The Chinaman by Stephen Leather Read Free Book Online Page A

opponents, the local police team, had the edge when it came to skill and finesse but the army boys had the aggression. The referee looked at his watch and missed the sharp elbow jab in the ribs that sent the police sweeper sprawling but he heard the cop swear and he blew hard on his whistle. The crowd jeered as the referee fumbled in the pocket of his shorts for his notebook.
    There were two groups of supporters, one on each side of the pitch. The police supporters, mainly loyal girlfriends and bored wives, stood with their backs to Woolwich Common, facing Stadium Road. The army supporters, mostly soldiers with nothing else to do on a Saturday morning, were ranged along the other side. O’Reilly was standing with the police wives as he studied the referee through the lens of his Pentax. The man’s cheeks were flushed red as he spluttered at the policeman who was waving his arms and protesting his innocence. He moved the lens to the left and the Queen Elizabeth Military Hospital came into focus and then he saw the road sign. Shrapnel Close. He smiled at the irony of it.
    The referee blew his whistle to restart the game as O’Reilly walked slowly along the sideline, stopping every now and again to take photographs. Over his shoulder was a black camera bag. Close to the corner flag was a stack of sports bags and towels and two polythene bags full of quartered oranges. The crowd roared as a big, beefy, army striker sent the ball ripping into the net, and as his team-mates rushed to congratulate him O’Reilly dropped his camera bag down among the sports bags. He walked back to the line and took more photographs before checking his watch. Three minutes to go. A red Renault drove down Repository Road and into Stadium Road and came to a halt at the junction with Shrapnel Close. O’Reilly knew that he’d attract attention to himself if he walked behind the goalmouth while the game was on, so he stayed where he was until the referee’s whistle blasted out and brought the first half to a close. The players ran across the pitch to where the bags were as O’Reilly walked over to the car. McCormick opened the passenger door for him and he got in. They both looked over at the foot-ballers, clustered around the now-opened polythene bags and helping themselves to pieces of orange.
    â€˜Now?’ said McCormick, licking his lips nervously.
    â€˜No, Fisher said we wait until we’re on Shooters Hill Road,’ replied O’Reilly.
    â€˜Let’s go then.’ McCormick put the car in gear and drove to the main junction and indicated before he turned. He pulled the car to the side some fifty yards down the road. O’Reilly nodded and opened the glove compartment and took out a small walkie-talkie. It was an Icom IC2 transceiver, a hand-held model. There was another in the camera bag, though it had been modified. The Bombmaker had attached a relay switch to the loudspeaker circuit which was connected to a second circuit, containing a 1.5 volt battery and a gunpowder detonator. The detonator was embedded in twenty-five pounds of Semtex explosive, around which was wrapped a cluster of three-inch nails. There was no timing device because the bomb would be detonated at a safe distance by the transceiver in O’Reilly’s hand. And there were no booby traps because they weren’t sure when he’d be able to put the bag down.
    O’Reilly saw the avaricious look in McCormick’s eye, the pleading of a dog begging for a bone. He handed it over. McCormick handled it reverently like a holy icon.
    â€˜Are you sure?’ he asked.
    â€˜Go for it,’ said O’Reilly.
    McCormick switched the control switch to ‘send’ and held the transceiver to his mouth. ‘Bang,’ he said, and they saw the flash of light followed quickly by the thud of the explosion and felt the tremor through the car seats.
    â€˜Come on, let’s go,’ said O’Reilly.
    They were driving