The Double Tap (Stephen Leather Thrillers)

by Stephen Leather

  ‘And I don’t need to know, I suppose,’ said Jackman. ‘What about the man who placed the contract?’

  ‘Discenza? The FBI have him in protective custody in Miami. No one can get to him.’

  Jackman stirred his tea again, staring at the brown liquid as it whirled around. ‘Does Cramer realise how closely he himself fits the profile of the man we’re looking for?’

  The Colonel sipped his tea, then shook his head. ‘If he does, he hasn’t mentioned it.’

  ‘Set a thief to catch a thief?’

  ‘Not really. He was chosen for other reasons. The similarities hadn’t occurred to me until you read his file and pointed it out.’

  Jackman walked over to the trolley and put down his spoon. ‘He lost his mother at a relatively young age, his father was rarely at home when he was in his teens, he wasn’t exactly well liked at school, SAS-trained, never been in steady employment since he left the regiment. I suppose you can account for his whereabouts over the past two years?’

  The Colonel smiled thinly. ‘No, I can’t. But Mike Cramer is not our killer, I can guarantee that. He’s not the type.’

  Jackman looked at his wristwatch. ‘That’s the problem, Colonel. He’s exactly the type.’

  Lynch lay on his back, his arm around Marie. She toyed with the hair on his chest, winding it gently around her fingers and tugging it softly. ‘Still think it’s not a good idea?’ he asked.

  ‘Definitely,’ she giggled. ‘But I wouldn’t have missed it for the world. Who taught you to make love?’

  ‘You’re my first customer,’ said Lynch.

  Marie laughed and slapped his chest. ‘I don’t think so,’ she said. She kissed the side of his neck and nuzzled against him. ‘I want to come with you,’ she whispered.

  ‘You just did.’

  ‘You know what I mean.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I could help.’

  ‘No,’ he repeated.

  ‘Why not?’ Her hand began to move inexorably downwards.

  ‘Because it’s my fight, not yours.’

  Her hand lingered between his legs, caressing and touching him. ‘They killed my father and my mother, Dermott. It’s as much my fight as yours.’

  ‘I know that, Marie. But this isn’t a sanctioned operation, it’s personal. I want Cramer because of what he did to Maggie.’

  ‘And I want him because of what he did to my father.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You have to let me help you.’

  Lynch rolled on top of her and took his weight on his elbows so that he could look down on her. ‘You have helped. More than you know.’ He kissed her again and she opened her legs, drawing them up and fastening them around his waist. She squeezed him, hard. ‘And that’s not going to make me change my mind,’ he said. He rolled off her and headed for the bathroom.

  Cramer sat between Allan and Martin in the dining hall watching the Harrods video again. It was the tenth time they’d studied the footage. Cramer felt that he knew every second by heart, but he realised the importance of getting a feel for the killer, for the way he moved, the way he held himself. He’d spent countless days on surveillance operations in the border country watching and waiting for IRA terrorists, and on many occasions he’d been able to identify targets by the way they walked, the tilt of a head, the shrug of a shoulder. At a long distance bodies were often more distinctive than faces. The problem with the video was the faked limp. It affected everything about the man’s movement, and Cramer was starting to think that the video might actually prove counter-productive.

  ‘What do you think, Allan?’ Cramer asked. ‘Do you think you’d spot him in a crowd.’

  Allan shrugged. ‘I’m getting a feel for his shape. The problem is that he can change that with padding.’

  ‘Or dieting,’ said Martin, who was munching his way through a stack of ham and pickle sandwiches that Mrs Elliott had prepared earlier.

  ‘Yeah. I think you were right when you said that all we know is that he’s white and right-handed.’

  ‘Could be ambidextrous,’ said Martin, reaching for another sandwich.

  ‘Terrific,’ said Cramer.

  ‘I’ll tell you something, Mike,’ said Allan, rewinding the tape to the beginning again. ‘The guy actually looks a bit like you.’

  ‘What?’ exclaimed Cramer, then he saw that Allan was grinning and he faked a punch to his chin. Allan ducked and pressed the ‘play’ button and walked back to his seat as the screen flickered. Martin looked over his shoulder and the others turned to see what he was looking at. It was Su-ming. She was wearing blue jeans and a black pullover with the sleeves pulled up to her elbows. Cramer stood up and introduced her to Martin. She nodded a greeting but made no move to shake his hand.

  ‘Are you Chinese?’ Martin asked her.

  ‘No,’ she said, curtly, and turned away from him. ‘Have you eaten?’ she asked Cramer. He shook his head. ‘I shall prepare you something,’ she said and headed towards the kitchen.

  Outside they heard the helicopter turbine start up. ‘The profiler,’ said Cramer as Allan threw him a questioning look.

  ‘He didn’t hang around for long.’

  ‘There wasn’t much for him to say. Long on opinions, short on facts.’

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘Yeah. About as much use as one of those psychics that reckon they can tell the police where the bodies are buried by using a pendulum or a crystal ball.’

  Allan helped himself to one of Martin’s sandwiches. ‘Pity. I was hoping he might come up with a few specifics.’

  ‘The man we’re looking for was probably abused as a child,’ said Cramer.

  Martin grinned. ‘Great. We’ll be on the look-out for a bedwetter, then.’ One of the guards came out of the kitchen carrying a fresh pot of coffee. Martin drained his cup. ‘Just in time,’ he said.

  Cramer watched the killer on the screen walk up to the second bodyguard. Two shots to the chest. Cramer wondered why it was only the targets who were shot in the face. Jackman’s explanation that it was his signature seemed too glib. He looked up to see the man with the coffee pot walking behind the television. Cramer had last seen him standing guard at the entrance to the school. He was in his mid-twenties, broad-shouldered and narrow-waisted, the build of a ballet dancer. Cramer felt himself tense inside. There was something about the way the man was holding the coffee pot that didn’t look right, as if he was trying to keep it away from his body. It might simply have been that he was scared of spilling the hot liquid, but then he saw the man’s eyes flick in his direction and he knew that he wasn’t wrong. Cramer pushed Allan to the side as he leapt to his feet, his right hand reaching inside his sleeve for the stiletto.

  The man dropped the coffee pot and turned towards Cramer. His mouth opened in surprise when he saw that Cramer was already pulling out the knife. As the stiletto emerged from Cramer’s sleeve, he kept moving, keeping the momentum going, his left hand outstretched, his eyes focused on the man’s throat. The coffee pot smashed onto the floor. The scalding liquid splashed Cramer’s trousers but he felt nothing, he was totally focused on the man in front of him. The man’s right hand had disappeared inside his leather jacket but Cramer was already close enough to slap his hand against the man’s chest and jam the stiletto up under his chin, hard enough to indent the flesh but not hard enough to draw blood. The man glared at him, his eyes wide and fearful, his mouth open. ‘Gotcha!’ screamed Cramer.

  ‘Yes!’ shouted Martin, leaping to his feet and punching the air.

  Allan’s praise was more muted; he stood up and patted Cramer on the back. ‘Well done, Mike,’ he said.

  Cramer stepped away and slid the stiletto into its sheath. The man in the leather jacket rubbed his chin and smiled ruefully. ‘I almost got you,’ he said.

  ‘Almost is what it’s all about,’ said Cramer, sitting down again. His heart was racing and he took several deep breaths to calm himself down. He looked up to see Su-ming standing at the kitchen
door, a large bowl in her hands, a look of horror on her face. He realised she must have seen the attack. Before he could explain what had happened, she disappeared back into the kitchen.

  Allan stood looking down at Cramer. ‘Now we’re getting there, Mike. We’re definitely getting there. One thing, though. Why did you use the knife, why didn’t you go for the gun? You had time.’

  Cramer grinned. ‘Jesus, Allan, won’t you ever be satisfied?’

  Allan shook his head. ‘Not until this is over.’

  Cramer stood up and went into the kitchen. Su-ming was chopping asparagus spears but she stopped when she saw Cramer. ‘We were practising,’ he said before she could speak. ‘We don’t know when or how he’s going to strike, so Allan is testing me all the time.’

  ‘You’re going to kill him, aren’t you?’

  ‘The man has been paid to kill your boss,’ said Cramer. ‘He’s an assassin. A hired killer. He’s paid to kill people, we can’t just pull out a warrant card and tell him he’s under arrest.’

  ‘You scared me,’ she said, avoiding his eyes. ‘Not just what you did, but the way you did it. You were like a machine. A killing machine. There was a blood lust in your eyes.’

  ‘I was in control, Su-ming. That’s what Allan is doing, he’s training me to react instinctively. I won’t have time to think, it’ll be him or me.’

  Su-ming put down the knife and folded her arms across her chest as if hugging herself. She looked absurdly young in the oversize pullover. ‘You’ve killed before, haven’t you?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes. Several times.’

  ‘And that doesn’t worry you?’

  Cramer didn’t answer for a few seconds. ‘No, it doesn’t worry me,’ he eventually replied. ‘Not any more.’

  ‘When you kill this man, this assassin, I’ll be there, won’t I?’

  ‘Probably. Yes.’

  ‘So either I’m going to see you kill a man, or I’m going to see you killed. That’s not much of a choice, is it? Either way, I’m going to have a man’s death on my hands.’

  ‘We’re doing this to save your boss’s life, Su-ming, and the rest of the people this maniac could end up killing. This man has never failed. If we don’t stop him, there’s nowhere that your boss can hide, nowhere he can go where he’ll be safe. We have to take him out.’ Su-ming shuddered as if she was standing in a draught. ‘Are you all right?’ he asked. She shrugged. ‘Didn’t the Colonel explain what was going to happen?’

  ‘I was told that I was to accompany you, that we were to follow Mr Vander Mayer’s itinerary.’

  ‘You must have realised what was being planned?’ He reached out to touch her shoulder, but she edged away from him.

  ‘I suppose so. But I don’t think anyone actually said the words. No one actually said that we were setting up a man to be killed.’

  Cramer rubbed his stomach softly. He wasn’t sure whether she meant that he, or the assassin, was the one being set up, or whether she cared either way. ‘We’ll make sure that you don’t get hurt,’ he said as soothingly as he could. ‘Allan and Martin will do everything they can to keep you out of it. And it’s me that he’ll be after. Not you.’

  ‘That’s not the point,’ she said, shaking her head.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  She narrowed her eyes and shivered again, then quickly turned her back to him and picked up the knife. She chopped the asparagus spears with slow, precise movements. Cramer watched, not sure what to say. Su-ming continued to cut the asparagus into small chunks, the knife making a soft crunching sound. Cramer stood watching her in silence, but realised that the conversation was over. She’d shut him out, like a clam closing itself up for protection.

  Sandra Worthington looked at her watch for the hundredth time and pursed her lips, wondering if Philip would be at the office yet. She couldn’t call him at home, the last time she’d done that he’d hit the roof and made her promise not to do it again. It had been a stupid thing to do. They were both married and both had a lot to lose if their affair was discovered, but there were times when she just had to hear his voice. A hurried ‘I love you’ or ‘I miss you’ was all she wanted. She checked her watch again.

  ‘Any chance of a cup of tea?’ asked her husband. He was sprawled across the sofa in front of the television set, watching Sky Sports and scratching himself.

  ‘Sure,’ she said and went into the kitchen. Their liver and white cocker spaniel followed her, wagging his stub of a tail good-naturedly. Her husband was nothing like Philip. Philip was tall and well-muscled, Philip was good-looking and kind, Philip made her laugh. Her husband just bored her, and had done for the past five years. If it wasn’t for the children, she’d have left him long ago, but her own parents had split up when she was eight and she’d promised herself that she would never put her two children through the same emotional roller-coaster.

  Philip had children too, three boys, and he’d made it clear that his wife would never give him a divorce, and that even if she did the alimony and child support would consign him to a dingy bedsit for the rest of his life. They had to settle for what they had: hurried couplings in the back of his Volvo, lunchtime walks in the park, the occasional luxury of a hotel room, stolen moments when her children were at school. It wasn’t much, but it was better than nothing. Now even what little she had was under threat. Her husband had been made redundant and had spent the last three weeks lying about the house, watching television and only leaving to visit the pub or the betting shop. He was driving her crazy.

  Sandra poured him a mug of tea and spooned in two sugars on autopilot. Philip didn’t take sugar. He looked after his body. She glanced at her watch again. She had to hear Philip’s voice, just to know that he cared, that he was thinking about her. The dog whined and put his head on one side. ‘Stop trying to look cute, Robbie,’ she said. The dog wagged his tail faster and made a soft growling noise. ‘Ah, I get it,’ Sandra whispered, and she winked conspiratorially at the dog.

  She put the mug of tea down on the coffee table next to her husband. He grunted his thanks, his eyes fixed on the screen. ‘I think I’ll take Robbie for a walk,’ she said.

  ‘No need, I’ll take him to the pub with me,’ said her husband.

  ‘It’s a walk he needs, not a pint of lager,’ said Sandra, picking Robbie’s lead off the sideboard. Robbie rushed over, barking.

  ‘Shush!’ shouted her husband. ‘Can’t you do something about that damn dog?’

  ‘I’ll take him out,’ said Sandra, grabbing her coat. She checked that she had change in her pocket and hurried to the door. ‘See you later.’ Her husband grunted again and she slipped out, clipping the lead to Robbie’s collar as she walked down the stairs to the ground floor. Her heart was racing. There was a telephone box a hundred yards down the road but she decided against using it as it could be seen from their sitting room window. Robbie headed towards the park but Sandra pulled him back with a jerk. ‘Let me call Philip first, then you can play to your heart’s content,’ she said.

  As she walked along the pavement, Sandra wondered what she’d say to Philip. Until her husband got off his damned sofa and went looking for a job, it was going to be practically impossible for her to slip away for a few hours. Perhaps he could come around in his car and she could take Robbie for another walk in the evening? It wouldn’t be the first time that the dog had sat on the front seat of Philip’s Volvo while they made love in the back. She smiled at the thought.

  Robbie began pulling to the gutter. ‘Oh, Robbie, wait, can’t you?’ The dog pulled harder and Sandra relented. She let him step off the pavement. His nose was down and his tail was twitching. His feet scrabbled on the tarmac as he tried to pull away from her. ‘Oh come on, Robbie, don’t give me a hard time,’ Sandra moaned. The dog headed towards a blue Ford Sierra. Sandra yanked on the lead but Robbie wasn’t in the least deterred. He began to sniff the Sierra’s bumper and his tail started to wag even faster. Sandra knelt down by his side and stroked the back of his hea
d. ‘Shit or get off the pot, Robbie,’ she said testily. ‘I’ve got a telephone call to make.’

  She grabbed Robbie’s collar and pulled him away. As she did so she noticed a red smear on the black bumper. She frowned. It wasn’t glossy enough to be paint. She rubbed her finger on it and stared at the rusty stain on her skin. Robbie licked her finger then went back to sniffing the boot. That was when Sandra noticed the smell for the first time. She’d brought up two children and the smell immediately brought back memories of soiled nappies and filled potties. She hurriedly rubbed her finger on the tarmac, trying to get rid of the stain. She knew what it was now. Blood.

  Lynch poured boiling hot water into the teapot and swirled it around, then tipped it into the sink. He knew how important it was to warm the pot first, though in an age of teabags it was something that fewer people seemed to insist on. He opened Marie’s stainless steel caddy and spooned tea into the pot.

  ‘Dermott?’ Marie called from the sitting room.

  ‘What?’ he replied, as he poured water into the pot and stirred it quickly.

  ‘Your car? Is it a blue one?’

  Lynch dropped the spoon and rushed into the sitting room. Marie was standing at the window, looking out. He stood behind her and put his hands on her shoulders. Down below in the street a police car had stopped behind the Ford Sierra. A uniformed policewoman was talking to a dark-haired woman with a dog while her colleague was bending down and examining the boot. ‘Shit,’ cursed Lynch.

  ‘Is it yours?’ asked Marie. ‘What’s he looking for?’

  Lynch didn’t reply. He turned away from the window and went to the spare room. He retrieved the handgun from under the bed and pulled out the magazine. He checked the firing mechanism, then slotted the magazine back in and made sure that the safety was on. Marie walked into the room and stopped dead when she saw the gun. ‘You brought a gun into my house?’ she asked.

  ‘Marie, love, I didn’t have any choice.’ He slid the gun down the back of his trousers, then pulled on his jacket, so that it covered the weapon.

  ‘Is the car stolen?’ she asked.