‘You think he’s waiting for something?’
Twomey shrugged. ‘Maybe.’
Lynch nodded. ‘Tell Davie we’ll meet him in front of St Mary’s Abbey.’
Twomey sat in the passenger seat next to Lynch as they drove to the ruins of the parish church which overlooked the harbour, reminiscing about the old days. It was still raining and the windscreen wipers flicked from side to side as they climbed the hill to the church. They found Davie standing with his arms folded across his chest, stamping his feet for warmth. He hadn’t dressed for the outdoors. Lynch motioned for him to get into the back of the car, next to Pat O’Riordan, a stocky farmer from Ballymena who was responsible for the deaths of three British soldiers. Davie recognised O’Riordan and his eyes widened as he realised the calibre of the men who’d driven down from Belfast. He was in illustrious company.
‘Where’s your car?’ asked Lynch, twisting around in his seat.
‘My brother’s got it,’ shivered Davie. ‘He’s parked on the west pier, across from the Sass-man.’ Water dripped off his hair and onto his pullover. He flicked his wet hair out of his eyes.
Twomey handed Lynch a pair of powerful binoculars. ‘That’s your man down there, on the sea wall,’ he said.
Lynch focused the binoculars, using the steering wheel to steady his hands. ‘That’s him, right enough,’ said Lynch.
‘You know him?’ Davie blurted out, then fell silent, embarrassed by his outburst.
‘Aye, lad, I’ve met Sergeant Cramer before.’
‘What do you want to do, Dermott?’ asked Twomey.
‘We wait,’ he replied, the binoculars still pressed to his eyes. ‘We wait and we watch.’
‘You think it’s a set-up?’
‘Look at him, Aidan. Standing there as bold as brass. He’s like a baited trap, and we’re the rats. We’re not going to do anything until we’re sure he’s alone.’ He handed the binoculars to Twomey and turned back to Davie. ‘What’s he been doing?’
Davie rubbed his hands together. ‘He walks along the beach, he walks up and down the harbour wall. According to the lad in the shop he buys some food: bread, milk, just the basics. Doesn’t seem to eat much, he’s more of a drinker. Famous Grouse. He buys a bottle a day from the pub.’
‘Is there a telephone in the cottage?’
Davie shook his head.
‘Has he spoken to anyone, any strangers?’
Another shake of the head.
‘Visitors?’
‘Not according to the neighbours. He keeps himself to himself, but he seems friendly enough to the locals. He’s made no secret of who he is.’
‘Good lad, you’ve done well.’ Davie smiled with pride as Lynch turned the key in the ignition. ‘Let’s take a run by his cottage while he’s down there,’ he said. ‘Show me the way.’
Thomas McCormack stared at the ripples on the surface of the river. ‘What do you think, Joe? Think he’ll take it?’
Joseph Connolly grinned. ‘It’s all in the wrist, Thomas. Give it a go.’
McCormack drew back his arm and sent his fly arcing through the air. It settled on the water but the trout below defiantly refused to bite. Connolly chuckled to himself. ‘He’s a cunning old bastard, right enough.’
McCormack wound in his line again. The two men had been standing thigh deep in the fast flowing water for the best part of thirty minutes, and neither had caught a thing, never mind the huge trout that was said to inhabit the shady spot beneath the riverside oak. ‘Go on, let’s see your best shot,’ said McCormack. He pushed his horn- rimmed spectacles further up his nose. The glasses and his greying hair gave him a scholarly, almost schoolmasterly, appearance, belying his role as a member of the IRA Army Executive, a man who regularly made life or death decisions. It had been an impassioned speech by McCormack which had resulted in a massive car bomb, causing millions of pounds worth of damage to London’s financial centre, and it had been McCormack’s idea to bring in the American sniper with a high powered rifle who’d killed half a dozen members of the security forces with long distance shots across the border.
Connolly was one of the hardliners in the Army Council, and one of the harshest critics of the 1994 ceasefire and the peace process that had followed. Connolly’s mistrust of the British Government bordered on the paranoid, and he had taken a lot of persuading before agreeing to back Gerry Adams’s peace initiative.
McCormack watched as Connolly cast his fly, a smooth, fluid action that McCormack had to admire. Connolly had been fly-fishing for more than half a century and McCormack was a relative newcomer, but even if he fished for another hundred years he didn’t think he’d ever be as good as the old man. ‘Come on, you bugger, isn’t that the loveliest, tastiest fly you’ve ever seen?’ Connolly whispered to the unseen quarry. McCormack held his breath, certain that this time the fish would take the bait, but the glossy blue fly sat untouched on the surface. ‘It’s not my day, sure enough,’ growled Connolly as he wound in his line.
McCormack pulled a pewter hip flask from the inside pocket of his waxed cotton jacket, unscrewed the top and offered it to his companion. Connolly’s liver-spotted hand trembled slightly as he took the flask, but McCormack pretended not to notice. Connolly had just turned seventy, and while his mind was still razor sharp, he was rumoured to have developed Parkinson’s disease. It wasn’t as if the man was an invalid, and McCormack had noticed that there were no shakes when Connolly was concentrating on fishing. McCormack hoped that the rumours were wrong and that the trembling was nothing more than a symptom of old age, like the thinning white hair, the liver spots and the hearing aid tucked behind his right ear. The old man drank from the flask, handed it back and began to tie another fly onto his line. ‘This Cramer,’ he said without looking up. ‘What do you think?’
McCormack smiled. The canny old bastard had read his mind. ‘It’s not a set-up,’ he said, slowly. ‘He’s on his own. Whatever he’s up to, he’s not with the SAS any more.’
‘Could be Five.’
‘Nah. British Intelligence wouldn’t touch him with a bargepole. Cramer was finished some time ago. He’s too well known here, and he’d be bugger all use anywhere else. Besides, if Five were using him, why would they put him in Howth?’
Connolly shrugged as he concentrated on his knot. ‘You tell me, Thomas. You’re the one who won’t let sleeping dogs lie.’
McCormack sensed admonition in the older man’s voice and realised that he’d have to tread carefully. ‘This is a murdering dog that deserves to be put down, Joe. Peace process or no peace process.’
‘No argument here,’ said Connolly, straightening up and looking him in the eye. ‘I just don’t want it to backfire on you, that’s all.’ He paused. ‘There’s no doubt that it’s Cramer?’
‘None. Dermott saw him five years ago, up close.’
‘Close? How close?’
‘We had Cramer in a farmhouse with another undercover Sass-man. Cramer’s partner died while he was being questioned, Cramer was lucky to get away with his life. Dermott was one of the team guarding him.’
‘Does Cramer know Dermott?’ asked Connolly.
‘Dermott says no. Cramer was hooded or blindfolded most of the time.’
Connolly fixed McCormack with a beady stare. ‘Dermott’s got a personal interest, hasn’t he?’
McCormack nodded. ‘Aye. But that’s not what this is about.’
‘And Cramer’s quite alone?’
‘No question of it. Dermott’s had him under twenty-four hour surveillance for the past three days. No one’s gone near Cramer, he’s made no telephone calls, and there are no other strangers in the village.’
‘Do you think he’s cracked? Had some sort of breakdown?’
‘It’s possible. He’s certainly not behaving rationally.’
‘Why not bring him in?’ asked Connolly.
‘Because there’s nothing we need from him. Other than to be an example of what we do to our enemies.’
A plopping sound at the far side of the river caught Connolly’s attention. He shaded his eyes with his hand but
