‘Fastest tailor in the west,’ said Cramer, walking up and down in the overcoat. ‘He knows his stuff, though.’
‘We’ll be taking photographs this afternoon,’ said the Colonel. He nodded at Cramer’s scuffed Reeboks. ‘Don’t forget the shoes.’
‘Photographs?’ repeated Cramer, mystified. ‘What photographs?’
‘For the killer,’ said the Colonel. ‘He’s going to want to know what the target looks like.’
The overcoat suddenly felt heavy, like a suit of armour. Cramer took it off and folded it over his arm. Allan and Martin both bent their heads over their plates and concentrated on their food. Cramer shivered as if he’d just noticed a draught. It was the first time he’d been referred to as the target.
Dermott Lynch took a taxi to the airport and bought a ticket on the next Aer Lingus flight to London Heathrow. He picked up a copy of the
There were the usual vitriolic quotes from Protestant politicians condemning the incident, and a brief statement from the Provisionals saying they regretted the deaths of the two tourists but that they had not been involved in the incident. An IRA spokesman claimed that they had no knowledge of the arms cache being moved and that they had launched an internal investigation, while an unnamed spokesman for the security services said that it was clear that the weapons were being taken away with a view to being hidden.
The newspaper’s journalists had also contacted several top American politicians who were unanimous in their anger and sorrow. A spokesman for the Northern Ireland Tourist Board warned that the deaths could result in the loss of millions of pounds to the province. There had already been dozens of holiday cancellations from Americans who feared a return to the violence of the past.
Nowhere in the paper was there any mention of the arrest of Paulie Quinn, or the shooting of his brother. Lynch wondered how long it would be before the boy talked. Harder men than Paulie Quinn had cracked under interrogation. He dropped the newspaper into a rubbish bin and walked to the boarding gate.
Cramer stood facing the full-length mirror. Even in the tailored suit and the bulky cashmere overcoat, he could see that he’d lost weight. The clothing helped to conceal how ill he was, and at least he didn’t look too gaunt. His eyes had always been deep-set and ever since he was a teenager he’d looked as if he needed a good night’s sleep, no matter how rested he was. Allan had brought the mirror down from one of the bedrooms and placed it in the gymnasium so that Cramer could practise drawing his weapon. It was hard going. Cramer had no problem in firing the PPK. Under Allan’s guidance he’d become as adept with the pistol as he was with his preferred Browning, and his grouping at ten metres was as good as ever he’d achieved when he was in the SAS. But he wasn’t getting any better at drawing the weapon. The action seemed totally unnatural, his arm had to move up and then in, his fingers had to reach the butt, his trigger finger had to slip into the trigger guard and he had to pull the weapon out so that it didn’t snag on his clothing.
Cramer squared his shoulders and felt the underarm holster tighten against his chest. There was one advantage to rehearsing in the coat: when he finally took it off he’d find it that much easier to pull out the gun. He stared into his eyes and bared his teeth. ‘You talking to me?’ he asked his reflection. The reflection grinned back. ‘Are you talking to me?’ said Cramer, his voice louder this time.
His hand darted inside his jacket and pulled out the PPK, his eyes never leaving those of his reflection. He pointed the gun at the mirror, his finger on the trigger. ‘I said, are you talking to me?’
Allan chuckled from somewhere behind him. ‘You’re getting better,’ he said. ‘I’d leave out the De Niro impersonations, though.’
Cramer straightened up and put the PPK back in its holster. ‘I’m still too slow, aren’t I?’ he asked.
‘Maybe,’ admitted Allan. ‘It depends.’
‘Depends? On whether or not he forgets to tie his shoelaces and then trips over them?’ He turned to face Allan as he smoothed down the collar of his coat.
‘On whether he can get past Martin and me.’
Cramer sighed and nodded slowly. ‘Yeah, I keep forgetting that he’s probably going to try to slot you first.’
‘He’s always taken the bodyguards out before going for the target,’ agreed Allan.
Cramer patted Allan on the shoulder. ‘Thanks,’ he said.
Allan looked surprised. ‘For what?’
‘For the training. For pushing me.’
‘Fuck it, Mike, that’s what I do. I train people. You’re just another job.’ He grinned. ‘But fuck up on the day and I’ll swear I had nothing to do with you.’
Cramer chuckled and turned back to the mirror. ‘Let’s try it again,’ he said. He squared his shoulders again, then stiffened as he realised someone had just come into the gymnasium. It was a girl, Oriental with short black hair, and she was staring at Cramer, a quizzical look in her dark brown eyes. Cramer frowned as he looked at her reflection. He hadn’t heard the gymnasium door open, nor had he noticed her walk across the wooden floor. As he turned to face her, he saw that Allan too was momentarily confused.
‘Are you looking for something, miss?’ Allan asked.
The girl continued to scrutinise Cramer. She was a little over five feet tall though black high-heeled boots added a couple of inches to her height. She was wearing black jeans and a black jacket over a white T-shirt and had a single gold chain around her neck. He found it difficult to judge her age; she had the soft, unlined skin of a teenager but the poise and authority of a woman in her thirties. ‘He doesn’t look anything like him,’ she said.
The Colonel stepped through the door and tapped his stick on the floor. ‘He doesn’t have to,’ said the Colonel. ‘Very few people know what he looks like.’ The Colonel turned to Cramer. ‘This is Su-ming, Vander Mayer’s assistant.’
Cramer wasn’t sure how to greet the girl. He stepped forward and offered his hand, but instead of shaking it she turned it palm upwards. She had the hands of a child, soft and smooth, but the nails were long and painted a deep red. The contrast between the child-like fingers and the adult adornment was disturbing and Cramer’s throat tightened. She looked down at his palm and slowly traced the lines with her forefinger, the nail scratching across his skin. Cramer shivered.
The Colonel walked across the floor and stood behind the girl as she studied Cramer’s palm. His footsteps echoed around the huge gymnasium and it was only then that Cramer realised that Su-ming had made no noise when she walked, despite her boots.
‘See anything you like?’ joked Cramer, but she didn’t react. She ran her fingernail along the base of his thumb. The gesture was sensual, and under any other circumstances he’d have thought that the girl was flirting with him, but her concentration was total.
The Colonel sniffed impatiently, but Su-ming ignored him and continued to stare at Cramer’s hand. Cramer looked down at the top of the girl’s head. Her hair was jet black and glossy and it glistened under the fluorescent lights. Suddenly she looked up and he found himself looking directly into her eyes. ‘Do you read palms, is that it?’ Cramer asked.
‘I read people,’ she said, her voice loaded with disdain. She let go of his hand and turned to the Colonel. ‘It won’t work,’ she said.
The Colonel raised his eyebrows. ‘What do you mean?’
The girl put her head on one side and wrinkled her nose. ‘You’re wasting your time. This man is unsuitable.’
‘Unsuitable?’ repeated Cramer in disbelief. ‘What do you mean, unsuitable?’
‘Sergeant Cramer is a highly trained soldier,’ said the Colonel. ‘I have every confidence in him.’
The girl didn’t reply but gave a barely perceptible shrug that could have meant anything. To Cramer it signified contempt; for some reason the girl had taken an instant dislike to him.
‘Can you tell me why you feel this way?’ asked the Colonel quietly.
‘Mr Vander Mayer never asks me to explain myself,’ said Su-ming. ‘I merely offer observations. It’s up to you whether or not you act upon them.’
