Stephen Leather - The Double Tap

Lynch turned his head from side to side. She’d done a good job. ‘Excellent. Really good. Who taught you to cut hair?’

She leant across him to put the scissors on the dressing table and her hair brushed his cheek. ‘You’re my first customer,’ she said. Lynch turned towards her and his lips met hers. This time the initiative came from her, her lips pressed hard against his and her soft tongue forced its way between his teeth. She took sugar in her tea and Lynch could taste the sweetness on her tongue. She moved around him, still keeping her mouth pressed against him, sat on his lap and put her arms around his neck.

It was Lynch who broke away first, gasping for breath. ‘Hey, I thought this wasn’t a good idea,’ he said.

‘It’s not,’ she said. She kissed him again, harder this time. Lynch stood up and carried her over to the bed. He knelt on the quilt and lowered her gently. She lay there, her arms outstretched, a lazy smile on her face.

‘Are you sure?’ asked Lynch.

‘Just get on with it, Dermott,’ she laughed, reaching up for him.

Simon Chaillon flicked through his copy of Euromoney , looking for anything of interest. The magazine seemed to get bigger each year and if it continued to grow it would soon be the size of a telephone directory. There still seemed to be precious little to hold his attention, though. The brass plate on his office door gave his profession as personal banker and financial adviser, but Chaillon wasn’t a typical Swiss financier.

Chaillon’s secretary knocked gently on his door and walked into his office. ‘Courier delivery,’ she said, placing a Federal Express envelope on his desk.

‘Thank you, Theresa,’ said Chaillon, looking up from the magazine. If it came to a choice between reading the latest World Bank projections or watching the twenty-five-year-old blonde walk across his plush green carpet, it was no contest. Theresa walked slowly back to the door, swinging her hips as if she knew that he was watching, and swishing her mane of hair like an impatient racehorse. At fifty-eight, Chaillon was old enough to be her father, but there was nothing parental about his affections, or his intentions. She’d been with him for eighteen months — his previous secretary had died in a road accident — and he didn’t quite trust her yet, which was why he left the envelope unopened on the desk until she’d closed the door. Chaillon looked out of his window, across the River Limmat and its flat-roofed river boats towards the twin-towered Grossmunster Cathedral. Maybe today would be the day he’d suggest that they go out for dinner. Chaillon had no reservations about mixing business and pleasure. If anything, a sexual relationship would bind her closer to him.

He opened the envelope. Inside were three colour photographs taken with a long lens. They were slightly grainy but the images were clear: a man, tall with deep-set eyes and a worried frown, was stepping away from a large Mercedes, a bodyguard to his right, a young Oriental girl just behind him; the same man, coming out of a doorway; and a close-up, just of the man. Chaillon wondered how long it would be before the man in the photograph was dead. Chaillon’s client was the ultimate professional. He had never failed, he had never had to refund his fee. That was why he was so expensive.

Along with the photographs were three A4 typewritten sheets. Chaillon didn’t read them, he preferred to know as little as possible about the targets. It wasn’t that he was squeamish, it was simply a matter of self-protection. There was only one thing he needed to know. He picked up the telephone connected to his private line and called an office less than half a mile away. Chaillon gave a nine-digit identification number and asked if there had been any deposits made within the previous forty-eight hours. The answer was affirmative. Five hundred thousand dollars. Chaillon replaced the receiver. He put the photographs and typewritten sheets in another envelope and sealed it. The envelope went inside a fresh Federal Express packet.

Chaillon swivelled his chair around to face an IBM PC which was displaying a list of Japanese share prices. He manipulated the mouse to activate the computer’s modem and within seconds he was connected to a bulletin board on the West Coast of the United States. There was one word on the board: London. Chaillon cut the connection. His fingers played across the keyboard of his computer. From the screen he copied an address in London onto the Federal Express airbill, and then he pressed his intercom and asked Theresa to come back into the office.

She knocked again before entering. Chaillon was always amused by her politeness. As she sashayed over to his desk he wondered if she’d be as polite in bed. He smiled at the thought. ‘Send this right away, Theresa,’ he said, handing her the packet. He had no qualms about her seeing the name or the address: it was an accommodation agency, one of more than a dozen that his client used around the world.

‘Shall I be mother?’ asked the Colonel.

Jackman frowned. ‘Mother?’ he repeated.

‘It’s an English expression,’ said the Colonel, picking up the teapot. ‘It means I’ll pour.’ He poured steaming tea into a white china mug and handed it to the profiler. Jackman helped himself to milk and two lumps of sugar. ‘When are you going to South Africa?’ asked the Colonel.

‘I’m catching the red-eye,’ said Jackman. He stirred his tea thoughtfully. ‘Cramer didn’t seem very impressed with my work.’

‘He has a lot on his mind.’

Jackman nodded and pulled a face. ‘He’s got guts, that’s for sure.’ He tapped his spoon against the mug. ‘The target, he’s safely out of the way?’

‘Well out of reach,’ agreed the Colonel.

‘Good. What have you done with him?’

‘That’s need to know.’

‘And I don’t need to know, I suppose,’ said Jackman. ‘What about the man who placed the contract?’

‘Discenza? The FBI have him in protective custody in Miami. No one can get to him.’

Jackman stirred his tea again, staring at the brown liquid as it whirled around. ‘Does Cramer realise how closely he himself fits the profile of the man we’re looking for?’

The Colonel sipped his tea, then shook his head. ‘If he does, he hasn’t mentioned it.’

‘Set a thief to catch a thief?’

‘Not really. He was chosen for other reasons. The similarities hadn’t occurred to me until you read his file and pointed it out.’

Jackman walked over to the trolley and put down his spoon. ‘He lost his mother at a relatively young age, his father was rarely at home when he was in his teens, he wasn’t exactly well liked at school, SAS-trained, never been in steady employment since he left the regiment. I suppose you can account for his whereabouts over the past two years?’

The Colonel smiled thinly. ‘No, I can’t. But Mike Cramer is not our killer, I can guarantee that. He’s not the type.’

Jackman looked at his wristwatch. ‘That’s the problem, Colonel. He’s exactly the type.’

Lynch lay on his back, his arm around Marie. She toyed with the hair on his chest, winding it gently around her fingers and tugging it softly. ‘Still think it’s not a good idea?’ he asked.

‘Definitely,’ she giggled. ‘But I wouldn’t have missed it for the world. Who taught you to make love?’

‘You’re my first customer,’ said Lynch.

Marie laughed and slapped his chest. ‘I don’t think so,’ she said. She kissed the side of his neck and nuzzled against him. ‘I want to come with you,’ she whispered.

‘You just did.’

‘You know what I mean.’

‘No.’

‘I could help.’

‘No,’ he repeated.

‘Why not?’ Her hand began to move inexorably downwards.