The Double Tap mc-2

by Stephen Leather

  ‘I don’t think so. I’m going to have to lie low.’

  ‘Okay, you know best.’ Foley drove into the car park and turned to face Lynch.

  ‘I’m sorry about this, Eamonn.’

  ‘Hey, don’t worry about. .’ His face fell when he saw the pistol pointed at his chest. ‘Don’t,’ said Foley. Lynch quickly wrapped the pullover around the gun to muffle the noise. ‘Dermott, please. You can’t.’

  ‘I don’t want to, Eamonn, but I don’t have any choice.’ The muffled bang would be loud in the confines of the car, but Lynch doubted if the sound would travel too far.

  ‘Let’s talk about this, Dermott. You can’t just shoot me.’

  Lynch wasn’t happy at having to kill Foley, but McCormack had given him no choice. The IRA had passed a death sentence on him, and Lynch would do whatever it took to survive. ‘I’ve just killed four of the boys,’ said Lynch. ‘I don’t know what the fuck’s going on, but I’m a marked man. And they’ll use you to get to me.’

  ‘Shit, I don’t know where you’re going, Dermott. Just run. I’ll not say anything. I swear on my mother’s life.’ Foley’s voice was wavering, his eyes wide and fearful. ‘Please.’

  Lynch looked at Foley. He gnawed his lower lip. Foley was right. He didn’t know anything. If he’d been in on it, they’d probably have waited for Lynch inside Foley’s flat.

  ‘Take the car, Dermott. Take my wallet. Take everything. Just don’t kill me.’

  Lynch’s finger tightened on the trigger, but something held him back. The only information Foley had was that Lynch had cut his hair and shaved off his beard, but McCormack wasn’t stupid, he’d have considered that possibility anyway. His new appearance hadn’t fooled the hit team, and it wouldn’t fool anyone else they sent after him.

  ‘Please,’ begged Foley as if sensing Lynch’s change of heart. ‘You can keep the car. I won’t even report it stolen.’

  Lynch licked his lips. He was about to agree when Foley lunged to the side, grabbing for the gun. Lynch fired instinctively. The bullet caught Foley in the throat, ripping through the soft flesh and cartilage and lodging in his lower jaw. Foley tried to speak but his voice box was shattered and all he managed was a grunting sound. Blood frothed from the wound and his chest heaved, then his eyes glassed over and he slumped forward. Lynch grabbed him by the collar and hauled him away from the steering wheel, keeping his body off the horn.

  ‘You stupid bastard,’ said Lynch sorrowfully. ‘You stupid, stupid bastard.’ He climbed out of the car, and when he was satisfied that the car park was deserted, he pulled Foley’s body out of the driver’s seat and dragged it around to the boot. After he’d covered the corpse with a tartan blanket he locked the boot and wiped Foley’s blood off the front seat with a rag.

  Lynch sat behind the wheel as he considered his options. Going back to Ireland was out of the question, he wouldn’t last ten minutes on IRA territory. He wanted to confront McCormack, but that too would be a death sentence. He had no choice but to hide, but Lynch didn’t like the idea of running to ground like a hunted fox. He smiled as another possibility sprang to mind.

  He left the car park and found a call box. He dropped a pound coin in the slot and dialled the number in Dublin. Luke McDonough answered on the third ring. ‘How did you get on?’ asked Lynch.

  ‘No sweat,’ answered McDonough. ‘They were in contact with Swansea ATC most of the way. Since that Chinook went down on the Mull of Kintyre and killed all those intelligence and security chiefs, MoD chopper pilots tend to play by the rules more often than not. Trouble is, they didn’t land at an airfield, civilian or military. They flew close to Swansea airspace but landed somewhere to the north. All I’ve got is a map reference.’

  ‘That’s fine, Luke. Just let me get a pen.’ Lynch took a black ballpoint pen from his inside jacket pocket. He didn’t have any paper but there were several postcards advertising massage services stuck to the call box wall. He took one down and turned it over. ‘Shoot,’ he told McDonough. McDonough read out the numbers and Lynch wrote them down and then repeated them to make sure he’d got it right. A mistake in just one digit and he could be out by hundreds of miles. ‘Thanks, Luke,’ said Lynch. The line went dead.

  Lynch stared at the phone, his thoughts elsewhere. A plan was beginning to half-form at the back of his mind. All bets were now off, he didn’t have to obey McCormack’s instructions any more. Lynch could track down the Sass-man and exact his revenge, but for that he needed money. He had credit cards in his wallet, but his bank account was in Belfast and he’d be limited in how much he’d be able to withdraw in London. Besides, if he used his credit cards he’d leave an electronic trail that the organisation would have no problem tracking. Lynch needed cash, a lot of it.

  There were several listings for M. Hennessy in London, the operator told him, but only one lived in Notting Hill Gate.

  Jim Smolev walked to his Dodge which he’d parked behind the two-storey building that housed the FBI’s Miami field office. Smolev had fifteen years with the Bureau under his belt, but he’d only been attached to the Miami office for three months. Prior to that he’d been based in New York, which is where he’d first come across the assassin. It had been sheer luck that he’d been involved in the investigation into Frank Discenza, and had realised the significance of the lawyer’s phone call to Zurich.

  Smolev climbed into his car, dropped the padded envelope onto the passenger seat and drove the few blocks to Interstate Route 95. The envelope contained the photographs that had just arrived from the UK, the photographs of the man who would be taking the place of Andrew Vander Mayer. As he drove, Smolev wondered how the Brits had managed to persuade the man to step into Vander Mayer’s shoes. The assassin had been responsible for at least six killings in the States and as far as Smolev knew, he’d never failed. A contract placed with the assassin was as good as a death asentence.

  Smolev ran his tongue along one of his back teeth. It had been troubling him for several days but he hadn’t had time to get to the dentist. Frank Discenza was taking up all his time, and would be for the foreseeable future. Until the assassin was apprehended. Or killed.

  It took Smolev half an hour to drive to the hotel where Discenza was being held. As part of the deal negotiated with the Bureau and the IRS, the lawyer was holed up in a luxury hotel with round-the-clock protection. The Bureau was quite happy with the arrangement, despite the massive cost, because it meant they were able to control the situation. Discenza spoke to no one, and no one could get in touch with him.

  Two agents stood guard outside Discenza’s suite and nodded as Smolev went in. Discenza was sprawled across a sofa, a napkin tucked into his shirt collar as he ripped apart a boiled lobster. ‘Hiya, Jimmy, want some?’ he asked, dunking a chunk of white flesh into a dish of butter.

  Smolev shook his head. ‘The pictures have arrived,’ he said. ‘It’s time to contact Zurich.’

  ‘Jeez, let me finish my dinner first, will ya? Besides, it’s past midnight in Switzerland.’

  Smolev flicked the edge of the padded envelope with his thumbnail. ‘We’ll need to arrange the money transfer, too.’

  ‘I’m working on it,’ said Discenza. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and then took a drink from a bottle of Budweiser. ‘Wanna Bud?’ Smolev shook his head. ‘I’m gonna get this money back, right?’ said Discenza. ‘That’s what we agreed. Half a million dollars is a lot of money, you know?’

  ‘Yeah, Frank, I know. It’s about three per cent of what you owe the government, right?’ Smolev probed his aching tooth with his tongue. The pain was getting worse.

  Discenza’s grin widened. ‘Yeah, I never thought of it like that. America, it’s a great country, isn’t it?’ He ripped a claw off the lobster, waved it in the air. ‘Where else in the world, huh?’ Smolev looked at the man, barely able to conceal his contempt. He hated doing deals with men like Discenza, but he was enough of a realist to know that there was no other way of catching the assassin. �
�And Andrew doesn’t know what’s going on, right? I mean, he doesn’t know it was me that was planning the hit, right?’

  Smolev smiled. ‘No, Frank. He doesn’t know.’ A sudden thought hit Smolev, and it made him smile all the more. Andrew Vander Mayer didn’t know that Discenza had been planning to have him killed, but when all this was over, when the assassin had been captured, then maybe the arms dealer would receive an anonymous tip. An unsigned letter. Or a late night phone call. Smolev would have to be careful, of course. These days, you never knew who was listening in.

  Mike Cramer sat on his bed reading the file provided by the American profiler. The first section listed the killings in the order that they happened, starting with the assassination in Miami and ending with the murder of a trial witness in a Baltimore hospital two weeks earlier. A second section detailed the common features of the killings, with the profiler focusing on the physical appearance of the assassin. The profiler had concentrated on the descriptions provided by witnesses who could be expected to be reliable — such as law enforcement officials and bodyguards — which is what Cramer himself had done when reading the individual case reports.

  There were several facts which were constant. The killer was white, male, able-bodied, had no visible scars, and he was right-handed. There were other factors which were variable but fell within certain parameters, he was between five feet seven and six feet two inches tall, his weight was somewhere between one hundred and seventy pounds and two hundred and ten pounds, and estimates of his chest measurement varied between forty inches and forty six. Of less use were the characteristics which the killer changed on a regular basis — hair length, hair colour, eye colour, facial hair. Cramer scanned the lists. There was nothing that he hadn’t read for himself in the individual reports on the killings.

  Jackman had compiled his own reports on each of the killings. They each came with a heading sheet which read VICAP Crime Analysis Report and a logo which spelled out what VICAP stood for: Violent Criminal Apprehension Program. Stripped across the bottom of the sheet were the address and telephone number of the FBI Academy in Quantico, Virginia. Each case had its own VICAP number as well as an FBI case number, and went on to classify the crime, the victim, the MO, the cause of death and any forensic evidence. Like the FBI Facial Identification Fact Sheets, most of the questions were answered by ticking appropriate boxes which resulted in a scientific analysis of the facts rather than subjective comments. The VICAP reports emphasised the similarities between the actual killings, but they also threw up the differences in the victims and the descriptions provided by the witnesses.

  The next section was more interesting; Jackman’s profile of the assassin. The profiler said the assassin had a military background, possibly Special Forces, and was likely to have risen to the rank of non-commissioned officer. He had probably left the services, perhaps for health reasons, and had had trouble maintaining steady employment afterwards. He was gregarious and liked crowds but had a tendency to pick fights. He would be above average intelligence, with a feeling of superiority to most people he came into contact with. He was possibly divorced, or had a string of sexual contacts, and was probably good looking. He was certainly attractive to women. He would have committed a number of motoring offences, and his licence had possibly been suspended.

  The killer probably came from a family where emotional abuse was the norm, but the home was stable, at least during his early childhood. He may have been a bully at school, and despite his intelligence probably didn’t go on to university.

  There was plenty of detail, though the report was peppered with ‘probably’ and ‘possibly’ as if Jackman was afraid of being proved wrong and was therefore constantly hedging his bets. There was little in the way of explanation for the various conclusions, though Cramer guessed that the killer’s familiarity with different weapons would suggest the military background. He had no idea why Jackman thought that the assassin would have had his driving licence taken away.

  Most of Jackman’s observations concerned the killer’s psychological make-up and his childhood, and while they made fascinating reading, Cramer knew that they wouldn’t be any use to him. The fact that the assassin didn’t have a university degree wouldn’t make him stand out in a crowd. Cramer needed a description, physical characteristics that he could watch out for. Cramer slid his feet off the bed. He padded over to the bathroom in his bare feet and drank from the tap. He wanted to use the toilet but he fought the urge. The last time, he’d seen blood in the bowl and it had frightened him.

  Dermott Lynch parked the Sierra in Kensington Park Road and walked to Ladbroke Gardens. Marie Hennessy’s flat was in a terrace of white-painted stucco houses, once homes to the rich but now subdivided into flats for the almost-wealthy. Her name wasn’t on the entry-system bell but she’d told him that she was in flat C and when he pressed the button she answered immediately, as if she’d been waiting for him. ‘I’m on the third floor, come on up, I’ll buzz you in,’ she said, her voice crackling over the speaker.

  The lock buzzed and Lynch pushed the door open. He could feel the Czech 9mm pistol pressing into the small of his back. The gun had a fifteen round magazine and there were ten bullets still in it. The gun he’d taken from the driver was a slightly smaller Russian-made Tokarev with eight rounds in the magazine. He’d left it in the boot along with the body of Eamonn Foley. The hallway was in darkness but as he stepped inside the lights came on. The stair carpet was dark blue and plush and there were framed watercolours on the walls. The staircase spiralled up and mahogany doors led off to the flats, two on each floor. The door to Marie’s apartment was already open when he reached the third floor, though she’d kept the security chain on. She waited until he got close before taking off the chain and opening the door wide. ‘I wouldn’t have recognised you if you hadn’t told me you were coming,’ she said.

  ‘I shaved off the beard,’ said Lynch, stepping inside. He had recognised her immediately. The chestnut hair, the slightly upturned nose, the blue eyes that had been brimming with tears the last time they’d met.

  ‘And you’ve cut your hair,’ said Marie, closing the door behind him. ‘And you weren’t wearing glasses. Go on through.’

  ‘You’ve got a good memory, right enough,’ said Lynch as he walked into the sitting room. It was expensively furnished with comfortable antiques, very much a girl’s room. A small circular table held a collection of painted miniatures behind which he saw several framed photographs. Lynch recognised Marie’s mother, Mary, and her father, Liam. The last time Lynch had seen Marie was at her mother’s funeral three years earlier. Lynch bent down to look at a photograph of Mary and Liam, she in a wedding dress, he in tails, a stone church in the background. Mary was in her early twenties back then, Liam maybe a decade older. ‘You look just like your mum,’ said Lynch.

  ‘I know,’ said Marie, closing the sitting room door.

  Lynch straightened up. There was a large gilt-framed mirror hanging over the marble fireplace and in it he saw Marie studying him, a look of concern on her face. ‘Are you alone?’ he said to her reflection.

  She nodded. ‘Why do you ask?’

  Lynch turned to face her, smiling to put her at ease. ‘Because I wouldn’t want anyone to overhear us, that’s all.’

  ‘I’m alone,’ she said. ‘There’s only one bedroom. You can check for yourself if you don’t believe me.’

  ‘I believe you,’ he said.

  ‘I’m honoured.’

  Lynch grinned.

  ‘What are you smiling at?’ she asked archly.

  ‘It’s the sort of thing your mother would have said.’

  She narrowed her eyes and looked at him as if deciding whether or not he was trying to flatter her. Then she smiled, showing white, even teeth that would have done credit to a toothpaste advert. ‘Would you like a drink?’

  ‘Coffee, please. Black.’ If he was going to get through the next few hours, he was going to need a clear head.

  Marie went
into the kitchen. While she made his coffee he studied the photographs again. Liam Hennessy, the Sinn Fein adviser who’d been murdered by the SAS. Mary Hennessy, shot by a police sniper in Baltimore. Both had given their lives to the Cause, literally. Lynch wondered how their deaths had affected Marie, and if he could trust her.

  One of the photographs was of Marie and a young man. Lynch recognised the man as her brother, Philip, one of the pall bearers at Mary Hennessy’s funeral. Philip, at twenty-five, was a couple of years older than Marie and Lynch seemed to recall that he was now working in the Far East, something to do with banking or insurance. Marie returned with his coffee. ‘How’s Philip?’ he asked.

  ‘Fine,’ she said. ‘I haven’t seen much of him, not since. .’

  She didn’t finish and Lynch realised she had been about to say ‘the funeral’. Marie placed the tray and two coffee mugs onto a low table, then sat down in a Queen Anne chair and crossed her legs. She was wearing a short black skirt and a large beige pullover that tried but failed to conceal her figure. She had good legs, long and shapely, another thing she had in common with her late mother. ‘So, what brings you to London?’ she asked.

  ‘I need your help.’

  Marie narrowed her eyes. ‘You? Or the organisation?’

  To the best of Lynch’s knowledge, Marie had never been an active member of the IRA. Neither had her brother. ‘Me,’ he said.

  Marie stirred her coffee slowly. ‘I’m not sure that there’s anything I can do for you, Mr Lynch.’

  ‘Dermott,’ said Lynch. ‘Mr Lynch is my dad.’

  Marie gave a small shrug as if she didn’t care either way what she called him. ‘What is it you want?’

  Lynch sat down on a hard, uncomfortable couch and leaned forward, his hands clasped together. ‘You know Mike Cramer. The SAS sergeant who. .’

  Marie’s hand froze above her coffee mug and she spoke quickly, interrupting him before he could finish. ‘Yes. I know who Cramer is.’