The Double Tap (Stephen Leather Thrillers) (12 page)

       
‘Sergeant Cramer’s going to be working, that’s true.’

       
‘Well God help him, that’s all I can say.’

       
‘I doubt that he will, but thanks for the sentiment,’ said Cramer acidly.

       
The doctor handed Cramer another bottle, this one containing green capsules. ‘For the pain,’ he said. ‘Not on an empty stomach. Not more than one at a time. And not more than six in any one twenty-four-hour period.’

       
‘Thanks, Doc,’ said Cramer.

       
‘I meant what I said about arranging morphine for you.’

       
‘And I meant what I said about it not coming to that,’ said Cramer, putting his shirt back on.

Dermott Lynch was sitting with his feet on the coffee table watching the BBC
Nine O’Clock News
when the phone rang. He let his answering machine take the call as he watched the BBC’s industrial correspondent explain the latest gloomy trade figures. He popped the tab on a chilled can of draught Guinness and poured it deftly into a tall glass as the recording announced he couldn’t get to the phone. He put down the glass as he heard Pat O’Riordan’s voice and picked up the receiver. ‘Yeah, Pat, I’m here.’

       
‘Screening calls, are we?’ said O’Riordan.

       
‘Just taking the weight off my feet. Figured I deserved a rest. How’s things?’

       
‘Don’t suppose you fancy giving me a hand cleaning out the pigs, do you?’

       
‘You’re dead right.’

       
‘Fancy a drink?’

       
Lynch looked at the Guinness as it settled in the glass, a thick, creamy head on the top. ‘You read my mind,’ he said.

Mrs Elliott served up a chicken stew with herb dumplings along with freshly-made garlic bread and buttery mashed potatoes. The Colonel and Cramer ate alone in the huge dining hall next to the propane heater. The Colonel had opened a bottle of claret but Cramer had refused. He had a glass of milk, instead. With a large measure of Famous Grouse mixed in.

       
Cramer toyed with his food, eating small mouthfuls and chewing thoroughly before swallowing. The Colonel watched him eat. ‘Bad?’ he asked.

       
‘The food’s fine.’ Cramer put down his fork. ‘I never had much of an appetite even when I was fit.’ He picked up the file that he’d been reading before dinner. ‘Have you read this one?’ he asked. ‘The Harrods killing?’

       
‘The Saudi Foreign Minister’s second wife. Ann-Marie Wilkinson. The Met think it was the first wife who paid for the hit.’

       
‘Cheaper than divorce, I suppose.’

       
‘I don’t think the Saudis bother with divorce, do they?’ said the Colonel. ‘I think they just take as many wives as they want.’ Cramer shrugged and took a long drink of milk, then added another slug of whisky. ‘Anyway, the first wife had the money,’ the Colonel continued. ‘She was related to the Saudi royal family and it seems that she resented all the attention Ann-Marie was getting.’

       
Cramer held up a photocopy of a typewritten report. ‘She was pregnant.’

       
The Colonel nodded. ‘I know. That’s another reason why they think she was killed. He had three children by the first wife, it could be that she didn’t want any competition. What’s on your mind?’

       
‘He murdered a pregnant woman. It takes a particular sort of killer to shoot a pregnant woman, don’t you think?’

       
The Colonel put down his knife and fork. ‘I’ve known plenty who would, without a second thought.’

       
‘Professionals? You think so?’

       
The Colonel leaned forward over his plate. ‘You’ve killed women, Sergeant Cramer. For Queen and country. And a soldier’s salary.’

       
‘I’ve killed terrorists who were female, Colonel. There’s a difference. And the Kypriano killing. The girl. Eight years old. He killed an eight-year-old girl.’

       
The Colonel gently swirled the red wine around his glass and stared at it. ‘He’s well paid for what he does. Half a million dollars a hit, we hear. Perhaps the money makes it easier.’

       
‘I don’t think so.’

       
‘Are you saying that if you were offered half a million dollars you wouldn’t do it?’

       
Cramer looked up sharply. ‘A child? No, I wouldn’t. Would you?’

       
‘Of course not. Not for any amount. But we’re not talking about me, we’re talking about someone who’s prepared to kill for money. You’ve been trained to kill. And you’ve killed for no other reason than that you’ve been ordered to. Okay, so there are some things you wouldn’t do, but not everyone has the same degree of moral judgement.’

       
Cramer nodded noncommittally, but his eyes narrowed as he studied the Colonel’s face. ‘What if it was in the interests of national security, Colonel? Would you do it then?’

       
The Colonel looked at Cramer for several seconds, though to Cramer it felt as if the silence was stretching into infinity. The Colonel stopped swirling his wine and drained his glass. He was about to answer when Mrs Elliott appeared. The Colonel put down his glass while she collected their plates, frowning at the amount Cramer had left. As she went back into the kitchen, the Colonel stood up and excused himself, saying that he needed an early night. The unanswered question hung in the air like black rain cloud.

The pub was just off the Falls Road, a red brick building with metal shutters over the window and an orange, white and green tricolour flag hanging over the front door. A thickset man in a brown raincoat stood by the door, his hands deep in his pockets, his eyes ever watchful.

       
‘Evening, Danny,’ said Lynch.

       
‘How’s yerself, Dermott?’ asked the man.

       
‘Getting by. Busy tonight?’

       
‘Aye, there’s a fair crowd in.’ He pushed open the metal door and Lynch heard the sound of a fiddle being played with more enthusiasm than ability.

       
Lynch grimaced. ‘That should soon clear them out,’ he said, and the doorman laughed.

       
Several heads turned as Lynch made his way to the bar. In the far corner the fiddler, a bearded man in his sixties, wearing a plaid shirt and baggy cotton trousers, was sawing away on his fiddle with gusto. Behind him was an anorexically-thin blonde girl with an accordion and a middle-aged man with a tin whistle, though they sat with their instruments in their laps as they watched the old man perform.

       
Two men in donkey jackets moved apart to allow Lynch to the bar. The barman came over immediately and greeted him by name. There were few bars in the Falls area where Dermott Lynch wasn’t known and respected. He ordered a Guinness and scanned the bar for familiar faces as he waited for it to be poured. A grey-haired old man in a sheepskin jacket with a tired-looking shaggy-haired mongrel sitting at his feet nodded a silent greeting and Lynch nodded back. A group of teenagers fell quiet as Lynch’s gaze passed over them. Lynch spotted one of the lads who’d kept an eye on the Granada while he’d done the kneecapping, but he made no sign of recognising him.

       
The fiddler sat down to scattered applause, then the blonde girl began to play her accordion, nodding her head backwards and forwards as she concentrated, her lips pursed. The barman placed the pint of Guinness in front of Lynch and took his money. Lynch drank deeply and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. Pat O’Riordan appeared at his elbow. ‘You looked like you enjoyed that, all right, Dermott.’

       
Lynch grinned and winked at O’Riordan. ‘You’ll be taking a pint yourself?’

       
O’Riordan watched the blonde girl play her accordion. ‘She’s a fine looking girl, sure enough.’

       
‘Bit stringy for me,’ said Lynch as he caught the barman’s eye and pointed to his glass, indicating that he wanted another Guinness for O’Riordan. O’Riordan was married with four young children and Lynch knew he was devoted to his family, but he liked to pretend that he had a roving eye. O’Riordan’s Guinness arrived and he sipped it appreciatively. The fiddler and the pipe-player joined the accordion player in a rebel song that had several of the drinkers tapping their feet and singing along. The two men listened to the music for a while, enjoying the atmosphere of the pub, the well-being that came from knowing that they were among friends. Lynch drained his glass and ordered two more drinks. While they waited for the Guinness to settle, O’Riordan slipped Lynch a piece of paper. ‘That’s your man,’ said O’Riordan. ‘He’s based at Dublin Airport. His brother is in the Kesh doing a five-stretch, he’s been told to expect a visit from you.’

       
There were two telephone numbers on the piece of paper, a home number and one at the man’s place of work. ‘I’ll drive down tomorrow morning,’ said Lynch.

       
The rebel song came to an end amid rapturous applause and stamping of feet. ‘Not tomorrow you won’t,’ said O’Riordan. ‘There’s a wee job McCormack wants you to do for him.’

       
Lynch sighed. ‘Not another capping?’

       
O’Riordan shook his head. ‘Bigger, Dermott. Much bigger.’

Mike Cramer sat on the bed, his back against the wall. On his lap lay the file on the first killing which had been attributed to the assassin. It had taken place in Miami, almost exactly two years earlier. A Colombian drugs baron had been sitting in a nightclub with his two seventeen-year-old girlfriends, sniffing cocaine and drinking champagne. Three bodyguards had been sitting at an adjacent table. The file contained photographs of the aftermath: the three bodyguards sprawled on the purple carpet, their guns still in their holsters, the drugs baron still sitting upright, a third eye in the middle of his forehead, blood all over his shirt.

       
More than two hundred people had been in the nightclub and there were almost as many versions of what had happened. Even the drug dealer’s blondes differed on the colours of the Hawaiian shirt the assassin was wearing and the type of gun he was carrying. One of the girls thought it was an automatic, the other said it was a .357 Magnum. Cramer figured that their descriptions were useless. He doubted if either of the girls knew anything about guns, and in a dark nightclub with everyone screaming and panicking there was little chance of them being able to describe the weapon accurately.

       
The killer had been on the dancefloor, dancing alone, and he’d walked towards the bar, waiting until he was right next to the table where the bodyguards were sitting before pulling his gun out. Leaving aside what the girls had said, Cramer reckoned that it would have been a small pistol, something that could easily be concealed. According to the Medical Examiner’s report it had been a 9mm calibre, but that only narrowed down the number of possibilities, it didn’t even come close to identifying the weapon.

       
Using a 9mm for the hit made sense, it was standard issue to anti-terrorist groups around the world. Its main drawback was its tendency to go right through the target. Unlike a .22, which would spin and tumble, ripping through internal organs and blood vessels, a 9mm would pass through a human body unless it struck bone, leading to potential problems in hostage situations. The SAS used Splat frangible rounds, bullets made of a mixture of polymer and non-lead metal which were guaranteed to break up on impact, but which were also capable of passing through cover first. The killer had used a form of accelerated energy transfer rounds with plastic cores, which would spin on contact, mimicking the action and massive tissue damage of a .22. Cramer wasn’t sure why the killer had bothered – the nature of the bullet made little difference in a point-blank shot to the face.

       
In all, the assassin had fired nine shots. One each for the three bodyguards, two for the drugs dealer, then two more into the chest of one of the bodyguards who’d been trying to pull his own gun out despite being shot in the throat. On the way out of the nightclub the assassin had been challenged by one of the tuxedoed doormen and he’d shot him twice. Nine bullets. Definitely not a revolver.

       
Many 9mm handguns held eight or nine in the clip, but Cramer doubted if the killer would have gone into a place as crowded as the nightclub and fired off all his shots. He’d have wanted the security of something in reserve. A second clip wasn’t out of the question, but changing clips would take time and he’d be vulnerable during the changeover. Cramer’s weapon of choice would have been the Browning Hi-Power, effective up to forty feet and with thirteen rounds in the magazine, but he figured the killer had used something like a SIG-Sauer P226, which held fifteen cartridges. It was only a guess because he knew there were literally dozens of other possibilities: Heckler & Koch of Germany made a thirteen-shot 9mm handgun, the P7A13; the French had the MAB P15 with a fifteen-shot magazine; the Italians had the Beretta Model 92 series with magazines ranging from eight to fifteen; the Czechs had the fifteen-shot CZ 9mm Model 75; the Austrians had the Glock, made from lightweight polymer and available with fifteen, seventeen and nineteen round magazines. Most European countries had factories churning out large capacity 9mm handguns, and tens of thousands found their way to the States, legally or otherwise.