Stephen Leather - The Double Tap

Cramer nodded thoughtfully, his eyes on the stiletto. ‘Let me try it.’

Marie Hennessy put a jug of milk and a box of muesli on the kitchen table next to a plate of wholewheat toast, Flora margarine and honey. ‘I’m a vegetarian,’ she said as Lynch looked up.

‘Aye, well you look good on it,’ said Lynch, grinning. He wondered if he should say anything about the Charles Jordan shoes he’d seen lying in the hall but decided against it. They were clearly expensive and definitely not plastic. There were also several leather-bound books scattered through the two bookcases in the sitting room. Whatever else she might be, Marie Hennessy was obviously selective about her moral stances.

‘I’ll go and get your money,’ she said, taking a quick look at her watch. She slipped into a blue blazer and checked her hair in the gilt-framed mirror over the mantelpiece before leaving the flat.

As she closed the front door behind her, Lynch picked up the box of muesli and sniffed it. ‘Rabbit food,’ he muttered to himself and put it back down. Spreading honey thickly onto the toast, he ran through a mental list of what he still had to do. The only location he had for Mike Cramer was a map reference, lines of longitude and latitude, and for that to mean anything he’d need an Ordnance Survey map of the area. There was no doubt in his mind that he would kill the Sass-man. He had two guns, the Czech Model 75 in the bedroom and the Tokarev in the car, and he’d been well trained in the use of small arms. When in Ireland he generally preferred to use a Kalashnikov, but the handguns would be easier to conceal. He leaned over to go through the pockets of his jacket which was hanging on the back of a chair. He pulled out the two wallets which he’d taken from the hit team in Maida Vale. There was more than three hundred pounds in cash, along with the Barclaycard and driving licence. Lynch had been surprised to find the driving licence, as IRA volunteers on active service were instructed to remove all means of identification. He picked up the licence and looked at it. It appeared real enough, as did the Barclaycard, but Lynch doubted if they were genuine. He just hoped they would stand up to scrutiny when he went to pick up a rental car. But first he’d have to get rid of the Ford Sierra parked in the street outside.

Cramer was practising pulling the stiletto from its leather sheath when a helicopter roared overhead and rattled the gymnasium windows. He saw a flash of green through the dirt-streaked windows and then it was gone. ‘Ready, Mike?’ asked Allan.

Cramer nodded. He adjusted his sleeve and dropped his hands to his sides. Allan walked away, then stood facing Cramer with his hands on his hips. Martin joined him. Allan and Martin moved together as if some unspoken signal had passed between them, but whatever it was, Cramer missed it. They walked at a medium pace across the wooden floor. Cramer stayed where he was. Waiting. It was Allan who made the first move, reaching inside his jacket and pulling out his Glock automatic. Cramer’s right hand slid into his left sleeve and grabbed for the stiletto. As Allan swung up his arm to take aim with the gun, Cramer thrust out with the stiletto, but Allan swayed out of the way. The big man was deceptively light on his feet and moved as fluidly as a flyweight in an opening round, keeping the Glock pointed at Cramer’s face as Cramer lashed out with the knife again. Allan pulled the trigger twice in quick succession and Cramer was almost deafened by the explosions. ‘Shit,’ said Cramer dejectedly.

Allan ejected the clip and slotted in two more blanks. ‘You got it out all right, but you weren’t moving forward,’ he said, replacing the gun in its holster. ‘It’s only going to work if you get in close. In close and under the chin, straight up into the brain.’

‘Yeah, I know,’ said Cramer.

‘We’re getting there,’ said Martin, opening a pack of Wrigley’s gum and offering Cramer a piece. Cramer shook his head.

They were interrupted by the gymnasium doors opening. Blackie, one of the Colonel’s troopers, shouted that Cramer’s presence was required in the headmistress’s study. Allan and Martin grinned. ‘Sounds like six of the best to me,’ said Martin.

Cramer walked along the corridor to the study. He took off his overcoat, draped it over his right arm, and knocked on the door. The Colonel ushered Cramer in. A man stood looking out of the window and didn’t turn around as the Colonel closed the door. The man was just under six feet tall and had his hands clasped behind him like an undertaker overseeing a funeral. There was something funereal about the man’s attire, too; a black suit and black shoes polished to a shine and an inch of starched white cuff protruding from each sleeve. He had dark brown hair which he’d pulled back into a small ponytail which curved on his collar like a carelessly-drawn comma. Cramer didn’t generally make snap judgements about people, but he took an instinctive dislike to the man. It was partly the way the man dressed, partly the ponytail, but mainly it was the man’s crass rudeness — unless he was stone deaf, his posing by the window was solely for effect.

The man turned slowly as if he had only just become aware of Cramer’s presence. His hair was swept back from an unlined boyish face and for a second or two he studied Cramer through a pair of red-framed spectacles, then he grinned and reached out his hand. ‘You must be Mike Cramer,’ he said. He shook hands with Cramer. He had a strong grip and Cramer noticed that his nails were perfectly clipped. They reminded Cramer of Allan’s neatly manicured hands. ‘I’m Bernard Jackman.’ He pronounced his first name with the emphasis on the second syllable in a slow Texan drawl.

‘The profiler?’ said Cramer.

Jackman tilted his head on one side. ‘At your service.’

The Colonel walked over to his desk and sat down, nodding to Cramer and Jackman to take leather armchairs by the unlit fireplace. Jackman straightened the creases of his trousers before crossing his legs. There was something very precise and measured about all the man’s movements, as if he was giving a performance.

‘Bernard is passing through on his way to South Africa,’ said the Colonel, placing his walking stick on the desk. ‘We thought it would be a good opportunity for a briefing.’

‘Do we have a report on the South African killing yet?’ asked Cramer.

‘It’s on its way,’ said the Colonel.

‘I’ve already spoken to one of the investigating officers,’ said Jackman. ‘All the signs are that it was as professional as the rest. He was dressed as a ranger and driving a Landrover, obviously well planned. I’ll be visiting the crime scene to see what else I can get. I’ll compile my reactions while I’m there and either fax or phone you.’

‘Any idea who paid for the hit?’ asked Cramer.

‘He had plenty of enemies, both in Zimbabwe and South Africa,’ said the Colonel. ‘The sort of enemies who’d have no problem coming up with our man’s fee.’

Jackman turned to Cramer. ‘You’ve read my profile of the killer?’

Cramer nodded. He eased a finger into his shirt collar. ‘It was interesting,’ he said noncommittally.

‘Interesting?’ repeated Jackman. ‘I hoped you’d find it more than interesting.’

Cramer flexed his shoulders inside the suit. ‘No offence, but a lot of it seemed to be guesswork.’

‘Guesswork?’ Jackman repeated slowly, stressing the two syllables.

Cramer looked across at the Colonel. The Colonel nodded that he should continue. ‘You say that the guy we’re after is intelligent, but that’s a given because he couldn’t do what he does if he was stupid,’ Cramer said.

‘Sure,’ said Jackman.

‘Yet you go on to suggest that he was a bully at school, and that he didn’t go to university.’