The Double Tap (Stephen Leather Thrillers) Read Free

thoughts. Maybe it would have been better to have moved the rook first and then attacked with his bishop. ‘Yes?’ he said.
            ‘Mike Cramer’s surfaced,’ said a voice that the Colonel instantly recognised.
            ‘Where?’ He sat back in his chair.
            ‘Ireland. We spotted him at Holyhead boarding the ferry to Dun Laoghaire.’
            ‘There’s no doubt?’
            The caller sniffed, once. ‘None at all.’
            ‘Where is he now?’
            ‘Howth, north of Dublin. He’s bought a cottage there.’
            ‘He’s what?’ The Colonel closed his eyes as if in pain. ‘What the hell is he up to?’ he asked.
            The question was rhetorical but the caller answered noneätheless. ‘We were hoping you’d be able to tell us.’
           
           
           
           
    Mike Cramer put on his reefer jacket and buttoned it up to the neck as he closed the front door behind him. He didn’t bother locking it. He thrust his hands deep into his pockets and walked down the road. An elderly woman was standing on a stepladder cleaning the windows of the neighbouring cottage and as he walked by Cramer wished her a good morning. He found a general store facing the west pier and he bought coffee, milk, sugar, and a newspaper, not because there was anything in it he wanted to read but because he’d need it to get the fire going. He wasn’t hungry but he nevertheless put eggs, bacon and a loaf of bread into the wire shopping basket before handing it to the young lad behind the counter. ‘Are you here on holiday?’ asked the boy as he totalled up Cramer’s purchases and put them into a blue plastic carrier bag.
            ‘Nah, I’m living here,’ said Cramer, passing over a twenty pound note.
            The boy frowned. ‘In Howth? Jesus, I’m doing all I can to move out. There’s nothing for anyone here.’ He gave Cramer his change.
            ‘It’s got everything I want,’ said Cramer. ‘See you around.’ He walked along the sea front to a pub built of the same stone as his cottage. Three fishermen in bright orange waterproof jackets were drinking at the bar and they turned as one towards him as he stepped inside. They looked like brothers, balding, broad shoulders, ruddy cheeks and hands gnarled from too much exposure to sea water and cold winds. Cramer nodded a greeting and went to the far end of the bar where he ordered a double Famous Grouse from the matronly barmaid. He downed the whisky in one go and smacked his lips appreciatively.
            ‘Good?’ asked the barmaid.
            ‘Oh yes,’ said Cramer.
            ‘Another?’
            ‘Definitely. And have one yourself. While you’re at it, I’d like to buy the guys over there a drink.’
            The barmaid beamed and refilled his glass. ‘Are you celebrating or something?’
            ‘Or something,’ said Cramer. He raised the glass and toasted the fishermen.
           
           
           
           
    The boy sat in front of the television set and watched the rocket soar through the sky. A flat emotionless voice was calling out numbers but the boy didn’t know what they referred to. Nor did he care. He sat open-mouthed as the rocket and its three astronauts headed for the moon. The moon. They really were going to the moon. Just like in the comics. The boy leaned back and put his hands on the floor as he stared at the screen. He tried to imagine what it must be like to be in a space capsule, drinking through a tube and going to the toilet in a space suit. The boy wanted to go to the toilet but he didn’t want to miss one second of the launch. He pressed his legs together and blocked out thoughts of his full bladder. He heard his name being called but he ignored it and shuffled closer to the screen until his feet were almost under the television set. Something fell away from the bottom of the rocket and for a moment