me. Failed the first time, but they told me to work on my fitness and try again. The following year I made it. Did the Fan Dance in eighteen hours in the shittiest weather you’ve ever seen. The Colonel was on the course as an observer and he approached me afterwards, asked if I’d thought about serving full time. He put in a word for me and I joined 22 SAS.’
Cramer was impressed. It was rare for a member of the Territorial SAS to be offered a place in the regiment proper. ‘And you like Training Wing?’ he asked.
‘It’s better than standing outside a Leeson Street nightclub with the rain pissing down and dealing with spotty teenagers trying to bullshit their way in.’ He grinned. ‘Mind you, you get laid more often in Dublin, that’s for sure.’
They skirted the tennis courts and walked across the croquet lawn. Allan was laughing but Cramer remained on his guard, fearful that at any moment an attacker would come rushing out of the darkness. The PPK was in his underarm holster but unless the attack came slower than usual, he’d prefer to go for the stiletto. Under Allan’s guidance he was now winning more of the confrontations than he was losing. There had been times early on in the training when Cramer had wondered about the point of rehearsing the moves over and over again, because at the end of the day he wasn’t even sure that he wanted to survive the encounter with the assassin. The pain in his bowels was getting worse by the day, and he was finding it increasingly difficult to eat: his appetite had all but disappeared and when he did force himself to eat he paid for it a few hours later. He knew the discomfort was but a fraction of what lay ahead, and that the day would come when a bullet in the face would be a welcome relief, but under Allan’s constant cajoling and pushing his professionalism had kicked in and he’d worked hard at perfecting the technique. Now he relished the opportunity of going up against the assassin, to prove to himself, and to Allan, just how good he was.
Cramer stepped to the side to avoid a hoop set into the lawn but kept his eyes flicking from side to side. ‘You can relax, Mike,’ said Allan. ‘Your training’s over.’
Cramer looked across, his eyes narrowed. ‘What do you mean, training’s over?’
‘The Colonel asked me to tell you that we’re leaving for London tomorrow. From now on, it’s for real.’
Cramer swallowed. There was a tightness in the pit of his stomach, a mixture of fear and excitement, a feeling that he hadn’t experienced in a long time. It almost made him forget about the cancer that was growing there. Almost. But not quite.
Lynch held his breath as he focused the binoculars. The croquet pitch was well lit and he had no trouble recognising the face of Mike Cramer, the Sass-man. Cramer looked in better shape than the last time Lynch had seen him — he was now well groomed and wearing what were clearly expensive clothes. Cramer and the man he was with were deep in conversation. Lynch would have given his right arm to know what they were talking about. Somewhere up above Lynch an owl hooted. Lynch had climbed a tree close to the perimeter wall which ran all around the school buildings and grounds. He’d spotted five guards, two at the main entrance and another three patrolling the grounds. There were several security cameras fixed to the buildings and they moved at irregular intervals, which suggested that they were being manipulated from some sort of control centre. The sky was obscured with thick cloud and the tree Lynch had chosen was in almost total darkness so he was certain he couldn’t be seen.
Lynch licked his lips. His mouth was dry with anticipation. He could scale the wall within seconds; it had been built merely to mark the perimeter of the school grounds rather than to keep out intruders. He could cover the distance between the wall and the main school building in less than a minute and would reach the two men on the croquet lawn in half that time. The problem was, what then? The security cameras would spot him as soon as he was out in the open, and even if Cramer and his companion weren’t armed, the patrolling guards definitely were. Maybe he’d be able to kill Cramer there and then, but it would be a suicide mission and Lynch was in no mood to throw his life away, no matter how strong the urge for revenge. No, there had to be a better way. He watched as the two men made their way to the front of the school and disappeared inside. Lynch hung the binoculars around his neck and climbed carefully to the ground.
The Golf was parked almost a mile away in a copse close to the road and he jogged, more to keep warm than because he was in a hurry. He figured that the men had gone to bed so there was nothing he could do until morning. He needed a way into the school, some ruse that would allow him to breach their defences. The headlights of an approaching car pierced through the night and he dropped into a ditch until it had gone by. There was brackish water in the bottom of the ditch but he managed to stay dry from the knees up. His wet feet slapped on the tarmac as he ran towards the copse. Luckily there were no other cars and he reached the Golf in just over six minutes. Marie was asleep — she’d reclined the front passenger seat and wrapped herself in a tartan blanket. Lynch smiled as he looked at her through the window.
She’d wisely locked the doors so he knocked gently on the window to wake her. She smiled sleepily at him and unlocked the driver’s door. ‘How did it go?’ she asked.
‘He’s there.’
Marie’s eyes widened. ‘He’s there? Now what?’
‘Now I have to think.’ He leaned down and took off his wet boots and socks.
‘What happened?’ she asked.
‘I had to hide in a ditch.’
Marie gave him the blanket and Lynch wrapped it around his legs. It was cold in the car but they couldn’t risk running the engine to use the heater. ‘What do you think he’s doing in Wales?’ Marie asked.
‘Marie, love, it’s a bloody mystery, right enough. He’s being guarded by some very heavy characters. There are security cameras all over the place, and he’s dressed like he just stepped out of a Savile Row tailor’s. God, I’m starving.’
Marie reached into the back of the car and picked up her green and gold Harrods carrier bag. From the bag she took out a pack of Marks and Spencer sandwiches and a can of Coke and handed them to Lynch. He pulled the tab and drank.
‘Have you thought it might be a set-up?’ she asked. ‘Some sort of trap?’
Lynch shook his head emphatically. ‘Why in Wales? Why hide here, miles from anywhere? And why is the security so obvious? When he was in Howth, now that looked like a trap. No, I think something else is going down here, but I’m fucked if I know what it is.’
The water that gushed out of the showerhead was cold and even though Cramer let it run for several minutes it didn’t get any warmer. He stepped under the freezing spray and gasped, washed quickly and then jumped out. He rubbed himself with a fresh towel and dressed, choosing one of the suits he hadn’t worn before.
Allan and Martin were walking out of the dining hall just as Cramer arrived. ‘Briefing in the headmistress’s study,’ said Allan. ‘You hadn’t forgotten, had you?’
Cramer shook his head. No, he hadn’t forgotten. Today was the day he became the Judas Goat. Mrs Elliott followed Allan and Martin into the hallway. She beamed as she saw Cramer. ‘Ah, Mr Cramer. Can I fetch you something?’
‘No, thanks, Mrs Elliott. I’m not hungry.’
Mrs Elliott glared at Cramer as severely as Allan had done whenever training hadn’t gone well. ‘The Colonel said I was to be sure that you ate something,’ she said. ‘It was an order.’
‘An order?’ repeated Cramer, amused.
‘Better do as she says, Mike,’ said Martin. ‘We don’t want you up on a charge.’
‘How about some sandwiches for later?’ Mrs Elliott asked. ‘Cheese and pickle?’
‘Cheese and pickle will be just fine,’ agreed Cramer, knowing that further resistance was futile.
‘And tea?’ she pressed. ‘I could make a flask of tea, no bother.’
‘And tea. Thanks, Mrs Elliott.’ Cramer headed down the corridor towards the headmistress’s office before Mrs Elliott could add to the menu.
‘How are you feeling today, Mike?’ asked Allan.
‘Better,’ lied Cramer. He’d lain awake most of the night, bathed in sweat. The pain seemed to be worse at night, even when he was lying in bed. Cramer wondered if it was because his adrenalin levels were higher during the day, stimulating the body’s natural painkillers. Or maybe it was because he was always kept busy by Allan so that he didn’t have time to dwell on his illness; at night he had nothing else to do but worry about the cancer that
