Stephen Leather - The Double Tap

Lynch turned around to find Marie standing behind him. He raised an eyebrow. ‘Not worried that I’d do a runner, were you?’

Marie held up the keys to the Golf and jangled them. ‘Not really,’ she said. She tossed the keys to him. ‘So, what did he say?’

Lynch gave her the name and address. ‘Unusual name,’ she said. ‘What do we do now?’

‘Back to London.’

‘Isn’t that dangerous? Bearing in mind what’s back there.’

Lynch weighed the keys in the palm of his hand. ‘We could leave the Golf here and rent another car. So long as we keep away from your house, we should be okay.’

‘But they’ll be looking for you, right?’

‘Let’s check the papers and find out.’ They went over to the newsagent’s in the departures terminal and bought The Times , the Daily Telegraph and the Independent , and most of the tabloids. Only the broadsheets carried the story of Foley’s body being discovered in the boot of the Sierra, and none had connected it with the deaths of the IRA men in Maida Vale. Lynch frowned as he read the story in the Telegraph . The police were sure to have dusted the car for prints, and unless the technicians had been totally incompetent, they wouldn’t have had too much trouble getting a match.

‘No mention of you,’ said Marie.

‘Aye, but it could be a trap. It could be they want me to think it’s safe.’ He made a clicking sound with his tongue, then quickly came to a decision. ‘What the hell, I’m no worse off in London. And the longer we leave it, the more likely it is that Cramer’ll disappear again. Come on, let’s go.’

‘Why don’t we fly back?’

‘Because Special Branch cover all the airports as a matter of course. You don’t always see them, but they’re there, checking all arrivals. Besides, we’d never be able to get the gun through the metal detectors. No, we’re better off driving.’

‘Do you want me to do it in my name?’ she asked.

‘No, love. I’ve got a licence in another name, and a credit card.’ Lynch thought it better not to mention that the licence and credit card had belonged to Sean O’Ryan, one of the men he’d killed in Maida Vale.

The Lear jet touched down gently, its tyres kissing the tarmac so softly that Cramer couldn’t even discern the point at which they made contact with the ground. ‘Smooth,’ said Allan appreciatively. ‘These guys know what they’re doing.’ He unclipped his seatbelt as the jet taxied to its parking space, guided by a man in blue overalls. A large Mercedes pulled up in the distance. It appeared to be a twin of the one they’d left behind in Swansea. The man in overalls guided the Lear to a halt fifty yards from the Mercedes.

‘Okay?’ Allan asked Cramer.

‘Sure,’ said Cramer.

‘From this point on, you don’t relax, you don’t let your guard down for one second, you don’t trust anyone.’ He loomed over Cramer and put his hands on Cramer’s shoulders, staring straight into his eyes like a hypnotist attempting to induce a trance. ‘You can do it, Mike. You can take anything that this guy throws at you. You’re better than he is. Okay?’

‘Okay,’ Cramer repeated.

‘Don’t let me down. If you let this guy beat you, I’ll be mightily pissed off at you. Right?’ Allan straightened up. ‘Okay, Martin, check out the vehicle and then we’ll be off.’

The pilot who’d given them the abbreviated safety briefing stepped out of the cockpit and opened the door. A mobile ladder was pushed up against the fuselage and the pilot signalled that Martin could go down. Cramer asked Su-ming for a look at the itinerary and she handed it to him. According to the typewritten schedule, they were heading for Vander Mayer’s flat in Chelsea Harbour, and the afternoon was to be spent in his Kensington office. Cramer looked out of the window. Martin had opened the bonnet and was giving the engine compartment the once over. ‘Just to remind you, the Merc’s windows are bullet-proof and the side panels are reinforced,’ said Allan. ‘In the car you’re completely safe, but you’re vulnerable getting in and out.’

Cramer stood up and stretched. He took several deep breaths. ‘I’m ready,’ he said.

Martin reappeared. He’d produced a peaked chauffeur’s cap from somewhere and was wearing it sergeant-major style with the peak halfway down his nose. He gave Allan a thumbs-up. They headed down the steps. Martin held the rear door open for Cramer and Su-ming and closed it behind them. Once again Cramer felt as if he’d been wrapped in a luxurious cocoon. He wondered what it must be like to spend one’s life insulated from the dirt and discomfort of the real world. The car alone would have taken Cramer several years’ salary when he was a sergeant in the SAS, and he could only imagine how many millions of pounds the jet had cost.

‘Okay if I put the radio on?’ Martin asked.

‘Sure,’ said Cramer.

Martin flicked through the channels and found an all-news station. They listened as they drove into central London, but there was little to hold Cramer’s attention: the Prime Minister had announced a minor reshuffle of his Cabinet, the police were still searching for a man who had killed three and injured one in a Maida Vale shooting, England were losing at cricket. Cramer had long since given up reading newspapers, watching television or listening to the radio. There was nothing happening in the world that he was the least bit interested in any more. He sat back in the leather seat and closed his eyes. He was dog tired. The previous night he’d slept fitfully and when he did sleep he’d had a succession of nightmares. In most of them he was being chased by a shadowy figure with a gun and it didn’t take a psychiatrist to tell him what was troubling him. At first light he’d climbed out of bed, wrapped a bath towel around himself and sat by the window, going over the assassination files for a final time. One shot to the face, one to the chest. Bang bang. Was that going to be his own fate? Did the victims hear the second shot, or were they already dead by the time the bullet blasted into their chests? Cramer’s interest was more than academic; he knew there was an even chance that he would end up as the subject of another file, and that the Colonel would pass it on to the next man selected to go up against the assassin. Cramer could imagine the conversation. ‘The last killing was one of ours. Name of Cramer. Former SAS, but he’d let himself go. He’d lost his edge. Hopefully you’ll do better.’ Cramer shuddered.

‘Are you cold?’ asked Su-ming.

Cramer opened his eyes. She was looking at him, clearly concerned. ‘Someone just walked over my grave, that’s all.’

‘You didn’t eat today, did you?’

‘I wasn’t hungry.’

‘I will cook for you when we get to the apartment.’

Cramer rubbed his face and yawned. ‘Where do you call home?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I’ve never heard you refer to anywhere as home.’

‘We have homes all over the world.’

‘Houses. Apartments. Not homes.’

She studied him as she considered what he’d said. ‘You’re right,’ she said eventually. ‘I suppose I don’t really have a home. What about you?’

Cramer interlinked his fingers and cracked his knuckles. It had been a long time since Cramer had ever thought of anywhere as home. The regiment, maybe. That had been a home, even though he was constantly on the move. Home to Cramer wasn’t somewhere to hang his clothes, it was a sense of belonging. And since he’d been forced to leave the SAS, he had never felt that he belonged anywhere. ‘I guess I’m the same,’ he said. ‘Home is where the heart is, so they say.’

‘They?’ she asked. ‘Who’s they?’