The Double Tap (Stephen Leather Thrillers)

by Stephen Leather

  Lynch thought for a second and then shook his head. ‘No. I only saw one of the crew, he pulled Cramer in, but he wasn’t armed, I’m sure of that.’

  McCormack tapped the programme against his leg as he walked, his head down in thought. He didn’t speak for almost a minute. ‘I think we’re going to have to let this one go, Dermott.’

  ‘I want the bastard,’ said Lynch fiercely.

  ‘Connolly wasn’t over happy about us going after Cramer in the first place, you know. Let sleeping dogs lie, he said. He took some persuading.’

  ‘Yeah?’ Lynch scratched his beard as if it itched.

  ‘Yes. I had to take sole responsibility for it. If it had gone wrong, I’d have been the one explaining to the Army Council. And it damn near did go wrong. We were lucky it wasn’t a trap, right?’

  ‘I wouldn’t say that, Thomas. We had Howth pretty well sewn up. If the SAS had been there, we’d have known about it.’

  ‘That’s as may be. But whatever Cramer was doing, it’s over now.’

  ‘I want him,’ said Lynch.

  ‘I know you do. But you’ve got a personal interest, Dermott, let’s not forget that.’

  ‘Let me go after him. Please. I’m asking as a friend.’

  McCormack snorted softly. ‘You can’t ask me that as a friend, and you know it. You can only make a request like that to me as a member of the Army Executive.’

  The next race was about to start and the spectators began to pour out of the betting hall and cluster around the track. The on-course bookmakers were frantically chalking up new odds. Lynch could see that the odds on number six were already shortening. ‘And if I do ask you as a member of the Army Executive?’

  ‘Then I’d have to refuse your request. If you’re adamant then I could put it before the Army Council, but I know what their answer would be. And so do you. They’ve too much to gain from the peace process, they’re not going to jeopardise it over one man.’

  ‘Not even a man like Cramer?’

  ‘Not even for Cramer. Look, Dermott, if it was up to me, of course I’d say yes. Hell, I’d even help pull the trigger. But you know what we were told in 1994. No mavericks. No splinter groups. We speak and act with one voice.’

  The handlers began walking the dogs towards the starting gate. ‘We were so bloody close,’ hissed Lynch. ‘A minute earlier and we’d have got him.’

  ‘But you didn’t,’ said McCormack softly. ‘So now it’s over.’

  Lynch wanted to argue but he knew it would be futile. ‘Whatever you say, Thomas.’

  ‘Good man.’ The race was about to start, but McCormack was already perusing the programme as if the outcome was a foregone conclusion. ‘Number two in the race after this. Guaranteed.’ He looked up and smiled. ‘You’ll be able to use your winnings from this race.’

  ‘Thanks. Thanks for the tip.’

  ‘When are you going back to Belfast?’

  ‘Tomorrow morning. I’ll catch the first train.’

  ‘Good. There’s a wee job I want you to do for me when you get back.’

  ‘Sure, Thomas. Whatever you say.’

  McCormack studied the programme as the traps sprang open and the greyhounds burst out, like shells from a mortar.

  Mike Cramer lay on his back and listened to the blackbirds, a pleasant contrast to the savage cries of seagulls he’d heard the last time he’d woken up. He opened his eyes and squinted at his wristwatch. It was just before five o’clock though it was already light outside. He rolled out of the single bed, padded across the bare floorboards to the window and pulled open the thin curtains. A thickset man in a grey sports jacket stood in the middle of the lawn, a walkie-talkie pressed to his mouth. He looked up and gave Cramer a half-wave. Cramer waved back.

  To the right, beyond the lawns but still inside the wall that surrounded the property, were three tennis courts, lined up like playing cards in a game of Find The Lady, and beyond them a croquet lawn, the hoops still in place. Cramer ran his hands through his hair. He smelled his armpits and wrinkled his nose. He needed a shower, badly. By the bed stood a three-quarters empty bottle of Famous Grouse. The Colonel had brought it up after darkness had fallen and had sat on the bed keeping Cramer company, drinking the whisky and toasting the old days, the days before Cramer had been shot and tortured and before the cancer had started to grow. Cramer unscrewed the cap off the bottle, swilling it around like a mouthwash before swallowing and grimacing as it went down his throat.

  He tossed the bottle on the bed and went into the bathroom, which was tiled from floor to ceiling. The grouting was black and stained and a mouldy smell was coming from the bathtub. The showerhead was as large as a saucepan lid and Cramer turned it on. To his surprise the water came out steaming hot almost immediately.

  On a shelf above the sink stood a can of menthol shaving foam, a pack of disposable razors, a toothbrush still in its plastic wrapping and a tube of Colgate tartar control toothpaste. Cramer picked up the toothpaste and smiled, wondering who had done the shopping and why they’d chosen the tartar control formula. He cleaned his teeth and shaved and then climbed into the bathtub and stood under the shower. There was no shower curtain and water cascaded off his body and onto the tiled floor. He noticed a fresh bar of soap in a shell-shaped soap dish and he used it to wash himself thoroughly. He hadn’t realised how long it was since he’d felt truly clean.

  He wrapped himself in clean towels and sat on the bed and read another of the files as he dried himself. It was an American killing; the victim had been a Chicago lawyer. The lawyer had several Mob figures as clients and the Chicago newspapers had suggested that the killing was one of a series of tit-for-tat murders, as two crime families fought for control of lucrative concrete-pouring contracts. The police file was never closed, though, and the latest addition, a memo from the Marseilles field office of the Sûreté – in response to an official Chicago Police Department enquiry – pointed out that the lawyer’s widow had remarried within the year and that she and her new husband were now living in the South of France. The new man in her life was twenty years younger and a good deal poorer than her husband had been. The file also contained a photograph of them together, she with the over-tight cheeks and slightly too-open eyes that indicated a face lift, he with a weightlifter’s chest, slick-backed hair and movie star looks. She’d been questioned several times but there was no evidence linking her to the assassin. It looked like the perfect crime, but Cramer wasn’t concerned about who’d financed the murder, it was the killer he was interested in.

  The fact that it was the same man in both shootings wasn’t in question. Two shots, one to the face, a second to the chest: that appeared to be the killer’s trademark. When Cramer had attended the SAS’s Killing House in Hereford, he too had been trained in the ‘double tap’ – two shots fired in quick succession. However, the SAS instructors had stressed the importance of aiming at the torso so that there was less chance of missing – head shots were deemed too risky.

  The killer had walked into the lawyer’s office and shot him dead in front of his secretary. The secretary’s description of the killer was detailed, but unhelpful: brown hair, brown eyes, just under six feet tall, lightly tanned skin. Any or all of those characteristics could be altered, Cramer knew. Hair dye, coloured contact lenses, lifts in the shoes, sunbeds or tanning cream. There was an artist’s impression based on the secretary’s description, and a computer-generated photo-fit, and while they did resemble each other, they had little in common with the pictures in the other files Cramer had read.

  All the files on killings which had taken place in America contained FBI Facial Identification Fact Sheets, which had been filled in by investigating agents prior to the photo-fits being generated. They contained a list of facial features, and witnesses were asked to tick the pertinent boxes. Cramer took the sheets from the various files and compared them. They were just as disparate as the photo-fit pictures. The shape of the head could be categorised as oval, round, triangular, long
or rectangular. All of the boxes had been ticked by at least one of the witnesses. The mouth could be classed as average, both lips thick, both lips thin, lips unequal, large or small. Most of the witness reports ticked the lips as average, but there was at least one witness who ticked each of the other categories. The consensus seemed to be that the man’s eyebrows were average, his ears were average, his chin was average and his nose was average, but there was no consistency. Two witnesses said the man had a double chin, one said his eyebrows met in the middle, another said he had protruding ears. Cramer was beginning to understand what the Colonel had meant when he’d said that they had plenty of descriptions but no real idea what the assassin looked like.

  He finished drying himself and then looked around for clean clothes. There was none, the chests of drawers and the wardrobes were empty. Cramer shrugged and pulled on the clothes he’d arrived in. It seemed that the Colonel hadn’t thought of everything.

  As he went down the main staircase he smelled bacon and when he walked into the dining hall the Colonel was already there, sitting at one of the long refectory tables and tucking into a fried breakfast. The Colonel picked up his coffee mug and nodded at the stainless steel serving trays which were lined up on a table by the door. ‘Help yourself,’ he said. ‘If there’s anything else you want, Mrs Elliott will get it for you. She’s quite a cook.’

  Cramer walked along the row of trays. There were fried eggs, scrambled eggs, crisp bacon, sausages, tomatoes, fried bread, even kippers, enough to feed a battalion. Cramer wasn’t hungry but he knew that he’d have to eat. He spooned some scrambled eggs onto a plate and went over to sit opposite the Colonel. Mrs Elliott bustled out of the kitchen carrying two steaming jugs. ‘Coffee or tea?’ she asked. She sniffed and Cramer had the distinct impression that she could smell the whisky on his breath.

  Cramer asked for tea. The Colonel waited until she’d gone back into the kitchen before asking Cramer how he’d slept. Cramer shrugged. ‘Same as usual,’ he said. The Colonel didn’t have to point out the bags under his eyes, Cramer had seen them staring back at him as he’d shaved.

  ‘Did you get a chance to read any of the files?’

  ‘Half a dozen, in detail.’

  The Colonel put down his mug of coffee. ‘Any thoughts?’

  Cramer shrugged and stirred his eggs with his fork. ‘Half of the hits were in the States, right? That suggests that the killer is an American.’

  ‘Maybe. Or it could imply that Americans are more willing to hire professionals to do their killings.’

  Cramer nodded. ‘I can’t work out why he shoots them in the face first. You know the drill. Two shots to the chest, then one to the head to make sure, if you have the time. But only if you have the time. In the Killing House it’s two chest shots, then on to the next target. We don’t have the luxury of head-shots.’

  ‘Which means what?’

  ‘Which means, I suppose, that he’s not SAS-trained,’ answered Cramer. ‘In fact, I can’t think of any Special Forces group which trains its people to go for head-shots.’

  ‘Perhaps he didn’t agree with the way he was trained,’ said the Colonel as Cramer put a forkful of eggs in his mouth and swallowed without chewing. ‘Remember, he’s always very close to the target. Within ten feet, often closer. At that range, head-shots are less chancy.’

  Cramer shrugged and stirred his eggs again. They were good scrambled eggs, rich and buttery with a hint of cheese, but he had no appetite. ‘It’s a question of training, though,’ he said. ‘If it’s drilled into you to kill one way, it’s damn difficult to do it any other way.’

  ‘We can talk that through with the profiler when he arrives,’ said the Colonel, placing his knife and fork together on the plate. As if by magic, Mrs Elliott appeared and whisked it away.

  ‘Profiler? What’s the deal there?’

  The Colonel wrapped his hands around his steaming mug. The dining hall was cavernous and the propane heater at the end of the table provided little in the way of warmth. ‘The man we’re looking for is a professional assassin, there’s no doubt about that. That’s how the police would look at it. A psychiatrist might take a different view. He could look at him as a killer who keeps killing. A serial killer. And serial killers develop patterns. By analysing those patterns we might be able to build up a picture of what makes him tick. The FBI has a team of specialists based in Quantico who profile serial killers for police forces around the country.’

  ‘And one of these profilers is working on our killer?’

  ‘The FBI did the initial profiling, but now we’ve got a guy who used to work for the Bureau helping us,’ said the Colonel. ‘Name of Jackman. He used to be one of their best operatives, now he runs a private profiling agency in Boston.’

  Cramer swallowed another mouthful of eggs without chewing. ‘A private serial killer profiler?’

  ‘He offers recruitment advice to companies, stops them hiring bad apples. He gets called in to help movie stars with problem fans, stalkers and the like. And he’s helped resolve several kidnapping cases where the police haven’t been called in. Some of the biggest insurance companies use him.’

  Cramer frowned. He washed his eggs down with his tea. ‘I don’t get this, Colonel. Why isn’t the Bureau helping us?’

  ‘The FBI have less than a dozen profilers on staff and a single manager and they’re on a tight budget. They do a total of about eight hundred profiles a year but they have to turn away at least two hundred. The Bureau’s total budget for profiling is just over a million dollars a year, despite all the publicity the unit gets. They don’t even have the time to do written profiles on a lot of the cases they handle – they offer advice on the phone to law enforcement agencies all across America. But Jackman can give us as much time as we need. He’s had access to all the case files for the past three months. I want you to meet him before we put you in place.’

  Cramer put down his fork. The bulk of his scrambled eggs remained untouched on the plate. ‘What will he be able to tell me?’

  ‘He might be able to give you an idea of what sort of man the killer is, give you a profile so that you recognise him when he moves against you.’

  Cramer smiled thinly. ‘Moves against me? You mean tries to kill me.’

  ‘Whatever. It’ll give you an edge.’

  ‘I’ll take whatever I can get,’ said Cramer. He rubbed his stomach.

  The Colonel leaned forward, concerned. ‘Are you okay?’

  ‘A bit sore, but nothing like as bad as it’s going to be in a few weeks.’

  ‘There’s a doctor coming later. He’ll give you a check-up.’

  ‘I’ve been seen by experts, Colonel. I’ve had all the second opinions I need.’

  ‘All the same, I want him to look at you. He might be able to prescribe something for the pain.’

  Cramer shook his head. ‘I don’t think so,’ he said. ‘Painkillers will just slow me down. Besides, the pain lets me know I’m still alive.’ He pushed the plate away and drained his mug.

  They both looked over at the door as they heard footsteps in the hallway. A short, portly man carrying a large briefcase entered the dining hall, walking quickly as if he was behind schedule. He was wearing a dark blue blazer and black slacks and his shoes gleamed as if they’d just been polished. The Colonel stood up. ‘The doctor?’ asked Cramer.

  ‘The tailor,’ said the Colonel.

  ‘A tailor? What the hell do I need a tailor for?’

  ‘The man whose place you’ll be taking wouldn’t be seen dead in clothes like yours, Joker.’

  The tailor put his briefcase on the table, opened it and took out a tapemeasure and a small notebook. ‘Up, up, up,’ he said to Cramer, talking as quickly as he walked. Cramer got to his feet and held out his hands to the sides. The Colonel smiled as the tailor busied himself taking Cramer’s measurements and scribbling them down in his notebook. ‘Three suits, we said?’

  ‘That’s right,’ said the Colonel. ‘All dark pinstripe, d
ouble breasted, no turn-ups. A dozen shirts, all white, double cuffs. Socks, underwear, a selection of casual shirts and trousers. Conservative.’

  ‘Of course, of course,’ said the tailor, kneeling down in front of Cramer and deftly measuring his inside leg.

  ‘And an overcoat,’ said the Colonel. ‘Cashmere.’ Cramer raised an eyebrow. ‘Quality shows,’ the Colonel explained. ‘Especially when you get up close.’

  The tailor measured Cramer’s arms, his waist and his chest. ‘Which side will you be carrying?’ the tailor asked Cramer.

  ‘Carrying?’ repeated Cramer, confused.

  ‘Shoulder holster,’ said the tailor.

  ‘Left side,’ said Cramer.

  ‘Good, good.’ The tailor turned to the Colonel. ‘What about accessories?’ he asked. ‘Belts, ties, cufflinks?’

  ‘I’ll leave that up to you,’ said the Colonel. ‘Bring a selection.’

  ‘Certainly,’ said the tailor. ‘Certainly.’

  ‘And you can supply shoes?’

  ‘Of course, of course.’ The tailor looked up at Cramer expectantly.

  ‘Ten and a half,’ said Cramer.

  The tailor made a note, stood up, picked up his briefcase and left.

  ‘Regular whirlwind,’ said Cramer, his hands still out at his sides.

  ‘He puts the guys in Hong Kong to shame,’ said the Colonel. ‘He’ll have it all ready within forty-eight hours.’

  ‘And I get to keep them after it’s all over?’

  The Colonel began to reply, then he realised that Cramer was being sarcastic. He shook his head, almost sadly. ‘I’d forgotten why they called you Joker,’ he said.

  Cramer shrugged and sat down again. ‘So when does it happen?’

  ‘A few days. There’s still some preparation to be done.’

  ‘Just don’t leave it too long,’ warned Cramer.

  The top shelf of the larder was just out of the boy’s reach so he had to stand on a chair to reach the tin of beef stew. He opened the can, emptied it into a pan and stirred it carefully on the gas stove. When the stew began to bubble and spit he poured it onto a plate and carried it upstairs with a glass of milk. His mother was sitting up, her back propped up with pillows. The walking stick lay on the covers next to a stack of old magazines. ‘I made you lunch,’ said the boy.