‘This is the Egyptian Hall,’ said the Colonel as the screen flickered again. The killer walked by a life-size copy of the Rosetta stone and past a display of small statues. Cramer put down his fork. There was no doubt about it, the man was limping. Again it was impossible to identify the man, his head was turned away from the security camera. As he passed out of the camera’s field the screen flickered and was replaced by a shot of the stationery department.
‘He’s really camera-shy, isn’t he?’ mused Martin as he assembled another bacon and sausage sandwich. No one seemed to be paying attention to the killer as he walked purposefully to a stock room door, even though he was still holding the silenced gun. He opened the door and disappeared behind it and the screen flickered once more.
The next shot was of the underground tunnel. This time the killer was wearing a warehouseman’s coat and there was no sign of his gun. He walked past two workmen but they ignored him. The limp seemed to be less pronounced, Cramer noticed.
The final section of the video showed a young security guard on the telephone. The guard looked to his left, opened his mouth to speak and then fell back, blood pouring from his throat. The killer appeared briefly at the bottom left of the screen, revealing nothing more than the back of his head and his shoulders. The Colonel used the remote control to switch off the television set. ‘That’s the only time our man has been captured on film,’ he said. ‘I want you all to play it as many times as it takes until you get a feel for the way he moves.’
‘The limp,’ said Allan. ‘He was faking it?’
The Colonel nodded. ‘We had an orthopaedic surgeon take a look at it and he says it’s not genuine. It’s redirection. You spend so much time looking at the limp that you’re not aware of his other characteristics.’
‘He knew where all the security cameras were,’ Cramer pointed out. ‘He must have staked the store out first.’
‘Agreed,’ said the Colonel, ‘but the security tapes are wiped regularly. We have tapes for the forty-eight hours prior to the assassination and we’ve gone through them, but there’s no sign of him.’
‘Well, we know he’s white and we know he’s right-handed,’ said Martin. ‘And he’s cool.’
‘Cool? He’s ice,’ said Allan. ‘There’s no nervousness about him, no tension. It’s like he’s on a Sunday afternoon stroll in the park. I’ve never seen anything like it. He takes out three bodyguards and his target and then he walks away without even looking back.’
‘It’s like he doesn’t care,’ said Cramer.
Martin shook his head. ‘No, he’s a real pro. He knows that hurrying or looking around will just draw attention to him.’
Allan put a large hand on Cramer’s shoulder. ‘Ready, Mike?’
Cramer drained his mug and stood up. The Colonel raised an eyebrow at Cramer’s unfinished breakfast but said nothing.
‘We’ll run through some moves in the gymnasium,’ said Allan. Cramer walked out of the dining hall with Allan and Martin either side. The suit felt like a straitjacket, even though it was a perfect fit. He would have much preferred to have been wearing a bomber jacket and jeans, but he realised how important it was to dress the part. It was camouflage, as vital to the role he was playing as the green and brown fatigues he’d worn in the Falklands and in the border country of Northern Ireland. He reached inside his jacket and touched the butt of his PPK as if to reassure himself it was still there.
Their footsteps echoed off the tiled walls of the corridor as they headed towards the gymnasium. Martin pushed open the door and stood to the side to allow Cramer in first. ‘Cheers,’ said Cramer. He felt rather than heard the man behind the door, and as he turned his right hand reached for the PPK. His fingers were still inches from the butt when the first shot rang out, and he felt the heat from the explosion on his cheek. He carried on turning and he saw his assailant, a blond-haired man in his late twenties holding a Smith & Wesson. The second shot rang out, aimed at Cramer’s chest.
Cramer whirled around and pointed his finger at Allan. ‘What the hell are you playing at?’ he shouted.
‘We’re not playing at anything, Mike,’ said Allan calmly. ‘This isn’t a game. There’s no bell between rounds. The moment you accepted this job, your life was at risk. You can’t afford to let your guard down. Ever.’
Cramer calmed himself. He took a deep breath and nodded. He could hear his pulse pounding in his veins and his fists were clenched tight. He forced himself to relax. He knew that Allan was right, he was just annoyed at his own stupidity. Martin should have gone into the room first, to check that it was clear, but from the way he was grinning it looked as if he’d deliberately set him up. Cramer nodded. ‘Okay, Allan. You made your point.’
Allan slapped Cramer on the back. The man who’d shot Cramer with blanks was already walking back into the gymnasium. Three others were standing by the wall bars, dressed casually and wearing shoulder holsters. ‘You’ll be okay, Mike,’ said Allan. ‘I just want to make sure you get through this in one piece.’
Cramer’s ears were still ringing from the shots and he massaged his temples. ‘I know, Allan. I know. Let’s get on with it.’
‘I’ve got something I’d like to show you,’ said Allan. ‘You and the guys come at me and Martin, you decide who’s going to be the trigger man.’
Cramer grinned. It would be nice to be on the winning side for once. He went over to the four men at the far side of the gymnasium and explained what they were to do.
‘Ready?’ called Allan.
Cramer gave him a thumbs-up. Martin stood by Allan’s side and together they began to walk slowly across the wooden floor. Cramer and the four men fanned out, all keeping their hands swinging freely by their sides. One of them pretended to sneeze and Martin tensed as the man’s hands went up to cup his nose. Allan straightened his tie with his right hand, his eyes hard and watchful. Cramer waited until he was six feet away from Allan before pulling out his PPK. Allan reacted immediately, his right hand slipping inside his left sleeve and reappearing with a stiletto. He stepped forward, thrusting the knife upward towards Cramer’s chin. Cramer’s finger tightened on the trigger but he was too late, Allan’s left hand had whipped up, knocking Cramer’s arm to the side in a blur of blue blazer. The stiletto pricked Cramer’s neck. Allan froze, holding Cramer’s stare. He smiled. ‘What do you think?’ He removed the stiletto and handed the weapon to Cramer.
Cramer examined it, frowning. The spike wasn’t made of metal but of black plastic-like material. ‘You knew I’d be the one firing, didn’t you?’ he said.
Allan shrugged. ‘I guessed you’d want a crack at me, but it wouldn’t have made any difference. As long as I see you going for your gun, I should be able to get the knife out first.’ He held out his left arm and pulled back the sleeve. There was a leather sheath strapped to his forearm over his shirt. ‘With your hands down by your sides, it’s always going to be quicker to draw the knife than to pull a gun. But you’re going to have to move forward, towards the killer. Towards the gun.’
‘What’s it made of?’ Cramer asked.
‘It’s the latest thing from the States,’ said Allan. ‘I got a sample from a friend in Delta Force. It’s a composite carbon fibre mixture, a spin-off from the space programme, very lightweight, practically unbreakable and never loses its edge.’ He grinned. ‘You can even shave with it. The advantage from your point of view is that it’s virtually impossible to detect.’
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 th
rough 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.’
Jackman steepled his fingers under his chin and studied Cramer. ‘And I stand by that.’
‘That has to be guesswork, right?’
‘What else aren’t you happy with?’ asked Jackman, ignoring Cramer’s question.
‘You say he has a military background, and again I’d say that would be a given. But you say he left and had trouble keeping a job afterwards. I’d have thought that someone with army training, someone with above-average intelligence, wouldn’t have a problem finding and keeping a job.’
‘Like yourself?’ said Jackman quietly. Cramer held the profiler’s look for a few seconds. Jackman smiled tightly. ‘Anything else?’
‘Yeah. What makes you think he lost his driving licence?’
The Colonel made a soft snorting sound as if he was suppressing a laugh, but Jackman kept his eyes on Cramer. Jackman pushed his spectacles higher up his nose with his forefinger. ‘I feel like Sherlock Holmes about to explain himself to Dr Watson. But it won’t be the f
irst time.’ He uncrossed and recrossed his legs, taking care to adjust his creases again. ‘How much do you know about profiling?’
‘I saw Silence of the Lambs.’
Jackman gave Cramer another tight smile. ‘Okay, I can see how an outsider would think that what I do is guesswork, but you’ve got to remember that I’ve got thousands of case histories to draw on, data on murderers and their victims from all around the world. Those cases allow me and profilers like me to draw certain conclusions, to assign certain characteristics to killers. In about five per cent of the cases dealt with by FBI profilers, the profiles lead directly to the arrest of the perpetrator. In another ten per cent of cases, the perpetrator is arrested as a result of the investigation being refocused following the profile. And in almost all cases, when a successful conviction is made, the criminal closely matches the profile. Profiling works, Mike, there’s no doubt about that.’
Jackman rubbed his hands together, making a soft whispering sound. His eyes were fixed on Cramer’s with almost missionary zeal. ‘Leaving aside the specifics of the man we’re looking for in this case, it’s a general rule that serial killers are white and male. That holds true almost without exception, so even if we didn’t have witnesses I’d be assuming that our killer fits those two characteristics.’
‘So you’re assuming that a paid assassin fits the same criteria as a serial killer?’ asked Cramer. ‘I thought serial killers were all crazy.’
Jackman shook his head. ‘It’s a common misconception,’ he said. ‘In fact, only two per cent of serial killers are ever classified as insane. My research leads me to believe that there is a valid comparison to be made between a serial killer and the man we’re looking for. He kills on a regular basis, the killings appear to be happening at decreasing intervals, and he has a consistent method of killing. These are all characteristics of an organised serial killer.’
The Double Tap (Stephen Leather Thrillers) Page 22
