Stephen Leather - The Double Tap

One of the farm’s many cats walked stiff-legged into the barn, its ears pricked up and its tail flicking to and fro like a metronome. O’Riordan bent down to rub its head but it ran off. When O’Riordan straightened up he saw the two men standing in the doorway, big men wearing green anoraks and black ski-masks. One of the men was holding a sawn-off shotgun, levelled at O’Riordan’s chest. The other man was holding a cardboard box about the size of a television set. O’Riordan slowly raised his hands. He heard a noise behind him. There was another man there holding an assault rifle. He must have been hiding at the back of the barn. The cat was rubbing itself along the man’s legs.

Another man, this one carrying a length of rope, entered the barn. The man with the shotgun gestured with the weapon. ‘Don’t go making this difficult for us, Pat.’ The accent was Belfast, hard and nasal.

‘What’s going on, lads?’ asked O’Riordan. The man with the box put it on the ground and opened it. He took out a large white quilt. O’Riordan frowned. ‘What’s the game?’ O’Riordan took a step back but the barrel of the assault rifle brought him up short.

The man with the shotgun had pale blue eyes and they stared back at O’Riordan, unblinking. O’Riordan knew he was in trouble. Serious trouble. The man with the shotgun gestured again. ‘You can put your hands down now. And don’t try anything stupid.’ O’Riordan did as he was told. The man with the quilt walked towards him, holding it up.

‘What is it you’re after?’ asked O’Riordan. He was genuinely confused. If they were SAS they wouldn’t be using a shotgun, if they were UFF or UDV or any of the Protestant paramilitaries they’d have just blown him away and left him dead on the ground. The quilt and the rope just didn’t make any sense at all. Unless they were planning to kidnap him. Maybe that was it. But why would anyone want to kidnap him? He stood stock still as they wrapped the quilt around him, leaving his head clear. He expected them to tie him up with the rope, but to his surprise two of the men grabbed him, one around the chest, the other around his legs. It was almost comical, and if it wasn’t for the sawn-off shotgun and the weapons he’d have thought it was some sort of April Fool’s joke.

The man with the rope threw one end up in the air and it looped over a girder up in the roof. It was only then that O’Riordan saw the noose. He began to struggle, but the noose was deftly placed over his head and pulled tight, stifling his cries. The man holding the end of the rope jumped in the air and pulled down on his end with all his strength. O’Riordan was jerked off his feet but the two men holding him kept the soft quilt pressed around him so that he couldn’t struggle. He died with only one mark on him, the rope burn around his neck.

Cramer walked through the dining hall and pushed open the double doors which led to the kitchen, expecting to find Mrs Elliott fussing around the stove. He was surprised to see Su-ming, chopping vegetables with a large knife. She used the knife quickly and confidently, the steel flashing only millimetres from her fingers as she sliced green peppers, scallions, mushrooms and other vegetables which Cramer didn’t recognise. She had taken off her jacket and hung it over the back of a chair. In the T-shirt and jeans she looked about eighteen years old.

She didn’t look up as Cramer went over to the fridge and took out a carton of milk. Cramer drank from the carton and watched her as she poured a splash of oil into a large steel wok.

‘Mrs Elliott will cook for you if you ask her,’ said Cramer, wiping his mouth with his sleeve.

‘I sent her away. I didn’t want her near my food.’ She put the wok on the stove and turned on the gas. ‘You realise she’s poisoning you with all that animal fat?’

Cramer looked at the milk carton and shrugged. He peered at the vegetables on the wooden chopping board. ‘What are they?’ he asked.

‘Ginger root, bamboo shoots, water chestnuts,’ she replied. She threw the vegetables into the smoking oil and stirred them vigorously with a wooden spatula.

Steam billowed around the wok and Cramer sniffed appreciatively. ‘Do you cook for your boss?’

‘I do many things for Mr Vander Mayer,’ she said, dropping a handful of snow peas and bean sprouts into the mixture. ‘And yes, I advise him on his nutrition.’

‘And you read people for him, too?’

She looked at him over her shoulder. ‘I advise him on many subjects.’ Cramer drank from the carton again. ‘You’re not eating, are you?’ she asked.

Cramer shrugged. ‘Milk does me just fine.’

‘You’re not well.’ It was a statement, not a question.

‘You read that in my palm?’

Su-ming took the wok off the burner and poured the stir-fry mixture into a bowl. She used the spatula to spoon boiled rice from a pan into another bowl and put them both on the kitchen table. She stood looking at Cramer for a few seconds then nodded as if she’d reached a decision. ‘There’s a bowl and chopsticks on the draining board,’ she said and sat down.

Cramer joined her at the table and she spooned rice and vegetables into his bowl. He had trouble using the chopsticks and she smiled at his clumsy attempts. ‘Would you prefer a fork?’ she asked.

Cramer shook his head and persevered. Su-ming used neat, economic movements to carry the food from her bowl to her mouth.

‘It’s good,’ said Cramer. The vegetables were crisp and tasty, and while he still had little appetite, at least he didn’t find the food hard to swallow.

‘I know,’ she said. ‘And it’s better for you than the animal fats and starch which that woman is feeding you.’

Cramer adjusted the chopsticks. His fingers felt large and clumsy. ‘How long have you worked for Mr Vander Mayer?’ he asked.

Su-ming’s chopsticks stopped in mid-air, suspended over her bowl. ‘Fifteen years,’ she said.

‘Fifteen?’ repeated Cramer. Su-ming nodded and continued to eat. Cramer frowned. He couldn’t believe that Su-ming was more than twenty-five, which meant she’d joined the arms dealer when she was just ten years old. ‘What happened to your parents?’ he asked.

Su-ming put her chopsticks down on the table. Her eyes were cold, her face impassive. ‘I am here because Mr Vander Mayer said that I should cooperate with your Colonel,’ she said in measured tones, as if she were a parent talking to an uncooperative child. ‘That is the only reason. I have already made my feelings clear on the matter, but Mr Vander Mayer insists. I am not here to make small talk with you. I do not wish to become your friend or to have you become mine. I certainly do not wish to divulge personal details to you. Do I make myself clear?’

Cramer sat stunned. She hadn’t raised her voice or shown any sign of emotion, but her words had cut right through him. ‘Hey, I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I was just. .’

‘. . making small talk,’ she said, finishing his sentence.

‘That’s right. Small talk.’

Su-ming picked up her chopsticks again. ‘Life is too short for small talk,’ she said and popped a snow pea into her mouth.

The Colonel poured himself a large whisky and held up the bottle to show Allan. ‘Are you sure you don’t want one?’ he asked.

‘No thanks, boss,’ Allan replied.

The Colonel put the half empty bottle back on the side table and went over to his desk. ‘How’s Cramer’s drinking?’

‘Under control. You were right, once we started training, he cut back.’

The Colonel sipped his whisky. ‘He needs a goal, does Mike Cramer. He needs something to aim for, to focus on. Without it he tends to fall apart. Don’t underestimate him, Allan.’

‘I won’t, boss.’