The Double Tap (Stephen Leather Thrillers) (23 page)

       
‘Who are you?’ asked Paulie.

       
‘Who was with you?’

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

       
‘I want a solicitor,’ said Paulie.

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

       
‘I want to phone my mum.’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

       
‘You know what they do to touts.’

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

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

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

       
‘What the fuck are you talking about?’

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

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

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

       
Paulie frowned in disbelief. ‘You will?’

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

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

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

       
‘Dead?’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

       
‘Yes, boss,’ the photographer answered.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

       
‘Tea?’ asked Foley behind him.

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

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

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

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

       
‘Worth it, though.’

       
‘Huh? What did you say?’

       
‘I said it’s probably worth it.’

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

       
‘What do you want me to say?’

       
‘Anything.’

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

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

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

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

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

       
‘No, you jumped it just right.’

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

       
‘I just bet you will.’

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

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

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

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

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

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

       
‘And the kid. Don’t forget the kid.’

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

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

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

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

       
McCormack nodded. He put the flask away, unopened.

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

       
‘You did.’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

       
‘Or taken out.’

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

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

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

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

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

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