From his vantage point amid the ruins of St Mary’s Abbey, Paulie Quinn watched Cramer walk slowly down the road to the harbour, his hands in his pockets. Cramer kept his head bent down as if deep in thought. Paulie wondered what was going through the Sass-man’s mind, whether he knew that today would be his last day on earth. Paulie put his walkie-talkie next to his mouth. ‘He’s on his way,’ he said.
‘I see him,’ said Lynch who was sitting with Pat O’Riordan, parked in the yacht club car park.
Paulie put the walkie-talkie back in his pocket and pressed the binoculars to his eyes. He didn’t want to miss a second. His only regret was that he wouldn’t be closer to the action. He’d much rather have been down on the road with his brother, but Lynch had said someone had to be up on the high ground, and he was the youngest. One day, thought Paulie with a tinge of bitterness, one day he wouldn’t be the youngest any more. He’d show them.
Cramer noticed the glint out of the corner of his eye, a flash of light from the old church. His heart began to race and he took several deep breaths. He fought the urge to turn his head and to look up the hill as he walked around the bend in the road and saw the harbour stretched out before him.
Two fishing boats were sailing away from the west pier leaving plumes of dirty grey smoke in their wake. Down on the beach two dark-haired men were throwing a stick for a black Labrador. They were walking slowly along the strip of sand, towards the marina. The dog raced back and forth, its bark whipped away in the wind before it could reach Cramer’s ears. Cramer recognised the dog, but not the men. There were several cars parked next to the yacht club building. Two men sat in one of the cars, not moving. Cramer rolled his head around, trying to loosen the muscles in his neck. He was tensing up, and this wasn’t the time to go stiff.
‘Right, let’s get the bastard,’ said Lynch, shoving his walkie-talkie into the glove compartment. He opened the door and went around to the boot. Leaning over his navy blue holdall, he slipped out the Kalashnikov while O’Riordan stood behind him, shielding him from the road. Lynch was wearing a long raincoat, open at the front, and he held the assault rifle inside, pressing it close to his body. ‘Okay,’ he said, stepping away from the car while O’Riordan pulled a handgun from the holdall and slid it into the pocket of his leather bomber jacket.
They walked across the car park, the wind pulling at their hair and whipping up ripples in the puddles at their feet. Ahead of them, Cramer had stepped onto the sea wall and was walking out to the lighthouse.
Davie Quinn was sitting on a wooden bench in front of the public toilets, a newspaper on his lap. He stood up, holding the folded newspaper so tightly that his knuckles went white. He nodded at Lynch and began to walk along the road.
Cramer stood at the far end of the sea wall, staring out to sea. He moved his head slowly to his left and saw that the two men were closer now. Half a mile away. The dog was running in circles around them, but they’d stopped playing with it. The two big men had left their car and were walking purposefully across the car park. And the boy, the boy was walking down the road holding the badly concealed gun as if he feared it would break if he dropped it. Five, he thought. Five plus the one on the hill make six.
He wiped his face with his hands and yawned. It wasn’t from tiredness, he knew. It was the tension. He pulled a packet of chewing gum from his pocket and unwrapped a stick. The wind blew the green wrapper from his fingers as he slipped the gum into his mouth, and he turned to watch it whirl through the air. He frowned as he saw the lone figure standing on the sea wall where it met the road. How had he missed one?
‘Where the fuck did he come from?’ hissed Lynch. He put a restraining hand on O’Riordan’s shoulder. ‘Hold a while, Pat. Let’s see what that guy’s up to.’ Lynch looked across at the Quinn boy who was standing on the pavement, unsure of what to do. Lynch motioned with his head for Davie to go back to the bench.
‘Maybe he’s just out for a walk,’ said O’Riordan hesitantly.
‘Yeah. Maybe.’
The man was in his fifties, perhaps older, wearing a green Barbour, a cap and green Wellington boots. He walked with a stick, though it seemed to Lynch that it was for effect rather than because the man was unsteady on his feet. He strolled briskly along the sea wall, swinging the walking stick as if it were a military cane.
From where they were standing, Lynch couldn’t see Fitzapatrick and McVeigh on the beach. He just hoped they’d have the sense to hold back.
Cramer didn’t look around as the man in the Barbour jacket joined him at the edge of the sea wall. ‘Nice day for it,’ said the man amicably.
Cramer’s upper lip curled back, but still he didn’t turn to face the visitor. ‘Nice day for what?’
‘For whatever it is you’re doing.’ He tapped the ground with his stick. ‘Just what the hell are you doing, Sergeant Cramer?’
‘The only one with a rank these days is you, Colonel.’
The Colonel tapped his stick again. He turned around so that his back was to the sea. ‘I count five,’ he said. ‘Do you think five will be enough?’
‘Six,’ said Cramer. ‘There’s one up on the hill.’
The Colonel acknowledged the correction with the merest hint of a smile. ‘They must really hate you to do this, you know? The Unionists are bound to claim it’s a breach of the ceasefire.’
‘Maybe,’ said Cramer.
‘Unless they’re planning to remove all the evidence. If there’s no body, I suppose there’d be no proof that it ever happened. Not now you’re no longer with the regiment. It’s not as if you’d be missed, is it?’
‘Thanks, Colonel,’ said Cramer bitterly.
‘Do you know who they are?’
Cramer shrugged. ‘It doesn’t matter.’ He noticed for the first time that the Colonel was wearing a blue tie covered with small winged daggers. Cramer smiled. Only the Colonel would go up against a team of IRA hitmen wearing the regimental tie of the Special Air Service.
‘Dermott Lynch’s running the show. He’s got Pat O’Riordan with him. Down on the beach you’ve got Gerry Fitzpatrick and Fergus McVeigh. We couldn’t identify the youngster.’
‘Lynch’s good.’
‘Oh yes, he’s good. And he’s got a personal interest in you, of course. We’d love to get hold of O’Riordan, too. But the rest are strictly second division.’
The Colonel looked at his watch, then turned back to face the sea again.
‘What do you want, Colonel?’
‘A chat. You’ve got time for a chat, haven’t you?’
Cramer shrugged listlessly. ‘I’d rather be on my own, if that’s all right with you.’
‘But you’re not on your own, are you, Sergeant Cramer? There’s an IRA active service unit armed to the teeth heading your way.’
‘You’d best be going then, huh?’
The Colonel shook his head sadly. ‘This isn’t the way to do it, Joker.’
The nickname made Cramer smile. It had been a long time since anyone had used it. ‘Do what?’
‘You know what.’
Cramer sighed and hunched his shoulders. ‘You don’t know what you’re talking about,’ he said flatly.
‘I know you’re dying.’
For the first time, Cramer looked across at the Colonel. ‘We’re all dying,’ he said venomously.
‘How long?’ asked the Colonel. ‘How long did the doctor give you?’
‘If you’re here, you already know.’
‘Two months. Three months at the most. The last few weeks will be in intolerable pain. You’ll need to be on a drip, and even that won’t be enough.’
‘So you know why I’m here.’
‘Because you’re frightened of dying in a hospital bed, screaming in agony. Friendless. Alone.’