The Double Tap (Stephen Leather Thrillers) (25 page)

       
The man with the rope threw one end up in the air and it looped over a girder up in the roof. It was only then that O’Riordan saw the noose. He began to struggle, but the noose was deftly placed over his head and pulled tight, stifling his cries. The man holding the end of the rope jumped in the air and pulled down on his end with all his strength. O’Riordan was jerked off his feet but the two men holding him kept the soft quilt pressed around him so that he couldn’t struggle. He died with only one mark on him, the rope burn around his neck.

Cramer walked through the dining hall and pushed open the double doors which led to the kitchen, expecting to find Mrs  Elliott fussing around the stove. He was surprised to see Su-ming, chopping vegetables with a large knife. She used the knife quickly and confidently, the steel flashing only millimetres from her fingers as she sliced green peppers, scallions, mushrooms and other vegetables which Cramer didn’t recognise. She had taken off her jacket and hung it over the back of a chair. In the T-shirt and jeans she looked about eighteen years old.

       
She didn’t look up as Cramer went over to the fridge and took out a carton of milk. Cramer drank from the carton and watched her as she poured a splash of oil into a large steel wok.

       
‘Mrs Elliott will cook for you if you ask her,’ said Cramer, wiping his mouth with his sleeve.

       
‘I sent her away. I didn’t want her near my food.’ She put the wok on the stove and turned on the gas. ‘You realise she’s poisoning you with all that animal fat?’

       
Cramer looked at the milk carton and shrugged. He peered at the vegetables on the wooden chopping board. ‘What are they?’ he asked.

       
‘Ginger root, bamboo shoots, water chestnuts,’ she replied. She threw the vegetables into the smoking oil and stirred them vigorously with a wooden spatula.

       
Steam billowed around the wok and Cramer sniffed appreciatively. ‘Do you cook for your boss?’

       
‘I do many things for Mr  Vander Mayer,’ she said, dropping a handful of snow peas and bean sprouts into the mixture. ‘And yes, I advise him on his nutrition.’

       
‘And you read people for him, too?’

       
She looked at him over her shoulder. ‘I advise him on many subjects.’ Cramer drank from the carton again. ‘You’re not eating, are you?’ she asked.

       
Cramer shrugged. ‘Milk does me just fine.’

       
‘You’re not well.’ It was a statement, not a question.

       
‘You read that in my palm?’

       
Su-ming took the wok off the burner and poured the stir-fry mixture into a bowl. She used the spatula to spoon boiled rice from a pan into another bowl and put them both on the kitchen table. She stood looking at Cramer for a few seconds then nodded as if she’d reached a decision. ‘There’s a bowl and chopsticks on the draining board,’ she said and sat down.

       
Cramer joined her at the table and she spooned rice and vegetables into his bowl. He had trouble using the chopsticks and she smiled at his clumsy attempts. ‘Would you prefer a fork?’ she asked.

       
Cramer shook his head and persevered. Su-ming used neat, economic movements to carry the food from her bowl to her mouth.

       
‘It’s good,’ said Cramer. The vegetables were crisp and tasty, and while he still had little appetite, at least he didn’t find the food hard to swallow.

       
‘I know,’ she said. ‘And it’s better for you than the animal fats and starch which that woman is feeding you.’

       
Cramer adjusted the chopsticks. His fingers felt large and clumsy. ‘How long have you worked for Mr  Vander Mayer?’ he asked.

       
Su-ming’s chopsticks stopped in mid-air, suspended over her bowl. ‘Fifteen years,’ she said.

       
‘Fifteen?’ repeated Cramer. Su-ming nodded and continued to eat. Cramer frowned. He couldn’t believe that Su-ming was more than twenty-five, which meant she’d joined the arms dealer when she was just ten years old. ‘What happened to your parents?’ he asked.

       
Su-ming put her chopsticks down on the table. Her eyes were cold, her face impassive. ‘I am here because Mr  Vander Mayer said that I should cooperate with your Colonel,’ she said in measured tones, as if she were a parent talking to an uncooperative child. ‘That is the only reason. I have already made my feelings clear on the matter, but Mr  Vander Mayer insists. I am not here to make small talk with you. I do not wish to become your friend or to have you become mine. I certainly do not wish to divulge personal details to you. Do I make myself clear?’

       
Cramer sat stunned. She hadn’t raised her voice or shown any sign of emotion, but her words had cut right through him. ‘Hey, I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I was just  . . .’

       
‘. . . making small talk,’ she said, finishing his sentence.

       
‘That’s right. Small talk.’

       
Su-ming picked up her chopsticks again. ‘Life is too short for small talk,’ she said and popped a snow pea into her mouth.

The Colonel poured himself a large whisky and held up the bottle to show Allan. ‘Are you sure you don’t want one?’ he asked.

       
‘No thanks, boss,’ Allan replied.

       
The Colonel put the half empty bottle back on the side table and went over to his desk. ‘How’s Cramer’s drinking?’

       
‘Under control. You were right, once we started training, he cut back.’

       
The Colonel sipped his whisky. ‘He needs a goal, does Mike Cramer. He needs something to aim for, to focus on. Without it he tends to fall apart. Don’t underestimate him, Allan.’

       
‘I won’t, boss.’

       
‘How’s he doing otherwise?’

       
‘His marksmanship is getting better. I’ll be starting him on the set pieces tomorrow, we’ll see how he does under pressure.’

       
‘Do you think he’ll be ready in time?’

       
‘I don’t know. He’s out of condition, he looks like he’s been living rough for months, but he’s all we’ve got, right?’

       
‘That’s right.’ The Colonel raised his tumbler in a toast. ‘And if anyone can turn a pig’s ear into a silk purse, you can.’ He drank again as Allan chuckled.

       
A cellular phone warbled on the windowsill. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow,’ said the Colonel. He waited for Allan to leave before taking the call. It was the last person he expected to hear from: Andrew Vander Mayer.

       
‘Colonel, I need a favour,’ said Vander Mayer.

       
‘Where are you, Mr  Vander Mayer?’ the Colonel asked.

       
‘It’s okay, I’m on the yacht,’ said Vander Mayer.

       
‘I don’t think it’s a good idea to be calling,’ said the Colonel. ‘I thought I made it clear that there was to be no contact until the matter has been resolved.’

       
‘This is important.’

       
‘And a contract on your life isn’t?’

       
Vander Mayer ignored the rhetorical question. ‘You will be in London in two days, am I right?’

       
‘That’s right. For forty-eight hours. Then we move to New York.’

       
‘I have a business deal that requires my presence in London.’

       
The Colonel leaned forward, his body tense. ‘Out of the question,’ he said. ‘Absolutely, totally, one hundred per cent out of the question.’

       
‘Colonel, I agreed to cooperate with you on condition that my business was not affected. This meeting is vital. The man who wishes to see me is doing so at great personal risk to himself and if I do not meet him in London, I will not get the chance again. And there are plenty of other buyers for what he has to sell.’

       
The Colonel frowned. ‘This man, you’ve met him before?’

       
‘No. But I know of him.’

       
‘You realise that this could be the assassin?’ There was no reply from Vander Mayer. ‘This could be the hit,’ said the Colonel.

       
‘I see,’ said Vander Mayer.

       
‘So you understand why you must not come to London?’

       
There was another long silence. ‘Very well. But I want Su-ming to meet with him. Alone.’

       
‘I wouldn’t recommend that either,’ said the Colonel. ‘That would be an indication that you were not available, and if this man is our killer, it would tip him off that something was wrong. Can’t you postpone the meeting?’

       
‘I’ve already told you, that’s not possible.’

       
‘What does this man have that’s so important?’ asked the Colonel.

       
‘Something I’ve been trying to get hold of for a long time,’ said Vander Mayer. ‘Okay, your man will have to meet him. There’s no other way. What’s his name?’

       
‘Cramer. Mike Cramer. What’s the point of the meeting, Mr  Vander Mayer?’

       
‘I’m to take delivery of a sample and some documentation.’

       
‘So it won’t be necessary for Cramer to have an in-depth knowledge of your business?’

       
‘Not really. In any case, he’s Russian and speaks little or no English so Su-ming will have to translate everything.’

       
The Colonel considered Vander Mayer’s suggestion. If this was the assassin making his move, the worst thing the Colonel could do would be to pull Cramer out of the firing line. ‘Very well,’ said the Colonel. ‘When and where?’

       
‘It’ll have to be in my Kensington office. According to the itinerary you gave me, your man Cramer is going to be there in the afternoon on Thursday, so I’ll have the meeting arranged for half past four. I’ll need to brief him first.’

       
‘You’ll have to do that before we leave for London,’ said the Colonel. ‘Under no circumstances are you to contact me or him once the operation is under way. We’ve no idea what scanners or listening equipment he has.’

       
‘No problem. I’ll just sit on deck and soak up the sun.’

       
‘One thing, Mr  Vander Mayer. This sample, what is it?’

       
‘It’s an industrial compound. Nothing dangerous. But valuable.’

Dermott Lynch left the Warwick Castle public house in Little Venice and walked back to the flat along Blomfield Road. To his left, the other side of a row of black-painted railings, was a canal, its banks lined with pretty narrow boats, many of them bedecked with flowers, homes rather than working vessels. As Lynch walked along the pavement, a rusting blue Ford Transit van came up behind him and slowed to match his pace. The window on the passenger’s side wound down. Lynch looked over at the vehicle. The passenger in the front seat was in his early twenties, a long, thin face and unkempt greasy hair. ‘Is this the right way to Elgin Avenue?’ the man asked. Lynch recognised the accent. West Belfast. The man had probably been born within a mile of Lynch’s own home. It was too much of a coincidence.

       
Lynch kept on walking. ‘Straight on, then take the second right. You’ll find it.’

       
The passenger nodded. ‘Are you Dermott?’

       
Lynch shook his head. ‘Not me, mate,’ he said. He quickened his pace. With his beard shaved off, his hair cut short and the wire-framed glasses he was wearing, there was no way he could have been recognised. Unless they were specifically looking for him.

       
‘Dermott Lynch,’ said the man.

       
‘Don’t know him,’ said Lynch. The only way they could have known that he was the man they were looking for was if they’d staked out the flat. But there was only one person who knew where he was and that was Thomas McCormack. So if Thomas had sent them, why hadn’t they simply knocked on the door? There was no need for late night assignations on a deserted street. Lynch knew he was in trouble. There were no windows in the side of the Transit so he had no way of knowing how many people were in the back.

       
‘You sure? We’ve got something for you. From McCormack.’ Lynch stopped. So did the Transit.

       
Lynch stood with his hands free, his legs apart. He wasn’t armed, not so much as a knife. ‘Yeah? Now what would that be?’

       
‘This.’ The man’s hand appeared at the open window, holding an envelope.

       
Lynch smiled. It looked like an envelope full of cash, but he knew without a shadow of a doubt that he was being set up. The money could just as easily have been handed to him in the pub, or at the flat, or the man could have telephoned and arranged the handover. There was no reason to do it out in the open. Lynch walked towards the van, his hand outstretched, an easy smile on his face. ‘Why didn’t you say so in the first place?’ he asked.

       
The passenger grinned. He was holding the envelope in his left hand, his right was hidden. As he got closer, Lynch saw that the man’s jaw was clamped tight, a sure sign of tension, and his eyes had a fixed stare. They weren’t planning to kill him there and then, he decided. They had other plans for him.

       
‘What’s your name, son?’ asked Lynch. The question caught the man by surprise. Lynch saw him frown, but before he could reply Lynch reached out, grabbed the man’s hair and smashed his face into the window frame. The cartilage of the man’s nose cracked with a satisfying splintering sound. Lynch banged the man’s head down a second time and this time his face made more of a soft crunching noise. There was blood everywhere. The driver began yelling and Lynch heard the clatter of feet in the back of the van.