The Double Tap mc-2

by Stephen Leather

  ‘Colonel?’ The accent was American.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘It’s Dan.’

  Dan Greenberg, the Colonel’s liaison in the FBI headquarters in Washington. ‘What’s the problem, Dan?’ There was no mistaking the tension in Greenberg’s voice.

  ‘Discenza’s dead.’

  ‘I suppose it’s too much to hope that it was natural causes.’

  ‘It was a hit. Poison.’

  The Colonel slumped back in his chair. ‘That’s the last thing I want to hear right now, Dan.’

  ‘Tell me about it. Heads are rolling as we speak.’

  The Colonel closed his eyes and rubbed the bridge of his nose. If Greenberg had been one of his own men, the Colonel would have ripped into him. There was no excuse for losing a man in protective custody. None. And Discenza had been Greenberg’s responsibility: if anyone’s head was going to roll, it should have been his. ‘Do we know who it was?’

  ‘White male, early thirties, about six feet tall, brown eyes. Got in as a waiter. Had the right ID, Discenza had just ordered room service. .’

  ‘And the real waiter turned up dead?’ The Colonel opened his eyes again. He looked out of the window at the Conrad Hotel to his right. The Colonel was sitting in a disused apartment which had been requisitioned because of its proximity to the tower block which housed the Vander Mayer apartment. In an adjoining room sat two SAS troopers in leather jackets and jeans, drinking coffee and watching television with the sound turned down. Another trooper was sitting at the stern of a large motor yacht moored in the marina below. The trooper had dressed for the part in a white turtleneck sweater and blue jeans and was drinking from a can.

  ‘In a storeroom. Garrotted.’

  ‘How many of your men saw the killer?’

  ‘Two.’

  ‘And that’s the only description you have?’

  ‘He was wearing a false moustache and a wig,’ said Greenberg defensively. ‘We’re not even sure about the eye colour. One of our guys thought he might be Mexican but that was probably the moustache. Do you think it was our man?’

  ‘How close did he get to Discenza?’

  ‘He stood right next to him. Why?’

  ‘Because if he was that close and it was our killer, he’d have used a gun. A shot to the face, a shot to the heart. Business as usual. Did anyone else get hurt?’

  ‘Nah. He pushed in the trolley, opened a couple of beers, and left. Two minutes later Discenza was dead. We’ll have the poison identified by tomorrow.’

  ‘It doesn’t sound like the man we’re looking for,’ said the Colonel. ‘As far as we know, he’s never used poison.’

  ‘You know what it means if it was,’ said Greenberg.

  ‘Yes, Dan. I know what it means.’ If the assassin had discovered that Discenza had betrayed him, then the operation was blown. ‘Has Discenza got any other enemies?’

  ‘Like a dog’s got fleas. He’s crossed a lot of heavy guys in Miami.’

  ‘The sort of people who’d be prepared to kill a man in protective custody?’

  ‘It’s possible.’

  ‘Possible or probable?’

  There was a long silence, then Greenberg exhaled. ‘I’m not sure what it is you want me to say,’ he said. ‘We fucked up. I don’t know who knocked off Discenza. It could have been the killer, it could have been someone hired by people in Miami, hell, it could even be someone from out of town. And the way things are going I don’t think we’re going to be any the wiser, not with the description we’ve got. It’s got to be your call. If you want to cancel the operation, we’ll understand.’

  The Colonel tapped the receiver against his ear. ‘No, we go ahead,’ he said. ‘As things stand, we put Discenza’s death down to bad timing. If our killer doesn’t attempt to carry out the Vander Mayer contract within two weeks, we’ll know then that he’s onto us.’

  ‘Agreed,’ said Greenberg.

  ‘Can you keep a lid on the situation there, at least for two weeks?’

  ‘No problem,’ said Greenberg. ‘We’re doing the autopsy in-house and no one else knows that Discenza’s dead.’

  ‘Good,’ said the Colonel. ‘I don’t want to be accused of trying to teach my grandmother to suck eggs, but you might want to look into how the killer discovered Discenza’s location.’

  ‘It’s been taken care of,’ said Greenberg. ‘If I get anything, you’ll be the first to know. Oh yeah, by the way, I got our guys to cross-check with previous killings, to see if the same method had been used before the current rash of killings. The guys at Quantico had already done it, but I did a check internally, just to be one hundred per cent sure.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘And it’s just like I said, there’s no match. Not recently, anyway. There was one guy about ten years back, he used to kill his victims with a shot to the head and one to the heart, but he’s in a maximum security prison. And he’s a psycho, he used to torture his victims with a wire coat hanger. There’s no way he’s our man. He’s been well-documented by the profiling boys.’

  ‘Any chance of you sending me the file?’

  ‘Sure, I’ll have his details faxed to you, but you’ll be wasting your time. You could ask Jackman, I think he was with the Bureau at the time they were interviewing him. How’s Jackman getting on?’

  ‘He said he was off to South Africa to investigate the assassination there. He gave us a briefing before he went.’

  ‘Was he much help?’

  ‘Frankly, not really. What he gave us was academically interesting, but what we need is a description rather than a psychological profile.’

  ‘Yeah, I know what you mean. But I bet you a month’s pay, when we get the guy, we’ll find that he matches Jackman’s profile exactly. He’s one of the best. The boys at Quantico really like him. We’re lucky to have him on the case.’

  ‘Well I’m sure that his bill will reflect his ability,’ said the Colonel dryly.

  ‘It’s not the money,’ said Greenberg. ‘Jackman approached us offering to help, we didn’t go after him. He’s working on a book about serial killers and I think he reckons the publicity will get him onto the bestseller list. Then there’s his professional pride. He wants to be the best, or at least to be acknowledged as the best. You know the type. It’s like he’s got something to prove.’

  ‘Yes, I know the type.’ The SAS was full of such men, men who were driven to prove that they were the best. Mike Cramer had been such a man, willing to push himself beyond the limits of normal human endurance for no other reason than to demonstrate that he could. It wasn’t only Cramer’s terminal condition which had led him to accept the mission that the Colonel had offered. Cramer’s willingness to go up against the killer was also a result of his desire to demonstrate that he was as good as ever, a bid to recapture his glory days. Yes, Cramer and Jackman had much in common, though Cramer’s quest was likely to result in his own death while Jackman was only risking his professional reputation.

  The Colonel stared at his chess computer as he replaced the receiver. The cursed machine had forced him into a corner, and there was nothing that the Colonel hated more than to have his options decided for him. He stared balefully at the pieces and stroked the side of his often-broken nose. He was no longer enjoying the game. It had stopped being fun, it was no longer even an intellectual challenge. Now it was war.

  The boy stared at the television with unseeing eyes. It was some detective show set in San Francisco but he wasn’t really watching. He kept on looking up at the ceiling, expecting to hear the thud of the walking stick on the bedroom floor at any minute. He stood up and paced around the room, his mind in turmoil. On the television, the two cops arrested a black guy, threw him against the car and put handcuffs on him.

  He went into the hall and listened, but all he could hear was his own breathing. He went back into the living room and looked at the brass clock on the mantelpiece. It was half past four. His father wouldn’t be home for another two hours. The boy swall
owed. He looked up at the ceiling again, then back at the clock. He stood stock still for a full five minutes, then tiptoed upstairs and knocked timidly on the door to his mother’s bedroom. There was no reply. He pressed his ear against the door and listened, his brow creased into a frown. He could hear his mother moaning. Slowly, as if afraid it would bite, he reached for the doorknob and turned it.

  His mother was lying diagonally across the bed, one arm draped across the pillows, the other across her stomach. Her mouth was wide open and frothy, white fluid was trickling between her lips and dribbling onto the sheets. As the boy watched, horrified, she coughed and turned her head to the side. Her chest was heaving and she arched her back as if she was being electrocuted. Her hands were clenching and unclenching seemingly with a life of their own. The medicine bottle lay next to her. It was empty.

  The boy walked over to the side of the bed and stood looking down on his mother. She began to mumble and he bent down to listen but the sounds that were coming from her mouth didn’t make any sense. She’d knocked one of her pillows onto the floor and the boy picked it up. It was stained with sick and saliva and spotted with blood. The boy clutched the pillow to his chest and closed his eyes, promising God that he’d do anything if only He’d spare his mother. He opened his eyes. The white stuff was coming from her nose. It was the milk, the boy realised. The milk he’d given her. He climbed up onto the bed and knelt over her, tears running down his cheeks. He kissed her on the forehead, lightly, then put the pillow over her face and pressed down with all his might.

  Martin was finishing a bacon sandwich when Allan walked into the kitchen. ‘Ready for the off?’ Allan asked, putting his shirt on over the top of his bullet-proof vest.

  Martin nodded and washed the sandwich down with several gulps of coffee. ‘I’ll get the Merc,’ he said, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. ‘How’s he doing?’

  Allan shrugged his massive shoulders. ‘He’s quiet, but he’s got a lot on his mind.’

  ‘It takes balls to be a sitting duck, all right.’ He picked up the car keys. ‘I’ll be outside.’

  Martin took the elevator down to the ground floor and walked across the lobby. He couldn’t be bothered with the lift down to the car park and took the stairs instead. The doorman on duty in the lower foyer nodded at Martin. ‘Looks like rain,’ said the doorman. Martin recognised him as Matt Richards, another of the SAS troopers who’d been at the school.

  ‘Yeah, forecast said it was going to piss down.’ Martin opened the door that led to the car park stairs. His footsteps echoed off the bare concrete walls as he headed downstairs.

  The Mercedes was parked at the far end of the car park in the middle of three bays that had been allocated to the Vander Mayer apartment. Before he opened the door, Martin used a small mirror to check underneath the vehicle and peered through the side windows to make sure that nothing was amiss inside. When he was satisfied that the car hadn’t been touched overnight, he opened the door electronically and slid in. His chauffeur’s hat was on the passenger seat and he put it on, then looked at himself in the same mirror he’d used to inspect the underside of the car. He stuck out his tongue at his reflection and then dropped the mirror into his pocket. ‘Hi ho, Silver, away,’ he muttered to himself and started the car. All he could hear through the costly German sound-proofing was a faint purr, and there was barely any vibration. It was a beautiful car, but it wouldn’t have been Martin’s choice, if he’d had the money. The Mercedes was a soft man’s car, built to insulate the occupants from the outside world. And it was a car designed not for driving, but to be driven in. He preferred something more aggressive, something with power, something that roared rather than purred. A Porsche, maybe, or an XJS.

  He put the Mercedes in gear and slowly reversed. He didn’t see the grey car until the last minute and he hit it side on, the bumper of the Mercedes crunching into the car’s rear door. ‘Where the hell did you come from?’ he cursed, glaring at the car in his rear-view mirror. He doubted if he’d done much damage to the Mercedes, it was a much heavier car than the one he’d hit. He twisted around in his seat. The driver of the other car climbed out of the far side. Martin smiled when he saw it was a woman, and a pretty one at that.

  ‘Women drivers,’ sighed Martin, putting the Mercedes into neutral and applying the handbrake. He got a side view of the woman as she walked around to the passenger side of her car. She was a brunette, attractive, with an aerobics figure. Mid to late twenties, and almost certainly out of Martin’s class. She put her hands on her hips and glared at the damage, then kicked the front wheel, hard. Martin smiled at her display of petulance, completely out of character with the designer clothes and Vogue make-up. He opened the door and climbed out. ‘Not too bad, is it?’ he asked.

  The girl turned to face him, smiling pleasantly. ‘Just perfect,’ she said.

  It was only when Martin felt the gun press into the small of his back that he remembered it was the same car that had been behind the Mercedes when they drove into Chelsea Harbour the previous evening.

  Cramer was staring out of the window when Su-ming walked into the sitting room. She was wearing a cream silk suit, the trousers loose and the jacket with a mandarin collar, and she was carrying a black leather handbag. ‘Good morning,’ she said.

  ‘Hi,’ said Cramer. ‘Did you finish your homework?’ She frowned, not understanding. ‘The paperwork,’ he explained. ‘Did you read it all?’

  ‘Ah. Yes. Eventually. Are we ready?’ She sounded curt and business-like, and Cramer wondered again if he’d imagined the stolen kiss.

  Allan came in from the kitchen. ‘The car should be downstairs,’ he said. ‘Let’s go.’

  They walked together to the elevator. Su-ming stayed two paces behind Cramer as if trying to distance herself from him. Allan pressed the elevator button and smiled at Cramer. ‘Sleep well?’

  Cramer made a so-so gesture with his hand. He’d hardly slept at all.

  Marie Hennessy wiped her hands on her skirt. They were damp with sweat and she couldn’t afford to have them slipping on the steering wheel. She smiled to herself as she realised how strange it was that her hands were so wet and yet her mouth was bone dry. She swallowed but the muscles in her throat didn’t seem to be working properly. Her hands began to tremble and she gripped the steering wheel tightly to stop the shaking. She was actually going to do it. She was going to go through with it. In a minute or two she was going to help kill the man who’d been responsible for the death of her parents. The anticipation was almost sexual. She’d waited so long for vengeance, and now Dermott Lynch was going to help her get it.

  She pressed down on the accelerator, gunning the engine to make sure that the Rover didn’t stall. The engine roared, echoing off the concrete walls of the subterranean car park, and she flinched as she realised that she risked drawing attention to herself. Soon, she thought. Soon it would all be over. All she had to do was to keep her nerve and to do exactly as Dermott had told her. She stared at the entrance to the apartment block, her heart racing. A figure appeared, walking through the double doors. It was the bodyguard, the one with the square jaw and the wide shoulders. Marie put the car in gear. It was time.

  The Colonel looked at his wristwatch. It was nine o’clock and according to the schedule they should just be leaving the apartment. On the windowsill stood a transceiver. It was switched on, but only static crackled from the loudspeaker. The Colonel had insisted on radio silence until the moment that the assassin made his move. One of the Colonel’s troopers came up behind him. ‘Coffee, boss?’ he said.

  ‘Thanks, Blackie,’ said the Colonel, taking the mug of black coffee. ‘Everything ready for New York?’

  ‘Kit’s all packed.’

  The Colonel tapped his stick on the bare floor. ‘Tell the lads to be nice to the Yanks when we get there. No cracks about friendly fire, you know how sensitive they can be.’

  The trooper grinned. ‘Sure, boss.’

  The Colonel turned back t
o the window and sipped his steaming coffee.

  It was a cold morning but Cramer was sweating in the cashmere overcoat. Su-ming was still following in his footsteps. He stopped and waited for her to catch up. ‘Are you okay?’ he asked.

  She jumped as if startled. ‘What?’

  ‘I asked if you were okay.’

  She shivered. ‘I’m fine.’

  ‘You looked miles away.’

  ‘I’m fine,’ she replied. This time there was a hard edge to her voice as if she resented his intrusion into her thoughts. ‘Where’s the car?’

  Cramer looked around. She was right. The Mercedes wasn’t outside. Allan was standing on the pavement, looking around and stamping his feet impatiently. ‘Stay where you are, Mr Vander Mayer,’ he said. Cramer backed into the foyer with Su-ming. The doorman looked up, then visibly relaxed as he saw who it was. ‘Okay,’ Allan called. ‘Here he comes.’

  Lynch edged the Mercedes out of its parking space. Ahead of him he saw Marie in the Rover, a slight dent in the rear door on the passenger side. White smoke plumed from its exhaust. She looked apprehensive, staring straight ahead, her hands tight on the wheel. He wanted to nod or wave, to let her know that everything was all right, but he’d told her not to look at him, because any sort of acknowledgement would tip off the bodyguard.

  ‘It’s going to be okay, Marie, love,’ Lynch whispered to himself. He had the peak of the chauffeur’s cap pulled low over his nose and he was wearing the chauffeur’s jacket. On the passenger seat lay the gun the chauffeur had been carrying in an underarm holster, but Lynch was planning to use the Czech 9mm he’d brought with him. The ten bullets in the clip would be more than enough, so long as Marie kept her nerve. Lynch turned the Mercedes to the right and headed towards the apartment entrance. On the pavement the bodyguard was waving to Cramer and the girl, urging them out of the foyer.