casings. ‘Have you seen one of these?’ He handed the gun over, butt first.
Cramer shook his head. Across the barrel were the words Heckler amp; Koch and VP70 was stamped into the butt. ‘It’s a Heckler amp; Koch VP70 machine pistol. Fires double action only, so there’s no safety, muzzle velocity of 1,180 feet per second, eighteen in the clip, weighs two and a half pounds fully loaded.’
‘Feels good,’ said Cramer, weighing it in the palm of his hand. ‘Are you going to be carrying this?’ He gave it back to Allan.
‘Nah, this is Martin’s, I’m just playing with it. I’ll stick with a Glock 18.’ Allan picked up a shoulder stock from the table and slotted it into the back of the pistol. ‘This is the kicker, There’s a selector switch here on the top front of the stock that lets you set it to fire three-round bursts, fully automatic.’ He gave Cramer a pair of ear protectors. ‘Watch this.’
Allan flicked the selector switch to ‘3’ and aimed at the target, pushing the stock into his shoulder as he sighted down the barrel. He pulled the trigger and three shots rang out, so close together as to be almost indistinguishable. Allan fired all eighteen shots at the target, and Cramer was impressed to see that they all hit the centre of the bullseye. Allan was one of the best shots Cramer had ever seen.
Cramer nodded his approval. ‘Nice shooting.’
‘Yeah, well I’m not used to it. Like I said, it’s Martin’s baby really.’
He walked over to the table and waved his hand over a selection of handguns. ‘Have a look at these, Mike.’
Cramer bent over the table and studied the three handguns. All three were considerably smaller than his Browning Hi-Power.
‘The one on the right is a. .’
‘Walther PPK,’ interrupted Cramer. ‘7.65mm calibre, blowaback, semi-automatic. Seven in the clip.’ He pulled back the slide and chambered a round. ‘It’s what James Bond used, right?’
‘That I don’t know, but it was designed for the German services. PPK stands for Polizei Pistole Kurz. And that’s a 9mm version you’ve got there. We’ve given it a very light trigger, just over two pounds pull will do it. That goes for all the guns here.’
Cramer clicked the safety on and put it back down on the table. The second gun was a Beretta Model 1934. Cramer picked it up. It was shorter than the length of his hand by at least an inch.
‘It weighs the same as the PPK, about one and a quarter pounds, and it’s also got a seven-round magazine. It’s another 9mm. Not much to choose between it and the Walther, to be honest.’
Cramer put it back down on the table and picked up the third handgun. It looked like a child’s toy and the word ‘Baby’ was spelled out at the bottom of the butt. Above it he noticed the FN logo that denoted the Fabrique National Herstal Lige Company of Belgium, the manufacturers of Cramer’s Browning.
‘That’s the baby brother of your Hi-Power,’ said Allan. ‘It was actually marketed under the name Baby Browning. FN have manufactured them since 1906 but you don’t see too many of them about these days. They’re banned in the States.’
Cramer raised an eyebrow. ‘Because they’re so small?’
‘That’s right. Too easy to conceal. For you, that’s a real plus.’
Cramer felt the weight. ‘Half a pound?’ he asked.
‘Seven ounces,’ said Allan. ‘It’s really something, isn’t it? Barrel length of two and one-eighth inches, total length, four inches.’
‘It’s a lady’s gun,’ said Cramer.
‘Don’t you believe it,’ said Allan. ‘Mechanically it’s the same as the.25 ACP vest pocket automatic that Colt used to make. You wouldn’t use it in a fire-fight and beyond ten feet it’s a peashooter, but close up it’ll bring a man down.’
Cramer stared down at the gun. It was hard to believe that the tiny weapon could kill a man. The barrel was shorter than his index finger. ‘I don’t know, Allan,’ he said. ‘Doesn’t look like it’ll pack enough of a punch to me.’
Allan shrugged vaguely. ‘It’s up to you. We don’t have to decide yet, but I’d like you to get familiar with all three.’ He handed Cramer a leather underarm holster with webbing straps. ‘Put this on. It’s time we started to practise the draw.’
Cramer put down the Baby Browning and Allan helped him fasten the straps and adjust the holster so that it lay flat against his shirt. Cramer picked up the Walther PPK. The leather was smooth and supple and the gun slid in and out with the minimum of friction.
‘Take it easy at first,’ said Allan. ‘Withdraw the weapon with your right hand, then as you push the gun forward, bring your left hand over your right, same as you were doing with static firing. Remember, a strong grip with your left hand and relax the right.’
‘Got it,’ said Cramer, sliding the gun in and out of the holster.
‘Fire off a few clips to get the feel of the draw, take your time and fire with your arms fully extended. Once you’re familiar with the action, I want you to forget about the sight picture. I want you firing before your arms are extended, just empty the clip as quickly as possible. You’re going to be so close to the target, aiming will be a waste of time.’
Cramer donned his ear protectors. ‘Okay, let’s get to it.’ Allan took down the target he’d been using and fitted a fresh one. ‘Seven shots, rapid fire,’ said Allan, standing to the side.
Dermott Lynch yawned and opened his eyes. He rolled over and stared at the long auburn hair of the girl lying next to him, wondering how quickly he could get rid of her without causing offence. She was a nice enough girl, and an amazing lay, but Lynch liked to be alone in the morning. Maggie, her name was. Maggie O’Brien. She was voluptuous, plump even, with a pretty face and the greenest eyes he’d ever seen outside of a cat. She worked as a barmaid in a pub off Grosvenor Road and was an occasional visitor to Lynch’s bed. She had only just turned twenty and knew that the relationship had no future, but the sex was great and Lynch was perfectly happy to turn to her for physical comfort from time to time. He just wished she’d get into the habit of leaving before morning.
Lynch had several girlfriends in Belfast. He’d made the decision many years earlier not to get married, not even to enter in a long-term relationship. His position as an active member of the IRA meant that relationships made him vulnerable, both to the security forces and to Protestant terrorist organisations. Better to be single. He came from a big family and had more than enough nephews and nieces to make up for the lack of children of his own.
Whenever possible Lynch preferred to make love to his girlfriends on their turf, so that he could slip away afterwards, a quick kiss on the cheek and then a cab home. Maggie lived with her parents, however, so he had no alternative but to take her home with him to his small terraced house. She murmured in her sleep and pushed back against him. Her naked flesh was warm against his thighs but Lynch moved away, putting distance between them. Sex was for the night, something to be done in darkness. Maggie’s hand slid behind her and reached between his legs and he realised that she wasn’t asleep. She took him in her hand and squeezed softly, encouraging him, wanting him, but Lynch wasn’t aroused in the least. He slid out of bed and padded to the bathroom.
‘Dermott. Come here,’ moaned Maggie.
Lynch pretended that he hadn’t heard and closed the bathroom door. He leant over the washbasin and stared at his reflection in the mirror. His eyes were bloodshot, the result of a heavy night’s drinking, and there were crumbs in his beard. He’d eaten a bag of salt and vinegar crisps before going to bed. He grinned wolfishly. God alone knew why Maggie wanted to touch him first thing in the morning. He looked like shit. He cupped his hand around his mouth, breathed out, and then sniffed. Yeah, he smelled rough, too.
He ran a bath as he cleaned his teeth. As he spat foam into the sink, his front doorbell rang. He wrapped a towel around his waist and went back into the bedroom. Maggie was sprawled across the bed, covered only by a sheet. It did little to conceal her ample body, but Dermott wasn’t tempted. He went over to the window and peered out. It was Pat O’Riordan, dressed as if he’d come straight from his farm.
Lynch went downstairs and let him in. O’Riordan looked at his wristwatch pointedly. ‘I know, I know,’ said Lynch. ‘I had a rough night. What’s wrong?’
‘The cops were at the Quinns’ house yesterday. Davie’s dead and Paulie’s disappeared.’
‘Fuck,’ said Lynch.
‘Yeah. Fuck.’
