O’Riordan put down his empty glass and got to his feet, grinning. He stuck out his hand and Lynch stood up and shook it, firmly. O’Riordan stepped forward and held Lynch in a bear hug, squeezing him so tightly that the air exploded from his lungs. ‘You take care of yourself, yer soft bastard,’ O’Riordan said.
‘Aye, you too,’ replied Lynch, gasping for breath.
After he’d shown O’Riordan out, Lynch went back upstairs. Maggie was in the bedroom, towelling herself dry. ‘Who was that?’ she asked.
‘No one,’ said Lynch.
Maggie smiled slyly and let the towel fall to the floor. She put her hands on her ample hips, glanced across at the bed and then back at Lynch. She raised one eyebrow invitingly, but he turned his back on her and headed for the bathroom. ‘Show yourself out, will you, love?’ he said.
He heard her slam the front door a few minutes later as he was shaving off his beard with short, careful strokes of a cut-throat razor.
When Cramer and Allan walked into the dining room, the Colonel was already tucking into bacon and eggs. Sitting opposite them was a new face, a big man with close-cropped dark hair, slightly shorter than Allan but with equally wide shoulders. He introduced himself as Martin, the second bodyguard and driver.
Cramer helped himself to scrambled eggs and then poured himself a mug of Mrs Elliott’s treacly tea. Martin’s plate was piled high — eggs, bacon, sausage, baked beans, black pudding, tomatoes, and on a side plate he had half a dozen slices of buttered toast. He smiled as he saw Cramer’s tiny portion of eggs. ‘No appetite, Mike?’ he asked through a mouthful of food.
The Colonel looked up at Cramer and Cramer saw his eyes narrow a fraction. He realised that Allan and Martin hadn’t been told about his illness. Cramer nodded almost imperceptibly and then grinned at Martin. ‘Never was one for early-morning scran,’ he said, using the SAS slang for food.
‘The haircut’s a big improvement,’ said the Colonel.
‘Yeah, she knows what she’s doing,’ agreed Cramer.
Allan sat down opposite Martin with a plate of fried food. ‘When did you get here?’ he asked.
‘Late last night. I was in London bodyguarding a Hollywood star and his boyfriend.’
‘Yeah? Going to name names?’
Martin shook his head. ‘The sort of money they pay me guarantees confidentiality.’
Allan laughed and told Cramer the names anyway. ‘I didn’t know he was queer,’ said Cramer.
‘Yeah, neither does his wife,’ said Martin, biting a chunk out of a slice of toast.
They were interrupted by the arrival of the tailor, bustling in with a suitcase in either hand. ‘Good morning, good morning,’ said the tailor, hefting the cases onto one of the tables.
Martin looked at Allan. ‘The tailor,’ said Allan. Martin nodded as if that explained everything.
Cramer put down his fork and tried on one of the suits as the tailor walked around him, nodding and biting his lip. ‘Good, good,’ he said, brushing Cramer’s shoulders and kneeling down to check the trousers.
‘A perfect fit,’ said Cramer, his arms out to the sides.
‘Of course,’ said the tailor primly. He helped Cramer on with the overcoat and then stood back to get a better view.
‘First class,’ said the Colonel. The tailor nodded enthusiastically, picked up his empty cases, and half ran out of the dining room.
‘Is that guy on something?’ asked Martin, shaking his head in amazement.
‘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 Irish Times and sat down to read it. A large photograph dominated the front page, a middle-aged man, a pretty blonde and a young boy. Seth Reed and his family. The father and son killed in the collision with a truck full of IRA weaponry. The woman was sedated and was waiting for her relations to fly over from the States. Lynch scanned the story.
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.