The Double Tap mc-2

by Stephen Leather

  ‘Okay?’ Allan asked Cramer.

  ‘Sure,’ said Cramer.

  ‘From this point on, you don’t relax, you don’t let your guard down for one second, you don’t trust anyone.’ He loomed over Cramer and put his hands on Cramer’s shoulders, staring straight into his eyes like a hypnotist attempting to induce a trance. ‘You can do it, Mike. You can take anything that this guy throws at you. You’re better than he is. Okay?’

  ‘Okay,’ Cramer repeated.

  ‘Don’t let me down. If you let this guy beat you, I’ll be mightily pissed off at you. Right?’ Allan straightened up. ‘Okay, Martin, check out the vehicle and then we’ll be off.’

  The pilot who’d given them the abbreviated safety briefing stepped out of the cockpit and opened the door. A mobile ladder was pushed up against the fuselage and the pilot signalled that Martin could go down. Cramer asked Su-ming for a look at the itinerary and she handed it to him. According to the typewritten schedule, they were heading for Vander Mayer’s flat in Chelsea Harbour, and the afternoon was to be spent in his Kensington office. Cramer looked out of the window. Martin had opened the bonnet and was giving the engine compartment the once over. ‘Just to remind you, the Merc’s windows are bullet-proof and the side panels are reinforced,’ said Allan. ‘In the car you’re completely safe, but you’re vulnerable getting in and out.’

  Cramer stood up and stretched. He took several deep breaths. ‘I’m ready,’ he said.

  Martin reappeared. He’d produced a peaked chauffeur’s cap from somewhere and was wearing it sergeant-major style with the peak halfway down his nose. He gave Allan a thumbs-up. They headed down the steps. Martin held the rear door open for Cramer and Su-ming and closed it behind them. Once again Cramer felt as if he’d been wrapped in a luxurious cocoon. He wondered what it must be like to spend one’s life insulated from the dirt and discomfort of the real world. The car alone would have taken Cramer several years’ salary when he was a sergeant in the SAS, and he could only imagine how many millions of pounds the jet had cost.

  ‘Okay if I put the radio on?’ Martin asked.

  ‘Sure,’ said Cramer.

  Martin flicked through the channels and found an all-news station. They listened as they drove into central London, but there was little to hold Cramer’s attention: the Prime Minister had announced a minor reshuffle of his Cabinet, the police were still searching for a man who had killed three and injured one in a Maida Vale shooting, England were losing at cricket. Cramer had long since given up reading newspapers, watching television or listening to the radio. There was nothing happening in the world that he was the least bit interested in any more. He sat back in the leather seat and closed his eyes. He was dog tired. The previous night he’d slept fitfully and when he did sleep he’d had a succession of nightmares. In most of them he was being chased by a shadowy figure with a gun and it didn’t take a psychiatrist to tell him what was troubling him. At first light he’d climbed out of bed, wrapped a bath towel around himself and sat by the window, going over the assassination files for a final time. One shot to the face, one to the chest. Bang bang. Was that going to be his own fate? Did the victims hear the second shot, or were they already dead by the time the bullet blasted into their chests? Cramer’s interest was more than academic; he knew there was an even chance that he would end up as the subject of another file, and that the Colonel would pass it on to the next man selected to go up against the assassin. Cramer could imagine the conversation. ‘The last killing was one of ours. Name of Cramer. Former SAS, but he’d let himself go. He’d lost his edge. Hopefully you’ll do better.’ Cramer shuddered.

  ‘Are you cold?’ asked Su-ming.

  Cramer opened his eyes. She was looking at him, clearly concerned. ‘Someone just walked over my grave, that’s all.’

  ‘You didn’t eat today, did you?’

  ‘I wasn’t hungry.’

  ‘I will cook for you when we get to the apartment.’

  Cramer rubbed his face and yawned. ‘Where do you call home?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I’ve never heard you refer to anywhere as home.’

  ‘We have homes all over the world.’

  ‘Houses. Apartments. Not homes.’

  She studied him as she considered what he’d said. ‘You’re right,’ she said eventually. ‘I suppose I don’t really have a home. What about you?’

  Cramer interlinked his fingers and cracked his knuckles. It had been a long time since Cramer had ever thought of anywhere as home. The regiment, maybe. That had been a home, even though he was constantly on the move. Home to Cramer wasn’t somewhere to hang his clothes, it was a sense of belonging. And since he’d been forced to leave the SAS, he had never felt that he belonged anywhere. ‘I guess I’m the same,’ he said. ‘Home is where the heart is, so they say.’

  ‘They?’ she asked. ‘Who’s they?’

  Cramer began to wish he’d never asked her about her home. ‘I don’t know. It’s a saying.’ He looked out of the window. They were driving through Fulham, though driving was hardly an accurate description of the snail’s pace at which they were crawling through the traffic-choked streets.

  ‘Not far now,’ said Allan, twisting around in the front passenger seat.

  ‘You’ve been here before?’ Cramer asked.

  ‘I did a preliminary look-around before I went to the school. The flat is close to the top of the tower, each floor is a separate apartment with one elevator which has a security code, and two fire escape stairways. The door to that can only be opened from the inside, so it’s an easy place to secure. Same old problem, though. You’re vulnerable entering and leaving, but we’ll be doing that through the underground car park.’

  ‘Doorman?’

  ‘Several. They’ve all been checked out and Martin and I have photographs of them all. If there’s a new face on the door, we’ll know right away. The foyer leading onto the underground car park is the most important, so we’ll have our own man there, but on no account must you acknowledge him. Treat him like one of the staff.’

  Cramer nodded. ‘What do you think, Allan? Do you think he’ll try it here? In London?’

  Allan pulled a face as if he had a bad taste in his mouth. ‘We’ve got to assume he will. But hand on heart, I think it’s more likely he’ll wait until you’re in the States; that’s where most of the killings have taken place. Now, that’s probably because almost half of the targets have been Americans, but I get the impression that that’s where he’s most comfortable. He’s got your itinerary so he knows you’re going to be in New York in three days.’ He pointed his forefinger at Cramer. ‘Not that you can let your guard down, though. As far as you’re concerned, you’re at risk no matter where you are, no matter who you’re with.’

  They turned off the main road and Martin took the Mercedes through the back streets with the confidence of a licensed taxi driver. They drove along King’s Road and its trendy antique shops and then they turned onto the road that led to the Chelsea Harbour complex, a mixture of modern offices and apartment blocks. One apartment block towered above the rest — a grey steel and glass finger that pointed skywards, topped by a cream pagoda-like pyramid. ‘That’s where we’re heading,’ said Allan, nodding at the tower. ‘Each apartment costs about a million quid. It’s a different world, isn’t it? Who the hell can afford a million quid for a place to live?’

  ‘Me,’ said Cramer, grinning. They drove by a huge white hotel, the Conrad, and then Martin guided the Mercedes into an underground car park. He made two sharp left turns and brought the Mercedes to a smooth halt in front of the entrance to the tower block. He left the engine running as he got out and walked around to open Cramer’s door. Allan was already in place as Cramer slid out of the back seat and the three men walked together to the entrance, exactly as they’d rehearsed time and time again, with Su-ming bringing up the rear. The double glass doors hissed open electronically and a doorman in a charcoal grey uniform looked up as they en
tered. Cramer recognised him as one of the men who’d been on guard duty at the school in Wales. His name was Matt but Cramer followed Allan’s instructions and ignored him, playing the part of Andrew Vander Mayer, a man far too rich to bother with the hired help.

  They rode up to the ground floor, where there was another doorman on duty wearing an identical charcoal grey uniform as the first. He was in his early sixties with the lined face and wiry grey hair of a former merchant seaman. He smiled a greeting at Su-ming and handed her a small stack of mail. If he realised that Cramer wasn’t the usual resident of Vander Mayer’s apartment, he showed no sign of it.

  They had to walk across the foyer to a second elevator which led up to the higher floors. The lift arrived within seconds of Allan pressing the button and they stepped inside. Su-ming keyed in an access code on a small keypad above the buttons panel and the doors quietly slid shut. There was merely a vague sensation of movement, the sort of ride that only very expensive Japanese technology could produce. The doors hissed open again. Cramer was just about to step out into the lobby when Allan’s giant hand fell on his shoulder. ‘Me first,’ he said. ‘You never exit or enter an elevator until Martin or I have checked it out.’

  Cramer flushed. The first day and he’d already forgotten one of the rules that Allan had drummed into him from the start. He waited until Allan had stepped into the lobby before following. Su-ming took a keycard out of her bag and ran it through a reader at the side of the front door. The door clicked open and she stood aside to allow Allan and Martin to go in first. ‘They are very thorough,’ she said.

  ‘Doesn’t your boss have bodyguards?’ Cramer asked.

  ‘Yes, two Americans, former Secret Service agents. They’re always with him.’

  ‘How do they compare with Allan and Martin?’

  She put the keycard back in her handbag. ‘I always felt that Mr Vander Mayer’s bodyguards worked only for the money. For them it was just a job. Your friends care about you. It’s more than a job to them.’

  Before Cramer could say anything else, Allan returned. ‘All clear,’ he said, holding the door open wide.

  The apartment was huge, with panoramic views of the Thames and south London from the floor-to-ceiling windows. The sitting room ran the full length of the block and its size was emphasised by the minimalist furniture: stark black sofas, steel and black leather armchairs, glass and marble coffee tables and low level black ash sideboards. The floors were pristine bare oak boards, the walls painted white with just a hint of blue, the light fittings were stainless steel. Everything about the apartment was hard, it was full of sharp edges and gleaming surfaces. It had style, it was clearly very, very expensive, but it belonged in the pages of an architectural magazine. There were no personal touches, no indications that anyone actually lived there. ‘Who cleans it?’ Cramer asked.

  Su-ming smiled. ‘That’s a funny thing to ask,’ she said.

  ‘It’s just that it looks so perfect. How often do you come here?’

  ‘A few days each month. It depends.’

  ‘On what?’

  ‘On whether we have business here. The cleaning is done by an outside firm.’

  Cramer rubbed a finger along the edge of one of the glass coffee tables and inspected it. ‘They do a good job. It’s as clean as an army barracks,’ he said.

  ‘Mr Vander Mayer sets very high standards,’ said Su-ming. ‘In everything.’

  ‘The bedrooms are through there,’ said Allan, indicating a door to the right of the sitting room. ‘You should take the master bedroom, Su-ming has her usual room, Martin and I’ll take turns to sleep in the first bedroom, closest to the door. One of us will be in the bedroom, the other will be out here.’

  ‘I’m going down to park the Merc and bring up the cases,’ said Martin, doffing his peaked cap.

  As Martin went back out into the lobby, Su-ming dropped her handbag on a sofa and opened another door that led off the sitting room. She motioned for Cramer to follow her. It was a huge kitchen, some twenty feet long and almost as wide, lined with oak units and spotless German equipment. Su-ming stood by a massive refrigerator. ‘Are you hungry?’ she asked.

  ‘Not really.’

  She pulled open the refrigerator door. It was packed with food. Cramer frowned. ‘The same company that cleans the apartment keeps the fridge and larder stocked,’ she explained. She took out a carton of low-fat milk and a plastic wrapped polystyrene tray containing two fresh chicken breasts. ‘There’s rice in the cupboard behind you,’ she said as she knelt down and began pulling polythene bags of vegetables from the bottom of the refrigerator.

  ‘Does your boss like your cooking?’ Cramer asked as he took out a plastic container and shook it. It sounded as if it was filled with rice.

  ‘That’s it,’ she said without looking around. She straightened up and closed the refrigerator door. ‘Yes. He likes most Oriental food. Wash a handful of the rice and put it in a saucepan.’ Cramer did as he was told. Su-ming watched him as she used a large cleaver to slice the chicken breasts into small pieces. He put the pan of rice onto the cooker. ‘You’ll need water,’ she said, smiling. ‘Two cupfuls.’

  Cramer took the pan over to the sink and poured in cold water. ‘What’s the deal with you and Vander Mayer?’ he asked.

  Su-ming froze. The cleaver glinted under the overhead fluorescent lights. ‘What do you mean?’ she asked.

  Cramer shrugged as he put the pan back on his stove. ‘I just meant that you’re quite young to be doing such a job. He’s obviously a very important man, it must be very demanding to be his assistant.’

  ‘Turn the heat on. Medium,’ she said. She paused. ‘I’ve been trained to look after his interests,’ she said. She began chopping the meat again with small, precise movements.

  ‘What, like secretarial college?’

  ‘No. Mr Vander Mayer trained me.’

  ‘Trained you? How?’

  ‘He taught me about his business. He introduced me to all his contacts. He showed me how to deal with people.’ She finished cutting up the meat and scraped it off the chopping board and into a small, white bowl. She wiped her hands on a kitchen towel. ‘But he didn’t teach me cooking.’ She took a steel wok down from its hook on the wall and put it on the stove.

  ‘What about the fortune-telling?’

  She looked at him sharply, then she saw from the amused look in his eyes that he was deliberately teasing her. She waggled a finger at him. ‘You’re trying to upset me, Mike Cramer.’ There was a blue and white striped apron hanging on the back of the door and she put it on and tied her hair back. ‘My grandmother taught me how to use the I Ching. My mother showed me how to read palms when I was a child. Most of it can’t be taught. It’s an ability. An inherited ability.’

  ‘A talent?’

  ‘A gift.’

  ‘Is that why Vander Mayer chose you, because of your gift?’

  Su-ming folded her arms across her chest. Her chin was thrust defiantly up as if she was preparing to pick a fight with him. ‘Why? Why do you keep asking about him?’

  Cramer leaned back against the sink. ‘It just seems strange, that’s all.’

  ‘Strange? What’s strange?’

  ‘He’s American, you’re. . hell, I don’t even know where you’re from.’

  ‘I’m half Thai, a quarter Chinese, a quarter Vietnamese. My father was Thai, my mother half Chinese, half Vietnamese. What difference does that make?’

  ‘Because it feels like there’s more to your relationship than just work. It’s like. .’

  ‘Like what?’ she said coldly. Her eyes had gone hard.

  Cramer held up his hands in surrender. ‘Hey, I didn’t want to offend you. It’s obviously something that you don’t want to talk about.’

  ‘No, you brought it up, you tell me what you think is wrong with my relationship with Mr Vander Mayer.’

  Cramer took a deep breath. He wished that he’d just kept his mouth shut. ‘The way you talk about him, the way
you’re so defensive, it’s like he’s your father or something.’

  Su-ming licked her lips. Her tongue was small and pointed. Cramer said nothing for a while. Su-ming waited for him to speak. ‘Back in Wales, you said you’d been with him for fifteen years?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘You couldn’t have been more than a teenager.’

  ‘I was eleven.’

  ‘So Vander Mayer adopted you, is that it?’

  ‘Sort of.’

  ‘And your parents are dead?’

  ‘No. They’re not dead.’

  ‘So they gave you up for adoption?’

  ‘Sort of.’

  ‘Vander Mayer’s not married, is he? Isn’t that sort of unusual?’

  ‘I suppose it is. Mr Vander Mayer is a very unusual man.’

  The rice began to bubble over on the stove and Su-ming turned down the heat. ‘My parents were very poor,’ she said, keeping her back to him. ‘All they had were children. I had five brothers. We lived in northern Thailand on a small farm, near the Cambodian border. It was a very hard life, Mike Cramer. You have no idea how hard it was. It was dangerous too, when I was a child. There were mines everywhere, left by the Khmer Rouge. My father had to clear the fields by hand because the mines were so small.’ She used the cleaver to slice vegetables, her head bent low over the chopping board. ‘Mr Vander Mayer came to our village on the way to the border. This was a long time ago, his business wasn’t as big then as it is now. He had this big car and a driver and a translator. There was a place in our village, a noodle shop. They sold Thai food and soft drinks. Mr Vander Mayer stopped there. He saw me and tried talking to me but of course I couldn’t speak English and he knew no Thai or Chinese. My mother asked him if he’d like me to read his palm. He thought that was so funny. He was quite a young man then, handsome and always smiling. He gave my mother five baht and sat down on a stool so that I could see his hand.’

  Su-ming put the wok on the stove and turned on the burner under it. ‘He knew something about palmistry because he asked my mother how I’d learned. It’s not something Orientals do, you see. The Chinese read faces, but palm reading originated in France. My grandmother was Vietnamese and she learned it from an old French woman in Hanoi. My mother told him about my gift. Palm reading isn’t just a matter of interpreting the lines, anyone can do that. A machine could do it. It’s what you pick up from the person that makes the difference. I don’t think he believed her. He was laughing, I think he expected me to tell him that he would have a long and happy life and have three children and that seven would be his lucky number.’ She laughed bitterly, a harsh exclamation that sounded more like a cry of pain. ‘At first his translator wouldn’t tell Mr Vander Mayer what I was saying. He kept arguing that he’d be annoyed, that I should only tell him good things. My mother scolded him and eventually he translated exactly what I said. I told him things that had happened to him in the past. Things he thought no one else knew about, things no one else could possibly know about. Secrets. He stopped laughing then. I can’t even remember what I told him, not all of it. After a few minutes I stopped looking at the lines on his palm. I was still holding his hand but I was looking through it. He started asking questions of the interpreter, and he translated them for me, but I couldn’t answer them, I could only tell him what I saw.’ She splashed a little oil into the hot wok and swirled it around. ‘Then I saw something in his future. I told him to be careful of an older man, a man who wouldn’t look him in the eye and who was always smiling. I warned him not to turn his back on the man, that he planned to harm him, that he wasn’t to be trusted. He asked me when, but I didn’t know, that’s not how it works. He wanted to know more, but I was tired and my mother told me to stop. You can’t force it, it either happens or it doesn’t.’