Stephen Leather - The Double Tap

The Colonel shook his head. ‘No, but he’s done a lot of business with Israel. Done a lot of favours for them, too.’

Cramer flicked through the passports. They all contained his photograph but Vander Mayer’s details.

‘He travels with whatever passport is most convenient. His assistant will take care of all your travel arrangements, just as she does for him. She’ll tell you which one to use.’

Cramer nodded and put the passports back on the desk. ‘This girl. The assistant. How much does she know?’

‘She’s knows that Vander Mayer has been threatened, and she knows that you’ll be taking his place for a while.’

‘Does she know that she’s at risk, too?’

‘There’s no indication that she’s in danger. The killer goes for the bodyguards and the target.’

‘He hit the security guard in Harrods.’

‘But no innocent bystanders. He’s very selective.’

‘I hope for her sake you’re right. When do I meet her?’

‘Tomorrow. She’s flying in from the States.’

‘And Vander Mayer?’

‘It’s best you don’t know where he is.’

Cramer looked at the two printed sheets in the file, nodding slowly. ‘So the killer comes looking for Vander Mayer and he finds me. And how will you catch him? Assuming he gets by whatever bodyguards you give me, and assuming he manages to take me out, what then?’

‘I’ll have other men shadowing you at all times. He won’t get away, I promise you that.’

Cramer closed the file. ‘He’s got away before.’

‘We weren’t on the case then.’

‘But if your men are too close, they’ll scare him off.’

‘They won’t be too close,’ the Colonel said emphatically.

Cramer slid the file onto the desk. ‘You’re going to use snipers, aren’t you? You’ve no intention of trying to bring him in. You’re just going to blow him away.’

The Colonel raised an eyebrow. ‘There will be occasions when there will be snipers in the vicinity, yes. But you’re not going to be out in the open that often and a sniper isn’t going to offer you any protection when you’re indoors. When you’re inside, I’ll have men close by, but they are not going to be able to defend you from an attack. If they’re close enough for that, they’ll be close enough to be seen. They’re there to apprehend the killer, not to stop the attempt. Am I clear on that?’

‘As crystal, Colonel. I’m right, aren’t I? You don’t intend to apprehend him, do you? This isn’t about bringing him in, it’s about taking him out, right?’

The Colonel exhaled through his nose, his lips set in a tight line as he studied Cramer. ‘Is that a problem for you?’

Cramer shook his head. ‘Whatever it takes, Colonel. Whatever it takes.’

‘Good man.’ The Colonel opened a drawer and took out another file, this one consisting of more than a hundred A4 sheets in a clear plastic binder. ‘I’ve been wondering whether or not to show you this. It’s the report we received from the profiler, Bernard Jackman.’

‘The FBI expert you were talking about?’

‘Former FBI expert,’ the Colonel corrected.

‘I thought you said that I was going to meet him.’

‘You are. He’s expected tomorrow or the day after. But he gave me this report. It’s his profile of the man we’re looking for.’ The Colonel tapped the file with his thick, stubby fingers. ‘The problem is, if we focus on his profile and it turns out Jackman’s wrong, you might be blinded to the real killer.’

Cramer nodded. ‘Okay, but at least it might give me some clues as to who we’re looking for.’

The Colonel tossed the clear plastic file across the desk and it landed on top of the Vander Mayer file. ‘Just bear in mind that it’s not an exact science. There have been several cases where profilers have got it wrong. Sometimes with disastrous consequences. Read it with care.’

Cramer picked up the two files. A sudden pain lanced through his stomach and he grunted. A wave of nausea rippled through his guts and he took a deep breath as he tried to quell it.

‘Are you okay?’ asked the Colonel, clearly concerned.

Cramer forced a smile. ‘I will be,’ he said.

A gentle drizzle was floating down from the leaden sky when McCormack arrived in front of the Bank of Ireland in a black convertible BMW. It was the first time Lynch had seen McCormack’s car and it caught him by surprise. McCormack had to sound his horn twice before Lynch realised it was him. Lynch had expected him to be at the wheel of an estate car or a comfortable saloon, not a high-powered sports car.

Lynch climbed into the front seat. McCormack made no move to shake hands, but Lynch couldn’t tell if it was because the man was angry or because he was simply keen to get moving. The traffic was heavy and McCormack put the car in gear and moved away from the kerb, edging cautiously in front of a bus. Lynch looked at the soft top of the car and wondered what on earth had persuaded McCormack to buy a convertible. Irish summers were notoriously brief and it rained more often than not.

‘My car’s in the garage,’ said McCormack as if reading his mind. ‘This is the wife’s.’ The windscreen wipers swished back and forth, whispering like assassins.

‘Nice car, right enough,’ said Lynch. He ran a finger along the roof and wondered what Mrs McCormack was like. McCormack drove with great care, constantly looking in his mirror and twisting around to check his blind spots. He indicated religiously, rarely got the car out of second gear, and left such a big space between the BMW and the car in front that he was constantly being overtaken. Lynch didn’t know if McCormack always drove so cautiously or if it was simply because he was at the wheel of his wife’s car.

McCormack waited until they were driving through Phoenix Park before speaking. ‘So what went wrong?’ he asked.

Lynch shrugged and looked out of the side window. In the distance was the stark towering cross which marked the spot where Pope John Paul II had addressed hundreds of thousands of Catholics on his visit to the country in 1979. ‘Fucked if I know, Thomas. Have you spoken to Pat?’

McCormack shook his head. ‘No. And there’s no sign of the Quinn boys either. It’s a mess, Dermott.’

‘I only know what I saw on the TV. It must have been an accident.’

‘An accident?’ said McCormack sharply. ‘It’s a bloody disaster.’ They drove by the imposing residence of the American Ambassador. ‘This is going to cause all sorts of problems in the States,’ he said.

‘Yeah,’ agreed Lynch. ‘Tourists, the TV said.’

‘A nine-year-old boy,’ said McCormack. ‘We killed a nine-year-old boy.’ Lynch had to admire the way McCormack said ‘we’, as if he was including himself in the fiasco rather than distancing himself from it. ‘Why did you come to Dublin, Dermott?’ McCormack asked.

‘I had to see somebody.’

‘Do you mind telling me who?’ The question was put smoothly, but Lynch knew that he was being interrogated by an expert and that there was no point in lying.

‘A guy who works at Dublin Airport. Luke McDonough. Pat gave me his name.’

‘And why would you be wanting to talk to this McDonough?’ McCormack peered through the windscreen, then indicated and turned left and drove by a small lake, holding the steering wheel as if it was made of porcelain.

‘He works for air traffic control,’ said Lynch. ‘I was trying to find out what happened to the helicopter that picked up Cramer.’

McCormack’s lips pressed together so tightly that they almost disappeared. Lynch shivered as if the temperature in the car had dropped ten degrees. ‘I thought I’d made my view plain on that matter,’ McCormack said eventually.