‘I was just thinking how like your mother you are.’
‘Don’t try to sweet talk me.’
Lynch held up his hands as if trying to ward her off. ‘I’m not.’
‘We can use my car. I can help, Dermott. And I want to.’
Lynch narrowed his eyes as he looked at her. He genuinely didn’t want to get her involved, but she did have a point: the police would be looking for a man travelling alone. And there was another advantage in having her with him, for a while at least. It wouldn’t be long before details of the Maida Vale killings and the body in the car boot were made public, and it would be useful to see how Marie reacted to the news. It was one thing to offer her help, quite another for her to accept that she was tied in to five murders. ‘Okay,’ he said. ‘But just until I’m safely out of London. Then we split up.’
Marie grinned. ‘Deal,’ she said. She took a battered sheepskin jacket from a closet and disappeared into her bedroom. Lynch paced up and down nervously until she reappeared with a large Harrods carrier bag.
Lynch raised an eyebrow. ‘Marie, love, I said you’re driving me out of London. That’s all.’
‘Relax, Dermott. It’s cover. It’s far less suspicious if I’m carrying something.’ She opened the front door and ushered him out.
‘Where’s the car?’ he asked, as they walked downstairs.
‘Around the corner,’ she said. She opened the front door. As they stepped onto the pavement a second police car went by and Lynch turned away so that the occupants wouldn’t see his face. Marie looked over her shoulder. ‘Don’t look,’ hissed Lynch.
She jerked her head around. ‘Sorry,’ she whispered.
Lynch forced himself to walk slowly, trying to make it look as if they were nothing more sinister than a married couple going shopping. ‘Give me the keys,’ he said. ‘I’ll drive.’
She did as he asked. The keys were on a keyring with a tiny teddy bear attached. ‘Down here,’ she said, leading him into a side road. Lynch relaxed a little as they turned the corner, out of sight of the policemen.
Marie’s car was a red Golf GTI convertible. She climbed in and sat next to Lynch. ‘Where are we going?’ she asked as Lynch started the engine.
‘Wales,’ he said. He looked over his shoulder and drove away from the kerb.
Cramer, Allan and Martin stood behind a long table as they checked their weapons: Cramer his Walther PPK, Allan his Glock 18 and Martin his Heckler amp; Koch VP70. ‘Okay?’ Allan asked and the two other men nodded. They turned as one, raised their guns and fired at the line of cardboard targets, emptying their clips as quickly as possible. Cramer finished first because the much smaller PPK only held seven cartridges. Martin was the last to stop firing as his weapon held eighteen.
Cramer’s ears were ringing as they walked forward to check their accuracy. Allan had refused ear plugs or protectors so that they would get used to being under fire. It was hell on his eardrums, but Cramer knew that Allan was right; unless he was used to the sound of gunfire, his first reaction would be to flinch and to close his eyes and, with the assassin moving towards him, the slightest delay would be fatal. All of Cramer’s shots were dead centre.
Allan slapped him on the back. ‘Good shooting, Mike.’ He looked across at Martin’s target and pulled a face. ‘Fuck me, Martin, is your blood sugar low or something?’
Martin sniffed. ‘It’s not so bad,’ he said.
‘Bad? It’s crap.’
‘Yeah, well I’m not going to be firing at paper terrorists, am I? I was never that hot on the range.’
‘You can say that again.’ Allan began to stick small black paper circles over the holes made by the bullets.
‘Yeah, but I was shit hot in the Killing House, wasn’t I?’
‘You did okay,’ said Allan begrudgingly. He gave a handful of the paper circles to Cramer. ‘Martin came over to Hereford with a group from the Ranger Wing of the Irish Army to brush up on his counter-terrorist tactics,’ he explained.
‘Great crack,’ said Martin.
‘Was this in the old days, live targets and all?’ asked Cramer.
‘Nah. Shit, I forgot, you did the single room system, didn’t you?’ asked Martin. ‘That must have been something.’
‘Yeah. It was. The good old days.’ During Cramer’s time with the SAS, the close-quarter battle building had a single room where the troopers perfected their hostage-release technique, with dummies as terrorists and the SAS men taking it in turn to play hostages. Live ammunition was used and the room was often in near or total darkness, to make the exercise as real as possible. Eventually it became too real and in 1986 a sergeant playing the role of hostage was shot and killed. The fatal accident put an end to the single room system, and the Killing House was replaced with two rooms connected by a highly sophisticated camera and screen system. The terrorists and hostages were in one room, the SAS stormed another, shooting at life-size wrap-around screens. It wasn’t one hundred per cent realistic but it meant that there were no further accidents. As Martin said, it had been something in the old days.
The three men finished covering the holes and went back to the table. ‘What do you make of Su-ming?’ asked Martin.
Cramer shrugged. ‘Inscrutable,’ he said.
‘Yeah. That’s it exactly. Inscrutable. What’s her story?’
Cramer began slotting fresh cartridges into the PPK’s clip. ‘She’s the target’s assistant,’ he said.
Martin grinned lecherously. ‘Assistant my arse. He’s giving her one. Bound to be.’
‘What makes you say that?’
Martin raised his eyebrows. ‘Wouldn’t you?’
Cramer shook his head, smiling to himself. ‘You’re an animal, Martin.’
‘She keeps herself to herself,’ said Allan. ‘I wanted her to go through a few rehearsals with me, just so she’d get a feel for what’s going on. She wouldn’t.’
‘She’s unhappy about the whole business,’ said Cramer. ‘She might even be a Buddhist or something.’
‘I thought Buddhists shaved their heads?’ asked Martin.
‘Only the monks,’ said Allan.
‘Yeah? Well, just so long as she shaves her armpits. That’s one thing I can’t stand, you know? Hairy armpits.’
‘That’s a relief to us all, Martin,’ said Cramer.
‘Anyway, what’s being a Buddhist got to do with it?’ Martin asked.
‘She’s against killing,’ said Cramer.
‘Fucking terrific,’ laughed Martin. ‘Some nutter’s going to blow the head off her boss, and she’s worried about the sanctity of life.’
Allan put his loaded Glock on the table. ‘This guy’s no nutter, Martin. Don’t forget that. He’s not crazy, he’s as highly trained as you are. He knows exactly what he’s doing.’
Martin raised his hands in mock surrender. ‘Okay. Okay. No more crazy jokes.’
Cramer clicked the magazine into his PPK and checked that the safety was on. ‘She’ll be okay, won’t she?’
‘So long as she doesn’t get in the way,’ Allan replied. ‘Why, are you worried?’