Victor O'Reilly - Games of The Hangman

Tina looked at him coolly for a moment. "We may fuck," she said. "We are not lovers." She let out the clutch, and the Ford moved forward again.

The bulletin had stipulated a black or navy blue Ford Escort, and this was Quirke's ninth navy blue Ford Escort of the day. The first tow or three had set the adrenaline going, but now he was only marginally interested in the car. He was considerably more interested in the pretty girl driving it.

Tina rolled down the window and smiled up at the large policeman. "Good afternoon, Officer," she said. Her accent was Italian, her tone friendly and just slightly provocative. She was the most exciting thing he'd seen all day, and if there was one thing he was sure of, it was that under normal circumstances she would have been too exotic to have anything to do with the likes of Liam Quirke. But there were some consolations to checkpoint duty.

"Afternoon, miss," said Quirke. He peered into the front and then the back of the car, trying not to stare too hard at the Italian girl and being irrationally disappointed that she had a companion in the back. He felt a pang of loss, the knowledge of a beauty that could never be his. "Afternoon, sir," he added. "Nothing to worry about. Just a routine check."

"We thought at first that there was an accident," said Tina. She smiled directly at him.

"No accident, miss," said the young policeman, his cheeks pink under her gaze. "A bank robbery in Dublin. One of them got away. It's not too likely that he'd come in this direction, but you never know."

"I suppose not," interjected Dieter from the back of the car. His voice broke the spell that for a few seconds had bound the Italian girl and the policeman together.

"Could you tell me where you've come from and where you're going?" asked Quirke, his official manner partially restored. "And I'd like to look at your driver's license and insurance."

Tina removed the car rental documents from the glove compartment and passed them, together with both their driver's licenses, through the window.

"We have only just arrived in your country," she said. "Last night we stayed in Dublin. Now we go to the west of Ireland for a few days. We would like to be away from crowds and people, to be alone together, you understand."

As she finished her remark, Tina looked directly into Liam Quirke's eyes – and saw in them a slight flicker of doubt. Something had him puzzled; something was out of place. There was the faintest hint of something wrong. She thought quickly, but her words were reasonable and innocent. It wasn't something she had said. Something else had roused his suspicions, but what on earth could it be? The weapons were well concealed. There was nothing else to attract attention.

Quirke looked at the line of half a dozen cars behind the Escort. He didn't want a major traffic jam on his hands. He began to hand the documents back, and then he caught that smell again. His mind flashed back for a split second to his firearms training in Templemore.

The police mightn't carry guns, but they had to be prepared. Forty-two practice rounds and the same again for the proficiency test. The sharp cracks as the line of police fired. Man-shaped targets ripped and torn. The routine of cleaning weapons afterward. The unique smell of preservative grease in the armory and the faint aroma of gun oil as they checked in their Smith amp; Wesson. 38s. Back to relying on the uniform, a pair of fists, and, on the rarest of occasions, a wooden truncheon to enforce the law.

The odor gun oil remained in his nostrils. He hefted the documents and licenses in his hand, half thinking that he was just being overimaginative. The documentation seemed to be in order. Still, he wouldn't mind getting a closer look at the girl.

"Please, miss," he said pleasantly, "would you mind stepping out of the car and opening the boot?"

"Certainly," said Tina. She removed the keys from the ignition and let the drop from her hand. As she felt for them on the floor, she slipped her hand under her seat and moved the fire selector from safe to automatic, then she sat up, keys in hand, and smiled apologetically. She unbuckled her seat belt, opened the door, and walked to the back of the car. The policeman watched her. Thirty meters away the two soldiers eyes her nylon-clad legs and gave Quirke ten out of ten for judgment.

Dieter remained lolling back on the rear seat of the car. His hand reached under the newspaper to the concealed Skorpion. He couldn't think why the policeman had decided to search the trunk. It could be just a whim, because they had done nothing suspicious – and yet something had changed in the policeman's manner. Of that Dieter, his senses refined, was sure. He willed himself to be calm but ready.

In an exercise of willpower, he withdrew his hand from the actuated machine pistol. He glanced down at the airline bag containing the spare magazines, which just protruded from under the passenger seat. It was zippered shut. Nothing suspicious showed.

The sense of danger became more acute, and it became impossible to do nothing but wait. He carefully removed the short-bladed hunting knife from the sheath on his belt and placed it out of sight in his right sleeve, ready to drop into his hand in a much-practiced maneuver.

Quirke completed his examination of the trunk. He had not really expected to find anything, and with a rental car God knows who had used the vehicle in the past. Probably some hunter had spilled gun oil months ago. It was the kind of smell that tended to linger.

Quirke laughed silently at himself. He closed the trunk, rested an arm on the back of the car, and relaxed. He tried not to stare too openly at Tina's long, shapely legs. The breeze whipped at her skirt, and he caught a brief glimpse of her inner thigh.

"Well, that's it then," he said. "Now I'll have a quick look inside and you can be about your business."

He opened the rear door of the car. "Would you mind stepping out for just a moment, sir?" he said to Dieter, who had been lazing back as if half asleep.

The German stretched lazily. "I expect a bit of fresh air will do me good."

He got out of the car by the left-side door and closed it behind him with his left hand. His right hand hung at his side. He walked to the driver's side of the car and stood with Tina to the rear of the policeman.

"Thank you, sir," said Quirke. He bent his head and began a cursory search at the rear of the car.

There was nothing on the back shelf apart from guidebooks and a book by some war photographer. The rear seat was empty except for a newspaper. Almost absentmindedly he turned it over to check the football scores – and screamed in pure agony as Dieter's hunting knife ripped open his stomach.

The young policeman sagged back into the road, his two hands gripping his abdomen, vainly trying to hold his intestines in place. Blood soaked his fingers and his uniform and bubbled from his lips. Still conscious, he collapsed in the middle of the road, and the tarmac began to turn crimson. Gurgling sounds like those of some dying animal came from his mouth.

Tina snatched her Skorpion from under the driver's seat. Her first burst caught the rifle-carrying trooper as he stood, stunned, his eyes rooted on the dying policeman. Rounds ricocheted off the magazine of his FN and tore into his groin and thigh. A second burst smashed his rib cage. He collapsed against the Land Rover and rolled face-down onto the muddy road.

Dieter plunged his knife into the back of the second policeman and, without waiting to withdraw it, grabbed his Skorpion from the rear seat, extended the collapsible butt, and with great speed but practiced accuracy began to pump three-round bursts into the rear of the Land Rover, at the radio and the shadowy figure of the operator.