Cramer shook his head and persevered. Su-ming used neat, economic movements to carry the food from her bowl to her mouth.
‘It’s good,’ said Cramer. The vegetables were crisp and tasty, and while he still had little appetite, at least he didn’t find the food hard to swallow.
‘I know,’ she said. ‘And it’s better for you than the animal fats and starch which that woman is feeding you.’
Cramer adjusted the chopsticks. His fingers felt large and clumsy. ‘How long have you worked for Mr Vander Mayer?’ he asked.
Su-ming’s chopsticks stopped in mid-air, suspended over her bowl. ‘Fifteen years,’ she said.
‘Fifteen?’ repeated Cramer. Su-ming nodded and continued to eat. Cramer frowned. He couldn’t believe that Su-ming was more than twenty-five, which meant she’d joined the arms dealer when she was just ten years old. ‘What happened to your parents?’ he asked.
Su-ming put her chopsticks down on the table. Her eyes were cold, her face impassive. ‘I am here because Mr Vander Mayer said that I should cooperate with your Colonel,’ she said in measured tones, as if she were a parent talking to an uncooperative child. ‘That is the only reason. I have already made my feelings clear on the matter, but Mr Vander Mayer insists. I am not here to make small talk with you. I do not wish to become your friend or to have you become mine. I certainly do not wish to divulge personal details to you. Do I make myself clear?’
Cramer sat stunned. She hadn’t raised her voice or shown any sign of emotion, but her words had cut right through him. ‘Hey, I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I was just …’
‘… making small talk,’ she said, finishing his sentence.
‘That’s right. Small talk.’
Su-ming picked up her chopsticks again. ‘Life is too short for small talk,’ she said and popped a snow pea into her mouth.
The Colonel poured himself a large whisky and held up the bottle to show Allan. ‘Are you sure you don’t want one?’ he asked.
‘No thanks, boss,’ Allan replied.
The Colonel put the half empty bottle back on the side table and went over to his desk. ‘How’s Cramer’s drinking?’
‘Under control. You were right, once we started training, he cut back.’
The Colonel sipped his whisky. ‘He needs a goal, does Mike Cramer. He needs something to aim for, to focus on. Without it he tends to fall apart. Don’t underestimate him, Allan.’
‘I won’t, boss.’
‘How’s he doing otherwise?’
‘His marksmanship is getting better. I’ll be starting him on the set pieces tomorrow, we’ll see how he does under pressure.’
‘Do you think he’ll be ready in time?’
‘I don’t know. He’s out of condition, he looks like he’s been living rough for months, but he’s all we’ve got, right?’
‘That’s right.’ The Colonel raised his tumbler in a toast. ‘And if anyone can turn a pig’s ear into a silk purse, you can.’ He drank again as Allan chuckled.
A cellular phone warbled on the windowsill. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow,’ said the Colonel. He waited for Allan to leave before taking the call. It was the last person he expected to hear from: Andrew Vander Mayer.
‘Colonel, I need a favour,’ said Vander Mayer.
‘Where are you, Mr Vander Mayer?’ the Colonel asked.
‘It’s okay, I’m on the yacht,’ said Vander Mayer.
‘I don’t think it’s a good idea to be calling,’ said the Colonel. ‘I thought I made it clear that there was to be no contact until the matter has been resolved.’
‘This is important.’
‘And a contract on your life isn’t?’
Vander Mayer ignored the rhetorical question. ‘You will be in London in two days, am I right?’
‘That’s right. For forty-eight hours. Then we move to New York.’
‘I have a business deal that requires my presence in London.’
The Colonel leaned forward, his body tense. ‘Out of the question,’ he said. ‘Absolutely, totally, one hundred per cent out of the question.’
‘Colonel, I agreed to cooperate with you on condition that my business was not affected. This meeting is vital. The man who wishes to see me is doing so at great personal risk to himself and if I do not meet him in London, I will not get the chance again. And there are plenty of other buyers for what he has to sell.’
The Colonel frowned. ‘This man, you’ve met him before?’
‘No. But I know of him.’
‘You realise that this could be the assassin?’ There was no reply from Vander Mayer. ‘This could be the hit,’ said the Colonel.
‘I see,’ said Vander Mayer.
‘So you understand why you must not come to London?’
There was another long silence. ‘Very well. But I want Su-ming to meet with him. Alone.’
‘I wouldn’t recommend that either,’ said the Colonel. ‘That would be an indication that you were not available, and if this man is our killer, it would tip him off that something was wrong. Can’t you postpone the meeting?’
‘I’ve already told you, that’s not possible.’
‘What does this man have that’s so important?’ asked the Colonel.
‘Something I’ve been trying to get hold of for a long time,’ said Vander Mayer. ‘Okay, your man will have to meet him. There’s no other way. What’s his name?’
‘Cramer. Mike Cramer. What’s the point of the meeting, Mr Vander Mayer?’
‘I’m to take delivery of a sample and some documentation.’
‘So it won’t be necessary for Cramer to have an in-depth knowledge of your business?’
‘Not really. In any case, he’s Russian and speaks little or no English so Su-ming will have to translate everything.’
The Colonel considered Vander Mayer’s suggestion. If this was the assassin making his move, the worst thing the Colonel could do would be to pull Cramer out of the firing line. ‘Very well,’ said the Colonel. ‘When and where?’
‘It’ll have to be in my Kensington office. According to the itinerary you gave me, your man Cramer is going to be there in the afternoon on Thursday, so I’ll have the meeting arranged for half past four. I’ll need to brief him first.’
‘You’ll have to do that before we leave for London,’ said the Colonel. ‘Under no circumstances are you to contact me or him once the operation is under way. We’ve no idea what scanners or listening equipment he has.’
‘No problem. I’ll just sit on deck and soak up the sun.’
‘One thing, Mr Vander Mayer. This sample, what is it?’
‘It’s an industrial compound. Nothing dangerous. But valuable.’
Dermott Lynch left the Warwick Castle public house in Little Venice and walked back to the flat along Blomfield Road. To his left, the other side of a row of black-painted railings, was a canal, its banks lined with pretty narrow boats, many of them bedecked with flowers, homes rather than working vessels. As Lynch walked along the pavement, a rusting blue Ford Transit van came up behind him and slowed to match his pace. The window on the passenger’s side wound down. Lynch looked over at the vehicle. The passenger in the front seat was in his early twenties, a long, thin face and unkempt greasy hair. ‘Is this the right way to Elgin Avenue?’ the man asked. Lynch recognised the accent. West Belfast. The man had probably been born within a mile of Lynch’s own home. It was too much of a coincidence.
Lynch kept on walking. ‘Straight on, then take the second right. You’ll find it.’
The passenger nodded. ‘Are you Dermott?’
Lynch shook his head. ‘Not me, mate,’ he said. He quickened his pace. With his beard shaved off, his hair cut short and the wire-framed glasses he was wearing, there was no way he could have been recognised. Unless they were specifically looking for him.
‘Dermott Lynch,’ said the man.
‘Don’t know him,’ said Lynch. The only way they could have known that he was the man they were looking for was if the
y’d staked out the flat. But there was only one person who knew where he was and that was Thomas McCormack. So if Thomas had sent them, why hadn’t they simply knocked on the door? There was no need for late night assignations on a deserted street. Lynch knew he was in trouble. There were no windows in the side of the Transit so he had no way of knowing how many people were in the back.
‘You sure? We’ve got something for you. From McCormack.’ Lynch stopped. So did the Transit.
Lynch stood with his hands free, his legs apart. He wasn’t armed, not so much as a knife. ‘Yeah? Now what would that be?’
‘This.’ The man’s hand appeared at the open window, holding an envelope.
Lynch smiled. It looked like an envelope full of cash, but he knew without a shadow of a doubt that he was being set up. The money could just as easily have been handed to him in the pub, or at the flat, or the man could have telephoned and arranged the handover. There was no reason to do it out in the open. Lynch walked towards the van, his hand outstretched, an easy smile on his face. ‘Why didn’t you say so in the first place?’ he asked.
The passenger grinned. He was holding the envelope in his left hand, his right was hidden. As he got closer, Lynch saw that the man’s jaw was clamped tight, a sure sign of tension, and his eyes had a fixed stare. They weren’t planning to kill him there and then, he decided. They had other plans for him.
‘What’s your name, son?’ asked Lynch. The question caught the man by surprise. Lynch saw him frown, but before he could reply Lynch reached out, grabbed the man’s hair and smashed his face into the window frame. The cartilage of the man’s nose cracked with a satisfying splintering sound. Lynch banged the man’s head down a second time and this time his face made more of a soft crunching noise. There was blood everywhere. The driver began yelling and Lynch heard the clatter of feet in the back of the van.
Lynch grabbed the passenger’s hair with both hands and yanked him through the window. He was struggling wildly so Lynch kicked him in the ribs, hard. The man was still holding the envelope and in his other hand was a pistol. Lynch grabbed at the weapon and wrestled it out of the man’s grasp. He pointed it at the back of the man’s neck and fired. The explosion echoed from the row of houses bordering the road. Lynch knew the police would arrive within minutes, maybe sooner.
Lynch swung around to face the van. The driver had a pistol in his hands and he pulled the trigger, gritting his teeth as he fired. To Lynch’s amazement, nothing happened. ‘Shit!’ screamed the driver and Lynch realised with a feeling of satisfaction that the man had left the safety on. Lynch fired his own weapon and the driver slumped back, a gaping red hole where his nose had been.
The back doors of the van crashed open. Lynch leaned inside the passenger window. One of the men was standing silhouetted by a street lamp, about to jump down. Lynch shot him in the back then threw himself to the ground, rolling to the side as the fourth man appeared at the side of the van, bent double with a Kalashnikov in his arms. The Kalashnikov exploded, the bullets spraying across the side of the van, thudding through the metal as if it were cardboard. Before the man could lower his aim, Lynch put a bullet in his throat. The man whirled around and dropped the assault rifle, his hands clutching at his neck. His mouth opened and closed but no words came out. Blood trickled from between his teeth. Lynch got to his feet. The man’s eyes glazed over and he fell to his knees, gurgling. Lynch walked past him and checked the back of the van. The man there was dead, lying face down on the metal floor. Lynch went through his pockets and pulled out his wallet.
In the distance he heard a siren. He ran around to the driver’s side of the van. The driver was covered in blood and there was a smear of brain matter and bone fragments across the windscreen and a strong smell of urine. Lynch prised the gun from the dead man’s fingers and patted down his bloodstained jacket until he found his wallet in an inside pocket. The siren was getting louder and Lynch heard shouts from the houses which overlooked the road. He ran down the pavement, vaulted over the railings and onto the towpath, escaping into the darkness.
Cramer’s chest heaved and he threw up, the yellow vomit splashing over the wooden toilet seat and dribbling down into the bowl. He groaned. His head was throbbing, his stomach felt on fire. He massaged his temples and spat, trying to get the bitter taste out of his mouth. As the waves of nausea subsided he struggled to his feet and drank from the cold tap, swilling the water around his mouth and then spitting it out.
There was a timid knock on the bedroom door. ‘Yeah, wait a minute,’ he called. He cleaned his teeth, using lots of toothpaste to get rid of the lingering bitterness. He splashed cold water over his face and then wiped the toilet seat with a piece of tissue and flushed it.
When he opened the door, Su-ming was waiting there. ‘Is there something wrong?’ she asked.
Oh yes, thought Cramer, there’s something very wrong. There’s a cancer growing in my guts and there’s an assassin out there with a bullet with my name on it, and if one of them doesn’t kill me soon I’m feeling so much pain that I’ll be putting a gun in my mouth and pulling the trigger myself. ‘I’m fine,’ he said.
‘Mr Vander Mayer wants to speak to us,’ she said.
‘He’s here?’
‘No. We have to telephone him.’
‘The Colonel knows about this?’
‘Mr Vander Mayer has already spoken to him.’
Cramer leant against the door frame. He felt weak but he didn’t want Su-ming to know how ill he was. ‘What’s going on?’ he asked.
‘I think Mr Vander Mayer wants to tell you himself, but it’s about a meeting he wants you to have the day after tomorrow.’
‘In London?’
Su-ming nodded. ‘Are you sure nothing’s wrong?’
Cramer straightened up. ‘Which phone?’ he asked.
‘The Colonel’s study.’ She turned and walked down the corridor. Cramer stood and watched her go, then followed her downstairs.
The only light on in the study was a green-shaded desk lamp which illuminated the desk and little else. The Colonel was sitting behind the desk, a cellular telephone in front of him.
‘I thought he was supposed to keep his head down until this was over,’ said Cramer.
‘Something came up.’
‘Something so important that he thinks it’s worth risking his life?’
The Colonel nodded in agreement. ‘I told him, but he insists. And we do need his goodwill for this to work.’
‘His goodwill? There’s a contract out on his life.’
‘He says that unless you and Su-ming meet this man, he’ll come over himself. And if he appears on the scene, the whole thing’s dead in the water.’
Cramer sat down in one of the armchairs. ‘This man I’m supposed to meet, who is he?’
‘All Vander Mayer would say is that he’s a Russian with something to sell.’
‘And I’m supposed to negotiate with this guy? But I don’t know anything about Vander Mayer’s business.’
‘Which is why he wants to brief you first.’ He handed the phone to Su-ming.
She tapped in a succession of numbers and held it to her ear. Vander Mayer answered within seconds. ‘It’s me,’ said Su-ming. She listened intently. ‘Yes,’ she said, looking at the Colonel. ‘Yes,’ she repeated. She lowered the phone. ‘Mr Vander Mayer asks if we could have this conversation in private.’
The Colonel got to his feet. He picked up his walking stick and tapped it on the wooden floor. He looked as if he was going to argue, but he walked stiffly to the door and let himself out. ‘Okay,’ Su-ming said into the phone. She listened again for what seemed to be several minutes, nodding as she held the phone to her ear. ‘Okay, I’ll put him on,’ she said eventually. She walked over to Cramer and gave him the phone.
‘Yeah,’ said Cramer, laconically.
‘Mike? Is it okay if I call you Mike?’
‘Sure,’ said Cramer. There was a distinct delay on the transmission and he could hear a fai
nt echo of his own voice as he spoke. It was distracting and he concentrated hard.
‘Okay, Mike, has your boss told you what’s happening?’ His voice was over-friendly, the sort of cheerful bonhomie used by double-glazing salesmen and television evangelists. The accent was American, from one of the southern States, Cramer figured. The vowels were long and drawn out and there was a laziness about the voice, as if it was too much of an effort to talk quickly. It was the sort of voice that Cramer could tire of very quickly, he decided.
‘You want me to meet a Russian, that’s all I know.’
‘Okay, great. His name is Tarlanov. He speaks hardly any English but Su-ming is fluent in Russian.’ Cramer raised his eyebrows in surprise. He would have expected her to be able to speak Oriental languages, but fluency in Russian was an unexpected talent. ‘Tarlanov will have something for you, a sample of a chemical I’m interested in buying. Less than a kilo in weight, it’ll be sealed in a metal flask. I want you to look after it for me until I can get to London.’
‘What’s in the flask?’
There was a pause and all Cramer could hear was a series of clicks and faint whistles. ‘How much are you being paid for this job, Mike?’ Vander Mayer asked eventually.
‘What?’ asked Cramer, taken off guard by the direct question.
‘You’re being paid for this, right?’
Cramer realised that he’d never discussed money with the Colonel. When the job had been offered, it had been the last thing on his mind. Even when he’d been serving with the regiment, he’d never been concerned about how much he was being paid and under his present circumstances he hadn’t given it a second thought. ‘I’m not doing this for money,’ he said.
‘You’re doing it out of the goodness of your own heart, is that it?’
‘I was asked to help.’
‘You’re putting your life on the line, that’s what you’re doing. It seems only fair that you should be well paid for that.’
‘What’s your point, Mr Vander Mayer?’
‘Andrew. Call me Andrew. Seeing that you’re taking my place, it only seems fair that we’re on first name terms.’
The Double Tap (Stephen Leather Thrillers) Page 18