“You’re unfit, Sergeant Cramer,” said the Colonel with a smile. “You wouldn’t last two minutes in the Killing House with those sort of moves.”
“It’s been a long time, Colonel. I guess I’m out of practice.”
“You’re out of condition, too. A few forced marches across the Brecon Beacons would do you the world of good.” The Colonel stood up and offered Cramer a hand to help him up off the ground. “You sounded like an elephant on crutches, Joker. And you never, ever, enter a room without checking out all the angles. You know that.”
Cramer rubbed his neck. “I can’t believe I fell for the oldest trick in the book.”
The Colonel slapped him on the back. “Have you got somewhere we can talk?”
Cramer took him downstairs and told Preston he was going to use the office for a while. Two more teams of paintball players had arrived and Preston was busy setting up a game for them. Cramer closed the door and waved the Colonel to a chair. He pulled the bottle of Famous Grouse from his desk drawer and held it out to the Colonel, who nodded. Cramer poured large measures of whisky into two coffee mugs and handed one to his visitor. They clinked mugs.
“To the old days,” said Cramer.
“Fuck them all,” said the Colonel.
“Yeah, fuck them all,” said Cramer. They drank, and Cramer waited for the Colonel to explain why he was visiting.
“So, how long have you been working here?” asked the Colonel.
Cramer shrugged. “A few months. It’s just temporary, until I can find something else.”
“Security job didn’t work out?”
“Too many lonely nights. Too much time to think.” Cramer wondered how the Colonel knew about his previous job as a nightwatchman. He poured himself another measure of whisky.
“Money problems? The pension coming through okay?” Cramer shrugged. He knew that the Colonel hadn’t come to talk about his financial status. “You ever meet a guy called Pete Manyon?” asked the Colonel.
Cramer shook his head.
“I guess he must have joined the regiment after you left. He was in D squadron.”
Cramer looked at the whisky at the bottom of his mug. If the Colonel had bothered to check up on his employment record, he’d have been just as capable of checking the regimental files. He’d have known full well whether or not the two men had served together.
“He died a week ago. In Washington.” He held out his empty mug for a refill. As Cramer poured in a generous measure of Famous Grouse, the Colonel scrutinised his face for any reaction. “He’d been tortured. Four of his fingers had been taken off. He’d virtually been skinned alive. And he’d been castrated.”
Cramer’s hand shook and whisky slopped down the side of the Colonel’s mug. “Shit,” said Cramer. “I’m sorry.”
“That’s okay,” said the Colonel, putting his mug down on the desk and wiping his hand with a white handkerchief.
“It was Hennessy, right?”
The Colonel nodded.
“Bitch,” said Cramer venomously.
“Manyon was a captain, working undercover in the States, on the trail of Matthew Bailey, an IRA activist. We’d heard that he’d popped up in New York so Manyon infiltrated one of the NORAID groups there.”
“Did he say he’d seen Hennessy?”
The Colonel shook his head. “No, but considering what happened to him. .”
“Yeah, yeah, I get the picture. Jesus Christ, Colonel, the bitch should have been put down years ago.”
The Colonel shrugged. “She’s been underground a long time, Joker. And she has a lot of friends.”
“I can’t believe you let a Rupert go undercover against the IRA,” said Cramer. “I mean, I’ve served under some bloody good officers, I can’t deny that, but knowing which fork to use and what month to eat oysters in doesn’t carry any weight when you’re hanging around with the boys. They can spot a Rupert a mile away.”
“He was an experienced officer, Joker. He’d been with D squadron for almost three years.”
“How old was he?”
“Twenty-five.”
Cramer shook his head, almost sadly. “After what happened to Mick Newmarch, I’d have thought the SAS would’ve learnt its lesson.”
“I know how the NCOs feel about officers, but Manyon was different. His parents were Irish, his accent was perfect and he knew Belfast inside out. His cover was faultless, Joker.”
“So how did he get caught?” Cramer poured himself another whisky. He offered a refill to the Colonel but he shook his head. The question was clearly rhetorical and the Colonel didn’t answer.
“How are you these days, Joker?” The Colonel looked Cramer up and down like a surgeon contemplating a forthcoming operation. Cramer wondered if he looked like a man who’d lost his nerve.
“I get by,” Cramer replied. “Why do you ask? Is Mars and Minerva thinking of doing a feature on me? It’d be nice to get an honourable mention in the regimental journal.”
“You sound bitter.”
“No, not bitter, Colonel. I can’t spend all my time looking back, there’s no profit in that. I just want to get on with my life.”
The two men sat in silence. Overhead they heard shouts and the sound of running feet. “You should let them try it with live ammo,” said the Colonel with a smile. “See how they like it.”
“Yeah,” agreed Cramer. “They’d piss themselves stupid the first time they used a real weapon.”
The Colonel looked at Cramer with unblinking eyes. “What about you? Could you face action again?”
Cramer started, the question catching him by surprise. He looked at his former boss, wondering if he was joking. “I’m Elvis, Colonel. You know that. Yesterday’s man.”
“You were right when you said the boys could spot undercover officers, Joker. We need someone who fits in, someone who doesn’t look like he’s just come off a parade ground. You know as well as I do that even when our men grow their hair and slouch around in torn jeans and Nikes, they still look like soldiers. Undercover work isn’t our speciality.” Cramer was already shaking his head. “We need someone who has lost his edge, Joker. No disrespect, but we need someone who doesn’t look as if he can handle himself, someone who has let himself go.”
“Thanks, Colonel. Thanks a bunch. You’re really making me feel good about myself.”
“I’m being honest, that’s all. Have you taken a look at yourself recently? You reek of drink, you’ve got broken veins in your cheeks that have been months in the making, and you’ve a gut on you that’d do credit to a Sumo wrestler. No-one in their right mind would ever suspect you of being in the SAS.”
“That goes for me, too, Colonel. Double.”
“We want Mary Hennessy, Joker. We want to take her out. A hard arrest, a shoot-to-kill operation, whatever you want to call it.”
“Revenge.”
“That’s as good a word as any, Joker. And you’re the man who can get it for us.”
Cramer finished his whisky and picked up the bottle. It was empty. Completely empty. He dropped it into the wastepaper bin by the side of his desk. “You’re asking me because of what happened to Newmarch, aren’t you? And because of what she did to me?”
“I’m asking you because you’re the best man for the job. The only man.”
Cramer shuddered. “I’ll have to think about it.”
“I understand that.” The Colonel stood up and held out his hand. Cramer shook it. “You know where you can reach me, Sergeant Cramer.”