The Double Tap mc-2

by Stephen Leather

  ‘And what was the question, Cramer?’

  Cramer rubbed his hands together as if trying to keep warm. ‘I wanted to know how I’d die,’ he said, his voice a hoarse whisper.

  Su-ming said nothing for a few seconds, then she impulsively put her arms around him and held him close. He felt something soft brush against his cheek and he realised that she’d kissed him.

  The Colonel sat down at his desk as two troopers carried large cardboard boxes out of the apartment. The telephones and fax machines were still in place. The Colonel had hoped to receive confirmation of the assassin’s identity before leaving for Hereford, but it appeared that it wasn’t going to happen. He thought about calling Dan Greenberg to see if the Bureau had managed to obtain a match through their files, but decided against it. He was sure that Greenberg would notify him if he’d come up with an identification.

  A sheaf of fax paper lay in the tray connected to the fax machine. It was the information that Greenberg had been sending through when the assassin had struck. The Colonel hadn’t had time to look through the faxes. He picked them up and was about to run them through a shredding machine when he had second thoughts. He flicked through the sheets. There were more than twenty sheets of close-typed reports, most of them from FBI files. The Colonel settled back in his high-backed chair and started to read. Anton Madeley was a nasty piece of work, and if he hadn’t been locked up in Marion Prison he could well have been a suspect in the recent killings. Marion Prison was a super-maximum security facility built by the US Federal Bureau of Prisons to replace Alcatraz, surrounded by a thirty-foot-high fence and bullet-proof watchtowers. Only the worst of the worst ended up there, and all of them were kept in virtually permanent solitary confinement. According to the psychiatric reports compiled before Madeley was sentenced, he had psychopathic tendencies but was well aware of what he had been doing. He’d tortured more than a dozen men and women, then killed them. There was no sexual motive, the psychiatrists reported, it appeared that Madeley was more interested in causing pain. And once he’d had his fill of torturing his victims, his method of killing them was always the same: two shots with a handgun, one shot to the face, one to the heart.

  The Colonel scratched his chin. According to the psychiatric reports, Madeley believed that shooting his victims in the head trapped their soul, extending their misery into eternity. The man was obviously demented, but the psychiatrists insisted he was sane and should be sentenced as such. The Colonel wondered if Madeley had a relative who had decided to carry on his legacy. He flicked through the sheets and came to a sheet of biographical data. Madeley was fifty-two years old, had never married and had no known children. He was an only child, his mother had died when he was twelve and his father had abused him, physically and mentally. Madeley was taken into care and spent four years with foster parents, parents who Madeley claimed abused him as much as his father ever did. There appeared to be no one who was close to Madeley, so the Colonel discounted his theory that it was a family member whom Allan had killed in the car park. Madeley had left the foster home when he was sixteen and spent the rest of his life in and out of prisons, initially for stealing cars and graduating swiftly to mail order fraud. He had no known friends or associates, he was a true loner.

  The file included summarised reports by FBI profilers from Quantico who had visited Madeley in Marion Prison, though he appeared to be unhelpful and uncommunicative. The last two sheets detailed all the visitors Madeley had received during his time in imprisonment. The Colonel ran his finger down the list. There were no family members, no friends; every name was a law enforcement officer, legal representative or psychiatrist. Bernard Jackman’s name appeared on the second sheet, initially visiting Madeley once a month, but then with increasing frequency, until at one point he met with the serial killer each day for a week. Jackman’s name was absent from the final section of the list, his place appeared to have been taken by another profiler. The Colonel realised it was because at that stage Jackman had left the Bureau to set up on his own.

  One of the troopers came back into the apartment. ‘We’re all clear, boss,’ he said.

  ‘Okay, Blackie. You can pack up the communications equipment.’ He fed the sheets of fax paper through the shredder by the side of the desk. ‘The shredder can go, too,’ he added.

  The doorbell jarred Cramer awake. He was disorientated for a few seconds until he realised he was lying on a sofa, his face buried in the soft black leather. He rolled over. The sky had darkened outside and several stars twinkled among the clouds. He couldn’t remember falling asleep. As he sat up he felt nauseous and he wondered if it was a side- effect of the painkillers. The doorbell rang again. Su-ming walked along the corridor and into the sitting room. ‘I’ll get it,’ she said.

  ‘Yeah, I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I fell asleep.’ Cramer realised that there was a blanket over his legs.

  ‘I know,’ she said, smiling. She’d changed into blue jeans and a white silk shirt and she looked fresh and clean as if she’d just had a shower.

  Cramer could taste something bitter at the back of his throat. He swallowed and grimaced. As he looked around he realised that the bottle of capsules and the Walther PPK were no longer on the coffee table. Su-ming must have moved them while he was asleep. He rubbed his face with his hands. When he took his hands away, Su-ming had the door open. A man walked into the room carrying a slim leather briefcase. He was in his mid to late forties, a dapper little man who couldn’t have been much more then five feet eight tall. His hair was slicked back and he had the sleek, well-fed look of a man who lived off expense accounts. ‘This is Mr Vander Mayer,’ said Su-ming as she closed the door.

  Vander Mayer strode across the floor, his arm outstretched like a used-car salesman greeting a prospective customer. ‘Mike, good to see you at last,’ said Vander Mayer.

  Cramer got to his feet unsteadily, still disorientated. Vander Mayer seized his hand and pumped it enthusiastically. Cramer recognised the man’s voice, but his appearance was a surprise. Vander Mayer was immaculately dressed in what was clearly an expensive made-to-measure suit and a gold Rolex glinted from under the sleeve of a starched white shirt cuff as he shook hands, but Cramer had expected a much bigger man. While Vander Mayer’s voice was deep and authoritative, the man himself was unimposing. If anything he appeared to be slightly shifty with sharpish features that made Cramer think of a small bird.

  ‘I would have been here earlier but the traffic was a bitch,’ said Vander Mayer. ‘I’ve been pushing them to get a helicopter pad installed, but the neighbours won’t have it.’

  ‘Shame,’ said Cramer.

  Vander Mayer released his grip on Cramer’s hand and put his briefcase on a low sideboard. Cramer’s gun was there, along with the painkillers. Vander Mayer raised an eyebrow at the weapon. ‘Walther PPK,’ he said. ‘I thought the SAS used Glocks?’

  ‘I’m ex-SAS,’ said Cramer.

  Vander Mayer nodded. ‘Even so, it’s not one of my favourite guns. May I?’ He gestured at the pistol.

  ‘Sure,’ said Cramer.

  Vander Mayer picked up the Walther, ejected the clip and quickly and efficiently stripped the gun, then reassembled it just as quickly. Cramer had the feeling that he was only doing it to show off his familiarity with the weapon. Vander Mayer gave the gun to Cramer and without thinking Cramer slipped it back into the shoulder holster under his jacket. He saw Su-ming look at him anxiously, but before she could say anything Vander Mayer went over to her and put his arm around her shoulders. ‘How are you, baby?’ he asked.

  ‘Great,’ she said. She turned up her head and kissed him, close to the lips. Cramer felt a sudden pull inside and realised with a jolt that he was jealous. He turned away, unwilling to watch any more, suspecting that Vander Mayer’s demonstrations of affection were as contrived as his manoeuvre with the Walther.

  ‘Miss me?’ Vander Mayer asked.

  ‘Yes,’ Su-ming said quietly.

  Vander Mayer nodded as if satis
fied. He turned back to Cramer. ‘So, Mike, have you got the consignment?’

  ‘It’s in the safe,’ said Su-ming before Cramer could answer. ‘I’ll get it.’

  As Su-ming left the room, Vander Mayer went over to the picture window and looked out. ‘I never tire of this view,’ he said.

  ‘Yeah,’ said Cramer unenthusiastically.

  ‘Best view in London.’

  Cramer didn’t say anything.

  ‘Where are you from, Mike?’

  ‘Glasgow.’

  ‘Yeah? Scotch, huh?’

  ‘Scottish,’ corrected Cramer. ‘Scotch is the drink.’

  ‘You don’t sound Scottish,’ said Vander Mayer. He clasped his hands behind his back and squared his shoulders.

  ‘Yeah, well I left when I was young.’

  ‘To join the army?’

  ‘Pretty much, yeah.’ Cramer didn’t enjoy talking to the man. He wasn’t sure if it was because he hated answering questions about his background, or if it was a reaction to the way Vander Mayer had treated Su-ming. There had been something proprietorial in his attitude, as if she was merely an adjunct to the car, the flat, the jets.

  ‘Well, you won’t have to work again, not after the money I’m giving you.’

  Cramer smiled bitterly. ‘Yeah. Early retirement.’

  Su-ming came back into the sitting room with the metal case. She handed it to Vander Mayer, who acknowledged her with a smile.

  ‘What are you going to do with it?’ Cramer asked.

  Vander Mayer sat down in one of the leather and chrome easy chairs and swung the case up onto his knees. ‘That depends,’ he said, clicking open the locks.

  ‘On what?’

  ‘First I get my people to test it. And if it’s what I’m told it is, I’ll be buying as much of it as I can get my hands on.’

  ‘And then?’

  Vander Mayer took out the metal flask. He handled it reverently, as if it were a holy icon. ‘Then?’ Vander Mayer repeated, his eyes fixed on the flask.

  ‘Who do you sell it to then?’

  Vander Mayer grinned. ‘To the highest bidder, Mike. To the highest bidder.’

  ‘No matter who?’

  Vander Mayer put the flask back in the case. He closed the lid and then took a handkerchief from his pocket and carefully wiped his hands. ‘This is business, Mike. It’s a commodity like any other.’

  ‘It’s used in nuclear weapons,’ said Cramer.

  Vander Mayer looked sharply across at Su-ming. She visibly flinched as if he’d struck her. Vander Mayer smiled and looked back at Cramer. ‘So is steel, Mike. Are you suggesting that we stop selling steel?’ He put the case on the floor beside his chair and crossed his legs.

  ‘There’s a big difference.’

  Vander Mayer shrugged dismissively and put the handkerchief back in his top pocket, taking care to arrange it neatly. ‘Eye of the beholder, Mike. Eye of the beholder. Besides, there are lots of potential uses for it.’

  ‘Are you saying that it won’t be used in a bomb?’

  Vander Mayer leaned forward, his elbows on his knees. ‘No, I’m not saying that. But that’s not really any of your business, is it?’ He raised his eyebrows and nodded, as if trying to get Cramer to agree. Cramer just looked at him, unable to conceal his disdain. Vander Mayer stood up and went over to a steel and glass drinks cabinet. He picked up a bottle of twenty-year-old malt whisky and unscrewed the cap. He poured himself a large measure. ‘Do you want a Scotch?’ he asked Cramer. He smiled thinly. ‘Or is it Scottish?’

  Cramer shook his head. He’d lost the taste for whisky. He’d pretty much lost the taste for everything. The telephone rang and Su-ming picked up the receiver. She listened and frowned, then put her hand over the mouthpiece. She looked at Vander Mayer. ‘You have a visitor downstairs. A Mr Jackman.’

  ‘Jackman?’ said Cramer. ‘Bernard Jackman?’

  Su-ming nodded.

  ‘You know him?’ asked Vander Mayer.

  ‘He’s the FBI profiler,’ said Cramer. ‘Well, former FBI profiler, actually. He’s the guy who profiled the assassin who was after you. I wonder what he wants?’

  ‘There’s one way to find out,’ said Vander Mayer. He gestured at Su-ming. ‘Tell him to come up. I’d like to meet the guy.’

  Su-ming relayed the message to the doorman and put the phone down. ‘He’s on his way up,’ she said.

  ‘What’s he like?’ Vander Mayer asked Cramer.

  Cramer shrugged uncertainly. ‘He’s clever, but to be honest he wasn’t much help. It’s not as if knowing the killer’s characteristics helped us nail the bastard. It was Allan and his Glock that did that.’

  ‘Don’t knock it,’ said Vander Mayer. ‘One of Su-ming’s most valuable skills is her ability to judge people. To decide whether they can be trusted or not.’ He picked up the metal case and relocked it. ‘I’d better put this back in the safe,’ he said. ‘Once an FBI agent. .’ He left the sentence hanging as he went through the hall to his study.

  Su-ming walked over to Cramer. She looked as if she was about to say something, but before she could speak the doorbell rang. She jumped as if startled by the noise, and her eyes remained locked on Cramer. The doorbell rang again. Su-ming took a step backwards, then turned on her heels and went to the front door. She opened it and stood to the side. It was Jackman. He was wearing a dark green jacket and grey slacks and as he walked into the room Cramer realised that the man’s ponytail was missing. Jackman’s hair looked lighter, too, as if he’d been out in the sun.

  Jackman ignored Su-ming and strode across the sitting room. He shook hands with Cramer. ‘I wasn’t expecting you,’ Cramer said.

  ‘I came as soon as I heard, I wanted to get the details from you while they were still fresh.’

  ‘Details?’

  ‘Of the assassination attempt. I need to know everything that happened. For the files. What about Vander Mayer? Is he here?’

  ‘He got here just before you did,’ said Cramer. ‘Did the Colonel call you?’

  ‘Hell of an apartment, isn’t it?’ said Jackman, looking around.

  Cramer wondered if Jackman hadn’t heard him or if he’d deliberately ignored the question.

  ‘It’s a different world, isn’t it?’ said Jackman as he turned around, smiling broadly. Cramer wondered what had happened to the ponytail. The man’s accent seemed slightly different, too. There was less of a Texan drawl and a harder edge to it. More East Coast than mid-West. ‘So, do I get to meet the guy whose life you saved?’ Jackman asked.

  ‘He’s in the study,’ said Su-ming.

  Before Cramer could stop him, Jackman strode off down the corridor. Cramer and Su-ming followed him into the study where Vander Mayer was scrutinising a list of share prices on one of his many monitors. He looked up at the sound of their footsteps, then smiled. It was the same sort of smile that Jackman himself used, an emotionless baring of the teeth, a pale copy of the real thing. It wasn’t a pleasant smile. ‘You’re the profiler?’ said Vander Mayer.

  Jackman nodded. ‘And you’re the target?’ he said, his fake smile broadening.

  ‘Not any more,’ laughed Vander Mayer. He held out his hand.

  Jackman laughed, too. His hand slipped inside his jacket and emerged holding a snub-nosed revolver. He walked towards Vander Mayer, his arm outstretched, and shot him point blank in the face. Before Vander Mayer’s legs gave way Jackman fired again, this time at Vander Mayer’s chest.

  Su-ming screamed as Vander Mayer fell backwards, his face and chest a bloody mess. Cramer reached for his Walther but before he could pull out his gun, Jackman had whirled around and aimed his own weapon at Cramer’s face.

  ‘Too slow, Mike,’ said Jackman. Cramer froze. Su-ming stared down at Vander Mayer. The body twitched on the floor, then went still. Jackman ignored her. ‘Take out your gun, slowly,’ Jackman said. ‘Use the thumb and index finger of your left hand.’

  Cramer did as he was told.

  ‘Drop it on the fl
oor, then kick it over here.’

  Cramer obeyed. The gun came to rest by Jackman’s left foot. Jackman crouched down, keeping his own gun aimed at Cramer. He picked up the Walther, then straightened up. Su-ming had her hands up to her face, her eyes wide with shock. Jackman motioned with his gun for her to stand next to Cramer.

  ‘Well,’ said Jackman to Cramer. ‘You don’t know how much I’ve been looking forward to having a chat with you, Mike.’

  The Colonel looked around the apartment. The equipment that had been installed prior to the operation had been removed. All that was left was the furniture that had come with the flat. The Colonel was sitting on a winged easy chair by an empty bookcase. He leaned forward and clasped his hands together and bent his head as if in prayer. Something didn’t feel right, but he wasn’t sure what it was. By rights he should have been over the moon; he’d achieved his objective with relatively few casualties. But there was a nagging doubt at the back of his mind, a feeling of unfinished business

  Blackie popped his head around the door. ‘All packed, boss,’ he said. ‘Are you coming with us?’

  ‘No, I’ll hang on here for a while,’ said the Colonel. ‘I’ve got my own transport.’

  One of the telephones on the desk rang. The trooper looked at the Colonel expectantly, but the Colonel shook his head. ‘I’ll get it,’ he said. It was a chief inspector in Special Branch, one of the few non-military personnel in Britain who had been appraised of the operation.

  ‘Good news, bad news, I’m afraid,’ said the chief inspector.

  The Colonel’s heart sank. ‘You couldn’t get a match?’

  ‘Oh yes, we got a match all right. The problem is, he can’t be your killer.’

  ‘I don’t follow you.’

  ‘The man you killed is Dermott Lynch. From Belfast. He’s. .’

  ‘I know who he is,’ the Colonel interrupted. He wanted to ask if there was any possibility of a mistake, but he knew that the chief inspector was too thorough to have called with inaccurate information.