Stephen Leather - The Double Tap

Paulie frowned. ‘I guess not.’ He tapped the ground gingerly with the end of his spade.

‘You’ll be okay, lads,’ said Lynch, who didn’t want to take the joke too far. He wanted to be out of the field as quickly as possible. ‘I wouldn’t be standing here if it was dangerous, now would I?’

Davie grinned and started digging again. Paulie followed his example, but he was still a lot less vigorous than before. Lynch watched. O’Riordan came up behind him, still cradling his Kalashnikov.

Davie’s spade hit something plastic. Paulie flinched as if he’d been struck and Lynch smiled at the boy’s discomfort. ‘Pass me up the spades, lads,’ he said. ‘Then scrape away the soil with your hands.’

The boys did as they were told. They dug away with their hands like dogs in search of a bone. After several minutes of digging they came across a large rubbish bin, sealed in plastic. Lynch looked at O’Riordan. ‘That’s ammunition,’ he said. ‘Armour-piercing cartridges for the M60s.’

Lynch nodded. ‘Okay, lads. Pass that here.’

The Quinn brothers heaved the bin up and Lynch and O’Riordan dragged it out of the hole.

The boys went back to digging. They unearthed two more large packages, long and thin and wrapped in thick polythene. ‘The M60s,’ said O’Riordan.

‘Them too,’ said Lynch.

Lynch and O’Riordan carried the three bulky parcels over to the truck and loaded them into the back while Davie and Paulie carried on digging. ‘Any idea what McCormack is planning to do with this?’ asked Lynch.

‘Bury it somewhere else, I suppose,’ said O’Riordan. ‘He wants to keep the good stuff and hand the old stuff over to the army.’

Lynch wiped his hands on his jeans. ‘So it looks as if we’re demilitarising when all we’re doing is throwing out our junk.’

‘It’s just public relations, Dermott, you know that. It makes Dublin and London look good, it’s a photo opportunity for the army, and we get rid of gear that would probably blow up in our faces anyway. Seems like a hell of a good deal for everyone. The Prods are doing it, too.’

They went back to the hole. Davie and Paulie had uncovered two more plastic bins and a polythene-covered chest. O’Riordan pointed at the chest. ‘That’s the Semtex,’ he said.

‘How long’s it been here?’ asked Lynch.

‘Three years,’ replied O’Riordan. ‘But it was moved around a lot before that and it’s well past its sell-by date. It got here in 1985 but it was sitting in a warehouse in Tripoli for God knows how long before that. McCormack wants it leaving here.’ He pointed at one of the plastic bins. ‘Those are handguns and ammunition and a few hand grenades. They stay.’ He pointed at the other bin. ‘Those are Belgian disposable mortars. They’re state-of-the-art, but McCormack wants them left here, too. They’ll be a trophy for the army, and it makes it look as if we’re serious about the ceasefire.’

O’Riordan peered into the hole. ‘There should be one more package,’ he said.

Davie got down on all fours and dug with his hands. After a few minutes he sat back on his heels. ‘Got it,’ he said triumphantly.

‘Now that,’ said O’Riordan, pointing at a polythene-wrapped parcel, ‘is something really special. It’s a 66mm M72 A2.’

Lynch sighed wearily. ‘I love it when you talk dirty,’ he said. ‘What the hell is it, Pat?’

‘A bazooka,’ grinned O’Riordan. ‘From the States. It’s a one-man, single-shot throwaway, it’s got a one kilo rocket that can blow a tank wide open.’

‘Jesus,’ said Lynch. ‘How many of those have we got?’

‘Just the one that I know about,’ said O’Riordan. ‘It was sent over as a sample shortly before the 1994 ceasefire. We were going to buy more but then the FBI got hold of our supplier.’ O’Riordan leaned over the hole. ‘Pass it up, Davie. And be careful.’

Davie handed the polythene-wrapped parcel up to O’Riordan, who cradled it tenderly in his arms.

Lynch held out his hand to Davie and pulled him out of the hole. They both helped Paulie out. ‘Right, lads. Now fill it in.’

The brothers were exhausted but they set to with a will, shovelling the wet earth back into the hole. Lynch went back to the truck where O’Riordan was placing the bazooka with the rest of the arms cache. ‘Can you handle it from here on?’ Lynch asked.

O’Riordan raised an eyebrow. ‘What’s on your mind?’ he asked.

‘I want to go to Dublin to see your man. He gets off work at noon.’

‘Yeah? Then what?’ asked O’Riordan. He threw a tarpaulin over the weapons.

‘Depends on what he tells me. If I can get a lead on that chopper, I want to go after Cramer.’

O’Riordan’s eyes narrowed and he clicked his tongue. ‘Remember what I said before. You’ll need to clear it first.’

‘I know.’

‘How are you going to get to Dublin?’

Lynch grinned. ‘I was hoping I could borrow the Landrover. You’ll be in the truck, right?’

O’Riordan chuckled. ‘You’ll do anything to avoid work, won’t you?’

‘Come on, Pat, it’s all downhill from now on. The hard work’s over. It’s not like it was in the old days — the border’s no barrier at all any more. You can do it with your eyes closed. And the Quinn boys can do all the carrying for you.’

O’Riordan climbed down out of the back of the truck. ‘Aye, go on then, you soft bastard.’

As Lynch was driving off in the Landrover, he saw Davie and Paulie shovel the last of the earth into the hole. Paulie threw down his spade and showed his palms to his elder brother, obviously complaining about his blisters.

The tailor arrived just as Cramer and the Colonel were finishing their breakfast, bustling into the room as if he was behind schedule. ‘Good morning, good morning,’ he said. He was carrying two large Samsonite suitcases and he grunted as he swung them onto the far end of the table which the two men were using.

‘ Voila! ’ he said, opening the cases with a flourish.

‘ Voila? ’ repeated Cramer, amused by the portly man’s enthusiasm.

The tailor paid him no attention and began dropping brown paper parcels onto the table. ‘Shirts, white, double cuffs. Shirts, polo. Underwear, boxers, a variety of colours. Socks, black. Ties, a selection, all silk of course.’

‘Of course,’ repeated Cramer.

‘Slacks, brown. Slacks, khaki. Slacks grey.’ He held up a paper bag like a conjurer producing a rabbit from his top hat. ‘Accessories. Belts, cufflinks, I took the liberty of including a selection of tie pins.’ The tailor looked at the Colonel. ‘I would prefer to make some adjustments to the suits and the overcoat if we have time,’ he said. ‘I could have them back here tomorrow morning. It’s not essential but. .’ He gave a small shrug.

The Colonel nodded. ‘Tomorrow will be fine.’

‘Excellent, excellent,’ said the tailor. He produced a suit and held it out to Cramer.

Cramer nodded. ‘Looks great,’ he said.

The tailor tut-tutted impatiently. ‘Try it on, please,’ he said.

Cramer did as he was told, then stood stock still as the tailor fussed around him, making deft marks on the material with a piece of chalk and scribbling into his notebook. Cramer tried on the three suits, then the cashmere overcoat, and the tailor spirited them back into the cases.

‘So, I’ll see you at the same time tomorrow,’ the tailor said to the Colonel. He disappeared out of the dining hall as quickly as he’d appeared.

‘Does he do your suits?’ Cramer asked the Colonel.

‘I couldn’t afford his prices,’ said the Colonel with a tight smile.

Cramer refilled his tea from a large earthenware pot. Mrs Elliott brewed her tea in the army style, piping hot and strong, and for all he knew, with a dollop of bromide thrown in for good measure. ‘This guy I’m standing in for,’ he said. ‘When do I find out about him? I don’t even know who he is.’