Read The Double Tap (Stephen Leather Thrillers) for Free Online

Council, and one of the harshest critics of the 1994 ceasefire and the peace process that had followed. Connolly’s mistrust of the British Government bordered on the paranoid, and he had taken a lot of persuading before agreeing to back Gerry Adams’s peace initiative.
            McCormack watched as Connolly cast his fly, a smooth, fluid action that McCormack had to admire. Connolly had been fly-fishing for more than half a century and McCormack was a relative newcomer, but even if he fished for another hundred years he didn’t think he’d ever be as good as the old man. ‘Come on, you bugger, isn’t that the loveliest, tastiest fly you’ve ever seen?’ Connolly whispered to the unseen quarry. McCormack held his breath, certain that this time the fish would take the bait, but the glossy blue fly sat untouched on the surface. ‘It’s not my day, sure enough,’ growled Connolly as he wound in his line.
            McCormack pulled a pewter hip flask from the inside pocket of his waxed cotton jacket, unscrewed the top and offered it to his companion. Connolly’s liver-spotted hand trembled slightly as he took the flask, but McCormack pretended not to notice. Connolly had just turned seventy, and while his mind was still razor sharp, he was rumoured to have developed Parkinson’s disease. It wasn’t as if the man was an invalid, and McCormack had noticed that there were no shakes when Connolly was concentrating on fishing. McCormack hoped that the rumours were wrong and that the trembling was nothing more than a symptom of old age, like the thinning white hair, the liver spots and the hearing aid tucked behind his right ear. The old man drank from the flask, handed it back and began to tie another fly onto his line. ‘This Cramer,’ he said without looking up. ‘What do you think?’
            McCormack smiled. The canny old bastard had read his mind. ‘It’s not a set-up,’ he said, slowly. ‘He’s on his own. Whatever he’s up to, he’s not with the SAS any more.’
            ‘Could be Five.’
            ‘Nah. British Intelligence wouldn’t touch him with a bargepole. Cramer was finished some time ago. He’s too well known here, and he’d be bugger all use anywhere else. Besides, if Five were using him, why would they put him in Howth?’
            Connolly shrugged as he concentrated on his knot. ‘You tell me, Thomas. You’re the one who won’t let sleeping dogs lie.’
            McCormack sensed admonition in the older man’s voice and realised that he’d have to tread carefully. ‘This is a murdering dog that deserves to be put down, Joe. Peace process or no peace process.’
            ‘No argument here,’ said Connolly, straightening up and looking him in the eye. ‘I just don’t want it to backfire on you, that’s all.’ He paused. ‘There’s no doubt that it’s Cramer?’
            ‘None. Dermott saw him five years ago, up close.’
            ‘Close? How close?’
            ‘We had Cramer in a farmhouse with another undercover Sass-man. Cramer’s partner died while he was being questioned, Cramer was lucky to get away with his life. Dermott was one of the team guarding him.’
            ‘Does Cramer know Dermott?’ asked Connolly.
            ‘Dermott says no. Cramer was hooded or blindfolded most of the time.’
            Connolly fixed McCormack with a beady stare. ‘Dermott’s got a personal interest, hasn’t he?’
            McCormack nodded. ‘Aye. But that’s not what this is about.’
            ‘And Cramer’s quite alone?’
            ‘No question of it. Dermott’s had him under twenty-four hour surveillance for the past three days. No one’s gone near Cramer, he’s made no telephone calls, and there are no other strangers in the village.’
            ‘Do you think he’s cracked? Had some sort of breakdown?’
            ‘It’s possible. He’s certainly not behaving rationally.’