doubt. Something had him puzzled; something was out of place. There was the faintest hint of something wrong. She thought quickly, but her words were reasonable and innocent. It wasn't something she had said. Something else had roused his suspicions, but what on earth could it be? The weapons were well concealed. There was nothing else to attract attention.
Quirke looked at the line of half a dozen cars behind the Escort. He didn't want a major traffic jam on his hands. He began to hand the documents back, and then he caught that smell again. His mind flashed back for a split second to his firearms training in Templemore.
The police mightn't carry guns, but they had to be prepared. Forty-two practice rounds and the same again for the proficiency test. The sharp cracks as the line of police fired. Man-shaped targets ripped and torn. The routine of cleaning weapons afterward. The unique smell of preservative grease in the armory and the faint aroma of gun oil as they checked in their Smith amp; Wesson. 38s. Back to relying on the uniform, a pair of fists, and, on the rarest of occasions, a wooden truncheon to enforce the law.
The odor gun oil remained in his nostrils. He hefted the documents and licenses in his hand, half thinking that he was just being overimaginative. The documentation seemed to be in order. Still, he wouldn't mind getting a closer look at the girl.
'Please, miss,' he said pleasantly, 'would you mind stepping out of the car and opening the boot?'
'Certainly,' said Tina. She removed the keys from the ignition and let the drop from her hand. As she felt for them on the floor, she slipped her hand under her seat and moved the fire selector from safe to automatic, then she sat up, keys in hand, and smiled apologetically. She unbuckled her seat belt, opened the door, and walked to the back of the car. The policeman watched her. Thirty meters away the two soldiers eyes her nylon-clad legs and gave Quirke ten out of ten for judgment.
Dieter remained lolling back on the rear seat of the car. His hand reached under the newspaper to the concealed Skorpion. He couldn't think why the policeman had decided to search the trunk. It could be just a whim, because they had done nothing suspicious – and yet something had changed in the policeman's manner. Of that Dieter, his senses refined, was sure. He willed himself to be calm but ready.
In an exercise of willpower, he withdrew his hand from the actuated machine pistol. He glanced down at the airline bag containing the spare magazines, which just protruded from under the passenger seat. It was zippered shut. Nothing suspicious showed.
The sense of danger became more acute, and it became impossible to do nothing but wait. He carefully removed the short-bladed hunting knife from the sheath on his belt and placed it out of sight in his right sleeve, ready to drop into his hand in a much-practiced maneuver.
Quirke completed his examination of the trunk. He had not really expected to find anything, and with a rental car God knows who had used the vehicle in the past. Probably some hunter had spilled gun oil months ago. It was the kind of smell that tended to linger.
Quirke laughed silently at himself. He closed the trunk, rested an arm on the back of the car, and relaxed. He tried not to stare too openly at Tina's long, shapely legs. The breeze whipped at her skirt, and he caught a brief glimpse of her inner thigh.
'Well, that's it then,' he said. 'Now I'll have a quick look inside and you can be about your business.'
He opened the rear door of the car. 'Would you mind stepping out for just a moment, sir?' he said to Dieter, who had been lazing back as if half asleep.
The German stretched lazily. 'I expect a bit of fresh air will do me good.'
He got out of the car by the left-side door and closed it behind him with his left hand. His right hand hung at his side. He walked to the driver's side of the car and stood with Tina to the rear of the policeman.
'Thank you, sir,' said Quirke. He bent his head and began a cursory search at the rear of the car.
There was nothing on the back shelf apart from guidebooks and a book by some war photographer. The rear seat was empty except for a newspaper. Almost absentmindedly he turned it over to check the football scores – and screamed in pure agony as Dieter's hunting knife ripped open his stomach.
The young policeman sagged back into the road, his two hands gripping his abdomen, vainly trying to hold his intestines in place. Blood soaked his fingers and his uniform and bubbled from his lips. Still conscious, he collapsed in the middle of the road, and the tarmac began to turn crimson. Gurgling sounds like those of some dying animal came from his mouth.
Tina snatched her Skorpion from under the driver's seat. Her first burst caught the rifle-carrying trooper as he stood, stunned, his eyes rooted on the dying policeman. Rounds ricocheted off the magazine of his FN and tore into his groin and thigh. A second burst smashed his rib cage. He collapsed against the Land Rover and rolled face-down onto the muddy road.
Dieter plunged his knife into the back of the second policeman and, without waiting to withdraw it, grabbed his Skorpion from the rear seat, extended the collapsible butt, and with great speed but practiced accuracy began to pump three-round bursts into the rear of the Land Rover, at the radio and the shadowy figure of the operator.
The corporal manning the radio back-rolled out of the Land Rover just as a burst of fire from Dieter blew the high-powered transceiver apart in a shower of sparks and disintegrating electronics. The canvas cover of the Land Rover caught fire, and flames licked along the vehicle.
The corporal crawled behind the empty patrol car as the combined fire of the two terrorists tore through the thin metal of the bodywork and shattered its windows in a cascade of glittering fragments. Blood began to stream from cuts on his face. A bullet ripped open the calf of his right leg, sending a spasm of agony through his body and paralyzing him with shock for several precious seconds.
In stark desperation, scarcely believing what was happening, the soldier unslung the Carl Gustav submachine gun from his shoulder and worked the cocking handle. A high-power nine-millimeter round slid into the breech.
Bullets pierced the fuel tank of the police car, and gasoline drained into a spreading pool across the road.
There was a lull in the firing.
Dieter changed magazines. Tina waited. The collapsible butt of her machine pistol was now fully extended and nestled into her shoulder. She steadied herself against the rented Ford. As the corporal raised his pain-racked body into firing position from behind the police car, she fired twice on single shot. His neck pumping blood and his collarbone smashed, the corporal spun backward and slid into the ditch. Tina changed magazines.
For a few moments there was silence. Then the two terrorists became aware of the crackle of the flames from the burning Land Rover and the gurgling and intermittent screams of the dying Lima Quirke. Tina walked across to where he lay. His agonized moans were getting on her nerves. She pointed her machine pistol at his head and blew away his jaw. She saw that he was still alive, but the noise had ceased.
'Fool,' she said quietly, and walked away.
Dieter removed his hunting knife from the back of the other policeman. The body did not stir. He paused reflectively, then, without bothering to turn the body over, he jerked back the policeman's head and cut his throat. A gout of arterial blood spread across the middle of the road and made islands of the empty cartridge cases. Dieter cleaned his knife on the corpse's blue uniform and replaced it in the sheath clipped to his belt. He shivered in the chill March wind. He felt excited and feverish, almost omnipotent. He felt the same kind of exhilaration after a particularly difficult off-piste ski jump, but this was even better. He put his right hand into the pool of blood next to the policeman and then brought it, dripping, very close to his face. It was visible proof of his power to kill. He could smell it. He could taste it. He stood mesmerized for several long seconds.
The wounded corporal could see her legs under the car from where he lay on the ground. Those long, tanned, nylon-clad limbs were unmistakable. Slowly he inched the leather ammunition case containing spare Gustav clips to his front. It seemed to take forever. The rough surface of the road caught at the thick leather, and he had little strength left. Pain dominated his every movement.
HE rested the submachine gun on its side, using the ammunition case as a firing platform. It would give him a few centimeters of ground clearance. It would have to be enough.
He aimed. Blood and sweat dripped into his eyes, and his vision became blurred and uncertain. HE blinked several times and sighted again. The wooden pistol grip was slippery with blood. His vision was going. He lost all track of time.
He could hear voices. He could see the long legs again. He squeezed the trigger, and the shuddering weapon leaped against his riven body. The hot brass of ejected cartridge cases scorched his face. He held the trigger until the magazine was empty. Just a moment too late he thought of the leaking gasoline. He slipped into
