head left again when he almost bumped into the last remaining player. Cramer pulled his head back just in time to avoid a single shot and then he rolled forward and fired at the same time, catching his opponent in the chest. “Good shot,” said the man approvingly and lowered his gun. Cramer moved to go around him but as he did Simon appeared from a side passage, paint still running down his chest. Simon’s gun came up and Cramer grabbed the man he’d just shot, pulling him into the line of fire. Simon fired and bullets pounded into the man’s chest, each exploding into a yellow flower of paint.
“Hey come on, Simon!” yelled the man. His team leader was so close that the shots hurt, even through the overall and vest.
Simon kept firing, hoping that one of the balls would hit Cramer. Cramer needed one hand to hold the man up in front of him so he couldn’t reload. He pushed his human shield forward onto the barrel of Simon’s gun and then grabbed Simon’s arm, close to the elbow, twisting around to get him in a lock. Simon squealed and Cramer used his hip to throw him onto his back. The semi-automatic fell to the ground and Cramer put his foot on Simon’s chest, pinning him to the ground. Simon was winded and he lay gasping for breath, unable to speak. Cramer’s other victim got to his feet, his chest covered with yellow paint. “You bastard, Simon,” he said.
Cramer calmly reloaded his gun and aimed it at Simon’s chest. “Game, set and match,” he said quietly, and fired. The paintball caught Simon just over his heart and exploded. Cramer walked away without looking back.
Preston was waiting for him downstairs by the office with the five members of the Bayswater Blasters he’d defeated earlier. “How did it go?” Preston asked.
“Piece of cake,” Cramer said, removing his goggles. One of the men handed Cramer five ten-pound notes and he winked and accepted the money. Simon came down the stairs, his helmet still on, and went into the changing room without saying anything. The guy Cramer had used as a shield shrugged as if apologising for Simon’s bad behaviour and followed him inside.
“Did you see him?” Preston asked.
“Did I see who?” replied Cramer.
“The guy who was looking for you. Old guy, said he wanted to see you. I told him you were in the middle of a game and he said he’d give you a surprise. Borrowed a paintgun and a helmet and went in about ten minutes ago.”
Cramer frowned and spat his chewing gum into a wastepaper bin. “Old guy?” he asked. To Preston, anyone over the age of thirty was old.
Preston shrugged. “Grey hair, about your height, bit bigger. He didn’t give a name. Said he was an old friend.”
“I guess I should see what he wants,” said Cramer. He slid the goggles back on and reloaded his Splatmaster. He crept back up the stairs, wondering who his mysterious visitor was and why he wanted to play games rather than meet in the office. The first level was clear but as he passed beneath the rope and trapdoor he heard a footfall as if someone had suddenly shuffled backwards. Cramer smiled. He took the end of the rope and started swinging it, before running silently back to the stairs. It was going to be too easy, he thought. He moved through the first room on the second level, and stood for a moment by the open doorway. He heard a noise in the far right-hand corner and he moved immediately, stepping to the left and sweeping his gun around at chest height, seeking his target. He frowned as he realised that the room was deserted, then his heart sank as he saw the single paintball lying in the corner. Before he could move he felt the barrel of a gun jam up against his chin.
“Careless, Joker,” said a voice by his left ear. Cramer shifted his weight and brought up his right arm, trying to grab his adversary but the man behind him swayed easily away and swept Cramer’s feet from underneath him with a savage kick. Cramer hit the ground heavily and before he could react the man was on top of him and the gun was once more pressing into his throat. “Very careless.”
Cramer squinted up at the facemask. “Colonel?” he said.
The figure pulled off his facemask with his left hand, the right keeping the paintgun hard up against Cramer’s flesh. Cramer looked up at the familiar face of his former mentor. It had been more than two years since he had set eyes on the senior SAS officer. His hair was considerably greyer than last time they’d met, and cut slightly shorter, but the features were the same: eyes so brown they were almost black, a wide nose which had been broken several times, and a squarish jaw that gave him a deceptive farmboy look. Cramer knew the Colonel had a double first from Cambridge, was once one of the top twelve chess players in the United Kingdom, and was an acknowledged expert on early Victorian watercolours. “Good to see you, Colonel,” said Cramer.
“You’re unfit, Sergeant Cramer,” said the Colonel with a smile. “You wouldn’t last two minutes in the Killing House with those sort of moves.”
“It’s been a long time, Colonel. I guess I’m out of practice.”
“You’re out of condition, too. A few forced marches across the Brecon Beacons would do you the world of good.” The Colonel stood up and offered Cramer a hand to help him up off the ground. “You sounded like an elephant on crutches, Joker. And you never, ever, enter a room without checking out all the angles. You know that.”
Cramer rubbed his neck. “I can’t believe I fell for the oldest trick in the book.”
The Colonel slapped him on the back. “Have you got somewhere we can talk?”
Cramer took him downstairs and told Preston he was going to use the office for a while. Two more teams of paintball players had arrived and Preston was busy setting up a game for them. Cramer closed the door and waved the Colonel to a chair. He pulled the bottle of Famous Grouse from his desk drawer and held it out to the Colonel, who nodded. Cramer poured large measures of whisky into two coffee mugs and handed one to his visitor. They clinked mugs.
“To the old days,” said Cramer.
“Fuck them all,” said the Colonel.
“Yeah, fuck them all,” said Cramer. They drank, and Cramer waited for the Colonel to explain why he was visiting.
“So, how long have you been working here?” asked the Colonel.
Cramer shrugged. “A few months. It’s just temporary, until I can find something else.”
“Security job didn’t work out?”
“Too many lonely nights. Too much time to think.” Cramer wondered how the Colonel knew about his previous job as a nightwatchman. He poured himself another measure of whisky.
“Money problems? The pension coming through okay?” Cramer shrugged. He knew that the Colonel hadn’t come to talk about his financial status. “You ever meet a guy called Pete Manyon?” asked the Colonel.
Cramer shook his head.
“I guess he must have joined the regiment after you left. He was in D squadron.”
Cramer looked at the whisky at the bottom of his mug. If the Colonel had bothered to check up on his employment record, he’d have been just as capable of checking the regimental files. He’d have known full well whether or not the two men had served together.
“He died a week ago. In Washington.” He held out his empty mug for a refill. As Cramer poured in a generous measure of Famous Grouse, the Colonel scrutinised his face for any reaction. “He’d been tortured. Four of his fingers had been taken off. He’d virtually been skinned alive. And he’d been castrated.”
Cramer’s hand shook and whisky slopped down the side of the Colonel’s mug. “Shit,” said Cramer. “I’m sorry.”
“That’s okay,” said the Colonel, putting his mug down on the desk and wiping his hand with a white handkerchief.
“It was Hennessy, right?”
The Colonel nodded.
“Bitch,” said Cramer venomously.
“Manyon was a captain, working undercover in the States, on the trail of Matthew Bailey, an IRA activist. We’d heard that he’d popped up in New York so Manyon infiltrated one of the NORAID groups there.”
“Did he say he’d seen Hennessy?”
The Colonel shook his head. “No, but considering what happened to him. .”
“Yeah, yeah, I get the picture. Jesus Christ, Colonel, the bitch should have been put down years ago.”
The Colonel shrugged. “She’s been underground a long time, Joker. And she has a lot of friends.”
“I can’t believe you let a Rupert go undercover against the IRA,” said Cramer. “I mean, I’ve served under
