Stephen Leather - The Double Tap

‘She’s a natural, right enough,’ said Thomas McCormack, nodding his approval.

‘Natural, my arse,’ said Joseph Connolly, ‘she’s been trained by the best. My daughter reckons young Theodora is going to be Olympic standard by the time she’s sixteen. I tell you, Thomas, it’s costing a fortune.’

‘Worth it, though.’

‘Huh? What did you say?’

‘I said it’s probably worth it.’

Connolly tapped the hearing aid behind his right ear with his finger. ‘This damn thing’s been playing up all week,’ he complained. ‘Say something else.’

‘What do you want me to say?’

‘Anything.’

McCormack looked over the top of his horn-rimmed spectacles. ‘Testing, testing, testing. One two three.’

‘Ha bloody ha,’ scowled Connolly. ‘Come on, let’s walk.’

As they headed away from the outdoor arena, the little girl came running up. ‘Grandpa, Grandpa, did you see me?’

‘Indeed I did,’ said Connolly, bending down to beam at her. ‘A clear round.’

‘The only clear round,’ she said proudly. ‘Did you see how I nearly hit the third fence?’

‘No, you jumped it just right.’

Theodora wrinkled her nose. ‘I’ll do better in the next round, I’m sure.’

‘I just bet you will.’

‘I’m going to be needing a bigger pony soon.’

‘Yes, your mummy was telling me. We’ll see what we can do when Christmas comes around.’

‘You mean it, Grandpa?’ she said, jumping up and down. ‘Do you really mean it?’

‘We’ll see, Theodora. Now go and find your mummy.’

The little girl ran off, and Connolly smiled ruefully at McCormack. ‘It never stops, does it? You just finish paying for your children, and then a whole new generation comes along.’ Behind them a buzzer sounded as another rider started around the course. Connolly tapped his hearing aid again. ‘This Crossmaglen business. It’s a bloody nightmare.’

‘Aye, bad enough that a tourist was killed, but to kill a man related to a heavyweight American politician. Jesus, Mary and Joseph, luck doesn’t get any badder than that.’

‘And the kid. Don’t forget the kid.’

‘Aye, Joe. I hadn’t forgotten the kid.’

‘We’re going to have to do something,’ said Connolly. ‘Something drastic.’

McCormack nodded and took his pewter hip flask out of his pocket and offered it to Connolly. The old man shook his head. ‘Not right now, thanks,’ he said.

‘The Army Council is baying for blood and Sinn Fein’s nose is out of joint, too. They want to know what they were doing with the weapons in the truck. You can see their point, can’t you?’

McCormack nodded. He put the flask away, unopened.

‘I did make it clear, didn’t I? I did tell you that the arms cache was to be handed over intact, didn’t I?’

‘You did.’

Connolly narrowed his eyes. ‘You’re sure about that, Thomas?’

McCormack met his gaze steadily. ‘Dead sure, Joe.’

Connolly nodded, satisfied. ‘All we’ve got to do, then, is to tidy up the loose ends.’

‘What have you got in mind?’ Connolly didn’t answer and McCormack wondered whether or not he’d heard the question. The two men walked along a line of empty stalls. A teenage stablegirl threw a bucket of water into the end stall and began to scrub the floor with a stiff brush. The men gave her a wide berth so they wouldn’t get splashed.

‘The Quinn boy’s going to talk,’ said Connolly. ‘He’ll be crying like a baby before Five have finished with him. He’ll give up Pat and Dermott. He’ll give up his own mother.’

McCormack’s stomach went cold. He had a good idea what was coming next. ‘Do we know where he’s being held?’

‘I do. But we can’t get to him. It’s totally out of the question. Where are they?’

McCormack removed his horn-rimmed spectacles and polished them on a red handkerchief. ‘Pat’s staying with a cousin in the South. Dermott’s in the UK.’

‘It’s only a matter of time before they’re pulled in.’

‘Or taken out.’

Connolly shook his head. ‘No, the SAS won’t kill them, I’m sure of that. The Brits will want a trial, they’ll want to show the Yanks that they’ve got the situation under control.’

‘We’ll get to the Quinn boy eventually. If there’s a trial, he’ll need a solicitor. We’ll get to him that way. His solicitor will explain to him what’ll happen to his family if he gives evidence.’

‘It’ll be too late by then. The damage will have been done.’ A cheer went up behind them and they heard the announcer say that another rider had gone around without any faults. ‘Theodora won’t be pleased about that,’ muttered Connolly, almost to himself.

‘The worst possible scenario is that Pat and Dermott stand trial,’ said McCormack. ‘But they won’t talk. I guarantee that.’

‘I know,’ said Connolly. ‘I know they won’t talk.’

McCormack finished polishing his spectacles and put them back on. ‘They’re good men, Joe. They’ve given their lives to the Cause.’ Connolly turned his head to look at McCormack and McCormack knew exactly what was going through his mind. ‘Oh Jesus, Joe. No. There has to be another way,’ he said.

‘We can’t have them in court,’ said Connolly softly. ‘It’ll destroy us.’

‘So we help them disappear.’

‘Where? Where can they go where they’ll never be found? The world’s a smaller place than it used to be, Thomas. There’s nowhere to hide any more. Not for terrorists.’

The two men walked in silence for a while. McCormack thrust his hands deep into his overcoat. He shivered. ‘I’ll take care of it,’ he said.

‘Good man. I knew you would. Are you still on for Saturday?’

‘Absolutely,’ McCormack replied. He smiled half-heartedly. ‘I’ve got this new fly I’m dying to try. I’ve used part of a peacock feather, glossy bluish-green. It’s going to be a winner, I’m sure of it.’

Rob Taylor drummed his fingers on the steering wheel as he watched the sun go down, smearing the sky a raspberry red. Normally there was nothing he’d rather do than watch an African sunset, but the man sitting behind him was becoming increasingly impatient and even the ready supply of ice cold gin and tonics from the cooler hadn’t placated him. Taylor had to have a kill before the night was over or he’d be in big trouble.

Taylor had written dozens of letters of applications and phoned countless times before he’d eventually landed the job of ranger on the MalaMala game reserve, and when he’d first put on the khaki uniform he’d never been so happy. Just then, however, he’d have given anything to be back on his father’s sugar cane plantation.

There were only two guests in the Landrover, a huge bull of a man, a minister of the government of Zimbabwe who took up a bench seat normally big enough for three, and his French mistress, a strikingly pretty brunette who was sitting in the passenger seat next to Taylor and whose silky-smooth right arm kept bumping against his own far too often to be accidental. Right at the back of the vehicle, on a seat set higher than the rest, sat John, the Zulu tracker, who was scanning the area with narrowed eyes. He was as anxious as Taylor to find a kill.

The minister had flown into the game reserve that morning en route to a meeting in Pretoria and had insisted that he be shown the big five — elephant, rhino, lion, leopard and buffalo. And he’d also insisted on watching one of the predators devouring its kill. Taylor had drawn the short straw and had spent most of the afternoon racing up and down the reserve in search of the animals. It was a good time to be in the park, the river was close to running dry so the game was sticking close to the water supply, and within hours he’d shown the minister a huge elephant with tusks more than seven feet long, a herd of water buffalo that was moving slowly westwards out of the neighbouring Kruger National Park, two rhinos and a leopard that had been patiently staking out a warthog hole. At one point Taylor had thought that he’d have it all sewn up before dusk, but try as he might he couldn’t find a lion, much less one with a kill.