The Double Tap (Stephen Leather Thrillers) (58 page)

       
One of the troopers came back into the apartment. ‘We’re all clear, boss,’ he said.

       
‘Okay, Blackie. You can pack up the communications equipment.’ He fed the sheets of fax paper through the shredder by the side of the desk. ‘The shredder can go, too,’ he added.

The doorbell jarred Cramer awake. He was disorientated for a few seconds until he realised he was lying on a sofa, his face buried in the soft black leather. He rolled over. The sky had darkened outside and several stars twinkled among the clouds. He couldn’t remember falling asleep. As he sat up he felt nauseous and he wondered if it was a side- effect of the painkillers. The doorbell rang again. Su-ming walked along the corridor and into the sitting room. ‘I’ll get it,’ she said.

       
‘Yeah, I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I fell asleep.’ Cramer realised that there was a blanket over his legs.

       
‘I know,’ she said, smiling. She’d changed into blue jeans and a white silk shirt and she looked fresh and clean as if she’d just had a shower.

       
Cramer could taste something bitter at the back of his throat. He swallowed and grimaced. As he looked around he realised that the bottle of capsules and the Walther PPK were no longer on the coffee table. Su-ming must have moved them while he was asleep. He rubbed his face with his hands. When he took his hands away, Su-ming had the door open. A man walked into the room carrying a slim leather briefcase. He was in his mid to late forties, a dapper little man who couldn’t have been much more then five feet eight tall. His hair was slicked back and he had the sleek, well-fed look of a man who lived off expense accounts. ‘This is Mr  Vander Mayer,’ said Su-ming as she closed the door.

       
Vander Mayer strode across the floor, his arm outstretched like a used-car salesman greeting a prospective customer. ‘Mike, good to see you at last,’ said Vander Mayer.

       
Cramer got to his feet unsteadily, still disorientated. Vander Mayer seized his hand and pumped it enthusiastically. Cramer recognised the man’s voice, but his appearance was a surprise. Vander Mayer was immaculately dressed in what was clearly an expensive made-to-measure suit and a gold Rolex glinted from under the sleeve of a starched white shirt cuff as he shook hands, but Cramer had expected a much bigger man. While Vander Mayer’s voice was deep and authoritative, the man himself was unimposing. If anything he appeared to be slightly shifty with sharpish features that made Cramer think of a small bird.

       
‘I would have been here earlier but the traffic was a bitch,’ said Vander Mayer. ‘I’ve been pushing them to get a helicopter pad installed, but the neighbours won’t have it.’

       
‘Shame,’ said Cramer.

       
Vander Mayer released his grip on Cramer’s hand and put his briefcase on a low sideboard. Cramer’s gun was there, along with the painkillers. Vander Mayer raised an eyebrow at the weapon. ‘Walther PPK,’ he said. ‘I thought the SAS used Glocks?’

       
‘I’m ex-SAS,’ said Cramer.

       
Vander Mayer nodded. ‘Even so, it’s not one of my favourite guns. May I?’ He gestured at the pistol.

       
‘Sure,’ said Cramer.

       
Vander Mayer picked up the Walther, ejected the clip and quickly and efficiently stripped the gun, then reassembled it just as quickly. Cramer had the feeling that he was only doing it to show off his familiarity with the weapon. Vander Mayer gave the gun to Cramer and without thinking Cramer slipped it back into the shoulder holster under his jacket. He saw Su-ming look at him anxiously, but before she could say anything Vander Mayer went over to her and put his arm around her shoulders. ‘How are you, baby?’ he asked.

       
‘Great,’ she said. She turned up her head and kissed him, close to the lips. Cramer felt a sudden pull inside and realised with a jolt that he was jealous. He turned away, unwilling to watch any more, suspecting that Vander Mayer’s demonstrations of affection were as contrived as his manoeuvre with the Walther.

       
‘Miss me?’ Vander Mayer asked.

       
‘Yes,’ Su-ming said quietly.

       
Vander Mayer nodded as if satisfied. He turned back to Cramer. ‘So, Mike, have you got the consignment?’

       
‘It’s in the safe,’ said Su-ming before Cramer could answer. ‘I’ll get it.’

       
As Su-ming left the room, Vander Mayer went over to the picture window and looked out. ‘I never tire of this view,’ he said.

       
‘Yeah,’ said Cramer unenthusiastically.

       
‘Best view in London.’

       
Cramer didn’t say anything.

       
‘Where are you from, Mike?’

       
‘Glasgow.’

       
‘Yeah? Scotch, huh?’

       
‘Scottish,’ corrected Cramer. ‘Scotch is the drink.’

       
‘You don’t sound Scottish,’ said Vander Mayer. He clasped his hands behind his back and squared his shoulders.

       
‘Yeah, well I left when I was young.’

       
‘To join the army?’

       
‘Pretty much, yeah.’ Cramer didn’t enjoy talking to the man. He wasn’t sure if it was because he hated answering questions about his background, or if it was a reaction to the way Vander Mayer had treated Su-ming. There had been something proprietorial in his attitude, as if she was merely an adjunct to the car, the flat, the jets.

       
‘Well, you won’t have to work again, not after the money I’m giving you.’

       
Cramer smiled bitterly. ‘Yeah. Early retirement.’

       
Su-ming came back into the sitting room with the metal case. She handed it to Vander Mayer, who acknowledged her with a smile.

       
‘What are you going to do with it?’ Cramer asked.

       
Vander Mayer sat down in one of the leather and chrome easy chairs and swung the case up onto his knees. ‘That depends,’ he said, clicking open the locks.

       
‘On what?’

       
‘First I get my people to test it. And if it’s what I’m told it is, I’ll be buying as much of it as I can get my hands on.’

       
‘And then?’

       
Vander Mayer took out the metal flask. He handled it reverently, as if it were a holy icon. ‘Then?’ Vander Mayer repeated, his eyes fixed on the flask.

       
‘Who do you sell it to then?’

       
Vander Mayer grinned. ‘To the highest bidder, Mike. To the highest bidder.’

       
‘No matter who?’

       
Vander Mayer put the flask back in the case. He closed the lid and then took a handkerchief from his pocket and carefully wiped his hands. ‘This is business, Mike. It’s a commodity like any other.’

       
‘It’s used in nuclear weapons,’ said Cramer.

       
Vander Mayer looked sharply across at Su-ming. She visibly flinched as if he’d struck her. Vander Mayer smiled and looked back at Cramer. ‘So is steel, Mike. Are you suggesting that we stop selling steel?’ He put the case on the floor beside his chair and crossed his legs.

       
‘There’s a big difference.’

       
Vander Mayer shrugged dismissively and put the handkerchief back in his top pocket, taking care to arrange it neatly. ‘Eye of the beholder, Mike. Eye of the beholder. Besides, there are lots of potential uses for it.’

       
‘Are you saying that it won’t be used in a bomb?’

       
Vander Mayer leaned forward, his elbows on his knees. ‘No, I’m not saying that. But that’s not really any of your business, is it?’ He raised his eyebrows and nodded, as if trying to get Cramer to agree. Cramer just looked at him, unable to conceal his disdain. Vander Mayer stood up and went over to a steel and glass drinks cabinet. He picked up a bottle of twenty-year-old malt whisky and unscrewed the cap. He poured himself a large measure. ‘Do you want a Scotch?’ he asked Cramer. He smiled thinly. ‘Or is it Scottish?’

       
Cramer shook his head. He’d lost the taste for whisky. He’d pretty much lost the taste for everything. The telephone rang and Su-ming picked up the receiver. She listened and frowned, then put her hand over the mouthpiece. She looked at Vander Mayer. ‘You have a visitor downstairs. A Mr  Jackman.’

       
‘Jackman?’ said Cramer. ‘Bernard Jackman?’

       
Su-ming nodded.

       
‘You know him?’ asked Vander Mayer.

       
‘He’s the FBI profiler,’ said Cramer. ‘Well, former FBI profiler, actually. He’s the guy who profiled the assassin who was after you. I wonder what he wants?’

       
‘There’s one way to find out,’ said Vander Mayer. He gestured at Su-ming. ‘Tell him to come up. I’d like to meet the guy.’

       
Su-ming relayed the message to the doorman and put the phone down. ‘He’s on his way up,’ she said.

       
‘What’s he like?’ Vander Mayer asked Cramer.

       
Cramer shrugged uncertainly. ‘He’s clever, but to be honest he wasn’t much help. It’s not as if knowing the killer’s characteristics helped us nail the bastard. It was Allan and his Glock that did that.’

       
‘Don’t knock it,’ said Vander Mayer. ‘One of Su-ming’s most valuable skills is her ability to judge people. To decide whether they can be trusted or not.’ He picked up the metal case and relocked it. ‘I’d better put this back in the safe,’ he said. ‘Once an FBI agent  . . .’ He left the sentence hanging as he went through the hall to his study.

       
Su-ming walked over to Cramer. She looked as if she was about to say something, but before she could speak the doorbell rang. She jumped as if startled by the noise, and her eyes remained locked on Cramer. The doorbell rang again. Su-ming took a step backwards, then turned on her heels and went to the front door. She opened it and stood to the side. It was Jackman. He was wearing a dark green jacket and grey slacks and as he walked into the room Cramer realised that the man’s ponytail was missing. Jackman’s hair looked lighter, too, as if he’d been out in the sun.

       
Jackman ignored Su-ming and strode across the sitting room. He shook hands with Cramer. ‘I wasn’t expecting you,’ Cramer said.

       
‘I came as soon as I heard, I wanted to get the details from you while they were still fresh.’

       
‘Details?’

       
‘Of the assassination attempt. I need to know everything that happened. For the files. What about Vander Mayer? Is he here?’

       
‘He got here just before you did,’ said Cramer. ‘Did the Colonel call you?’

       
‘Hell of an apartment, isn’t it?’ said Jackman, looking around.

       
Cramer wondered if Jackman hadn’t heard him or if he’d deliberately ignored the question.

       
‘It’s a different world, isn’t it?’ said Jackman as he turned around, smiling broadly. Cramer wondered what had happened to the ponytail. The man’s accent seemed slightly different, too. There was less of a Texan drawl and a harder edge to it. More East Coast than mid-West. ‘So, do I get to meet the guy whose life you saved?’ Jackman asked.

       
‘He’s in the study,’ said Su-ming.

       
Before Cramer could stop him, Jackman strode off down the corridor. Cramer and Su-ming followed him into the study where Vander Mayer was scrutinising a list of share prices on one of his many monitors. He looked up at the sound of their footsteps, then smiled. It was the same sort of smile that Jackman himself used, an emotionless baring of the teeth, a pale copy of the real thing. It wasn’t a pleasant smile. ‘You’re the profiler?’ said Vander Mayer.

       
Jackman nodded. ‘And you’re the target?’ he said, his fake smile broadening.

       
‘Not any more,’ laughed Vander Mayer. He held out his hand.

       
Jackman laughed, too. His hand slipped inside his jacket and emerged holding a snub-nosed revolver. He walked towards Vander Mayer, his arm outstretched, and shot him point blank in the face. Before Vander Mayer’s legs gave way Jackman fired again, this time at Vander Mayer’s chest.

       
Su-ming screamed as Vander Mayer fell backwards, his face and chest a bloody mess. Cramer reached for his Walther but before he could pull out his gun, Jackman had whirled around and aimed his own weapon at Cramer’s face.

       
‘Too slow, Mike,’ said Jackman. Cramer froze. Su-ming stared down at Vander Mayer. The body twitched on the floor, then went still. Jackman ignored her. ‘Take out your gun, slowly,’ Jackman said. ‘Use the thumb and index finger of your left hand.’

       
Cramer did as he was told.

       
‘Drop it on the floor, then kick it over here.’

       
Cramer obeyed. The gun came to rest by Jackman’s left foot. Jackman crouched down, keeping his own gun aimed at Cramer. He picked up the Walther, then straightened up. Su-ming had her hands up to her face, her eyes wide with shock. Jackman motioned with his gun for her to stand next to Cramer.

       
‘Well,’ said Jackman to Cramer. ‘You don’t know how much I’ve been looking forward to having a chat with you, Mike.’

The Colonel looked around the apartment. The equipment that had been installed prior to the operation had been removed. All that was left was the furniture that had come with the flat. The Colonel was sitting on a winged easy chair by an empty bookcase. He leaned forward and clasped his hands together and bent his head as if in prayer. Something didn’t feel right, but he wasn’t sure what it was. By rights he should have been over the moon; he’d achieved his objective with relatively few casualties. But there was a nagging doubt at the back of his mind, a feeling of unfinished business