The Double Tap (Stephen Leather Thrillers) (22 page)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

       
Cramer straightened up and put the PPK back in its holster. ‘I’m still too slow, aren’t I?’ he asked.

       
‘Maybe,’ admitted Allan. ‘It depends.’

       
‘Depends? On whether or not he forgets to tie his shoelaces and then trips over them?’ He turned to face Allan as he smoothed down the collar of his coat.

       
‘On whether he can get past Martin and me.’

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

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

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

       
Allan looked surprised. ‘For what?’

       
‘For the training. For pushing me.’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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