tremendous propaganda victory. Their Active Service Unit - the men who'd attacked us - did indeed escape over the border and for months afterwards the following graffiti appeared round the villages of South Armagh: IRA 4 - Brits 0.
The conflict's long finished now, and already it's turning into ancient history. But one thing hasn't changed: I saved Lucas's life. Without me, he almost certainly would have died.
Which means he owes me. In normal circumstances, I would never hold him to his debt. I like him too much for that. But circumstances are no longer anything close to normal, so today I'm going to call it in.
11
I've known Lucas since we entered the army together nineteen long years ago, when we were seventeen apiece. He lasted nine years, but left not long after the Crossmaglen ambush. Although his own injuries were superficial, he told me he took what happened as a warning from God to change careers, and when his service was up, he didn't renew it. I don't think the life ever suited him like it did me, but somehow we've always stayed in touch in a way I've never really managed with the rest of the men I served with. We just hit it off, I suppose. There's not much more you can say about it than that. Lucas is a funny guy, always has been. He's got charisma, and charm too. The ladies havealways loved him. He's half Swedish, and he's inherited the blond hair and irritatingly golden skin that you associate with the Swedes, if not their passive neutrality. Add to that the strong jaw and high chiselled cheekbones, and you've got the sort of guy who in his younger days could have been a model.
These days he works for himself as a private detective. He's been doing it for six years now and claims that he'll take on any job if the money's right, although most of his work involves divorce cases. Those and missing persons. He's good, though, and he's done work for me on three occasions, hunting down people who owed me money through the car business but decided to skip town rather than pay up. Every time he's found them, and every time the two of us have got the debtor to cough up the money. I trust Lucas. I haven't seen him in close to three months, but that doesn't matter. He's one of my best friends, possibly the best, and I know that when things are bad, he'll be there.
And they don't get much worse than they have been today.
I've abandoned the stolen car on a back street on the borders of Whitechapel and Aldgate andI'm walking along Commercial Street in the direction of Liverpool Street tube station, the briefcase in one hand, just one person among the hordes of short-sleeved office workers on their lunch breaks who are out enjoying the early afternoon sunshine. Lucas's offices are above a Bangladeshi textile wholesalers just south of Spitalfields Market, about two minutes' walk from where I am now. It's already 1.30, so I use the phone I've been supplied with to dial his office number.
'Martin Lukersson Associates,' he states confidently, his voice deep and fearless, making him sound every inch the kind of guy you can rely on in times of trouble. 'How can I help?'
'I've got a problem,' I tell him, not bothering with introductions.
'I know,' he answers.
That throws me. 'How do you know?'
'Because you phoned me about it.'
'When?' I ask, surprised.
Now it's his turn to sound surprised. 'Yesterday,' he says impatiently. 'You called me yesterday.'
'What did I want?'
'Don't you remember? Christ, Tyler, what'swrong with you? Have ravenous women been spiking your drink again so they can get you into bed when your defences are down?'
'It's a long story,' I tell him, thinking he may not actually be that far from the truth.
'Care to explain?'
'Tell me what I wanted first.'
'You asked me to find some information on a young lady you've met.'
'Leah Torness,' I say, having no recollection of this conversation whatsoever.
'That's her.'
I'm having difficulty getting my head round this. 'What information did I want?'
He
The conflict's long finished now, and already it's turning into ancient history. But one thing hasn't changed: I saved Lucas's life. Without me, he almost certainly would have died.
Which means he owes me. In normal circumstances, I would never hold him to his debt. I like him too much for that. But circumstances are no longer anything close to normal, so today I'm going to call it in.
11
I've known Lucas since we entered the army together nineteen long years ago, when we were seventeen apiece. He lasted nine years, but left not long after the Crossmaglen ambush. Although his own injuries were superficial, he told me he took what happened as a warning from God to change careers, and when his service was up, he didn't renew it. I don't think the life ever suited him like it did me, but somehow we've always stayed in touch in a way I've never really managed with the rest of the men I served with. We just hit it off, I suppose. There's not much more you can say about it than that. Lucas is a funny guy, always has been. He's got charisma, and charm too. The ladies havealways loved him. He's half Swedish, and he's inherited the blond hair and irritatingly golden skin that you associate with the Swedes, if not their passive neutrality. Add to that the strong jaw and high chiselled cheekbones, and you've got the sort of guy who in his younger days could have been a model.
These days he works for himself as a private detective. He's been doing it for six years now and claims that he'll take on any job if the money's right, although most of his work involves divorce cases. Those and missing persons. He's good, though, and he's done work for me on three occasions, hunting down people who owed me money through the car business but decided to skip town rather than pay up. Every time he's found them, and every time the two of us have got the debtor to cough up the money. I trust Lucas. I haven't seen him in close to three months, but that doesn't matter. He's one of my best friends, possibly the best, and I know that when things are bad, he'll be there.
And they don't get much worse than they have been today.
I've abandoned the stolen car on a back street on the borders of Whitechapel and Aldgate andI'm walking along Commercial Street in the direction of Liverpool Street tube station, the briefcase in one hand, just one person among the hordes of short-sleeved office workers on their lunch breaks who are out enjoying the early afternoon sunshine. Lucas's offices are above a Bangladeshi textile wholesalers just south of Spitalfields Market, about two minutes' walk from where I am now. It's already 1.30, so I use the phone I've been supplied with to dial his office number.
'Martin Lukersson Associates,' he states confidently, his voice deep and fearless, making him sound every inch the kind of guy you can rely on in times of trouble. 'How can I help?'
'I've got a problem,' I tell him, not bothering with introductions.
'I know,' he answers.
That throws me. 'How do you know?'
'Because you phoned me about it.'
'When?' I ask, surprised.
Now it's his turn to sound surprised. 'Yesterday,' he says impatiently. 'You called me yesterday.'
'What did I want?'
'Don't you remember? Christ, Tyler, what'swrong with you? Have ravenous women been spiking your drink again so they can get you into bed when your defences are down?'
'It's a long story,' I tell him, thinking he may not actually be that far from the truth.
'Care to explain?'
'Tell me what I wanted first.'
'You asked me to find some information on a young lady you've met.'
'Leah Torness,' I say, having no recollection of this conversation whatsoever.
'That's her.'
I'm having difficulty getting my head round this. 'What information did I want?'
He
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