couldn’t see anything. ‘Aye, the bastard deserves a bullet, right enough,’ he said.
‘So I have the Army Council’s permission?’
Connolly smiled tightly. ‘Let’s just say there won’t be any tears shed. But we won’t be claiming responsibility, not officially. Politically it’s too sensitive; you know how things are at the moment. But Cramer’s been the death of too many of our people for us to leave him be.’ Connolly licked his lips and they glistened wetly. ‘When?’ he asked.
McCormack drained the flask and slipped it back into his pocket. ‘Tomorrow morning. Early.’
Connolly put a hand on McCormack’s shoulder. ‘Just be careful, Thomas. If anything goes wrong. .’ He left the sentence hanging, and McCormack nodded. He understood. There must be no mistakes.
Dermott Lynch was tucking into sausage and chips in Aidan Twomey’s spotless kitchen when the telephone rang. Twomey answered it in the hall and a few seconds later he appeared at the kitchen door. ‘It’s Thomas,’ he said.
Lynch nodded and put down his knife and fork. ‘This’ll be it,’ he said. He took a mouthful of tea and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. He picked up the receiver. ‘Aye, Thomas.’
‘It’s a runner,’ said McCormack. ‘Tomorrow morning.’
‘Fine,’ said Lynch.
‘You’re sure he’s alone?’
‘Dead sure.’
‘And he suspects nothing?’
‘He’s not even looking over his shoulder.’
‘Where are you going to do it?’
‘The sea wall. Every morning first thing he takes a walk. Stands near the lighthouse looking out over the sea like a fisherman’s wife.’
‘Be careful, Dermott.’
‘He’s a sitting duck.’
‘Just mind what I say. I don’t want anyone getting hurt.’
Lynch laughed softly. ‘Except for Cramer, you mean?’ He was still chuckling when he went back into the kitchen. Twomey was refilling their mugs with steaming tea. ‘It’s on,’ said Lynch, sitting down at the table and picking up his knife and fork.
‘What’s your plan?’ asked Twomey.
‘We’ll take him on the sea wall. There’ll be nowhere for him to run.’
‘You might be seen.’
Lynch snorted contemptuously. ‘We might be seen, but I doubt there’ll be any witnesses,’ he said.
‘Aye, right enough,’ said Twomey, sipping his tea. He put his mug down. ‘I’d like you to do me a favour, Dermott.’ Lynch narrowed his eyes, his fork halfway to his mouth. ‘Not for me, you understand, for the Quinn boys. They’ve been pestering me. .’
Lynch grinned, understanding. ‘And they want to be in on the kill?’ Twomey nodded. ‘Sure, no problem. It’s about time the boys were blooded.’
Mike Cramer woke to the sound of seagulls screaming. He rolled out of bed and washed in the bathroom before dressing in the same clothes he’d been wearing all week. Before going downstairs he took the Browning from under the stained pillow and slid it down the back of his trousers.
He made himself a coffee and sat in the old man’s chair as he drank it. There were packets of bread and sausage in the kitchen but neither had been opened. The bottle of Famous Grouse sat half-finished in the hearth and he reached over and poured a slug into his mug. Not quite an Irish coffee, he thought wryly, but close enough. The gun was sticking into the small of his back so he took it out and placed it on his lap. The Belgian-made Browning with its thirteen cartridges in the clip was a good weapon to have in a fire-fight against multiple opponents. As a rule, Cramer would never get himself into a position where he’d have to fire at more than two targets, but he knew that the situation he was heading for was the exception that proved the rule. A one-off. He field-stripped the gun and checked the firing mechanism, then reassembled it with well-practised movements before draining his mug. Another reason for choosing the Browning was its rugged reliability and the fact that it rarely jammed. In all his years in the SAS he’d never had one fail on him. He stood up, wincing as he did.
The shoulder holster was hanging on the back of the front door, its supple leather glistening in the sun which filtered through the grimy windows. He eased it on, holstered the Browning, and slipped on his reefer jacket. He had a strong premonition that today was the day. The waiting was over.
From his vantage point amid the ruins of St Mary’s Abbey, Paulie Quinn watched Cramer walk slowly down the road to the harbour, his hands in his pockets. Cramer kept his head bent down as if deep in thought. Paulie wondered what was going through the Sass-man’s mind, whether he knew that today would be his last day on earth. Paulie put his walkie-talkie next to his mouth. ‘He’s on his way,’ he said.
‘I see him,’ said Lynch who was sitting with Pat O’Riordan, parked in the yacht club car park.
Paulie put the walkie-talkie back in his pocket and pressed the binoculars to his eyes. He didn’t want to miss a second. His only regret was that he wouldn’t be closer to the action. He’d much rather have been down on the road with his brother, but Lynch had said someone had to be up on the high ground, and he was the youngest. One day, thought Paulie with a tinge of bitterness, one day he wouldn’t be the youngest any more. He’d show them.
Cramer noticed the glint out of the corner of his eye, a flash of light from the old church. His heart began to race and he took several deep breaths. He fought the urge to turn his head and to look up the hill as he walked around the bend in the road and saw the harbour stretched out before him.
Two fishing boats were sailing away from the west pier leaving plumes of dirty grey smoke in their wake. Down on the beach two dark-haired men were throwing a stick for a black Labrador. They were walking slowly along the strip of sand, towards the marina. The dog raced back and forth, its bark whipped away in the wind before it could reach Cramer’s ears. Cramer recognised the dog, but not the men. There were several cars parked next to the yacht club building. Two men sat in one of the cars, not moving. Cramer rolled his head around, trying to loosen the muscles in his neck. He was tensing up, and this wasn’t the time to go stiff.
‘Right, let’s get the bastard,’ said Lynch, shoving his walkie-talkie into the glove compartment. He opened the door and went around to the boot. Leaning over his navy blue holdall, he slipped out the Kalashnikov while O’Riordan stood behind him, shielding him from the road. Lynch was wearing a long raincoat, open at the front, and he held the assault rifle inside, pressing it close to his body. ‘Okay,’ he said, stepping away from the car while O’Riordan pulled a handgun from the holdall and slid it into the pocket of his leather bomber jacket.
They walked across the car park, the wind pulling at their hair and whipping up ripples in the puddles at their feet. Ahead of them, Cramer had stepped onto the sea wall and was walking out to the lighthouse.
Davie Quinn was sitting on a wooden bench in front of the public toilets, a newspaper on his lap. He stood up, holding the folded newspaper so tightly that his knuckles went white. He nodded at Lynch and began to walk along the road.
Cramer stood at the far end of the sea wall, staring out to sea. He moved his head slowly to his left and saw that the two men were closer now. Half a mile away. The dog was running in circles around them, but they’d stopped playing with it. The two big men had left their car and were walking purposefully across the car park. And the boy, the boy was walking down the road holding the badly concealed gun as if he feared it would break if he dropped it. Five, he thought. Five plus the one on the hill make six.
He wiped his face with his hands and yawned. It wasn’t from tiredness, he knew. It was the tension. He pulled a packet of chewing gum from his pocket and unwrapped a stick. The wind blew the green wrapper from his fingers as he slipped the gum into his mouth, and he turned to watch it whirl through the air. He frowned as he saw the lone figure standing on the sea wall where it met the road. How had he missed one?
