‘Where the fuck did he come from?’ hissed Lynch. He put a restraining hand on O’Riordan’s shoulder. ‘Hold a while, Pat. Let’s see what that guy’s up to.’ Lynch looked across at the Quinn boy who was standing on the pavement, unsure of what to do. Lynch motioned with his head for Davie to go back to the bench.
‘Maybe he’s just out for a walk,’ said O’Riordan hesitantly.
‘Yeah. Maybe.’
The man was in his fifties, perhaps older, wearing a green Barbour, a cap and green Wellington boots. He walked with a stick, though it seemed to Lynch that it was for effect rather than because the man was unsteady on his feet. He strolled briskly along the sea wall, swinging the walking stick as if it were a military cane.
From where they were standing, Lynch couldn’t see Fitzapatrick and McVeigh on the beach. He just hoped they’d have the sense to hold back.
Cramer didn’t look around as the man in the Barbour jacket joined him at the edge of the sea wall. ‘Nice day for it,’ said the man amicably.
Cramer’s upper lip curled back, but still he didn’t turn to face the visitor. ‘Nice day for what?’
‘For whatever it is you’re doing.’ He tapped the ground with his stick. ‘Just what the hell are you doing, Sergeant Cramer?’
‘The only one with a rank these days is you, Colonel.’
The Colonel tapped his stick again. He turned around so that his back was to the sea. ‘I count five,’ he said. ‘Do you think five will be enough?’
‘Six,’ said Cramer. ‘There’s one up on the hill.’
The Colonel acknowledged the correction with the merest hint of a smile. ‘They must really hate you to do this, you know? The Unionists are bound to claim it’s a breach of the ceasefire.’
‘Maybe,’ said Cramer.
‘Unless they’re planning to remove all the evidence. If there’s no body, I suppose there’d be no proof that it ever happened. Not now you’re no longer with the regiment. It’s not as if you’d be missed, is it?’
‘Thanks, Colonel,’ said Cramer bitterly.
‘Do you know who they are?’
Cramer shrugged. ‘It doesn’t matter.’ He noticed for the first time that the Colonel was wearing a blue tie covered with small winged daggers. Cramer smiled. Only the Colonel would go up against a team of IRA hitmen wearing the regimental tie of the Special Air Service.
‘Dermott Lynch’s running the show. He’s got Pat O’Riordan with him. Down on the beach you’ve got Gerry Fitzpatrick and Fergus McVeigh. We couldn’t identify the youngster.’
‘Lynch’s good.’
‘Oh yes, he’s good. And he’s got a personal interest in you, of course. We’d love to get hold of O’Riordan, too. But the rest are strictly second division.’
The Colonel looked at his watch, then turned back to face the sea again.
‘What do you want, Colonel?’
‘A chat. You’ve got time for a chat, haven’t you?’
Cramer shrugged listlessly. ‘I’d rather be on my own, if that’s all right with you.’
‘But you’re not on your own, are you, Sergeant Cramer? There’s an IRA active service unit armed to the teeth heading your way.’
‘You’d best be going then, huh?’
The Colonel shook his head sadly. ‘This isn’t the way to do it, Joker.’
The nickname made Cramer smile. It had been a long time since anyone had used it. ‘Do what?’
‘You know what.’
Cramer sighed and hunched his shoulders. ‘You don’t know what you’re talking about,’ he said flatly.
‘I know you’re dying.’
For the first time, Cramer looked across at the Colonel. ‘We’re all dying,’ he said venomously.
‘How long?’ asked the Colonel. ‘How long did the doctor give you?’
‘If you’re here, you already know.’
‘Two months. Three months at the most. The last few weeks will be in intolerable pain. You’ll need to be on a drip, and even that won’t be enough.’
‘So you know why I’m here.’
‘Because you’re frightened of dying in a hospital bed, screaming in agony. Friendless. Alone.’
Cramer wrinkled his nose at the image. ‘Thanks for sugar-coating it for me, Colonel.’
‘Bowel cancer isn’t a pleasant way to die.’
‘You’re telling me.’
‘So you’ve decided to go down fighting. To die like a soldier, in battle.’
Cramer smiled and drew back his jacket so that the Colonel could see the Browning in the holster. He looked over his shoulder. The men on the beach were still heading in their direction. Lynch and O’Riordan were standing in the car park, talking. ‘You should go, Colonel. This is going to get messy.’
‘Hear me out, Joker. This isn’t the way to do it.’
Cramer’s eyes hardened. ‘With all due respect, Colonel, you don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about.’
The Colonel thrust his square jaw forward. His jaw, and the wide nose which had been broken several times, gave the man a deceptively simple appearance, but Cramer knew that he had an IQ in the high 150s and was one of the top twelve chess-players in the United Kingdom. ‘I can offer you a better way.’
‘Yeah, right. What do you want me to do? Swallow my gun? I’ve tried, Colonel. I can’t.’
The Colonel shook his head. ‘That’s not what I’m offering. I’m offering you a chance to do something worthwhile with your last few weeks.’
Cramer frowned, then looked away. ‘I’m listening.’
‘Over the last two years there’ve been a series of assassinations around the world. Businessmen, politicians, criminals, all killed by one man. A professional killer who’ll hit anyone if the price is right. He’s never been caught, and we have no idea who he is.’
‘We? We as in the SAS?’
‘The FBI, Interpol, MI6, the SVR, Mossad.’
‘All the good guys, huh?’
The Colonel ignored the interruption. ‘He likes to get in close, this killer. He always uses a handgun. We’ve dozens of witnesses, but we don’t know what he looks like.’
Cramer frowned. ‘That doesn’t make sense.’
‘Oh, we’ve dozens of descriptions all right. He’s short. He’s tall. He’s thin, he’s overweight, he’s balding, he has a beard, blue eyes, brown eyes, pale skinned, tanned. The only thing we’re sure of is that he’s white and male.’
‘A master of disguise,’ said Cramer, smiling at the cliche.
The Colonel shrugged. ‘He uses contact lenses, he grows facial hair as and when he needs it. He puts on weight, he takes it off. Maybe he even has plastic surgery. There isn’t anything he won’t do to succeed.’
Cramer turned around slowly. The men in the car park had started walking again. They’d soon be at the sea wall. He looked anxiously at the Colonel, who seemed unfazed by the approaching killers. ‘What do you want from me?’
‘Do you know what a Judas Goat is?’
Cramer shook his head.
‘Say you’re trying to trap a tiger. You can trample through the jungle all you want, you’ll not see a hair of it. You’re in his territory. You’re wasting your time trying to hunt it. So what you do is you take a young goat, a kid, and you tether it in a clearing. Then you sit back and wait. The tiger seeks out the bleating goat, and BANG! One dead tiger.’
‘A Judas Goat?’ repeated Cramer. ‘Sounds more like bait to me. That’s what you’re offering me? The chance to be bait?’
‘I’m offering you the chance to go up against the most successful assassin in the world, Joker. To the best of our knowledge he’s never failed. Never been caught, and never failed. Wouldn’t that be more of a challenge for you?
