‘How long will it take?’ Lynch asked.
‘Depends,’ said McDonough. He ran his finger around the rim of his glass, then licked it. ‘There are plenty of reasons why Dublin ATC might request information on a flight to the mainland. If I meet any sort of resistance I’ll back off immediately, but I don’t think there’ll be a problem. I didn’t want to try without checking with you first.’
‘Good man,’ said Lynch. ‘I’ll call you tomorrow to see how you got on.’ He drained his glass and stood up. He shook McDonough’s hand firmly. ‘Keep the paper, it’s a bit right-wing for my taste.’ Lynch left the pub and walked through Temple Bar looking for a call box. A teenager in blue denim dungarees was playing a saxophone, bent almost double at the waist as he put his heart and soul into it, the mournful notes echoing off the narrow alley where he was standing with his case open at his feet. Lynch dropped a couple of coins into the case as he went by but the guy had his eyes closed and showed no reaction. It seemed that every second building in Temple Bar was being renovated by entrepreneurs attracted by the city council’s tax breaks. Until recently the area, to the south of the River Liffey, had been the rundown haunt of drug addicts, muggers and prostitutes, but it was gradually being turned into an entertainment centre along the lines of London’s Covent Garden with restaurants, bars and speciality shops. He found a call box and McCormack answered on the third ring. ‘Thomas? It’s me.’ Lynch was as reluctant to use names on an open line south of the border as he was in Belfast.
‘Where the fuck have you been?’
Lynch frowned. It wasn’t like McCormack to use profanity, even under stress. ‘I’m here. In Dublin.’
‘You’ve heard what happened?’
‘Yeah.’
‘We need to meet. Now.’
‘Yeah. I know.’
‘Where are you?’
‘Temple Bar.’
‘I’ll pick you up in thirty minutes. College Green, in front of the Bank of Ireland.’
‘I’ll be there.’ The line clicked in his ear. Lynch tapped the receiver against the side of his head. McCormack was unhappy. Very unhappy.
The Colonel settled back in his chair and put his stick on the desk. Cramer stood at the French windows, looking out over the lawn towards the main gate where two men in jeans and sports jackets were standing, their backs to the building. Cramer had seen at least twelve different guards over the past few days, all of them members of 22 SAS. It was ironic, when he’d most need protection, when he was out in the real world taking the target’s place, he’d be more or less on his own. A Judas Goat. Bait. Waiting for the assassin to strike.
The Colonel’s voice jarred him out of his reverie. ‘You’ve read all the files in detail?’
Cramer turned to face him. ‘Yes. All of them.’
‘So you know what you’ll be up against? He’s never failed. Never been caught. Never pulls his gun until he’s up close. What do you think your chances are, Joker?’
Cramer tilted his head to the side. ‘Long term, nil.’
The Colonel cleared his throat as if something there was irritating him. ‘I meant your chances of taking him out.’
Cramer shrugged. He was wearing a denim shirt and black Levi jeans. The suits, even though they were made-to-measure, always felt confining and he took every opportunity to change out of them. ‘If I can get him in my sights I think I’ve a good chance.’ He folded his arms across his chest. ‘The problem is, I can’t pull the gun out until I’m sure it’s him. And I won’t be sure until he’s pointing his gun at me.’
The Colonel studied Cramer with unblinking brown eyes. ‘And how do you feel about that?’
‘Come on, Colonel, we both know why I’m doing this. Who shoots who first doesn’t really matter, does it?’
‘I’m not sending you on a suicide mission, Joker.’
Cramer returned the Colonel’s stare. ‘Aren’t you?’
The two men looked at each other in silence. It was the Colonel who spoke first. ‘And you’re still prepared to go ahead?’
‘That’s why I’m here.’
The Colonel tapped his fingers on the desk. ‘The next stage is to take photographs of you, and those will be sent to the FBI in Miami along with details of the target’s movements. From there they’ll be forwarded to Zurich. Once the contract is placed with Zurich, there’s no going back. You understand that, Joker? The way this killer works, there’s no further contact once the contract has been placed.’
‘Just do what you have to, Colonel.’
The Colonel nodded slowly. ‘I will.’
‘So when do I leave here?’ Cramer sat down and crossed his legs at the ankles.
‘We’ve still got some work to do,’ said the Colonel.
‘You haven’t yet explained what it is that I’ll be doing. And what’s happening to the guy I’m replacing?’
‘I wanted to be sure that you were committed to the operation, first.’ The Colonel picked up a thin blue file and passed it across the desk. ‘This is the target. Andrew Vander Mayer. A multi-millionaire, self-made.’
Cramer opened the file. There were only two sheets of paper inside. ‘This is it?’
‘That’s it. There’s very little about Vander Mayer in the public domain. And there are no photographs. That’s in our favour. No matter how much research the assassin does, he won’t get more than you have there.’
‘And who is it who wants him dead?’
‘A former business partner, a lawyer by the name of Frank Discenza.’
Cramer frowned. ‘Italian? Why didn’t he get the Mafia to do the hit?’
The Colonel smiled. ‘Not all Italians are connected to the Mafia, Joker. And the Mafia can be a double-edged sword. If they do something for you, eventually they’ll come looking for the favour to be repaid. Our man works only for cash.’
‘And how did you know this Discenza was planning to have Vander Mayer hit?’
‘The IRS and the FBI mounted a joint surveillance operation on Discenza earlier this year and they picked up the Zurich connection on one of their phone taps. Discenza was being circumspect, but one of the FBI agents heard enough to realise what was going on.’
‘Who was Discenza calling?’
‘A banker in Zurich. A very small bank, private clients only, just a brass plate on a wall and a couple of telephones. The banker’s just a middle man, a conduit. The client contacts the banker, the banker lodges the fee and passes on the details. It’s a damn near perfect system.’
‘And Discenza is cooperating?’
‘He’s got no choice. The FBI have him for conspiracy to commit murder, the IRS have him for major tax evasion. He was facing a long jail sentence on both counts, so yes, he’s cooperating.’
Cramer frowned. ‘But what exactly am I supposed to do?’
‘You live Vander Mayer’s life. You visit his homes, you travel in his personal jet.’
Cramer shook his head. ‘Live his life? How will I know what to do? Where to go?’
‘You’ll have help. He has a personal assistant who travels everywhere with him and she’ll be with you every step of the way. Vander Mayer will be on his yacht, he’ll effectively run his business from there, but he’ll act as if he’s where you are. If you’re in his London flat, he’ll say he’s calling from London, and so on.’
Cramer studied the sheets. ‘An arms dealer? He’s an arms dealer?’
‘More of a middle man than an actual dealer. You don’t go to Andrew Vander Mayer if you want to buy a couple of dozen Kalashnikovs. But if you want to equip your air force with the latest air-to-air missiles and your country is on the UN blacklist, then he’s your man.’
‘I don’t know anything about arms dealing.’
‘You don’t have to,’ said the Colonel. ‘You won’t be in on any business meetings, Vander Mayer will handle it all from his yacht. His assistant will deal with any small things that crop up.’
The second sheet in the file contained a list of dates and
places. ‘This is my itinerary?’ asked Cramer. The Colonel nodded. ‘I’m getting around. London. New York. Hong Kong. Paris. St Petersburg.’
‘That’s the sort of life that Vander Mayer lives.’
Cramer looked up from the itinerary. ‘This is for the next two weeks.’
‘We don’t know how long it’ll be before the killer makes his move. Hopefully it’ll be sooner rather than later.’
‘Hopefully,’ Cramer repeated quietly. His right hand moved towards his stomach as if it had a mind of its own and Cramer stopped it. He scratched his ear instead. The fact that the cancer was gradually eating him away was never far from his thoughts, even when the pain had retreated to little more than a dull ache. Four weeks. It was a long time when you were waiting to die.
‘You’re all right with that?’ asked the Colonel.
‘Fine.’
The Colonel opened a drawer and took out a blue American passport. He held it out. ‘You’ll be needing this when you leave the country.’
Cramer took the passport. It was his photograph, but the name inside was Andrew Vander Mayer.
‘It’s genuine, you won’t have any problems with it,’ said the Colonel. ‘We’ve got the full cooperation of the US State Department.’ He tossed over three more passports of various colours: one was a European-style British passport, another was Uruguayan, a third was Israeli. Cramer frowned. ‘He’s Jewish?’
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 sai
d.’
‘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.
‘I just wanted to find out where the helicopter went.’
‘And then?’
‘Then I was going to tell you I knew where Cramer was, and ask your permission to go after him.’ McCormack looked sideways at Lynch, peering over the top of his horn-rimmed spectacles like a concerned uncle. The appearance was deceptive, Lynch knew. There was nothing avuncular about Thomas McCormack.
‘And because you wanted to drive down to Dublin, O’Riordan only had the one vehicle? The truck?’
‘I suppose so. Yes.’
McCormack put the car into third gear for only the second time since Lynch had climbed into the BMW. Lynch licked his lips. He said nothing. There was nothing he could say. ‘So, because you decided to ignore what I said about chasing Cramer, we lost a stock of high grade munitions, two innocent bystanders have died, we’re set to lose God alone knows how much money from the States, and the media north and south of the border is going to be baying for our blood. Is that a fair summary of the situation, would you say?’
The Double Tap (Stephen Leather Thrillers) Page 12
