was right; unless he was used to the sound of gunfire, his first reaction would be to flinch and to close his eyes and, with the assassin moving towards him, the slightest delay would be fatal. All of Cramer’s shots were dead centre.
Allan slapped him on the back. ‘Good shooting, Mike.’ He looked across at Martin’s target and pulled a face. ‘Fuck me, Martin, is your blood sugar low or something?’
Martin sniffed. ‘It’s not so bad,’ he said.
‘Bad? It’s crap.’
‘Yeah, well I’m not going to be firing at paper terrorists, am I? I was never that hot on the range.’
‘You can say that again.’ Allan began to stick small black paper circles over the holes made by the bullets.
‘Yeah, but I was shit hot in the Killing House, wasn’t I?’
‘You did okay,’ said Allan begrudgingly. He gave a handful of the paper circles to Cramer. ‘Martin came over to Hereford with a group from the Ranger Wing of the Irish Army to brush up on his counter-terrorist tactics,’ he explained.
‘Great crack,’ said Martin.
‘Was this in the old days, live targets and all?’ asked Cramer.
‘Nah. Shit, I forgot, you did the single room system, didn’t you?’ asked Martin. ‘That must have been something.’
‘Yeah. It was. The good old days.’ During Cramer’s time with the SAS, the close-quarter battle building had a single room where the troopers perfected their hostage-release technique, with dummies as terrorists and the SAS men taking it in turn to play hostages. Live ammunition was used and the room was often in near or total darkness, to make the exercise as real as possible. Eventually it became too real and in 1986 a sergeant playing the role of hostage was shot and killed. The fatal accident put an end to the single room system, and the Killing House was replaced with two rooms connected by a highly sophisticated camera and screen system. The terrorists and hostages were in one room, the SAS stormed another, shooting at life-size wrap-around screens. It wasn’t one hundred per cent realistic but it meant that there were no further accidents. As Martin said, it had been something in the old days.
The three men finished covering the holes and went back to the table. ‘What do you make of Su-ming?’ asked Martin.
Cramer shrugged. ‘Inscrutable,’ he said.
‘Yeah. That’s it exactly. Inscrutable. What’s her story?’
Cramer began slotting fresh cartridges into the PPK’s clip. ‘She’s the target’s assistant,’ he said.
Martin grinned lecherously. ‘Assistant my arse. He’s giving her one. Bound to be.’
‘What makes you say that?’
Martin raised his eyebrows. ‘Wouldn’t you?’
Cramer shook his head, smiling to himself. ‘You’re an animal, Martin.’
‘She keeps herself to herself,’ said Allan. ‘I wanted her to go through a few rehearsals with me, just so she’d get a feel for what’s going on. She wouldn’t.’
‘She’s unhappy about the whole business,’ said Cramer. ‘She might even be a Buddhist or something.’
‘I thought Buddhists shaved their heads?’ asked Martin.
‘Only the monks,’ said Allan.
‘Yeah? Well, just so long as she shaves her armpits. That’s one thing I can’t stand, you know? Hairy armpits.’
‘That’s a relief to us all, Martin,’ said Cramer.
‘Anyway, what’s being a Buddhist got to do with it?’ Martin asked.
‘She’s against killing,’ said Cramer.
‘Fucking terrific,’ laughed Martin. ‘Some nutter’s going to blow the head off her boss, and she’s worried about the sanctity of life.’
Allan put his loaded Glock on the table. ‘This guy’s no nutter, Martin. Don’t forget that. He’s not crazy, he’s as highly trained as you are. He knows exactly what he’s doing.’
Martin raised his hands in mock surrender. ‘Okay. Okay. No more crazy jokes.’
Cramer clicked the magazine into his PPK and checked that the safety was on. ‘She’ll be okay, won’t she?’
‘So long as she doesn’t get in the way,’ Allan replied. ‘Why, are you worried?’
‘I’d be happier if she took part in the rehearsals. Like you said, it’d be better if she knew what to expect.’
Allan shrugged. ‘The killer doesn’t shoot innocent bystanders, or at least he hasn’t so far.’
‘There was the doorman at the Harrods delivery entrance,’ Cramer pointed out.
‘He was wearing a uniform. And he was part of the security staff.’
‘Yeah, but he wasn’t armed.’
Allan rubbed his nose with the back of his hand. ‘We’ll make sure she stays in the background whenever you’re vulnerable. I wouldn’t worry, Mike. This guy doesn’t care about witnesses. He’s totally focused on the target and any bodyguards. That’s you, me and Martin. I’d be more concerned about yourself than her.’ Allan turned to face the targets.
Cramer followed his example and flicked the safety off. ‘Yeah, I know you’re right, but I just worry about her.’
‘He’s got the hots for her, that’s all,’ said Martin.
‘Fuck you,’ said Cramer.
‘Whatever turns you on,’ said Martin, grinning.
‘When you’re ready, ladies,’ said Allan. The three men began firing and the air was soon full of bitter cordite fumes as streams of empty cartridges rattled onto the floor. Cramer fought to concentrate on the paper targets, but he couldn’t block Su-ming out of his mind. Martin was wrong, Cramer wasn’t in the least bit sexually attracted to Vander Mayer’s assistant. And even if he was, there was nothing he could do about it; setting aside his medical condition, he was embarking on a mission which was more than likely to end in his own death. Romance was the last thing on his mind. His clip emptied a fraction of a second after Allan finished shooting and he stared at the cardboard cutout as Martin continued to fire with his machine pistol. Three of Cramer’s shots had gone wide.
Dermott Lynch drove down the M4, keeping the GTI below 70mph. He was keen to get as far as possible from London but he knew it would be reckless to exceed the speed limit, especially as he still had a loaded gun tucked into the back of his trousers. They stopped at a petrol station near Windsor and while Lynch topped up the tank, Marie telephoned her office and told them that she had flu and wouldn’t be in for a few days.
‘Where in Wales are we going?’ Marie asked as she settled back in her seat.
‘Near Swansea,’ said Lynch. ‘Cramer flew by helicopter from a place called Howth, just north of Dublin, and I know where it landed. I’ve got the map reference.’
‘How did you manage that?’
‘Best you don’t know,’ said Lynch.
‘You can trust me, Dermott.’ She patted his leg, then squeezed him just above the knee.
‘It’s not a matter of trust. It’s for your own good. The less you know, the safer you’ll be.’ Marie took her hand away from his leg. She looked out of the passenger window and made a soft tutting noise. Lynch smiled. ‘Come on, love. Don’t sulk.’
‘I’m not sulking,’ she said, but she still wouldn’t look at him.
Lynch tapped the steering wheel. A red Audi screamed past in the outside lane. It must have been doing more than a hundred and ten miles an hour. Lynch shook his head. The guy was just asking to be picked up. He looked across as Marie. She pouted and shrugged her shoulders. Lynch chuckled. ‘Marie, love, this is serious.’
‘I know that.’
‘You’re a civilian. You’re not involved. You’re not a player.’
Her eyes blazed. ‘I’m here, aren’t I?’
‘Against my better judgement.’
She turned away again. Her breath fogged up the window and she rubbed it with her sleeve.
