The Double Tap (Stephen Leather Thrillers) (19 page)

       
Davie had taken his brother out in an attempt to cheer him up. They’d walked for the best part of four hours before hitching a ride with a delivery van which was heading for Belfast. They were cold, wet and miserable and the driver had taken pity on them, offering to share his flask of chicken soup. The man had been curious as to why they were hitching without any bags and Davie had spun him a story about having a row with their girlfriends, adding that the girls had dumped them outside a country pub and taken the car. The man had laughed uproariously at that, showing a mouthful of nicotine-stained teeth.

       
They’d waited in until early evening, but Pat O’Riordan hadn’t got in contact. Davie decided there was nothing to be gained by staying at home so he’d persuaded his younger brother to go out for a drink. Just a quick one, that had been the original plan, but then they’d met the girls.

       
Paulie was nursing his lager, his head down as if in prayer. Davie decided that Paulie had had enough to drink and that it would soon be time to call it a night. Laura put down her glass. There was a greasy smear of lipstick around the rim that matched the colour of her fingernails. Davie couldn’t take his eyes off the nails, they were the longest he’d ever seen and he kept imagining how they’d feel scraping along his back. ‘You ready to go soon?’ asked Laura, brushing her long, blonde hair behind her ears.

       
‘Go where?’ asked Davie.

       
‘My parents are down South. Visiting my uncle in Cork.’

       
‘Really?’ Davie couldn’t believe his luck.

       
‘Yeah, they won’t be back until tomorrow night.’ Her leg pressed against his under the table.

       
Davie sent up a silent prayer of thanks to whichever saint was watching over him that night. ‘Come on, Paulie, drink up,’ he said.

       
Paulie didn’t look up. ‘He’s pissed, bless him,’ said Noreen.

       
A can rattled by Davie’s ear and he looked around. A teenager with red hair and a straggly moustache was holding the can and he pushed it forward, almost under Davie’s nose. ‘For the Cause,’ he said. Davie shoved his hand into the pocket of his jeans and pulled out a fifty pence piece. He dropped it into the can and the teenager waved it in front of Paulie. Paulie struggled to focus on it. ‘For the Cause,’ the teenager repeated.

       
‘Fuck off, we’ve done our bit for the Cause today,’ said Paulie.

       
The teenager rattled the can again. There was a paper tricolour on it, orange, white and green, and the letters IRA stencilled on it with black ink.

       
‘I said fuck off. We already gave.’ Paulie sat up, his eyes bloodshot and watery. ‘We almost died for the Cause today, we almost fucking died.’

       
Realising he wasn’t going to get a donation from Paulie, the teenager moved to another table. A thin man in his early twenties, wearing faded jeans and a black leather motorcycle jacket, dropped several coins into the can without looking up. ‘What do you mean, you almost died?’ asked Noreen, her curiosity piqued.

       
‘Nothing,’ said Davie quickly. ‘He doesn’t mean nothing.’ He leant forward and pushed a warning finger in front of his brother’s face. ‘Just shut the fuck up.’

       
Paulie grabbed the finger and shook it solemnly. ‘Okay, Davie. Mum’s the word.’

       
Davie glared at his younger brother and picked up his pint of lager. He drained it and put the empty glass down. ‘I’m taking him home,’ he said.

       
‘What about  . . . ?’ said Laura, but Davie ignored her and pulled his brother to his feet.

       
‘Maybe some other time,’ he said.

       
Laura looked at him pleadingly. ‘Look, why don’t we help you take Paulie home, then you can come back with me.’ She flicked her hair to the side, knowing that it was her best feature. She flashed her blue eyes. Her second best feature.

       
Davie succumbed to her charms. ‘Okay,’ he agreed.

       
‘Great,’ said Laura. She picked up her handbag, then helped Davie half carry his brother to the door. Noreen followed, walking unsteadily on white stiletto heels.

       
As the Quinn brothers left the pub, the man in the motorcycle jacket finished his pint of Guinness, picked up his newspaper and waved goodnight to the barman.

       
Stepping into the cold air, the man looked left and right, then walked slowly down the street, slapping the newspaper against his leg and whistling softly. He stopped to look into the window of a shoe shop and bent to stare at a pair of brown leather cowboy boots, using the reflections in the glass to confirm that he wasn’t being followed. The street was clear. Somewhere off in the distance a bottle smashed, and from high overhead came the clatter of an unseen helicopter, but other than that he could have been alone in the city.

       
Robbie Kirkbride, ‘Sandy’ to his colleagues in the army’s 14th Intelligence Company, had been working undercover in Belfast for seven months, doing little more than sign on the dole and hang around the city’s pubs, picking up tidbits here and there, a name, a face, scraps of information that the experts in the Intelligence and Security Group would hopefully be able to use to put together the bigger picture, biding his time until he felt confident enough to infiltrate the lower echelons of the IRA. Ceasefire or no ceasefire, the army was continuing to gather intelligence on the organisation, in the same way that the IRA was continuing to collate information on possible targets. Both sides were determined to be ready should violence restart.

       
On the way to the telephone box he dropped his paper and as he bent down to pick it up he checked behind him one last time. Still clear. He went into the call box and dialled the number of his controller.

Cramer, Allan and the Colonel sat in the dining room with cups of coffee in front of them. Cramer was dog-tired, both his hands ached from the constant firing practice and his ears were ringing. During his six-week close quarter battle training course in the Killing House in Hereford he’d fired more than a thousand rounds a day, but there was a world of difference between close quarter battle training and standing in front of a target, firing a handgun at arm’s length.

       
‘So how did he do?’ the Colonel asked Allan.

       
‘Just fine,’ said Allan. He’d changed into khaki Chinos and a white T-shirt which emphasised his weightlifter’s forearms. ‘Tomorrow we’ll see how he gets on with the smaller guns.’

       
‘Am I missing something here?’ asked Cramer. It was the first he’d heard of using a different gun. He’d assumed that he’d be using his Browning.

       
‘The man you’ll be standing in for doesn’t carry a gun,’ explained the Colonel. ‘There’s no way you’ll be able to keep a gun the size of a Browning on you without it being seen.’

       
‘And it’s not the sort of gun you’ll be able to draw quickly,’ added Allan.

       
Cramer sighed in exasperation. ‘So what was today all about? You’re saying I’ve been wasting my time?’

       
Allan shook his head. ‘Absolutely not. I wanted you to get used to rapid fire with the Browning, then when you use a smaller weapon you’ll find it that much easier. It’ll be like switching from a standard army issue parachute to a ramair canopy.’

       
The Colonel looked at Cramer, his head tilted slightly to one side as if he expected an argument. Cramer felt like complaining about the way information was being fed to him on a piecemeal basis, but he knew that that would appear unprofessional so he said nothing.

       
‘You’re only going to get one chance to take on this guy,’ said the Colonel. ‘I want you to be as prepared as possible.’

       
‘And that means using a smaller gun?’

       
The Colonel nodded. ‘The way this killer operates, he won’t pull out his weapon until he’s a few paces away from you. You can’t afford to react until he’s blown his cover.’

       
‘So when you see his gun, you’re going to have to move immediately,’ said Allan. ‘The type of gun isn’t going to matter, not at such close range. You’re just going to have to point and keep firing. What’s more important is that you get the gun out as quickly as possible. And the Hi-Power is just too big a weapon.’

       
Cramer drained his cup. Allan picked up the coffee pot to pour him a refill but Cramer shook his head. ‘What about bodyguards?’ he asked. ‘Does the target normally have protection?’

       
‘Yes, two, one of them doubling as a driver,’ said the Colonel. ‘We’re going to stick to that.’

       
‘And how do they feel about that?’ asked Cramer.

       
Allan smiled. ‘It should be fun,’ he said, raising his cup to Cramer.

       
Cramer’s eyes widened in surprise. ‘You?’

       
‘Sure. The target’s usual bodyguards are good but they’re not SAS-trained. Plus, this operation requires special skills, it’s not a straightforward bodyguarding job.’

       
‘What do you mean?’

       
The Colonel cleared his throat. ‘What Allan means is that a bodyguard’s normal function is to protect the client at all cost, to throw himself in front of the bullet if necessary. But in this case the prime function is going to be to apprehend the assassin.’

       
‘Apprehend? Or kill?’

       
The Colonel smiled thinly. ‘Whatever.’

       
Cramer looked at Allan with renewed respect. In most of the files he’d read, the killer had taken out the target’s bodyguards first. Allan must have known what he was letting himself in for, but he appeared to be totally calm at the prospect. Allan smiled at the look on Cramer’s face. ‘It’s not as crazy as it sounds,’ he said. ‘We’ll be wearing Kevlar body armour, and we’ll be expecting the hit.’

       
Cramer nodded. Allan was right, most of the bodyguards had been shot in the chest. It was only the primary targets who’d taken bullets in the face. ‘Who’s the other bodyguard?’ he asked.

       
‘A guy called Martin,’ said Allan. ‘Former Irish Army. Ranger Wing. He’s been running his own security firm for the last few years, bodyguarding mostly. You’ll meet him tomorrow.’

       
Cramer stood up and stepped away from the bench seat that ran the full length of the table. The propane gas heater hissed, its bluish flames wavering in the draught that ran the full length of the massive dining room. ‘I’m away to bed,’ he said. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow.’ He left the Colonel and Allan sitting in silence as he made his way to his bedroom.

Paulie Quinn was lying on top of his bed, reading a comic and eating his way through a packet of digestive biscuits. His window was open a few inches to allow fresh air into the room and he could hear the sound of children kicking a football around in the streets below. He brushed crumbs off his chest and took another biscuit from the packet on his bedside table.

       
Downstairs the telephone rang. His mother called for Davie and a couple of minutes later there was a knock on Paulie’s door. He looked over the top of his comic. It was Davie. Davie closed the door and sat down on the end of the bed. ‘That was Pat O’Riordan,’ he said.

       
‘Yeah? What’s he want?’

       
‘We’re to lie low. He heard we were out last night and he’s not happy. We’re to stay at home until we hear from him.’

       
‘He’s mad at me, isn’t he? He heard I was pissed. Shit. I’m sorry about last night. I was out of order.’

       
‘Yeah. You’ve got to be careful what you say, Paulie. We’re not kids any more. Big boys’ rules, you know?’

       
‘Yeah, I know. It won’t happen again, that’s for sure. At least it wasn’t a complete loss, though. You got your hole, right?’

       
Davie grinned lecherously. ‘That’s for me to know and you to dream about,’ he teased. ‘Did you get Noreen’s number?’ he asked.

       
Paulie shook his head. ‘I wasn’t really interested,’ he said. ‘She wasn’t my type, you know?’

       
Davie smiled at his younger brother. Eighteen years old and still nervous with girls. ‘I’ve got her number,’ he said. ‘She wants you to give her a call.’

       
Paulie beamed. ‘Are you serious?’

       
‘Sure. She liked you. God knows why.’

       
Paulie put the comic down on his chest and stared up at the ceiling. Davie could see that he had something on his mind. ‘What’s up?’ he asked.

       
Paulie wrinkled his nose. ‘What happened yesterday. With the American kid. And his dad.’

       
‘It wasn’t our fault, Paulie.’

       
‘Yeah, but we killed them. They’re dead and we did it.’

       
Davie rubbed his chin. He hadn’t shaved but his skin was still smooth, with only a hint of stubble. ‘We didn’t kill them, Paulie. They were driving on the wrong side of the road, for fuck’s sake. And if anyone’s to blame it was Pat for grabbing the steering wheel.’

       
‘I guess,’ said Paulie. He didn’t sound convinced.

       
Davie stood up and went over to the window. ‘Look, Pat did everything he could. He called an ambulance for the woman and she’s okay. The guy and the kid were dead, there was nothing anyone could have done for them. It was an accident, Paulie. If it hadn’t been us on the road it could have been anyone else. They were just in the wrong place at the wrong time.’ Davie put his hands on either side of the window and craned his neck to look down.