Stephen Leather - The Double Tap

‘Because it’s my fight, not yours.’

Her hand lingered between his legs, caressing and touching him. ‘They killed my father and my mother, Dermott. It’s as much my fight as yours.’

‘I know that, Marie. But this isn’t a sanctioned operation, it’s personal. I want Cramer because of what he did to Maggie.’

‘And I want him because of what he did to my father.’

‘No.’

‘You have to let me help you.’

Lynch rolled on top of her and took his weight on his elbows so that he could look down on her. ‘You have helped. More than you know.’ He kissed her again and she opened her legs, drawing them up and fastening them around his waist. She squeezed him, hard. ‘And that’s not going to make me change my mind,’ he said. He rolled off her and headed for the bathroom.

Cramer sat between Allan and Martin in the dining hall watching the Harrods video again. It was the tenth time they’d studied the footage. Cramer felt that he knew every second by heart, but he realised the importance of getting a feel for the killer, for the way he moved, the way he held himself. He’d spent countless days on surveillance operations in the border country watching and waiting for IRA terrorists, and on many occasions he’d been able to identify targets by the way they walked, the tilt of a head, the shrug of a shoulder. At a long distance bodies were often more distinctive than faces. The problem with the video was the faked limp. It affected everything about the man’s movement, and Cramer was starting to think that the video might actually prove counter-productive.

‘What do you think, Allan?’ Cramer asked. ‘Do you think you’d spot him in a crowd.’

Allan shrugged. ‘I’m getting a feel for his shape. The problem is that he can change that with padding.’

‘Or dieting,’ said Martin, who was munching his way through a stack of ham and pickle sandwiches that Mrs Elliott had prepared earlier.

‘Yeah. I think you were right when you said that all we know is that he’s white and right-handed.’

‘Could be ambidextrous,’ said Martin, reaching for another sandwich.

‘Terrific,’ said Cramer.

‘I’ll tell you something, Mike,’ said Allan, rewinding the tape to the beginning again. ‘The guy actually looks a bit like you.’

‘What?’ exclaimed Cramer, then he saw that Allan was grinning and he faked a punch to his chin. Allan ducked and pressed the ‘play’ button and walked back to his seat as the screen flickered. Martin looked over his shoulder and the others turned to see what he was looking at. It was Su-ming. She was wearing blue jeans and a black pullover with the sleeves pulled up to her elbows. Cramer stood up and introduced her to Martin. She nodded a greeting but made no move to shake his hand.

‘Are you Chinese?’ Martin asked her.

‘No,’ she said, curtly, and turned away from him. ‘Have you eaten?’ she asked Cramer. He shook his head. ‘I shall prepare you something,’ she said and headed towards the kitchen.

Outside they heard the helicopter turbine start up. ‘The profiler,’ said Cramer as Allan threw him a questioning look.

‘He didn’t hang around for long.’

‘There wasn’t much for him to say. Long on opinions, short on facts.’

‘Yeah?’

‘Yeah. About as much use as one of those psychics that reckon they can tell the police where the bodies are buried by using a pendulum or a crystal ball.’

Allan helped himself to one of Martin’s sandwiches. ‘Pity. I was hoping he might come up with a few specifics.’

‘The man we’re looking for was probably abused as a child,’ said Cramer.

Martin grinned. ‘Great. We’ll be on the look-out for a bedwetter, then.’ One of the guards came out of the kitchen carrying a fresh pot of coffee. Martin drained his cup. ‘Just in time,’ he said.

Cramer watched the killer on the screen walk up to the second bodyguard. Two shots to the chest. Cramer wondered why it was only the targets who were shot in the face. Jackman’s explanation that it was his signature seemed too glib. He looked up to see the man with the coffee pot walking behind the television. Cramer had last seen him standing guard at the entrance to the school. He was in his mid-twenties, broad-shouldered and narrow-waisted, the build of a ballet dancer. Cramer felt himself tense inside. There was something about the way the man was holding the coffee pot that didn’t look right, as if he was trying to keep it away from his body. It might simply have been that he was scared of spilling the hot liquid, but then he saw the man’s eyes flick in his direction and he knew that he wasn’t wrong. Cramer pushed Allan to the side as he leapt to his feet, his right hand reaching inside his sleeve for the stiletto.

The man dropped the coffee pot and turned towards Cramer. His mouth opened in surprise when he saw that Cramer was already pulling out the knife. As the stiletto emerged from Cramer’s sleeve, he kept moving, keeping the momentum going, his left hand outstretched, his eyes focused on the man’s throat. The coffee pot smashed onto the floor. The scalding liquid splashed Cramer’s trousers but he felt nothing, he was totally focused on the man in front of him. The man’s right hand had disappeared inside his leather jacket but Cramer was already close enough to slap his hand against the man’s chest and jam the stiletto up under his chin, hard enough to indent the flesh but not hard enough to draw blood. The man glared at him, his eyes wide and fearful, his mouth open. ‘Gotcha!’ screamed Cramer.

‘Yes!’ shouted Martin, leaping to his feet and punching the air.

Allan’s praise was more muted; he stood up and patted Cramer on the back. ‘Well done, Mike,’ he said.

Cramer stepped away and slid the stiletto into its sheath. The man in the leather jacket rubbed his chin and smiled ruefully. ‘I almost got you,’ he said.

‘Almost is what it’s all about,’ said Cramer, sitting down again. His heart was racing and he took several deep breaths to calm himself down. He looked up to see Su-ming standing at the kitchen door, a large bowl in her hands, a look of horror on her face. He realised she must have seen the attack. Before he could explain what had happened, she disappeared back into the kitchen.

Allan stood looking down at Cramer. ‘Now we’re getting there, Mike. We’re definitely getting there. One thing, though. Why did you use the knife, why didn’t you go for the gun? You had time.’

Cramer grinned. ‘Jesus, Allan, won’t you ever be satisfied?’

Allan shook his head. ‘Not until this is over.’

Cramer stood up and went into the kitchen. Su-ming was chopping asparagus spears but she stopped when she saw Cramer. ‘We were practising,’ he said before she could speak. ‘We don’t know when or how he’s going to strike, so Allan is testing me all the time.’

‘You’re going to kill him, aren’t you?’

‘The man has been paid to kill your boss,’ said Cramer. ‘He’s an assassin. A hired killer. He’s paid to kill people, we can’t just pull out a warrant card and tell him he’s under arrest.’

‘You scared me,’ she said, avoiding his eyes. ‘Not just what you did, but the way you did it. You were like a machine. A killing machine. There was a blood lust in your eyes.’

‘I was in control, Su-ming. That’s what Allan is doing, he’s training me to react instinctively. I won’t have time to think, it’ll be him or me.’

Su-ming put down the knife and folded her arms across her chest as if hugging herself. She looked absurdly young in the oversize pullover. ‘You’ve killed before, haven’t you?’ she asked.

‘Yes. Several times.’

‘And that doesn’t worry you?’