inside the wrought-iron gates. They were both in their late twenties and wearing leather jackets and jeans, not standing to attention but not lounging aimlessly, either. They were both looking at the Golf.

‘Kiss me,’ said Lynch.

Marie moved quickly. She leaned over and planted a kiss on his cheek and hugged her arms around his neck. Lynch accelerated and they passed the gate. He checked his rear-view mirror but the men didn’t look through the gate after the Golf.

‘What was that about?’ Marie asked, releasing her grip on his neck.

‘Didn’t you see them?’ Lynch asked. ‘Two men, Sass by the look of them.’

‘Are you sure?’

Lynch gave her a withering look and she slid down into her seat. ‘Now what do we do?’ she asked.

‘We wait until it gets dark,’ he said. ‘If they’re guarding the place, he’s probably still there.’ Lynch felt a growing excitement as he drove alongside the stone wall and he fought to control it. ‘Find us somewhere where we can look down on the school so that we can get an overview, okay?’

‘Sure. There’s a hill to the north. We should be able to see it from there.’

Lynch turned to look at her and he saw that she was smiling. ‘What?’ he said.

‘What do you mean, what?’

‘I mean what are you so happy about?’

Marie ran a finger along his leg, scratching the material of his jeans. ‘You said “we” for the first time.’

Lynch snorted softly and looked back at the road. She was right, he realised. He’d started thinking of her as part of the team. Whether or not that was a good thing remained to be seen.

Bernard Jackman looked up at the blonde stewardess and took the small glass of orange juice that she was offering. He gave her a broad smile but she was already moving on to the next passenger. Even in first class the service was perfunctory and the smiles plastic, but Jackman didn’t care. He flew more than fifty thousand miles a year on scheduled airlines and regarded travelling as nothing more than a means to an end. All he cared about was that the plane arrived on time and that it didn’t crash into the sea along the way.

He watched the stewardess walk down the aisle, dispensing drinks and more artificial smiles. Jackman was used to false smiles. During his time as an FBI profiler he’d interviewed hundreds of murderers, and rarely did they seem out of the ordinary. There was little to separate the serial killer from the man in the street, on the surface at least. Jackman had met serial killers who looked like kindly grandfathers, others who were as charming, handsome and charismatic as chat show hosts, and even one who was every bit as voluptuous as the stewardess. Jackman knew that it was only when you began to delve inside their heads that you discovered what separated the killers from their prey, the sheep from the wolves. He’d spent thousands of hours interviewing convicted killers, winning their confidence, peering into their minds, becoming their friend, so that he could discover what made them different. One of his bosses had said that a good profiler was like a chameleon, that when a profiler and a killer were together in a cell it should be impossible to tell them apart. Their mannerisms, their body language, the way they talked, should be virtually identical. The same man had also warned of the dangers of spending too much time in the company of serial killers. They had the same fascination as a flame to a moth: the profilers had to be careful how close they got, lest they got burned.

Jackman opened the file on Mike Cramer. Most of it consisted of reports from Cramer’s time in the army and later in the Special Air Service, the British Special Forces regiment which was revered throughout the world. There was nothing to explain where the man had been over the previous three years. A colour photograph was clipped to the inside of the file cover: three pictures in a strip, left and right profiles and one full on. There was an intensity in Cramer’s eyes that burned out of the photograph. The effect was almost hypnotic and Jackman spent several minutes staring at the picture. He was disturbed by the stewardess asking if she could take his empty glass. He handed it to her, still looking at the photograph.

Cramer’s eyes were deep-set and his nose was slightly hooked, giving him a predatory appearance. According to the file, Cramer was thirty-seven years old but the eyes wouldn’t have been out of place in an octogenarian. There was no sadness in the man’s gaze, no bitterness, just a cold level stare that seemed to look right through Jackman. Jackman wondered what Cramer had seen and done to get such hard eyes. The file provided a few clues. Cramer had served in the Falklands and had worked undercover in Northern Ireland. After three tours of duty in the province he had been captured by the IRA and brutally tortured. He’d been rescued and rushed by helicopter to a hospital in Belfast where surgeons had saved his life, but shortly afterwards he’d left the SAS for medical reasons. There were no details of what Cramer had been doing since leaving the regiment, but Jackman had gained the impression that the Colonel had been holding something back. Jackman was sure that the Colonel had used Cramer on at least one operation, something so sensitive that he couldn’t involve one of his own men.

The Colonel had been cagey about Cramer’s motivation for taking Vander Mayer’s place. On reading the file, Jackman’s first thought was that Cramer felt he had something to prove, because he’d been forced to leave the army early. Unfinished business. On meeting the man face to face, Jackman had realised that there was something else driving him. Jackman would have liked to have spent more time with Mike Cramer, to have sat down with him and talked in detail, to have done what Jackman did best — probing and ferreting out what made a man tick.

Jackman smiled as he recalled how the Colonel’s jaw had tightened when he’d pointed out how closely Cramer fitted the profile of the man they were looking for. Cramer’s family background — losing his mother and the lack of a father-figure during his teenage years — was almost certainly what had led him to join the armed forces. But Jackman knew that it was also the sort of environment that could lead to psychological problems which, coupled with the intensive training Cramer had received, could be the perfect recipe for producing a psychotic killer. Jackman’s own mother had died when he was young, and he knew all too well the void that left behind, a void that could never be filled. In Cramer’s case, no one had even tried and he’d sought sanctuary in the army.

According to Cramer’s service record, he hadn’t shone as a regular soldier, and on several occasions had been up on insubordination charges. It wasn’t until he passed the rigorous SAS selection tests that Cramer finally found his vocation. Trained to a peak of fitness that most men could only imagine and schooled in weapons, explosives and parachuting, Cramer became a government-trained killing machine. But life in the regiment gave him back something that had been missing in the past — a family. His fellow soldiers became his brothers, the regiment supplied all his needs and wants and, Jackman theorised, the Colonel probably became the father-figure that Cramer sought. Jackman knew that being forced to leave the regiment Cramer loved must have been every bit as emotionally damaging as the death of his mother, and the move back into civilian life would have echoed his original loss. The end of his army career could have opened the floodgates and allowed the release of all the emotions Cramer had been holding back over the years.

Jackman wondered what Cramer had been up to in civilian life. Men with Cramer’s background tended to end up as mercenaries, or in prison, or dead. Jackman leaned back in his seat, smiling to himself. He looked forward to meeting Cramer again: there was so much he wanted to ask him. Jackman wanted to know how many lives Cramer had taken, and how he felt about it, whether he enjoyed the killing or regarded it as just another branch of soldiering. He wanted to find out what the first kill had been like, and whether the feelings had changed with the second, third and fourth. And Jackman wanted to know something else — whether Cramer missed it.

Cramer stood at his bedroom window looking down at the car park. White halogen lights illuminated the area and glinted off the cars. A ginger and white cat walked diagonally across the tarmac square with its ears pricked up and its tail erect as if it was on patrol. Cramer smiled at the thought — an SAS cat, trained to kill without emotion, a cat that could out-march, out-fight and out-drink all other cats. The cat stopped in the centre of the square as if it had seen something. A figure stepped into the light and, as it walked towards the cat, Cramer realised it was Allan.

Cramer watched as Allan walked over to the cat and knelt down beside it. The cat arched its back and rubbed itself against Allan’s outstretched hand and Cramer could imagine it purring with pleasure. Allan looked up towards where Cramer was standing. Cramer wasn’t sure if the bright lights reflected on the glass would allow Allan to see in, but any doubts disappeared when Allan straightened up and waved at him. Cramer unlatched the window and opened it. ‘Hang on, I’ll come down!’ he called.

Allan gave him a thumbs up. The building was in darkness but Cramer didn’t switch on any lights. He went quietly downstairs and slipped out of the back door where Allan was waiting with the cat in his arms. ‘Everything all right?’ Cramer asked.

‘Fine. Have you met Ginge?’

Cramer stroked the cat. ‘She came with the school?’

‘I guess so. She seems tame enough. For a cat.’ Allan bent down and let the cat go. She looked at him for a few seconds and then disappeared silently into the darkness.

‘Are you okay?’ Allan asked.

Cramer nodded. ‘Sure. I just fancied some air, that’s all.’

They walked together around the rear of the main school building and across the lawn. High overhead they saw the lights of an airliner cutting across the star-strewn sky. The man who’d attacked Cramer in the dining room was standing at the gate and he nodded to them both. Allan waved in salute.

‘How did you get into this, Allan?’ Cramer asked.

‘The Colonel wanted somebody with bodyguarding experience, and I guess I fitted the bill.’

‘How come?’

‘They tend not to broadcast the fact, but the regiment supplies bodyguards for the Royal Family and politicians when they go abroad and we help train bodyguards who work for foreign heads of state. I did a six-month stint with the Sultan of Brunei before I joined the Training Wing.’

‘And Martin?’

‘I suggested that we use him. He left the Ranger Wing a few years back to start up his own bodyguarding business in the South of France. He’s doing well, too. The Colonel had to do a fair bit of sweet-talking to convince him to join the operation, but he’s the best in the business.’ He paused. ‘What about you, Mike?’

‘What do you mean?’ They turned away from the gate and headed towards the tennis courts. Cramer’s eyes were constantly moving, checking out the shadows, looking for any sign that one of Allan’s men was about to spring another surprise attack.

‘You know what I mean. In a standard bodyguarding operation, the prime objective is to protect the client. We keep close, we make sure the environment is safe, and if the shit hits the fan we get between the client and the trouble and we get the client the hell out. His safety is paramount.’ Cramer nodded. Off in the distance an owl hooted. ‘Martin and I aren’t bodyguarding you, Mike. You know that. Our instructions are to slot the killer. Your survival is secondary.’

Cramer cleared his throat. ‘Secondary? I figured it was lower than that.’

Allan smiled thinly. ‘So why did they choose you for the job?’

‘For bait, you mean? Just lucky, I guess.’ Allan nodded and didn’t press Cramer further. They walked in silence for a while. The floodlights around the tennis court were on. Discarded cartridges glittered on the hard clay surface, the detritus of the day’s rehearsals. ‘Where were you before Sass?’ Cramer asked. ‘The Paras?’

Allan grinned. ‘Not me, Mike. I was a freelance.’

‘A freelance?’

‘I was sitting in a pub in London and saw an advertisement in the Daily Express for security guards in South Africa. I figured it was for store detectives, something like that. Two weeks later I was in the Angolan bush with a bloody Kalashnikov in my hands. I was nineteen.’

‘Are you serious?’

‘Sure. They just wanted bodies, they couldn’t care less about how much experience we had.’ He shrugged his massive shoulders. ‘Though, truth be told, I did exaggerate a bit. I stayed a couple of years but when things started to get a bit hot I went back to Dublin, set up my own security company, ran a nightclub, even did a bit of acting. But I missed it, you know?’

‘Yeah,’ agreed Cramer, ‘I know.’ Cramer knew exactly what Allan meant. He’d never felt so alive as when he was in the SAS. It wasn’t just the adrenalin rush, it was the companionship, the fact that he was working as part of a team with men who were trained to a degree of professionalism that few could match. Cramer missed the SAS and he’d never found anything that could fill the gap it left in his life.

A small insect buzzed by Allan’s ear and he waved it away. ‘So I moved to London and applied to join 21 SAS. I was twenty-three and figured I was too old to join the regular army, but reckoned that the Territorials might have me. Failed the first time, but they told me to work on my fitness and try again. The following year I made it. Did the Fan Dance in eighteen hours in the shittiest weather you’ve ever seen. The Colonel was on the course as an observer and he approached me afterwards, asked if I’d thought about serving full time. He put in a word for me and I joined 22 SAS.’

Cramer was impressed. It was rare for a member of the Territorial SAS to be offered a place in the regiment proper. ‘And you like Training Wing?’ he asked.

‘It’s better than standing outside a Leeson Street nightclub with the rain pissing down and dealing with spotty teenagers trying to bullshit their way in.’ He grinned. ‘Mind you, you get laid more often in Dublin, that’s for sure.’

They skirted the tennis courts and walked across the croquet lawn. Allan was laughing but Cramer remained on his guard, fearful that at any moment an attacker would come rushing out of the darkness. The PPK was in his underarm holster but unless the attack came slower than usual, he’d prefer to go for the stiletto. Under Allan’s guidance he was now winning more of the confrontations than he was losing. There had been times early on in the training when Cramer had wondered about the point of rehearsing the moves over and over again, because at the end of the day he wasn’t even sure that he wanted to survive the encounter with the assassin. The pain in his bowels was getting worse by the day, and he was finding it increasingly difficult to eat: his appetite had all but disappeared and when he did force himself to eat he paid for it a few hours later. He knew the discomfort was but a fraction of what lay ahead, and that the day would come when a bullet in the face would be a welcome relief, but under Allan’s constant cajoling and pushing his professionalism had kicked in and he’d worked hard at perfecting the technique. Now he relished the opportunity of going up against the assassin, to prove to himself, and to Allan, just how good he was.

Cramer stepped to the side to avoid a hoop set into the lawn but kept his eyes flicking from side to side. ‘You can relax, Mike,’ said Allan. ‘Your training’s over.’

Cramer looked across, his eyes narrowed. ‘What do you mean, training’s over?’

‘The Colonel asked me to tell you that we’re leaving for London tomorrow. From now on, it’s for real.’

Cramer swallowed. There was a tightness in the pit of his stomach, a mixture of fear and excitement, a feeling that he hadn’t experienced in a long time. It almost made him forget about the cancer that was growing there. Almost. But not quite.

Lynch held his breath as he focused the binoculars. The croquet pitch was well lit and he had no trouble recognising the face of Mike Cramer, the Sass-man. Cramer looked in better shape than the last time Lynch had seen him — he was now well groomed and wearing what were clearly expensive clothes. Cramer and the man he was with were deep in conversation. Lynch would have given his right arm to know what they were talking about. Somewhere up above Lynch an owl hooted. Lynch had climbed a tree close to the perimeter wall which ran all around the school buildings and grounds. He’d spotted five guards, two at the main entrance and another three patrolling the grounds. There were several security cameras fixed to the buildings and they moved at irregular intervals, which suggested that they were being manipulated from some sort of control centre. The sky was obscured with thick cloud and the tree Lynch had chosen was in almost total darkness so he was certain he couldn’t be seen.

Lynch licked his lips. His mouth was dry with anticipation. He could scale the wall within seconds; it had been built merely to mark the perimeter of the school grounds rather than to keep out intruders. He could cover the distance between the wall and the main school building in less than a minute and would reach the two men on the croquet lawn in half that time. The problem was, what then? The security cameras would spot him as soon as he was out in the open, and even if Cramer and his companion weren’t armed, the patrolling guards definitely were. Maybe he’d be able to kill Cramer there and then, but it would be a suicide mission and Lynch was in no mood to throw his life away, no matter how strong the urge for revenge. No, there had to be a better way. He watched as the two men made their way to the front of the school and disappeared inside. Lynch hung the binoculars around his neck and climbed carefully to the ground.

The Golf was parked almost a mile away in a copse close to the road and he jogged, more to keep warm than because he was in a hurry. He figured that the men had gone to bed so there was nothing he could do until morning. He needed a way into the school, some ruse that would allow him to breach their defences. The headlights of an approaching car pierced through the night and he dropped into a ditch until it had gone by. There was brackish water in the bottom of the ditch but he managed to stay dry from the knees up. His wet feet slapped on the tarmac as he ran towards the copse. Luckily there were no other cars and he reached the Golf in just over six minutes. Marie was asleep — she’d reclined the front passenger seat and wrapped herself in a tartan blanket. Lynch smiled as he looked at her through the window.

She’d wisely locked the doors so he knocked gently on the window to wake her. She smiled sleepily at him and unlocked the driver’s door. ‘How did it go?’ she asked.

‘He’s there.’

Marie’s eyes widened. ‘He’s there? Now what?’

‘Now I have to think.’ He leaned down and took off his wet boots and socks.

‘What happened?’ she asked.

‘I had to hide in a ditch.’

Marie gave him the blanket and Lynch wrapped it around his legs. It was cold in the car but they couldn’t risk running the engine to use the heater. ‘What do you think he’s doing in Wales?’ Marie asked.

‘Marie, love, it’s a bloody mystery, right enough. He’s being guarded by some very heavy characters. There are security cameras all over the place, and he’s dressed like he just stepped out of a Savile Row tailor’s. God, I’m starving.’

Marie reached into the back of the car and picked up her green and gold Harrods carrier bag. From the bag she took out a pack of Marks and Spencer sandwiches and a can of Coke and handed them to Lynch. He pulled the tab and drank.

‘Have you thought it might be a set-up?’ she asked. ‘Some sort of trap?’

Lynch shook his head emphatically. ‘Why in Wales? Why hide here, miles from anywhere? And why is the security so obvious? When he was in Howth, now that looked like a trap. No, I think something else is going down here, but I’m fucked if I know what it is.’

The water that gushed out of the showerhead was cold and even though Cramer let it run for several minutes it didn’t get any warmer. He stepped under the freezing spray and gasped, washed quickly and then jumped out. He rubbed himself with a fresh towel and dressed, choosing one of the suits he hadn’t worn before.

Allan and Martin were walking out of the dining hall just as Cramer arrived. ‘Briefing in the headmistress’s study,’ said Allan. ‘You hadn’t forgotten, had you?’

Cramer shook his head. No, he hadn’t forgotten. Today was the day he became the Judas Goat. Mrs Elliott followed Allan and Martin into the hallway. She beamed as she saw Cramer. ‘Ah, Mr Cramer. Can I fetch you something?’

‘No, thanks, Mrs Elliott. I’m not hungry.’

Mrs Elliott glared at Cramer as severely as Allan had done whenever training hadn’t gone well. ‘The Colonel said I was to be sure that you ate something,’ she said. ‘It was an order.’

‘An order?’ repeated Cramer, amused.

‘Better do as she says, Mike,’ said Martin. ‘We don’t want you up on a charge.’

‘How about some sandwiches for later?’ Mrs Elliott asked. ‘Cheese and pickle?’

‘Cheese and pickle will be just fine,’ agreed Cramer, knowing that further resistance was futile.

‘And tea?’ she pressed. ‘I could make a flask of tea, no bother.’

‘And tea. Thanks, Mrs Elliott.’ Cramer headed down the corridor towards the headmistress’s office before Mrs Elliott could add to the menu.

‘How are you feeling today, Mike?’ asked Allan.

‘Better,’ lied Cramer. He’d lain awake most of the night, bathed in sweat. The pain seemed to be worse at night, even when he was lying in bed. Cramer wondered if it was because his adrenalin levels were higher during the day, stimulating the body’s natural painkillers. Or maybe it was because he was always kept busy by Allan so that he didn’t have time to dwell on his illness; at night he had nothing else to do but worry about the cancer that was eating him up. If the pain got much worse he’d have to ask the doctor for something else. Nothing strong enough to slow down his reflexes, just enough to take the edge off the pain. ‘When are we setting off?’

Allan looked at his Russian wristwatch. ‘Thirty minutes.’

‘Where did you get the watch from?’ Cramer asked.

‘Off a dead Cuban in Angola,’ Allan replied.

‘Come on, if he was dead, how did you know he was a Cuban?’

Allan grinned and mimed shooting a gun with his right hand. He blew away imaginary smoke, knocked on the door to the study and opened it, allowing Cramer and Martin in first. The Colonel was sitting behind the desk, reading a file. Cramer was surprised to see Su-ming in the room, standing by the fireplace. She was dressed formally in a dark blue skirt and jacket with what looked like a Chanel handbag on a golden chain over her right shoulder. She smiled at him, but there was little warmth in her eyes.

Three straight-backed wooden chairs had been lined up facing the desk and Cramer, Allan and Martin sat down. Martin looked across at Cramer and Cramer realised that they’d had the same thought — they were like schoolboys being summoned for a caning. Both men grinned. The Colonel looked up from his paperwork as if he’d just noticed that they’d walked in. ‘Everything ready?’ the Colonel asked Allan.

‘All set, boss,’ said Allan. ‘The plane has already arrived at Swansea and we’ve a flight plan filed for ten-fifteen.’

‘Flight plan?’ queried Cramer. ‘I thought London was our first stop. Aren’t we driving?’

‘Vander Mayer always flies into London on one of his private jets,’ said the Colonel. ‘He has three at his disposal, one based in the UK, one in the States and a third presently in the Philippines. According to the details we sent to Zurich, Vander Mayer left Miami in the early hours of the morning and is now on his way to Heathrow.’ The Colonel leaned across the desk as if trying to narrow the distance between himself and Cramer. ‘You have to think like Vander Mayer from now on, Joker. You don’t open doors for yourself, you don’t carry anything, you don’t acknowledge strangers, you’re above all that. That’s what Su-ming and your bodyguards are for. The killer is going to be watching you and if he sees anything out of the ordinary, he’ll run like the wind.’

‘No problem,’ said Cramer, rubbing his hands together.

‘Once you’re on the jet, you’re in play. You have to live the part, you have to be Vander Mayer, and you have to be ready for the killer to strike at any moment. You’ve read the files, you know how he’s got close before. In a wheelchair, dressed as a waiter, as a pilot, as a delivery man, the only thing he hasn’t done is dress up as a woman. You have to regard every stranger as a threat, but you mustn’t overreact. If our man sees you pull out a gun he’ll know it’s a trap. You must be sure, one hundred per cent sure.’

‘You mean I don’t shoot until I see the whites of his eyes,’ Cramer said.

The Colonel pursed his lips. ‘No. You don’t shoot until you see a gun in his hand. He has to make an attempt to kill you, or we’ve wasted our time. I want to be quite clear on this, Joker. There are no short-cuts. We only have one chance and I don’t want us blowing it. Instinct isn’t going to count for anything if we get the wrong man.’

‘I understand, Colonel.’

The Colonel stood up and walked over to the window. ‘On the communications front, Allan and Martin will be utilising transceivers, but they will only be in communication with each other,’ he said. ‘That’s standard procedure for bodyguards. There’s no way Vander Mayer would be carrying a transceiver, so you won’t be in radio contact with them. I will be monitoring their transmissions, but on no account are you to acknowledge that we’re listening in. Our man is a professional and will almost certainly also be monitoring you. We will be able to transmit on your frequency, but I can’t envisage any circumstances under which we’d do that. We won’t be able to give you any warning, because if we did, he might hear us.’

The three men sitting in front of the desk nodded in unison. ‘We’re on our own,’ said Cramer.

‘I’ll have men close by, but yes, in effect you will be on your own. You must not depend on them to protect you because that’s not what they’re there for.’

‘Is there any way I can contact you?’ Cramer asked.

‘Absolutely not,’ said the Colonel tersely. ‘Phones just aren’t secure, cellular or otherwise. Under no circumstances are you to attempt to get in touch with me.’ He nodded at Allan. ‘That goes for you and Martin.’ The Colonel leaned back against the windowsill. ‘Don’t forget that we will be following you every step of the way. Even if you don’t see us, we’ll still be there.’

Cramer rubbed his chin thoughtfully. ‘I’d be happier if there was some way we could reach you.’

‘You don’t need me to hold your hand,’ said the Colonel. ‘Any other questions?’

The three men shook their heads. ‘I have a question,’ said Su-ming from behind them.

The Colonel raised an eyebrow. ‘Yes, Su-ming?’

‘How long do we wait?’

‘As long as it takes.’

‘But the itinerary only runs for two weeks.’

‘That was all that was asked for, which leads us to believe that the attempt will be made within the next fourteen days.’

Cramer twisted around in his seat to look at Su-ming. She looked worried but there was no trace of nervousness in her voice. ‘What about Mr Vander Mayer?’ she said. ‘I have to be in regular contact with him.’

The Colonel shook his head. ‘Impossible. What would happen if the killer were to hear you talking to him?’

‘So I am not to call him?’

‘Not until it’s over.’

‘What if he tries to contact me?’

‘He won’t. He understands the position. Mr Vander Mayer does have a number where he can reach me. In the event that he has to get hold of you, I will get a message to you.’

Su-ming shrugged. Cramer wondered why she was so worried about not being in contact with her boss. He turned back to face the Colonel. ‘About Vander Mayer,’ he said. ‘What’s he doing?’

‘He’s on his yacht,’ the Colonel answered. ‘It’s equipped with state of the art communications equipment so he’s able to carry on business as usual. He has a copy of your itinerary and will simply tell anyone he speaks to that he is at your location. Any faxes, telexes or computer transmissions he sends will also appear to be sent from your location. But he’s agreed to keep his activities to the absolute minimum until we have our man.’ When the Colonel saw that there were no further questions, he pointed at the door with his walking stick. ‘All that remains is for me to wish you luck,’ he said. ‘As of now we go our separate ways.’

‘How are you getting to London?’ Cramer asked as he stood up.

‘We’ll be using the helicopter. We’ll get to Heathrow after you but there are already men there waiting for you. You won’t see them, not if they’re doing their job right.’

Su-ming opened the door and went out into the corridor. The Colonel shook the three men by the hand as they left the room. Cramer was the last to leave. After they’d shaken, the Colonel held onto Cramer’s hand. ‘Good luck,’ he said.

‘Luck doesn’t come into it, Colonel. Besides, we both know what the end result of this is going to be, don’t we?’

The Colonel didn’t reply. He let Cramer’s hand slip from his own and then patted him on the shoulder, like a priest comforting the recently bereaved. ‘I wish there was. .’ he began.

‘Hey, don’t worry,’ interrupted Cramer. ‘I’m a big boy, I know exactly what I’m getting into and it’s my choice.’ He held the Colonel’s look for several seconds, then turned and left the room.

‘Your stuff’s in the car,’ said Allan, handing Cramer his overcoat. ‘You’re carrying?’

Cramer patted the gun in his underarm holster. ‘I wouldn’t leave home without it.’

Mrs Elliott came out of the kitchen and handed Cramer a Tupperware box and a stainless steel Thermos flask. ‘For the journey,’ she said. ‘And mind you look after yourself.’ She hugged him and then rushed back into the kitchen.

Cramer followed Allan and Martin to the Mercedes and climbed into the back seat. Su-ming was already there.

‘All set?’ asked Martin.

‘Let’s do it,’ said Cramer.

Martin looked over his shoulder at the flask and sandwiches which Cramer had in his lap. ‘Mike. .’ he began.

‘Sure,’ said Cramer before Martin could finish. He passed over the sandwiches and Martin practically snatched them from his hand.

Dermott Lynch watched the Mercedes nose slowly out of the school entrance and on to the road. He took his binoculars away from his eyes. ‘It’s him,’ he said. ‘He’s in the back with a girl.’

‘What do we do?’ asked Marie.

Lynch scratched his chin and frowned. They were parked at the side of the road almost a quarter of a mile away from the entrance, the opposite direction to that in which the Mercedes was heading. He had only two choices: follow Cramer or try to find out what was going on inside the school. Marie sat watching him. She knew that it was his decision. Lynch stared after the Mercedes. It was Cramer he was after. He reached forward and started the engine. ‘Get the map out,’ he said as he eased the car into gear.

Marie opened the glove compartment and unfolded the map as Lynch drove past the entrance to the school. The guards had gone as if the fact that Cramer had left meant that there was no further need for security. Lynch had a feeling that Cramer wouldn’t be coming back, that whatever the Sass-man was up to was now moving into its next phase.

‘What are their options?’ Lynch asked, fixing his eyes on the Mercedes. He tried to keep as far away from it as possible, but the road twisted and turned and he didn’t want to risk losing it. He found he was accelerating and braking constantly, racing towards each bend and then braking hard once he had the Mercedes in sight. He couldn’t afford to be too far away when they reached the intersection with the B4295 or else he wouldn’t know whether the Mercedes had gone north or south.

‘Assuming they’re not just heading for a day at the beach, I’d say the airport, or Swansea and then maybe on to London. Unless they’re heading for a boat, the peninsula is dotted with small ports.’

Lynch ducked involuntarily as something roared overhead. It was a huge helicopter, the red, white and blue Sea King that he’d last seen picking up Cramer from the sea wall at Howth. The Sea King was flying low towards the school. ‘They’re pulling out,’ he said to Marie. He braked sharply as a tractor pulled out of a field ahead of the Golf. ‘Jesus Christ!’ he hissed as the wheels skidded on mud that was being thrown up by the tractor’s massive tyres. He managed to get the car under control, then followed the tractor impatiently, trying to see if the road was clear.

‘I think you’re okay,’ said Marie uncertainly as she peered out of the passenger window.

Lynch craned his neck to the side but all he could see were hedgerows. He stamped on the accelerator and overtook the tractor. It was only when he drew level with it and saw that the road ahead was empty that he realised he’d been holding his breath. He let it out in a mournful sigh and accelerated. When he reached the B4295, the Mercedes was nowhere to be seen. ‘What do you think? North or south?’

‘They’ll only go north if they’re staying in Wales,’ said Marie, this time with more conviction in her voice.

‘Yeah, I think you’re right,’ agreed Lynch and turned left. After three minutes of hard driving they saw the Mercedes in the distance, just arriving at Llanrhidian village. ‘Got them,’ said Lynch with satisfaction.

The Mercedes turned onto the B4271, heading east. ‘They’re going to the airport,’ said Marie, looking up from the map. ‘Or Swansea.’

There was very little traffic about and Lynch realised that it wouldn’t be long before the occupants of the Mercedes realised that they were being pursued. ‘Hold the map up, play the tourist,’ said Lynch.

Marie did as she was told and Lynch accelerated. He pulled up behind the Mercedes, indicated that he was about to overtake, and passed it on a long, straight stretch of road. Marie put down the map. ‘So now they’re behind us, now what?’

‘Now they won’t think we’re tailing them,’ said Lynch. ‘We’re pretty sure they’ll stay on this road until the junction with the A4118, so we’ll go on ahead.’

Marie nodded. ‘What was the helicopter doing?’

‘I think it’s picking up the rest of the men at the school.’

‘Why didn’t they pick up Cramer, too?’

Lynch pulled a face. ‘I’m not a mind-reader.’

‘It’s not a normal helicopter, is it? The army ones are usually green, right?’

‘It belongs to the Ministry of Defence. It’s the one that brought Cramer to Wales.’

Lynch checked his driving mirror. The Mercedes was out of sight. He slowed a fraction and within a minute or so it came into view. Confident that he wasn’t going to lose his quarry, he accelerated once more.

Marie’s hand stroked his knee. ‘When, Dermott?’

‘I don’t know, Marie, love. You saw the two heavies in the front of the car?’ She nodded. ‘They’re tough-looking guys, right enough. I saw one of them talking to Cramer last night and he’s big. Looks like he can handle himself. Both of them are almost certainly Sass. They’re not the sort of odds I want to go up against. One on one, fine. But one against three, no chance.’

‘Two,’ said Marie, her voice almost a whisper.

‘What?’ said Lynch, checking his mirror again.

‘There are two of us. Don’t forget that. I’m in this as much as you now.’

Lynch was about to argue but he decided to say nothing.

Simon Chaillon wrapped his wool scarf tighter around his neck and hunched his shoulders against the cold breeze that was blowing off the River Limmat. He pulled back the end of his lambskin glove and took a quick look at his slim gold wristwatch. He was early, a clear sign of nervousness. Like most Swiss, Chaillon was punctual to the point of paranoia, and for him to be early was every bit as irritating as arriving late. He pushed his gloved hands deep into his overcoat pockets and went in search of a cafe. He found one in a side road and slid into an empty table. A waitress took his order and within two minutes a cup of hot chocolate was on the table in front of him.

He stirred the drink slowly, a slight frown the only sign of how troubled he was. The coded fax had been lying in his in-tray when he’d arrived, and once he’d deciphered its contents he’d been able to think of nothing else. Even the sight of Theresa in a white silk shirt and the flimsiest of bras hadn’t relieved his anxiety. She’d asked him if anything was wrong but he’d just shrugged and said that his ulcer was troubling him. She’d made sympathetic noises and leaned over his desk so that he could get a closer look at her breasts, but even that hadn’t cheered him up. He’d been unable to concentrate and had told Theresa to hold all his calls. Most of the time he’d sat staring out of his office window at the twin towers of Grossmunster Cathedral, wondering what was so urgent that the meeting had to be in Zurich and at such short notice.

He put his spoon down and looked at his wristwatch again. Five minutes. Chaillon hated to be unpunctual, hated it with a vengeance. Every minute in his life was accounted for as precisely as the funds in a company’s accounts, and five wasted minutes was time lost for ever. He picked up his cup of hot chocolate and raised it to his lips, but then put it back on its saucer, untouched. Normally there was nothing he enjoyed more than a cup of milky hot chocolate on a cold day, but today was special. Today was the day he’d been summoned to a meeting by a man he’d met only once before. A man who, to date, had paid Chaillon more than two million dollars in commissions for nothing more arduous than sending sheets of paper and photographs to accommodation addresses around the world. The fact that the people featured in the photographs were always murdered within days of the envelopes being sent was something which Simon Chaillon hadn’t dwelt on over the past two years. Since the arrival of the mysterious fax, he’d thought of little else.

The waitress came back and asked him if there was something wrong with the hot chocolate. Chaillon smiled and shook his head. No, he said, everything was fine. Just fine. He picked up his spoon and stirred it again. There had been no clue in the fax as to why the meeting was necessary. Apart from the first meeting more than two years earlier, the two men had communicated only by fax, computer bulletin boards, messages left on answering machines and couriered envelopes. Chaillon’s client hadn’t needed to spell out the importance of the two men never being seen together, which made the fax all the more worrying. Something must have gone wrong. He looked at his wristwatch again. It was time.

He pushed back his chair, dropped a handful of change onto the table, and left the cafe. The fax had given detailed instructions of where Chaillon was to go, but he was at least a hundred yards from the meeting point when he heard his name being spoken. Chaillon flinched as if he’d been struck across the face. He forced a smile and turned to face the man he knew only as Monsieur Rolfe.

‘A cold day, isn’t it?’ said Monsieur Rolfe. He spoke perfect French but Chaillon doubted that he had been born in France. Monsieur Rolfe was wearing horn-rimmed spectacles and a dark overcoat and looked like a mid-ranking bank official on his way to his office. There was something different about his hair, Chaillon realised. It was darker than he remembered from their first meeting, and curlier.

‘For the time of year, yes,’ said Chaillon. He swallowed. His throat was dry and he wished that he’d drunk the hot chocolate. ‘Is there something wrong?’ he asked.

‘Wrong?’ Monsieur Rolfe frowned. ‘Why do you think something is wrong?’

‘This isn’t where you said you wanted to meet. You said. .’

‘I changed my mind,’ interrupted Monsieur Rolfe. ‘Come. Walk with me.’

They walked away from the river, with Monsieur Rolfe leading the way confidently as if he was no stranger to the city. ‘I received your fax,’ said Chaillon. He regretted the words immediately they left his mouth and he cursed himself for his stupidity. Of course he’d received the facsimile. Why else would he be there?

‘Good,’ said Monsieur Rolfe as if unaware of Chaillon’s faux pas.

‘You received the details I sent you? The Vander Mayer contract?’ Chaillon wondered if there had been a problem with the last envelope he had couriered to London.

‘Yes. Yes, I did,’ said Monsieur Rolfe. There was something almost absent-minded about his conversation, as if his thoughts were elsewhere.

‘Business has been good, hasn’t it? It has been a very profitable arrangement. For both parties.’

‘Yes, it has,’ Monsieur Rolfe agreed. ‘Very profitable.’

Monsieur Rolfe turned into a side street. Chaillon noticed that from time to time his companion looked over his shoulder as if he feared that they were being followed. ‘Something is wrong?’ Chaillon asked.

‘No. Nothing is wrong.’

Chaillon swallowed nervously. Something was wrong. Something was most definitely wrong. Chaillon’s mind whirled. He pulled a handkerchief from his trouser pocket and blew his nose.

‘You have a cold?’ asked Monsieur Rolfe.

Chaillon wiped his nose and put the handkerchief back in his pocket. ‘Maybe. I’m not sure. I don’t feel well.’

‘You must take care of yourself,’ said Monsieur Rolfe.

‘I will. I will.’ Chaillon no longer recognised the streets they were walking through and it had been some time since he had seen anyone else on the pavement. Monsieur Rolfe took another look over his shoulder. ‘We are not being followed,’ said Chaillon.

‘No. We are not being followed.’

‘Good. So now we can talk?’

‘Soon.’

A narrow alleyway led off the street and Monsieur Rolfe stepped to the side to allow Chaillon to walk in first. Chaillon nodded his thanks and stepped into the darkness. There was a stack of cardboard boxes to the left and an abandoned bicycle with one wheel missing. Chaillon noticed a damp, cloying smell about the place, as if something had died there and been left to rot. ‘Surely this can’t be. .?’ said Chaillon, but before he could finish Monsieur Rolfe’s arms came down either side of his head and something tightened around Chaillon’s neck. It was a wire, Chaillon realised, and the only thing that was stopping it biting into his flesh was his wool scarf. He tried to speak but the wire was pulled tighter and he couldn’t even gasp for breath. His fingers grasped at the wire but it was too tight. He felt a nail break and a sharp pain and then his chest began to heave. He fell forward, his face slamming into the cold concrete floor and then a knee pressed into the small of his back and the wire was pulled even tighter. Chaillon’s lungs began to burn and his eyes bulged and then it all went black. The last thought in his mind was what a pity it was that he would never get the chance to make love to Theresa.

The boy stood by the sink and rinsed the plate clean before putting it on the draining board. He winced as he heard his mother moan upstairs. The boy had asked his father why the doctor didn’t take her into hospital, and his father had said that it was because there wasn’t anything more that could be done. The boy had spent hours on his knees, praying to God, praying for Him to end his mother’s torment, but it hadn’t done any good. The boy didn’t believe in God any more. He didn’t believe in God and he didn’t believe in doctors.

His mother’s medicine was wrapped in a dish cloth at the back of the larder. The boy had seen his father put the bottle of tablets there after taking out his mother’s night-time dose. The boy had asked his father why he didn’t give her more of the tablets so that she wouldn’t cry so much, and he had explained that it was because too many would be bad for her.

The boy wiped his hands on a tea-towel, poured milk into a tall glass and put it on a tray. Upstairs his mother groaned, a deep, throaty sound that made the boy shiver. He opened the larder door and took out the bottle of tablets. He weighed the bottle in the palm of his hand as he read the label. It warned that no more than twelve tablets should be taken each day. He tried counting how many there were but he kept losing track. There were at least sixty. He put the bottle on the tray next to the glass of milk and carefully carried it upstairs.

His mother looked towards the door as he walked into the bedroom. She had her knees drawn up to her chest again and was hugging a hot water bottle to her stomach. The boy took the tray to the bedside table. His mother stared at the bottle of tablets as if she didn’t believe what she was seeing. She slowly pushed herself up into a sitting position, grunting with each movement. The boy watched silently. She didn’t look like his mother any more. There were dark bags under her eyes, her hair was damp and sticking to her face and her lips were crusted with brown stuff. And she was thin, thinner than the boy thought a person could be without being a skeleton. He handed her the glass of milk and she took it with her left hand. Her eyes stayed on the bottle of tablets as he unscrewed the cap and poured a dozen or so into the palm of his hand. She reached over and put a claw-like hand on his arm. The nails were yellow and brittle and the skin was so pale he could almost see through it. He held out one of the tablets and she took it from him. He watched as she put it to her lips. The tablet disappeared into her mouth and she swallowed. He gave her another tablet. And another. After the fifth she took a sip from the glass of milk. She smiled and he gave her another tablet. ‘How many do you want?’ he asked. It was the first time he’d spoken since entering the room.

His mother shrugged. ‘I don’t know,’ she said. He held out another one and she took it. She swallowed six more before taking another drink of milk.

‘Do you feel better?’ he asked as he shook more tablets into his hand.

She nodded and took another tablet. The boy watched her eat the tablets as if they were sweets and wondered why he didn’t feel sad any more. The bottle was half empty. His mother sighed and leaned back on the pillows. ‘You’re a good boy,’ she said. ‘You’re a good boy for helping me.’ There were deep lines around her mouth that made her look like the old women whom he saw sitting in the park feeding breadcrumbs to pigeons.

‘Dad’s going to be mad,’ he said, his voice little more than a whisper.

‘He won’t be mad,’ she said. Her eyelids seemed heavy, as if she was having trouble keeping them open. ‘Will you do something for me?’ she asked, holding out the glass.

‘Of course,’ he said, taking it and putting it on the tray.

‘Tell your dad that I love him,’ she said. Her voice sounded suddenly stronger, more like the mother he remembered, more like the way she was before she got sick.

‘I will,’ the boy promised. ‘Cross my heart and hope to die.’ He crossed himself solemnly.

‘You’re not going to die,’ she said, and swallowed another tablet. ‘Not for a long, long time. Just tell your dad what I said, okay?’ The boy nodded and held out more tablets. His mother took them and touched them one at a time as if she was counting them. ‘Why don’t you go downstairs and watch television?’ she said.

‘But. .’

‘I’ll be okay now,’ she said.

The boy leaned over and kissed her on the cheek. She smelled of sick and something else, something he couldn’t identify. It wasn’t his mother’s normal smell.

‘It’s time for you to go now,’ she said. She slurred her words and she was having to fight to keep her eyes open. He slid off the bed and left the room without looking back.

Martin guided the large Mercedes to a stop at the intersection with the main road and waited for a gap in the traffic. A red Golf was parked by the side of the road and the couple inside were bent over a map and arguing. Cramer smiled to himself as he remembered what a struggle map-reading and navigation had been for him. Compared with negotiating his way across the Falklands in total darkness, a drive through the Welsh countryside was an absolute breeze. A truck full of sheep rattled by and Martin turned right and followed it.

Cramer had a sudden thought. ‘Allan, where exactly are we?’ he asked.

‘A couple of miles from Swansea Airport,’ Allan replied.

‘So the Brecon Beacons are where?’

Allan shrugged his massive shoulders. ‘Thirty miles or so to the north-east.’ He turned around and grinned. ‘Do you want to go back and relive old times?’

Cramer snorted softly. ‘I don’t think I could finish the Long Drag these days, never mind do it on time. I was just wondering. I guess I’d lost track of where I was, that’s all.’ Cramer sat back in his seat and closed his eyes. It seemed like a lifetime ago. Hell, it was a lifetime ago. The Brecon Beacons was where the SAS tested its men almost to destruction. Deaths weren’t unknown on the barren, windswept mountains, and the most demanding of the tests was a sixty-kilometre solo march which had to be completed in under twenty hours. The Long Drag, they called it, or the Fan Dance, after the highest peak, Pen-y-fan. It wasn’t just endurance that was tested, but navigation skills and something deeper. Without an inner drive, without a burning desire to succeed, the Long Drag was an insurmountable barrier. Cramer had completed his solo march in a little over eighteen hours, despite getting lost twice. So much had changed since he’d arrived at the final checkpoint and been slapped on the shoulders and told that he’d earned his winged dagger badge. They’d poured hot coffee down his throat and helped him into the back of a truck and he’d never been happier, never been prouder of what he’d achieved. So much had changed since then. He’d seen men die, he’d been tortured, and he’d killed. The young man who’d fought back the tears of joy at being allowed into the regiment hadn’t cried for more than ten years. It was hard for Cramer to determine exactly what emotions he did feel these days. Anger sometimes. Certainly not happiness. Fear? No, he wasn’t afraid. He’d been through too much to be afraid. He wasn’t scared of death, he was sure of that. He’d faced death before and he’d been responsible for the deaths of others, and he knew he was being honest when he said that the thought of no longer being alive didn’t worry him. What scared him was dying. He didn’t want to die a shrivelled husk of the super-fit human being he’d once been, a lifetime ago. He would always be grateful to the Colonel for offering him that, the chance to die like a warrior.

‘Here we are, Mr Vander Mayer.’ Allan’s voice jarred Cramer out of his reverie.

‘Huh?’ Cramer grunted, rubbing his eyes.

‘I said we’ve arrived, Mr Vander Mayer.’

Cramer realised that Allan was using Vander Mayer’s name deliberately, so that Cramer would get used to answering to it. ‘Great,’ Cramer replied. He smiled at Su-ming. She hadn’t expressed surprise at hearing her boss’s name, so Cramer guessed that she’d already been briefed by the Colonel.

Martin showed his paperwork to a bored security guard and they were waved through to the apron. Cramer whistled when he saw the plane. It was a gleaming Lear jet, the stairway down and two uniformed pilots standing to attention at the bottom. ‘They’ve been briefed,’ said Allan before Cramer could speak. ‘And don’t worry — they’ve been checked out.’

‘They have been with Mr Vander Mayer for more than five years,’ said Su-ming.

The Mercedes came to a halt by the side of the jet. Cramer stayed in his seat until Martin climbed out and opened the door for him. Allan went up the stairs first, disappeared into the plane and after a few seconds reappeared and waved to Martin. Cramer went up, followed by Su-ming and with Martin bringing up the rear, carrying the pack of sandwiches and the Thermos flask. The pilots nodded a greeting to Cramer, but he could see that they were weighing him up, trying to work out what sort of man was taking the place of their boss.

Cramer ducked inside the fuselage and stared at the interior. It was more luxurious than any first-class cabin he’d ever been in. The windows were as large as those in a train, there were half a dozen seats each as big as an armchair, and at the rear was a matching leather sofa facing a walnut cabinet which held a large television and video recorder. Thick grey carpet covered the floor and Cramer’s shoes sank into it as he walked into the centre of the plane. ‘There is a bathroom and shower beyond the galley,’ said Su-ming. ‘The sofa converts into a double bed if needed.’

‘How the other half lives,’ said Martin.

‘Sure beats a Hercules,’ agreed Allan.

One of the pilots closed the hatch as the other disappeared into the cockpit. ‘At this point I’m supposed to give you a full briefing, but I reckon we’ve all been through this before so I’ll just tell you to keep your belts on during takeoff and landing and wish you a pleasant flight.’ He followed his colleague into the cockpit.

Cramer sat down in one of the huge leather chairs and buckled his seatbelt. Su-ming dropped into the seat next to him.

‘Hey, Su-ming, what time does the in-flight movie start?’ asked Martin.

‘No movies,’ said Su-ming, taking him seriously.

The two jet engines whined and then roared into life, and a minute or so later the plane began to roll across the tarmac. Cramer took several deep breaths. He could feel the adrenalin surging through his body, so much so that he felt almost lightheaded. It was all starting to come together.

‘Now what?’ asked Marie as Lynch watched the Lear jet power down the runway. The jet soared into the air, climbed steeply, and then banked to the right. Within seconds it had disappeared into the clouds.

‘Give me the pen, quick,’ said Lynch. He repeated the jet’s registration number to himself, then quickly scribbled it down on the corner of the map when Marie handed him the pen. ‘I can find out where they’re going,’ he explained.

‘The same guy who told you they were in Wales?’ Lynch nodded. ‘Then what?’

Lynch smiled at her eagerness. ‘That depends where he’s gone, love.’

‘I’d put my money on London,’ said Marie.

‘Yeah? Why?’

‘It’s a British-registered jet, and it was heading east. Could be Europe, though, I suppose.’

‘How do you know it’s British?’

‘The first letter of the registration was G, right? All British registered planes start with a G.’

‘How do you know that?’

She patted him on the thigh. ‘I went out with a pilot for a while,’ she said. ‘Let’s go use the phone. I want to call the office and say that I’ll be off for another couple of days.’

‘You’re staying, then?’ asked Lynch, tearing off the piece of map on which he’d written the number.

‘Oh yes, Dermott. I’m sticking to you like shit to a cow’s tail.’

‘Nice analogy,’ said Lynch. He put the car in gear and drove to the short-stay car park. After they’d parked, Lynch tucked his gun under the front seat.

They found a bank of call booths in the departures terminal. Lynch went through his pockets and pulled out a handful of change. He dialled McDonough’s work number. A woman answered and at first she was reluctant to get McDonough, but Lynch told her that his car had been involved in an accident. He pushed two pound coins into the slot as he waited. When McDonough came to the phone, he was clearly worried. ‘Who is this?’ he asked.

‘Easy, Luke,’ said Lynch. ‘It’s me. Dermott.’

McDonough’s voice dropped to a whisper. ‘What the fuck are you doing calling me here?’ he said.

‘I need a favour,’ said Lynch.

‘You said it was a one-off,’ said McDonough.

‘It was,’ said Lynch. ‘And I wouldn’t have called you if this wasn’t important. Jets file flight plans, right?’

‘Look, maybe I’m not making myself clear. You said. .’

‘Shut the fuck up!’ Lynch hissed. ‘I need one favour, that’s all. Now get a pen and write this down.’

McDonough went quiet and Lynch could practically hear the man thinking. McDonough knew who Lynch was, and what he was capable of. ‘Okay,’ McDonough said eventually. ‘Okay, but just this once.’

‘Thanks,’ said Lynch. ‘I appreciate it, I really do.’ There was no point in rubbing the man’s nose in it. Lynch read out the number from the torn map corner.

‘It’s a jet, you say?’

‘Yeah. Some sort of executive jet. I need to know who it belongs to as well. Can you do that?’

McDonough went silent for a few seconds. ‘Yeah. I can do that.’ His voice was cold and flat, almost robotic.

‘Luke, I’m sorry I snapped at you,’ said Lynch as kindly as possible. Lynch needed the air traffic controller to do what he wanted, and if that meant smoothing his feathers then Lynch was prepared to do it. If he’d been in the same room as McDonough and he’d had a gun in his hand, then his approach might well have been different. ‘Do this for me and I won’t ask anything else of you, I promise. I swear on my mother’s life.’ Lynch’s mother had died of a massive stroke five years earlier and was buried next to his father in a cemetery outside Castlewellan, but he felt no shame at invoking her name.

‘I’ll do it,’ said McDonough, less bitterly this time.

‘How long do you think it’ll take?’

‘A couple of telephone calls,’ said McDonough. ‘Give me your number and I’ll call you back.’

‘I’ll call you,’ said Lynch. ‘Half an hour, okay’

‘Okay.’ The line went dead and Lynch replaced the receiver. Marie was still talking on her phone. She waved animatedly at Lynch and he went to stand behind her.

Marie replaced the receiver. ‘Curiouser and curiouser,’ she said.

‘What’s curiouser and curiouser?’

‘I rang the estate agents, the one whose name was on the school sign. Told them that my boss was interested in the property. The girl there said it had been bought by a Bristol company who are planning to turn it into a conference centre. They’re taking over in two months.’

‘So who’s in now?’

‘She wouldn’t tell me. I even played the overworked secretary, told her my boss was giving me a hard time, but she still said she couldn’t say. Said it was confidential. To be honest, I don’t think she knows.’

‘There’s something strange going on, that’s for sure.’

‘What about your guy?’

‘Half an hour. I’ll get back to him.’

They went to the cafeteria. Lynch ordered two coffees and they chose a quiet table. ‘What are you going to do, Dermott?’ asked Marie as she stirred her coffee.

‘In what way?’

‘The police are after you, the organisation seems to want you dead, you’ve no visible means of support.’

‘Sure, but it’s not all going my way.’ He grinned but could see that she was serious. ‘What do you want me to say, Marie?’

‘I was just wondering what your plan is?’

Lynch put his head in his hands and watched her with amused eyes. ‘I’m in deep shit, I know I’m in deep shit, but dwelling on it isn’t going to make it go away. I could run, but the world’s smaller than it used to be. There aren’t many places I could do a Lord Lucan, and, as you say, I’m not exactly flush with funds. So in terms of planning ahead, I’m not. In the words of Doris Day, que sera, sera. If you’re asking me what my short-term aim is, it’s to see Cramer dead and buried, and maybe dance on his grave.’

Marie nodded sympathetically. ‘You’re sure?’

‘What do you mean?’

She shrugged and put her spoon down on her saucer. ‘Getting Cramer isn’t going to be easy. I just want to be sure that you’re going to go through with it.’

Lynch exhaled slowly as he stared at Marie. There was an enthusiasm about her that was almost child-like. It reminded him of Davie Quinn. Poor, dead, Davie Quinn. ‘You’ve never been engaged have you?’ he asked.

‘No.’

‘You’ve never met anyone you felt you wanted to marry? Someone you wanted to spend the rest of your life with?’

Marie shook her head. ‘No.’

‘Sometimes you meet someone and you just know they’re right for you. Twin souls. It’s as if your whole life had been leading up to the point where you meet that person. It was like that when I met Maggie.’

‘Love at first sight,’ said Marie.

‘I know, it’s a cliche. But when she walked into my life it was like everything clicked into place. Like we belonged together. She was twenty-two when we met, she’d just left Queen’s with a degree in electrical engineering and she was going to change the world. She had hair that gleamed like copper and eyes like a cat, green like emeralds.’ He stopped when he realised that Marie was grinning at him. ‘I know, I know, I’m talking in cliches.’

‘No, Dermott, you’re talking like a man in love.’

‘Aye, I was that. Head over heels. Nothing I’ve felt since has ever compared with how I felt then. Like I could live forever. Like I wanted to live forever.’ He picked up his coffee and sniffed it, holding the cup in both hands. ‘You know what was crazy? I knew she sympathised with the IRA, but she never told me she was a volunteer. She was in an active service unit and she didn’t say a word. Mind you, she was Scottish, so I guess it didn’t occur to me that she’d have been recruited.’

‘Did you tell her that you were part of it?’ Lynch shook his head and sipped his coffee. ‘So why are you surprised that she could keep a secret? Didn’t you tell me that only one member of each cell knows anyone else in another cell?’

‘Aye, of course. But she was so close to me, so close you wouldn’t believe.’

‘She was being professional.’

‘I know.’ He put down his cup. ‘Do you want something to eat?’ Marie shook her head. ‘I think she was recruited before she went to university,’ Lynch continued. ‘It might even have been the organisation that suggested she study what she did.’

‘Electrical engineering?’

‘Yeah. She got a first. She was sharp, all right. Sharp as a knife. You couldn’t pull the wool over Maggie’s eyes, she’d let you get away with nothing.’

‘Why electrical engineering?’

Lynch looked at her levelly. ‘She was a bomb-maker. She made bombs.’ Marie stiffened and Lynch gave her time to digest what he’d told her. ‘We were at war,’ he said eventually.

‘You don’t have to explain anything,’ said Marie.

‘I know, it’s just that. .’

‘It’s just that you thought I might get nervous, that I might chicken out. No chance, Dermott. If the IRA hadn’t done what it did, the British would never have talked to Sinn Fein in the first place. So you don’t have to explain anything, okay?’

Lynch nodded. ‘Okay,’ he said. ‘We got engaged the year after she graduated. She was working for a company outside Belfast, making video recorders. I was on the dole but by then I was already a volunteer. I never told her, but I think she guessed. I had to go away at weekends for training, and she never asked where I went.’

‘It seems a strange relationship. Both of you keeping secrets from each other.’

Lynch sighed. ‘It had to be done. I couldn’t say anything to her, it would have been against standing orders. Her controller was a member of the Army Council, even the rest of the council didn’t know what she was doing. She was sent to London, told me she was going to see her folks in Glasgow. I was sent south for advanced weapons training, I don’t know if it was a coincidence or if it was planned. The next thing I knew was all the bombs going off in London. Real spectaculars. Huge bombs.’

‘I remember,’ said Marie quietly.

‘The SAS discovered that the active service unit was based in a flat in Wapping. They stormed it, all the volunteers were killed. Maggie was shot in the back, Marie. She was shot in the back while she was lying on the floor. That came out at the inquest. Cramer gave evidence, hidden behind a screen. Soldier B, they called him, but it was Cramer. He said that Maggie was reaching for a gun.’ Lynch sneered. ‘Heckler amp; Kochs they had, and she was lying face down. Why the fuck would she be reaching for a gun? They executed her, Marie. Cramer shot her in the back because they didn’t want a trial. They killed them all. That’s what the SAS are. Government assassins.’ Lynch’s hands had clenched into fists and he banged them on the table. Marie reached across and held his hands. ‘She was pregnant, Marie. She was two months pregnant. That’s what they found when they cut her open. Maybe she didn’t even know. Cramer killed her, and he killed my baby. So you don’t have to ask me if I’m going to go through with it. I swore on Maggie’s grave that I’d revenge her. Her and our baby. Oh yes, Marie love, if it’s the death of me, I’ll kill Cramer.’ Lynch suddenly realised that he was glaring at her, so intense were his feelings. He forced himself to relax.