‘You’re sure?’
Cramer narrowed his eyes and studied the Colonel. ‘What? Now you’re trying to talk me out of it? I said I’ll do it. I’ll do it.’
The Colonel put his hand on Cramer’s shoulder and squeezed. ‘Thank you.’
Cramer shook his head. ‘I’m not doing it for you, Colonel. I’m doing it for me. But first we’ve got to take care of them.’ He nodded down the sea wall where the two IRA men were walking quickly towards them. The one in the raincoat was holding both hands to his sides, clutching something. A weapon, probably an assault rifle. The men on the beach had broken into a run, guns at the ready.
The Colonel took a small transceiver out of his coat pocket, pressed the transmit button and spoke rapidly into it. Cramer couldn’t make out what the man had said, but seconds later he heard the roar of two massive turbines and a huge red, white and blue Westland Sea King helicopter appeared from behind Ireland’s Eye. Its main rotor dipped forward and it sped through the air towards them. ‘Damn you, Colonel,’ Cramer shouted above the noise of the engines. ‘You knew I’d accept, didn’t you?’
The Colonel said nothing as the helicopter circled and then dropped so that it was hovering only feet above the harbour wall, the rotor wash flattening the water below. He motioned with his stick for Cramer to get in first. Cramer took one last look over his shoulder, deafened by the turbines. The bearded man had pulled a Kalashnikov out from under his raincoat and was holding it, seemingly unsure whether or not to fire. For one moment they made eye contact and Cramer could feel the hatred pouring out of the man, then a hand reached out of the belly of the Sea King and half pulled, half dragged him inside.
Lynch upended the Kalashnikov and slipped it back under his raincoat as the huge helicopter lifted away and banked hard to the left.
‘What the hell was that all about?’ asked O’Riordan.
‘Fucked if I know,’ said Lynch. He stared after the Sea King as it flew off across the waves, his curly black hair blowing behind him. Fitzpatrick and McVeigh ran up, panting for breath.
‘Put your guns away, boys,’ said Lynch. ‘We’re not here to shoot helicopters.’
The two men thrust their handguns into the pockets of their jackets. ‘What’s going on, Dermott?’ asked McVeigh.
Lynch ignored him. He whirled around and peered at the harbour road, half expecting to see a convoy of armed soldiers heading their way. The street was empty. It wasn’t a trap. That was something to be grateful for, but it made the Sass-man’s sudden departure all the more bemusing.
Fitzpatrick’s walkie-talkie crackled and they heard Paulie Quinn’s anxious voice. ‘What’s happening? Where’s he gone?’
‘Shut that thing off,’ barked Lynch, heading towards the car.
Mike Cramer sat with his arms folded across his chest as the massive helicopter flew low and fast across the waves. One of the Sea King crewmen handed him a set of padded headphones and Cramer put them on, grateful for relief from the deafening roar of the engines. Cramer’s head was full of questions, but he said nothing. The Colonel sat down on the seat in front of the emergency exit window and held out his hand. Cramer handed over his Browning Hi-Power.
Cramer looked around the cabin. This Sea King was like no other he’d ever been in. It was packed with electrical equipment, some of which he recognised. There was an extensive array of radar screens, far more than he’d expect to see in a search and rescue helicopter, and a Marconi LAPADS data processing station. The crewman who’d hauled him into the helicopter and given him the headset was seated in the sonar operator’s seat in front of the sonar/radar instrumentation racks. In addition there was a lot of equipment Cramer had never seen before, equipment without brand names or labels of any kind.
The helicopter banked to the right, keeping low. Through the window behind the Colonel, Cramer saw a small yacht carving through the waves. They were heading east. Cramer smiled to himself at the thought of the IRA hit team standing on the sea wall. All foreplay and no orgasm, armed to the teeth and nothing to shoot at.
He wondered if he’d done the right thing, agreeing so readily to go with the Colonel. He owed the Colonel nothing. It was now more than seven years since Cramer had left the regiment. He’d only worked for him once since, and that had almost ended in tears. Cramer closed his eyes and leaned back against the metal bulkhead. The Colonel had used him as bait then, too, sent him to the States on the trail of Mary Hennessy, the IRA terrorist who’d tortured and killed Cramer’s friend. At least this time Cramer knew what he was getting into. At least this time he knew the odds of surviving.
What had the Colonel said? A killer who loved to get up close. A killer who’d never been caught. A killer who was so successful that the only way to stop him was to use a Judas Goat. Maybe it really would be a better way to die. Cramer had seen a lot of men and women die and he knew that there were good ways and there were bad ways, and that most people didn’t get the chance to choose. He opened his eyes again. The Colonel was unscrewing the cap off a stainless steel Thermos flask. He poured black coffee into a plastic mug and offered it to Cramer. Cramer shook his head.
The Colonel had always been able to read him like a book. He’d known that Cramer would accept the mission and had made all the arrangements accordingly. Cramer wondered if the man had had a fallback position, someone else who would have accepted the job if Cramer had turned it down. He also wondered if anyone else had already refused the mission.
Once well away from land, the helicopter began to gain height and they were soon several thousand feet above the sea. At first Cramer had assumed that they would be landing on a ship, but he soon realised that the helicopter was going to fly all the way to the British mainland. He settled back. There was nothing to do but wait.
Dermott Lynch and Pat O’Riordan drove into Dublin along the Howth Road. Lynch was fuming as he stared out of the window, his lips set in a tight line. The original plan had been to drop the weapons off and drive back up to the North, but Cramer’s disappearance had changed all that.
They passed Trinity College, and Lynch scowled at the bright blue clock which topped the grey stone building. It was just after ten o’clock in the morning. ‘Forget about it, Dermott,’ said O’Riordan.
‘Why was he there?’ asked Lynch. ‘It was as if he was waiting for us. Then suddenly he’s whisked away. It doesn’t make sense.’
‘It doesn’t have to make sense. He’s gone and that’s it.’
Lynch scratched his beard. ‘The Brits are up to something, Pat. They’re fucking with us and I want to know why. Maybe McCormack will know.’
‘Do you want me to stay?’
Lynch shook his head. ‘No need. You get back to your farm. I’ll speak to McCormack then catch the train back tonight.’
O’Riordan braked sharply to avoid a bus. Lynch wasn’t wearing his seatbelt and he lurched forward. ‘Sorry,’ said O’Riordan. ‘I’m not used to driving in the city.’
‘Just think of them as cows,’ said Lynch.
‘Aye, Dermott, I’ll do that,’ said O’Riordan with a grin. The traffic was crawling along Dame Street and O’Riordan was stamping on the brake as if he was at the wheel of a tractor. ‘The Quinn brothers did all right,’ he said.
‘They were okay,’ agreed Lynch. ‘Davie has potential, Paulie’s still a bit young.’
‘They’re both keen.’
‘Yeah, but that’s not always an advantage, Pat, you know that. I’m not sure that I’d ever want my life to depend on the likes of Paulie Quinn.’ Lynch ran a hand through his beard and glared at the traffic, as if he could make it vanish through sheer effort of will. ‘I’ll get out here,’ he said.
‘Yeah, might be best.’
Lynch twisted around and picked the holdall off the back seat. It contained the Kalashnikov and the handguns they’d handled at Howth. Lynch had no qualms about carrying the weapons through the streets of Dublin. He said goodbye to O’Riordan, climbed out of the car and walked along the pavement. A crocodile of French students carrying red and green backpacks blocked his way and he moved through them with a smile. A pretty young girl with long blonde hair banged into his holdall and yelped. She rubbed her leg and looked reproachfully at Lynch. He smiled sympathetically. ‘Sorry, love,’ he said.