The tailor paid him no attention and began dropping brown paper parcels onto the table. ‘Shirts, white, double cuffs. Shirts, polo. Underwear, boxers, a variety of colours. Socks, black. Ties, a selection, all silk of course.’
‘Of course,’ repeated Cramer.
‘Slacks, brown. Slacks, khaki. Slacks grey.’ He held up a paper bag like a conjurer producing a rabbit from his top hat. ‘Accessories. Belts, cufflinks, I took the liberty of including a selection of tie pins.’ The tailor looked at the Colonel. ‘I would prefer to make some adjustments to the suits and the overcoat if we have time,’ he said. ‘I could have them back here tomorrow morning. It’s not essential but. .’ He gave a small shrug.
The Colonel nodded. ‘Tomorrow will be fine.’
‘Excellent, excellent,’ said the tailor. He produced a suit and held it out to Cramer.
Cramer nodded. ‘Looks great,’ he said.
The tailor tut-tutted impatiently. ‘Try it on, please,’ he said.
Cramer did as he was told, then stood stock still as the tailor fussed around him, making deft marks on the material with a piece of chalk and scribbling into his notebook. Cramer tried on the three suits, then the cashmere overcoat, and the tailor spirited them back into the cases.
‘So, I’ll see you at the same time tomorrow,’ the tailor said to the Colonel. He disappeared out of the dining hall as quickly as he’d appeared.
‘Does he do your suits?’ Cramer asked the Colonel.
‘I couldn’t afford his prices,’ said the Colonel with a tight smile.
Cramer refilled his tea from a large earthenware pot. Mrs Elliott brewed her tea in the army style, piping hot and strong, and for all he knew, with a dollop of bromide thrown in for good measure. ‘This guy I’m standing in for,’ he said. ‘When do I find out about him? I don’t even know who he is.’
‘One step at a time, Joker. First I want you to know what you’re up against.’
‘I think I’ve got a good idea.’
‘That’s as maybe, but I’d like you to read through all the files before we move on to the next stage. And there are a few more tests.’
‘Medical?’
‘No. I’m bringing in an instructor from Training Wing.’
‘Anyone I know?’
The Colonel smiled thinly. ‘I doubt it,’ he said. ‘You’ve been away a long time.’
Seth Reed brought the car to a halt by a gap in the hedgerow. He turned around and nodded at his son. ‘There you are,’ he said.
‘A field?’ said Mark, his face screwed up in disgust.
‘Beggars can’t be choosers,’ said Reed. ‘Would you rather wait until we get to Dundalk?’
‘I can’t wait,’ said Mark, reaching for the door handle.
‘Watch out for the rats,’ warned Reed.
Mark’s hand froze in mid-air. ‘Rats?’
‘As big as cats. Mrs Mcgregor told us about them.’
Mark looked at his mother.
‘Your father’s joking,’ said Kimberlee. ‘It’s his sick sense of humour.’
Mark opened the car door and looked at the thick grass running along the hedgerow.
‘Go on, kiddo. I was joking.’
‘You’re sure?’ asked Mark, still not convinced.
‘Cross my heart.’
Mark slid out of the car and walked gingerly over the damp grass, through the gap in the hedge and into the field. ‘Shouldn’t you go with him?’ asked Kimberlee.
‘What? With rats as big as cats out there?’
‘I just thought. .’
‘Honey, this is Ireland. We’re in the middle of nowhere. He’s hardly likely to get mugged in a field, is he?’
Kimberlee pouted. Reed gave it a five full seconds before opening the door and following his son. He knew from experience that the pout was only the first weapon in his wife’s impressive armoury. It was always less painful to concede early on. ‘Thanks, honey,’ she called after him.
Davie Quinn crashed the truck into gear and bumped along the rutted track. Pat O’Riordan put a hand onto the dashboard to steady himself. ‘Easy, Davie,’ he said. ‘Take it slowly. We’re in no rush. Remember what we’ve got in the back.’
‘Okay. Sorry.’ Davie’s face reddened.
‘Just be grateful we don’t have the Semtex on board,’ said O’Riordan. He chuckled. ‘You okay back there, Paulie?’ he called.
Paulie Quinn was in the back, making sure that the weapons didn’t shift around too much. ‘Yeah. No problem.’
Davie guided the truck off the track and onto the narrow road that ran between the fields. O’Riordan looked at his watch. ‘Are we late?’ asked Davie, clearly anxious.
O’Riordan smiled at the boy’s enthusiasm. He was so eager to please that it was almost painful. ‘A bit, but nothing to worry about.’ O’Riordan wasn’t worried in the least about crossing the border into the South. Since the ceasefire all the roads linking the Republic with Northern Ireland had been reopened and the border posts dismantled. There were no longer any soldiers checking vehicles and it was now as easy to drive across the border as it was to drive from London to Manchester.
‘What happens to the stuff we left behind?’ asked Davie.
‘It’ll be called in after a few days. Give the weather a chance to obliterate the evidence. The organisation is preparing to hand over more than a dozen arms stockpiles to the authorities as a sign of good faith.’
‘But we hold on to the good stuff, right?’
O’Riordan winked. ‘You got it.’
Seth Reed stood by the hedgerow as he waited for his son to finish going to the toilet. The South Armagh scenery was breathtaking: rolling hills, the forty-shades of green his travel agent had promised, even the cloying mist had an ethereal quality that softened the colours and gave the view the feel of a hastily-painted watercolour. It was hard to believe that until recently the area had been one of the most dangerous in the world, where British troops had to be ferried about in helicopters because they faced death and injury if they dared to venture on foot.
When his wife had first suggested they spend their vacation touring Ireland he’d been reluctant. Her family originally came from the Republic and she was keen to go back to her roots and to get a feel for the country her ancestors had left almost a century earlier, but Reed believed that it was still too early, that the peace had yet to prove that it was a lasting one. She’d pouted, and had talked the travel agent into calling him direct. The travel agent had been persuasive, he’d even joked that the Reeds would be safer in Ireland than virtually anywhere in the States, and that the biggest danger they’d face would be hangovers from the Guinness. Between them, Kimberlee and the travel agent had talked Reed into it, and after a week in the country Reed was glad that they’d come: there were relatively few tourists around, the roads were a joy to drive on, and the people were unfailingly friendly and welcoming. When he got back to the States, he was definitely going to recommend the Emerald Isle to his friends. A few spots of rain splattered on his jacket and when he looked up more fell on his face. ‘Come on, Mark,’ he called. ‘It’s raining.’
Mark appeared from behind a bush, wiping his hands on his knees.
‘Okay?’ said Reed.
‘Sure,’ said Mark. They went back to the car together. ‘Can I sit in the front, Dad?’
‘Ask your Mom.’
Kimberlee agreed. She climbed out of the car and got into the back while Reed started the engine. The only thing he’d disliked about the trip so far was the choice of rental car which the travel agent had booked. It was a
