The Double Tap (Stephen Leather Thrillers) (47 page)

       
‘Okay, let’s go,’ said Lynch. ‘We’ll get a ticket if we sit here any longer.’

Martin drew the Mercedes up in front of the office block. ‘Here we are,’ he said.

       
Cramer looked out of the side window. It was a nondescript building, grey stone with square metal-framed windows and double glass doors. A security camera was mounted above the door to provide video coverage of the entrance. A young man sat huddled in a duffel coat next to a black and white mongrel. On the ground in front of him was a piece of brown cardboard on which had been written ‘Please Help The Homeless’.

       
‘I see him,’ said Allan, as if reading Cramer’s mind. Martin was already out of the car and opening the passenger door. Allan moved quickly, striding around the back of the Mercedes and putting himself between Cramer and the beggar.

       
Cramer got out of the car. The suit and overcoat felt more confining than ever. The gun was snug in its holster and Cramer could feel it pressing against his flesh through the handmade shirt. He shrugged his shoulders against the restrictive clothes, tugged nervously at the sleeves of the overcoat, and then followed Martin towards the double doors. Allan looked from side to side but his eyes kept returning to the beggar.

       
A man in a dark suit carrying a furled umbrella walked quickly down the street towards them and Cramer tensed. The man was the right size, the right age, the right build, but then so was half the male population of London. The man walked by at speed. He had the bearing and stride of a military man and Cramer marked him down as a former soldier who’d taken a job in the City.

       
Martin opened the double doors and quickly checked the foyer before nodding to Cramer to let him know that it was secure. Allan kept himself between Cramer and the beggar as Cramer followed Martin inside. A uniformed concierge looked up from his newspaper. He frowned at the men but smiled benignly when he saw Su-ming.

       
They headed over to the lift. It arrived empty and Allan stepped in first, followed by Cramer and Su-ming. The lift doors closed and Cramer took several deep breaths. ‘You okay, Mike?’ Allan asked.

       
‘Yeah,’ said Cramer. ‘I just wish he’d get it over with.’

       
‘Take it easy, we don’t know how long it’s going to be. You’ll wear yourself out if you stay this tense.’

       
Cramer put his finger inside his shirt collar and tried to loosen it. He could feel rivulets of sweat trickle down his back though his mouth was still as dry as sandpaper. ‘I’ll be okay,’ he said.

       
‘Remember, you’ve got to be alert, but not tense. If you’re tense you’ll slow down.’

       
Cramer nodded. Su-ming was watching him anxiously and he smiled to reassure her, though he didn’t feel like smiling. He felt trapped within the made-to-measure clothes and he had a hollow feeling deep inside his stomach, a cold dread that, despite all the training, when he came face to face with the killer he wouldn’t be able to react in time.

       
The lift doors opened and Cramer followed Martin and Allan down a grey-carpeted corridor with Su-ming bringing up the rear. As they walked by an office door it opened and Cramer’s hand reacted instinctively, jerking upwards towards his hidden gun. It was a middle-aged woman in a tweed suit. Cramer let his hand fall to his side, cursing himself under his breath. If he carried on like this, he’d be a nervous wreck by the end of the week.

       
Vander Mayer’s office was at the far end of the corridor. Cramer waited outside with Allan while Martin and Su-ming went in. Through the open door Cramer could see a brunette, her hair tied back in a ponytail, sitting behind a teak desk. Su-ming was talking to her while Martin prowled around the office. Martin turned and nodded to Allan and he ushered Cramer inside. Cramer saw a second desk as he walked into the office. It was unoccupied.

       
A door led through to Vander Mayer’s private office and Su-ming motioned for him to go through. The inner office was much bigger, and furnished in much the same way as the flat in Chelsea Harbour – oak floorboards, polished to a deep shine, a simple black oak desk and steel and leather furniture. The desk was bare except for a personal computer, but one wall was lined with television monitors which showed share prices and news wires from around the world, and below them was a bank of fax and telex machines.

       
‘We’re going to wait outside,’ said Allan. He looked at his watch. ‘The Russian won’t be here for a couple of hours. We’ll search him before we let him in to see you, but be prepared, okay?’

       
Cramer gave Allan a Boy Scout salute. ‘Dib, dib, dib,’ he said.

       
‘I’ll give you dib, dib, dib if he pulls out a gun and shoots you,’ said Allan. He made a gun with his fingers and pretended to shoot Cramer in the face. ‘Be on your feet when he comes into your office. It’s much harder to draw your weapon when you’re sitting.’

       
Allan and Martin closed the door behind them, leaving Cramer and Su-ming alone. Cramer stood behind the chair and rested his elbows on it. He nodded at the monitors. ‘What exactly does he do, your boss?’

       
‘I thought the Colonel had told you.’

       
‘An arms dealer, he said. ‘So what’s all the financial stuff for?’

       
Su-ming leaned against the desk and studied the monitors. ‘Mr  Vander Mayer has many investments and he prefers to handle them himself.’

       
‘He doesn’t trust anyone else to touch his money, is that it?’

       
Su-ming looked at him over her shoulder and flashed him a thin smile. ‘It’s not a question of trust. No one can do it better than him.’

       
‘So how much is he worth?’

       
Su-ming shrugged noncommittally and turned away from him again. ‘He is a very rich man.’

       
‘Rich? Or rich rich?’

       
‘Very rich.’

       
‘Millions or billions?’

       
‘That depends on which currency you’re using.’ She pushed herself away from the desk and went over to the telex machine. She toyed with the keys. ‘Is money that important to you, Mike Cramer?’

       
Cramer sat down in the chair and tried to open the drawers. They were locked. Cramer wondered whether they were always locked or if they’d been locked because he was using the office. ‘No. Money’s never really mattered to me. Is that what drives him?’

       
Su-ming stopped playing with the telex keys. ‘I suppose so.’

       
‘So tell me, what does he do? He has these offices, he has three jets, but I can’t get a feel for what it is exactly that he does.’

       
‘He puts deals together. Say you’re running a country in Africa and you want to buy armoured vehicles. And suppose you can’t buy direct from the manufacturers. Then you’d have to go through a middle-man. Someone like Mr  Vander Mayer.’

       
‘Why couldn’t I buy from the manufacturer?’

       
‘It could be that the country of origin preferred not to trade with you.’

       
‘Because I’m a dictator?’

       
‘Whether someone is a dictator or a leader is often a matter of semantics. When Saddam Hussein was in favour, governments all around the world were more than happy to trade with him.’

       
‘Then he invaded Kuwait.’

       
‘And suddenly he became
persona non grata
. That didn’t mean that the West stopped trading with him, it just meant that businessmen like Mr  Vander Mayer started to make a lot of money.’

       
‘Vander Mayer’s still dealing with Iraq?’

       
Su-ming nodded. ‘Of course.’

       
‘You don’t see anything wrong with that?’

       
‘He’s a businessman. More than that, he’s a realist.’

       
Cramer ran his finger along the edge of the desk. Like the furniture in Vander Mayer’s flat, it was spotless. ‘What sort of arms does he sell?’

       
Su-ming turned to face him. ‘Anything.’

       
‘Anything?’

       
‘You sound surprised. Arms are a commodity, like anything else. There are sellers and there are buyers.’

       
‘Jets?’

       
‘Yes.’

       
‘Missiles?’

       
‘Yes.’

       
‘Is he doing much business with Russia?’

       
‘Quite a bit.’

       
‘Is that why he wanted you to learn Russian?’

       
‘It gives him an advantage during negotiations. They don’t expect an Oriental to speak their language.’

       
Cramer swivelled his chair around so that he could look out of the window. ‘I suppose there’s a lot of Russian equipment going cheap following the break-up of the Soviet bloc.’

       
‘They’re desperate for foreign currency. And that’s one thing that Mr  Vander Mayer has a lot of.’

       
‘Do you know what this Russian is trying to sell?’ He swivelled around and could see from the look on her face that she did.

       
‘Mr Vander Mayer said I wasn’t to say.’

       
‘But it’s a weapon?’

       
‘In a way. It depends how you use it. In the right hands, a pencil can be a weapon, or it can be used to write a poem.’

       
Cramer laughed. ‘Give me a break, Su-ming. You don’t believe that fortune cookie philosophy. A bomb’s a bomb. A gun’s a gun. You’ve heard that other great saying, “It isn’t guns that kill people, it’s people that kill people.” Well that’s crap, kid. Guns kill people. Guns and bombs and missiles and grenades. And I don’t like the way I’m being used. I don’t like it one bit.’

       
Su-ming studied him silently as if embarrassed by his outburst. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I know you’re just doing as you’re told.’

       
She nodded. ‘Like you, I’m following orders.’

       
Cramer slumped back in the chair and looked up at the ceiling. ‘Where did I go wrong? I spend my life training with weapons and I end up with nothing. He sells the stuff and makes millions.’

       
‘You choose your own life,’ said Su-ming.

       
Cramer sighed. ‘Yeah, I guess you’re right.’ He put his hands behind his neck and interlinked his fingers. ‘So, what do I do?’

       
Su-ming took the itinerary from her handbag and looked at it. ‘We wait here until five o’clock.’

       
‘Can’t I do a deal or two while I’m here? Maybe I could sell a few F-16s, what do you think?’

       
Su-ming studied him with amusement. ‘I think, Mike Cramer, that I shall miss your sense of humour when this is all over. That’s what I think.’

Dermott Lynch dropped Marie off at the front entrance to the huge News International complex. A line of sixty-foot delivery trucks were queuing up to enter the site, in preparation for the evening’s print run. The throbbing diesel engines vibrated up through his seat. He drove alongside the high brick wall which surrounded the newspaper offices and printworks and parked next to an old warehouse which had been converted into upmarket apartments. All the old ironware which had once been used to haul sacks and crates up to the storage areas on the upper floors had been painted a bright red, and wire baskets of brightly coloured flowers were hanging by the windows.

       
He switched on the radio and listened to a phone-in programme where listeners were calling up to give their views on the death penalty. Lynch half-listened as he watched the trucks file into the printworks.
The Times
, the
Sun
, the
Sunday Times
, the
News of The World
, most of the country’s large circulation newspapers were printed there. The IRA had drawn up plans to bomb the plant several times and at one stage they had actually stored over a ton of fertiliser explosive and several kilos of Semtex in a lock-up garage on the Isle of Dogs, in preparation for the go-ahead from the Army Council. Lynch had helped put the explosive in place and another active service unit was instructed to commandeer one of the delivery trucks, fill it with the explosive and drive it into the plant. The 1994 ceasefire had put an end to the planned spectacular, and the explosive cache was now buried somewhere under the New Forest in plastic dustbins. A pity, thought Lynch. It would have made one hell of an explosion. And he’d never liked the
Sun
, anyway.

       
Most of the callers to the radio station seemed to be in favour of bringing back the death penalty, and several offered to do the deed themselves. Lynch smiled to himself. He had long thought that there was a vicious side to the British character, a nasty undercurrent that was never far from the surface, and radio talk shows seemed to bring out the worst in the population. String ’em up and hang ’em high appeared to be the consensus, and even the presenter agreed with the majority. It was as if the British public had never heard of the Guildford Four or countless other miscarriages of justice, where if there had been a death penalty, there would have been no chance of an appeal, no chance to prove that evidence was faked or juries misled.