The Double Tap (Stephen Leather Thrillers) (48 page)

       
The programme was coming to an end when Marie walked out through the security gates and down the street towards the Rover. There was a spring in her step and her hips swung from side to side as she walked. It was a sexy walk, a youngster’s walk, the walk of a girl who was used to being watched. It was also a walk that men would remember, and that could be dangerous. It wasn’t a good thing to be remembered, Lynch knew. Better by far to blend, to remain anonymous, so that you could come and go without anyone knowing you’d ever been there. All the volunteers had that quality, an ability to remain unnoticed in a crowd. The idea that members of the IRA were big, threatening figures was a figment of the media’s imagination. They weren’t the monsters that papers like the
Sun
painted them, most of them looked no more threatening than an assistant bank manager. It wasn’t physical size or strength that counted in a war, it was a mental attitude, mental toughness. Character. Lynch wondered if Marie had what it took. She had the enthusiasm, and the motivation, but there was a world of difference between wanting to see another person dead and helping to pull the trigger.

       
Marie opened the passenger door and slid into the car. ‘Your man Vander Mayer’s a secretive soul,’ she said.

       
‘Secretive?’

       
‘He’s been mentioned twice in the last ten years.’

       
‘In
The Times
?’

       
‘In any British or American publication. They’ve got this on-line computer database which lets you put in key words and call up any article that ever used the words. It goes back ten years with most publications, even further with some. And Andrew Vander Mayer has had two honourable mentions, one in a feature on arms dealers in
Newsweek
three years ago, and another in the
Asian Wall Street Journal
five years ago.

       
‘What was that about?’

       
‘The Chinese planning to sell tactical nuclear weapons. They were said to have approached several international arms dealers and he was one.’

       
‘Jesus Christ, nuclear weapons?’

       
Marie handed him a computer printout. ‘Read it for yourself. The story is pretty thin on facts, but it names him as an American arms dealer who has contacts all over the world.’

       
Lynch sniffed and took the cuttings. He scanned them quickly. As she said, the mentions were brief; one sentence in the
Newsweek
piece, two paragraphs in the
Journal
.

       
‘I think you can pretty much discount the nuclear weapons stuff,’ said Marie. ‘It was three years ago and it never happened. It reads to me like one of those “what if” stories.’

       
‘Yeah, but he’s obviously pretty high-powered. It makes you wonder what he’s doing with Cramer.’ He stuffed the printout in the glove compartment. ‘What about photographs?’

       
Marie pulled down the sunvisor and checked her make-up in the mirror. Lynch realised she must have kissed the journalist she’d met. ‘No photographs. There were no photographs of Vander Mayer used with the two articles, and none in
The Times’
files. My friend called up Reuter and AP and the news agencies don’t have any either. Andrew Vander Mayer has never been photographed.’ She folded the sunvisor back up. ‘What now?’

       
‘Vander Mayer’s office. It could be that Cramer’s there. If he isn’t, maybe we can get hold of Vander Mayer. We’ll play it by ear.’

The man Simon Chaillon had known as Monsieur Rolfe popped the tab on a can of Diet Coke and put his feet up on the coffee table. The television was tuned to CNN, a financial news programme. A blonde with blow-torched hair and a middle-aged man with matinée-idol looks were discussing the strength of the dollar against the yen with the measured seriousness of people who weren’t quite sure of what they were talking about and were frightened of being caught out.

       
The man had no interest in the world’s financial situation. He had more than enough money, more than he could reasonably be expected to spend, tucked away in safety deposit boxes around the world. Interest rates and currency fluctuations didn’t concern him one way or the other. He picked up the remote control unit and channel-surfed for a while as he drank from the can but he found nothing to hold his attention. He settled for a channel which was playing country music videos. A manila envelope lay on the table next to a stack of new magazines. He put down his soft drink and picked up the envelope. Inside were three colour photographs, but he tossed them to the side. It was the three A4 typewritten sheets he was interested in. The top sheet was a biography of the target, Andrew Vander Mayer, and details of his entourage. He leaned over and picked up the photograph of the target walking away from a Mercedes. A young Oriental girl, pretty but with a frown creasing her forehead, was just behind him. Su-ming, her name was. There was no mention of a surname. The man studied the picture, tracing his finger along her face and down her body. She had a boyish figure, trim and tight, just the way the man liked them. He’d have enjoyed meeting Su-ming under other circumstances, but he doubted whether they’d get to spend much time together. The man kissed his forefinger and then pressed it onto the photograph. ‘Don’t worry, Su-ming, it’s not you I’m after,’ he whispered.

       
He dropped the photograph back on the table and read through the Vander Mayer itinerary. London. Then New York. Then back to London and on to Hong Kong. Vander Mayer’s residence in London was in Chelsea Harbour, a place the man had visited several times. It boasted an excellent restaurant, the Canteen, part-owned by the movie star Michael Caine, and a five-star hotel. It was generally a quiet area, especially in the evenings – a perfect place for a hit.

       
The man put the sheets of paper back into the envelope. The Vander Mayer assassination could wait. He had more urgent business to take care of first. He took a long drink from his can of Diet Coke and turned up the sound on the television.

Dermott Lynch parked the Rover in a side street overlooking the building which housed Vander Mayer’s office. Marie got out and fed the meter, then leant into the car through the window. ‘There’s a call box over there,’ she said. ‘I won’t be long.’

       
‘Just be careful,’ he said, handing her a ballpoint pen and the piece of paper on which he’d written down the details of the owner of the jet. ‘Be relaxed, low-key, don’t give them any reason to remember you.’

       
‘Yeah, yeah, yeah,’ she said.

       
Lynch grabbed her wrist, hard enough to hurt. ‘Marie, this isn’t a game,’ he hissed.

       
Marie suddenly became serious. ‘I know.’

       
Lynch let go of her arm. ‘Be careful,’ he repeated.

       
She rubbed her wrist. ‘I will be. Don’t worry. I won’t let you down.’ She patted the top of the car as if saying goodbye to a family pet, then walked along Kensington High Street to the call box, one of the old-fashioned red boxes that were fast disappearing from London’s streets. She dropped in a coin and dialled the number on the piece of paper.

       
A girl answered with the jarring vowels of an Essex accent. Marie could picture her, short skirt, too-tight top, highlighted hair and, in all probability, white high heels. ‘Hello,’ said Marie in her best Cheltenham Girls’ School voice, ‘can you tell me if Mr  Vander Mayer is there today?’

       
‘Yes, he is. Do you want me to put you through?’

       
‘No, I’m just about to send him a brochure for our conference facilities and I wanted to make sure that I had the correct address. Can I just check it with you?’ Marie read out the address and the girl confirmed it was correct. ‘Does Mr  Vander Mayer have offices in other countries?’ Marie asked.

       
‘Oh yes,’ said the girl enthusiastically. ‘He has an office in New York, one in Los Angeles, and another in Bonn. That’s in West Germany.’

       
‘West Germany, really?’ said Marie. ‘Do me a big favour, will you, and let me have their addresses. I’d like to send brochures there, too.’

       
The girl did as asked. Marie copied down the addresses, thanked her and replaced the receiver. She went back to the car and climbed in next to Lynch. ‘He’s there. Vander Mayer’s there.’ She was panting like an over-excited dog. ‘Now what do we do?’

       
‘Now we wait. If Vander Mayer’s in there, maybe Cramer’s there too.’

Allan looked up from his copy of
The Economist
as the secretary put down the telephone. ‘Problem, Jenny?’ he asked.

       
Jenny smiled and fiddled with her ponytail. ‘Nah, it was a woman from some conference centre checking her mailing list.’

       
‘Nothing out of the ordinary?’

       
‘Happens all the time. Junk mail and junk phone calls are pretty much all we get to deal with, unless Mr  Vander Mayer’s in town. Then it’s a mad rush, I can tell you.’

       
Martin was sitting on the unoccupied desk and staring vacantly out of the window. ‘I’m hungry,’ he said.

       
‘You’re always hungry,’ said Allan.

       
‘Do you want anything?’

       
‘A Ferrari. A house in the country. A woman who loves me. The sort of stuff every man wants.’

       
‘I meant food,’ said Martin patiently.

       
‘Yeah, I know. A cheese roll.’

       
Martin straightened up. ‘Do you want anything, Jenny?’ he asked.

       
‘Nah, I’m on a diet. Thanks anyway.’

       
Allan flicked through
The Economist
as Martin left the office. He looked at Jenny over the top of the magazine. She was a pretty brunette who couldn’t have been much more than nineteen years old. She was shapely and obviously intelligent – Allan had been impressed by the confident way in which she’d lied to the caller about her boss being in the office. She’d been briefed to say that Vander Mayer was in the office and if it was a business call to transfer it to Vander Mayer’s yacht.

       
Jenny beamed at Allan. He smiled and nodded and started reading again. Under other circumstances he’d have been tempted to chat her up a little, but he was too much of a professional to mix business with pleasure. That and the fact that her accent was as annoying as fingernails being scraped across a blackboard.

       
‘So, Allan,’ she said, fluttering her long eyelashes, ‘how long have you been a bodyguard then?’

Jim Smolev locked the door to his Dodge and walked slowly to the hotel. It was a hot morning, the Florida sky a brilliant blue, devoid of clouds, and the sun was beating down relentlessly. He ran his hand absent-mindedly across the bald spot at the back of his head. He’d discovered the thinning patch only a month ago, but it had become a regular ritual to check it in the bathroom mirror first thing each morning. It was only the size of a quarter, but Smolev’s father had been as bald as a bowling ball by the time he was forty-five. Smolev was in his mid-thirties and had resigned himself to the fact that he was heading the same way as his father. Smolev’s wife had made all the right noises, telling him that his hair didn’t matter, that she’d love him just as much if he didn’t have a single hair on his body, that it didn’t look so bad anyway. It was, Smolev knew, all Grade A bullshit. She’d never look at him the same way again. Smolev had started reading all the adverts for hair-weaves and had even thought about asking his doctor for details of Rogaine. He was determined not to lose his hair without a fight.

       
He walked through reception. One of the agents from the Miami field office was sitting on a sofa facing the main entrance and he nodded discreetly at Smolev. Smolev nodded back and headed for the elevator. The rear of the elevator was mirrored and after the door closed Smolev twisted his neck and took a quick look at the bald spot, using his hand to smooth a lock of hair over it. He turned his head left and right as he checked the coverage. It would do. He sighed deeply. His whole body seemed to be in revolt. He’d gone to the dentist to have his aching back tooth checked out only to be told that he needed root canal work. His glasses didn’t seem to correct his vision as well as they used to, and his wife kept telling him to go and get his prescription checked. And his knees kept clicking when he climbed out of bed. He was thirty-five years old and he felt like an old man.

       
The elevator doors hissed open and he walked down the corridor towards Frank Discenza’s suite. A single agent stood guard outside the door. ‘Hiya, Jim. What’s up?’ asked the man. His name was Ted Verity, a recent addition to the Bureau’s Miami office. He was wearing what looked like a made-to-measure suit and a pair of Armani spectacles, and he had, Smolev noticed with a twinge of envy, a head of thick, black hair.

       
‘My blood pressure, for a start,’ said Smolev. ‘Is he still giving you trouble?’

       
‘Just moaning. You heard what he’s asking for?’

       
‘That’s why I’m here.’

       
‘Yeah? Better you than me, Jim.’ Verity grinned and ran a hand through his hair as if emphasising how thick it was. ‘Pimp’s an ugly word, isn’t it?’