The Double Tap mc-2

by Stephen Leather

  Smolev stared at Discenza’s back and imagined plunging a large butcher’s knife into it again and again. ‘Sure, Frank. I’ll get the ketchup.’

  He put the dish of tomato sauce down on the coffee table and Discenza jabbed a French fry into it. He smacked his lips and began cutting his steak up into small pieces like a mother preparing food for a toddler. ‘So, when do I get the girls?’ he asked.

  ‘Girls?’ repeated Smolev. ‘We’re talking about one girl. One visit. And I’m not even happy about that.’

  Discenza shook his head. ‘How I get my rocks off is my own business,’ he said. He popped a piece of steak into his mouth and chewed noisily. ‘Sure you don’t want something?’ he asked, his mouth full of food.

  ‘I’m not an escort agency, Frank. You asked for a woman, I’ll arrange it. But that’s it.’

  ‘I asked for company. Female company. I never said how many I wanted.’ He dunked a handful of French fries into the ketchup and thrust them into his mouth, smearing his lips with sauce. He looked as if he’d cut his lip.

  ‘Don’t jerk me around,’ Smolev warned.

  ‘That’s an option,’ retorted Discenza, ‘but between you and me I’d prefer a couple of eighteen-year-olds.’

  The waiter left the room, followed by Verity. Smolev went over to the window and looked out at the car park.

  ‘Is it hot in here, or is it me?’ Discenza asked.

  Smolev turned around to face him. ‘Feels okay to me. You want me to turn the air-conditioning up?’

  Discenza nodded and took another swig from the bottle of Budweiser. He burped as he put the bottle down on the table. Smolev looked around for a thermostat but couldn’t find one. Discenza took a card from his jacket pocket and held it out to Smolev. ‘Call this number,’ he said, ‘tell them I want Terry and Amanda.’

  Smolev took the card. ‘How stupid are you, Frank?’ he said.

  Discenza’s jaw dropped. The man’s mouth was full of half-chewed food and Smolev averted his eyes. It was a disgusting sight. ‘Now what’s wrong?’ Discenza asked.

  ‘What’s wrong is that you’re in protective custody, and you expect me to call your regular hookers and invite them over. Don’t you get it? The man we’re after is a stone-cold killer. And if he finds out that you’ve betrayed him, how long do you think it’ll be before he comes after you?’

  Discenza swallowed. ‘You said I’d be in the clear, you said you and the Brits would get him, that was the deal, right?’ He loosened his collar. A trickle of sweat ran down the side of his cheek.

  ‘If you let us take care of you, sure. But if you contact dial-a-hooker, it’s just asking for trouble.’ He paused. ‘Terry is a girl, right?’ he asked.

  Discenza scowled. ‘Of course Terry’s a fucking girl. What do you think I am?’

  Smolev fought the urge to sneer at the man. He knew exactly what sort of man Discenza was. A liar, a fraud, a cheat, a man who was prepared to pay to have another man killed, a man who’d do anything to save his own skin. A man without honour. ‘Just checking,’ he said, and forced a smile. ‘I’ll arrange the girl.’

  ‘Girls,’ said Discenza.

  ‘Girl,’ repeated Smolev.

  The two men stared at each other for several seconds. Eventually Discenza smiled. ‘A blonde,’ he said. ‘With tits out to here.’ He held out his cupped hands in front of him.

  ‘I’ll see what I can do,’ said Smolev.

  Discenza nodded and drained his Budweiser. He put it down and then drank from the second bottle. His forehead was damp with sweat. He stabbed a chunk of steak with his fork. ‘Does the Bureau use a regular agency?’ he asked.

  ‘Oh sure, we have an account with Tits ’R Us,’ said Smolev. ‘What do you think, Frank? You think we call up and say the FBI’s got a hard on and would they send someone over?’ Smolev went back to the window. A large white delivery truck with the name of a laundry service drew up in the car park.

  ‘Jesus, it’s hot in here,’ complained Discenza.

  ‘It’s not that bad,’ said Smolev.

  ‘Yeah, well you’re not cooped up here all day,’ said Discenza.

  ‘It won’t be for much longer,’ said Smolev, turning around. ‘Like I said, the pictures have been delivered. Vander Mayer’s out of the way, our man’s in place. A few days, max.’

  Discenza squinted over at the FBI agent. ‘How the hell did you find someone dumb enough to take Vander Mayer’s place?’

  Smolev’s tooth began to ache and he rubbed his jaw. ‘I don’t know. The Brits got him.’

  ‘Yeah? Does he know what he’s letting himself in for?’

  Smolev shrugged. ‘That’s not my business. All I’ve got to do is keep you safe until we’ve got the killer.’

  Discenza thrust another handful of ketchup-covered French fries into his mouth and washed them down with Budweiser.

  Smolev spotted a thermostat on the wall by the bathroom door. It was set at sixty-five degrees and Smolev felt comfortable, but he lowered it anyway. ‘Tell me, Frank. Why did you take out the contract on Vander Mayer?’

  Discenza sneered. ‘That’s between me and my lawyer, Jimmy.’

  Smolev sat down opposite Discenza. ‘Come on, Frank, you can tell me.’

  Discenza loosened his tie and undid the top button of his shirt. ‘It wouldn’t be smart for me to tell you, now would it?’ He pushed the plate away.

  ‘Something wrong with the food?’

  ‘I’m not hungry any more. Maybe the steak’s gone bad.’

  Smolev picked up the plate and held it under his nose. ‘Smells all right to me. The food’s supposed to be first class here.’

  ‘Yeah? Well maybe the chef’s having a bad day.’ He took another swig of beer then slumped back on the sofa. ‘So you wanna know why I wanted Vander Mayer taken out, right? I guess it can’t hurt to tell you, what with the deal my lawyer’s worked out. The conspiracy charge has been dropped, right?’

  ‘That’s the deal, Frank.’

  ‘How much did they tell you?’

  ‘Me? They’re treating me like a mushroom.’

  ‘A mushroom?’ frowned Discenza.

  ‘You know, they keep me in the dark and feed me bullshit.’

  At first Discenza didn’t get it, then he broke out laughing. ‘Good one, Jimmy. A mushroom. Good one.’ He picked up a white napkin and used it to wipe his forehead. ‘He killed my brother.’

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘Killed him or paid to have him killed. Comes down to the same thing: one dead brother.’

  ‘How come?’

  Discenza undid another button on his shirt. ‘We were putting together a deal in the Keys, a hotel development. Vander Mayer was putting up most of the money, I was doing the legal work and bringing in extra investors and a management team. My brother Rick was helping me. Keeping everyone sweet, you know? He was just a kid. Twenty-five years old. Just out of Harvard.’ Discenza rubbed his throat. ‘God, I’m thirsty,’ he said. ‘Get me some water, will ya?’

  Smolev was going to protest but he could see that Discenza was in considerable discomfort. He went to the bathroom and filled a glass tumbler with water. ‘Why did Vander Mayer kill your brother?’ he called through the open doorway.

  ‘He’s got this assistant, this Oriental girl. Chinese or something. She’s always with him, he never goes anywhere without her. She’s some sort of adviser to him, and God knows what else. She took an instant dislike to Rick. Wouldn’t have anything to do with him. You got that water?’

  ‘Coming,’ said Smolev. He carried the glass of water out to Discenza, taking care not to spill any.

  ‘Seems she told Vander Mayer that Rick wasn’t to be trusted,’ said Discenza, taking the glass from Smolev and drinking greedily. He drained the glass and put it down on the coffee table. ‘Funny thing was, she was right. Even I didn’t know. He was planning to put Mafia money in the investment through a company in the Bahamas. He’d lost a bundle gambling and some pretty heavy guys were putting the sc
rews on him.’

  Smolev went over to the window and stood looking out. The laundry truck was driving out of the car park. ‘So Vander Mayer had him killed?’ Smolev asked.

  ‘Not right away. Rick went around to talk to the girl. Things got out of hand.’

  ‘Out of hand? How exactly did they get out of hand?’

  ‘Depends who you believe. Rick said she led him on, she says he tried to rape her. Two days later Rick disappeared and the deal was off.’

  Smolev saw a man walk out of the front entrance of the hotel. Smolev vaguely recognised him but couldn’t place the face.

  ‘I knew it was Vander Mayer, but I could hardly go to the cops, could I? A friend in Dallas gave me a number, told me that a Swiss banker could get the job done for me for half a million dollars. Jimmy, I don’t feel so good. Maybe I need a doctor.’

  Smolev tapped his fingers on the windowsill as he stared at the man walking away from the hotel. He frowned. Suddenly he realised that the man was the waiter who’d delivered Discenza’s food. But his appearance had changed: his hair was shorter now, and he was missing his moustache. Smolev turned around. Discenza was lying back on the sofa, his mouth open, his chest heaving. Frothy white saliva dribbled from between Discenza’s lips and his eyes were wide and staring. ‘Oh shit,’ Smolev gasped. He rushed over to Discenza. ‘Ted!’ he yelled. ‘Get in here.’

  Discenza’s legs began to thrash about and Smolev pushed the man’s shoulders down onto the sofa. ‘Try to lie still, Frank. The more you move, the faster it’ll spread.’

  The door opened. ‘Did you want. .?’ Verity began, but he stopped when he saw what was happening. ‘What the. .?’

  ‘The waiter!’ Smolev interrupted. ‘He’s lost the hair and the moustache and he’s wearing a black leather jacket and jeans. He was on foot but he must have a car nearby. Go!’

  Smolev stood up and went over to the telephone as Verity rushed out and ran down the corridor. He told a girl on reception to call for an ambulance and to see if there was a doctor staying at the hotel. He slammed the receiver down and went back to Discenza. Discenza’s back was arched and the tendons in his neck were as taut as steel wires. Discenza grunted and his right hand fastened on Smolev’s shoulder, gripping like a vice. Discenza began muttering, but Smolev couldn’t make out what he was saying. ‘It’s going to be okay, Frank,’ Smolev said. ‘Lie still.’

  Discenza kicked out and one of the Budweiser bottles skidded across the carpet. The poison must have been in the beer, Smolev realised. He cursed himself and he cursed the waiter and his white cotton gloves. No fingerprints, and a description that was worse than useless. His only hope was that Verity would apprehend the man, but Smolev knew that was no hope at all. The killer was a pro. Suddenly Discenza went rigid, and then he flopped back onto the sofa. Smolev searched for a pulse in the man’s neck, but he knew he was wasting his time. Discenza was dead. And so, thought Smolev bitterly, was his career with the Bureau.

  The intercom on the desk buzzed. Cramer looked at Su-ming expectantly and she walked over and pressed a button on the device. ‘Yes, Jenny?’ she said.

  ‘It’s Mr Tarlanov,’ said the secretary.

  Cramer got to his feet and adjusted the cuffs of his shirt as Su-ming opened the office door. He heard Allan arguing with the visitor and went over to see what the problem was. A tall man in a fawn raincoat was standing by Jenny’s desk clutching an aluminium case to his chest, a look of alarm on his face. He was in his late thirties with thick eyebrows that almost met above a thin nose. He had several days’ stubble on his cheeks and chin and his face was drawn and tired.

  Allan was standing in front of the man, his arms out to the sides, blocking his way. Tarlanov was saying something rapidly in Russian and shaking his head. Then in heavily accented English he said, ‘No. No. Leave me.’

  ‘Stay where you are, Mr Vander Mayer,’ Allan said as he continued to obstruct Tarlanov.

  Martin moved over to stand next to Cramer, putting his body between Cramer and the Russian.

  ‘What’s the problem?’ Cramer asked Su-ming.

  She spoke to Tarlanov and he answered, clearly relieved to find someone who could speak his own language. ‘He won’t open the case,’ she said.

  ‘Why not?’

  The Russian must have understood because he spoke to Su-ming again. She nodded and looked at Cramer. ‘He says he’ll only open it in front of you.’

  ‘We have to search him, Su-ming,’ said Allan. ‘Tell him that.’

  Su-ming began to translate but Tarlanov was already shaking his head. Cramer could see that the man understood at least some English.

  ‘Go back into the office and close the door, Mr Vander Mayer,’ said Allan.

  ‘It’s okay, Allan,’ said Cramer. ‘Su-ming, tell him that we’re just going to pat him down, nothing more. He can open the case in my office, we just want to make sure he doesn’t have a weapon.’

  Su-ming moved past Martin and she spoke softly to the Russian, as if she was trying to calm a spooked horse. He nodded, still nervous, and then put the aluminium case on the floor and held up his hands. He watched Cramer as Allan searched him.

  ‘Hello, hello, what’s this?’ Allan said, reaching behind Tarlanov’s back. His hand reappeared with a small automatic and he held it up for Cramer to see. Martin pushed Cramer back into the inner office and took out his own gun.

  Tarlanov spoke quickly in Russian as Allan continued to search him.

  ‘He says it’s for his own protection,’ Su-ming explained. ‘He says London is a dangerous city.’

  Allan took a small aerosol from the Russian’s pocket. He examined it and then sniffed it warily. He wrinkled his nose. ‘Mace,’ he said.

  The Russian nodded eagerly. ‘For protection,’ he said.

  ‘You speak English?’ Cramer asked.

  Tarlanov smiled ingratiatingly. ‘A little,’ he said.

  ‘That’s all,’ said Allan, stepping back. He wiped his eyes which had started watering from the mace. He looked at the gun in the palm of his hand. It was a small automatic, not much bigger than the one Cramer had in his underarm holster.

  ‘May I?’ Cramer asked, holding out his hand. Allan gave him the weapon. Cramer didn’t recognise the make, though there was Russian writing along the barrel.

  ‘For protection,’ the Russian repeated. Cramer ejected the clip, slipped it into his pocket and gave the empty gun back to the Russian.

  ‘I’d feel happier searching the case,’ Allan said to Cramer.

  ‘No. Only Mr Vander Mayer,’ Tarlanov insisted, in his heavy accent.

  ‘Watch him, Martin,’ said Allan. Martin grunted. He still had his VP70 machine pistol in his hand. Allan nodded at Cramer to back into the inner office and he followed him inside, closing the door behind them. ‘He’s the right build, give or take, I’m not sure about his accent and he had a gun. It could be him, Mike.’

  Cramer pulled a face. ‘I don’t think he’s faking it. And our man wouldn’t just walk in here like that, he’d have shot you and Martin and then blown me away. He’s never given anyone time to search him before, he just starts shooting.’

  Allan sighed deeply. ‘I don’t want him alone with you.’

  ‘Where’s he going to go, Allan? You and Martin will be on the other side of the door. It’d be suicide, and we know the killer doesn’t have a death-wish.’

  Allan thought about it for several seconds. ‘Okay,’ he said. ‘But keep close to him, watch him when he opens the case and if he makes any threatening moves. .’

  ‘Get my defence in first. Yeah, I know.’

  Allan held Cramer’s look, then turned and open the door. ‘Let him through,’ Allan said to Martin.

  Martin held his machine pistol down at his side as he stepped away from Tarlanov. The Russian picked up the metal case and carried it through to the inner office. Su-ming closed the door and stood with her back to it. Tarlanov nodded and smiled at Cramer as he put the case onto the desk.


  ‘I didn’t expect you to be able to speak English,’ Cramer said.

  Tarlanov frowned and looked at Su-ming. She translated and he shrugged. ‘A little,’ he said.

  ‘Where in Russia are you from?’

  Again Tarlanov immediately looked at Su-ming and Cramer realised that the Russian spoke hardly any English at all.

  Su-ming looked at Cramer. ‘I don’t think we should be asking him questions,’ she said, speaking quickly so that the Russian would be even less likely to understand.

  Cramer raised an eyebrow. ‘Ask him where he’s from, please,’ he said. Su-ming’s eyes hardened. ‘Let’s not have a scene,’ added Cramer, smiling pleasantly.

  Su-ming looked for a moment as if she might argue, then she spoke to Tarlanov. ‘St Petersburg,’ she said.

  Cramer nodded. ‘Okay, let’s see what’s in the case.’ He pointed at the metal case and mimed opening it. The Russian nodded. He reached into his raincoat pocket and Cramer tensed, even though he knew that Allan’s search had been thorough. Tarlanov’s hand reappeared with a set of keys. He sorted through them and used one to open the locks.

  Cramer moved towards the desk so that he was standing just behind the Russian. He peered over the man’s shoulder as he lifted the lid. Cramer held his breath, his right hand straying towards his hidden gun.

  The lid opened and Cramer saw a sheaf of papers. Tarlanov picked them up and handed them to Cramer. He spoke in Russian and Su-ming translated. ‘This is the documentation about the process and details of the consignments available,’ she said.

  Cramer flicked through the sheets. They were all in Russian, and scattered through the text were chemical symbols and equations. He gave them to Su-ming. ‘Can you make sense of these?’ he asked.

  As she read through the paperwork, Tarlanov stood to the side and waved his hand over the open case. The bulk of the case was filled with grey foam rubber, but in the centre, nestled into a snug cut-out hollow, was a metal canister shaped like an artillery shell, grey at the top, red for most of its length and with a brass fitting at the bottom. The object was about nine inches long with Russian writing on the red section, mainly numbers.