The Double Tap (Stephen Leather Thrillers) (50 page)

       
Discenza’s legs began to thrash about and Smolev pushed the man’s shoulders down onto the sofa. ‘Try to lie still, Frank. The more you move, the faster it’ll spread.’

       
The door opened. ‘Did you want . . . ?’ Verity began, but he stopped when he saw what was happening. ‘What the  . . . ?’

       
‘The waiter!’ Smolev interrupted. ‘He’s lost the hair and the moustache and he’s wearing a black leather jacket and jeans. He was on foot but he must have a car nearby. Go!’

       
Smolev stood up and went over to the telephone as Verity rushed out and ran down the corridor. He told a girl on reception to call for an ambulance and to see if there was a doctor staying at the hotel. He slammed the receiver down and went back to Discenza. Discenza’s back was arched and the tendons in his neck were as taut as steel wires. Discenza grunted and his right hand fastened on Smolev’s shoulder, gripping like a vice. Discenza began muttering, but Smolev couldn’t make out what he was saying. ‘It’s going to be okay, Frank,’ Smolev said. ‘Lie still.’

       
Discenza kicked out and one of the Budweiser bottles skidded across the carpet. The poison must have been in the beer, Smolev realised. He cursed himself and he cursed the waiter and his white cotton gloves. No fingerprints, and a description that was worse than useless. His only hope was that Verity would apprehend the man, but Smolev knew that was no hope at all. The killer was a pro. Suddenly Discenza went rigid, and then he flopped back onto the sofa. Smolev searched for a pulse in the man’s neck, but he knew he was wasting his time. Discenza was dead. And so, thought Smolev bitterly, was his career with the Bureau.

The intercom on the desk buzzed. Cramer looked at Su-ming expectantly and she walked over and pressed a button on the device. ‘Yes, Jenny?’ she said.

       
‘It’s Mr  Tarlanov,’ said the secretary.

       
Cramer got to his feet and adjusted the cuffs of his shirt as Su-ming opened the office door. He heard Allan arguing with the visitor and went over to see what the problem was. A tall man in a fawn raincoat was standing by Jenny’s desk clutching an aluminium case to his chest, a look of alarm on his face. He was in his late thirties with thick eyebrows that almost met above a thin nose. He had several days’ stubble on his cheeks and chin and his face was drawn and tired.

       
Allan was standing in front of the man, his arms out to the sides, blocking his way. Tarlanov was saying something rapidly in Russian and shaking his head. Then in heavily accented English he said, ‘No. No. Leave me.’

       
‘Stay where you are, Mr  Vander Mayer,’ Allan said as he continued to obstruct Tarlanov.

       
Martin moved over to stand next to Cramer, putting his body between Cramer and the Russian.

       
‘What’s the problem?’ Cramer asked Su-ming.

       
She spoke to Tarlanov and he answered, clearly relieved to find someone who could speak his own language. ‘He won’t open the case,’ she said.

       
‘Why not?’

       
The Russian must have understood because he spoke to Su-ming again. She nodded and looked at Cramer. ‘He says he’ll only open it in front of you.’

       
‘We have to search him, Su-ming,’ said Allan. ‘Tell him that.’

       
Su-ming began to translate but Tarlanov was already shaking his head. Cramer could see that the man understood at least some English.

       
‘Go back into the office and close the door, Mr  Vander Mayer,’ said Allan.

       
‘It’s okay, Allan,’ said Cramer. ‘Su-ming, tell him that we’re just going to pat him down, nothing more. He can open the case in my office, we just want to make sure he doesn’t have a weapon.’

       
Su-ming moved past Martin and she spoke softly to the Russian, as if she was trying to calm a spooked horse. He nodded, still nervous, and then put the aluminium case on the floor and held up his hands. He watched Cramer as Allan searched him.

       
‘Hello, hello, what’s this?’ Allan said, reaching behind Tarlanov’s back. His hand reappeared with a small automatic and he held it up for Cramer to see. Martin pushed Cramer back into the inner office and took out his own gun.

       
Tarlanov spoke quickly in Russian as Allan continued to search him.

       
‘He says it’s for his own protection,’ Su-ming explained. ‘He says London is a dangerous city.’

       
Allan took a small aerosol from the Russian’s pocket. He examined it and then sniffed it warily. He wrinkled his nose. ‘Mace,’ he said.

       
The Russian nodded eagerly. ‘For protection,’ he said.

       
‘You speak English?’ Cramer asked.

       
Tarlanov smiled ingratiatingly. ‘A little,’ he said.

       
‘That’s all,’ said Allan, stepping back. He wiped his eyes which had started watering from the mace. He looked at the gun in the palm of his hand. It was a small automatic, not much bigger than the one Cramer had in his underarm holster.

       
‘May I?’ Cramer asked, holding out his hand. Allan gave him the weapon. Cramer didn’t recognise the make, though there was Russian writing along the barrel.

       
‘For protection,’ the Russian repeated. Cramer ejected the clip, slipped it into his pocket and gave the empty gun back to the Russian.

       
‘I’d feel happier searching the case,’ Allan said to Cramer.

       
‘No. Only Mr Vander Mayer,’ Tarlanov insisted, in his heavy accent.

       
‘Watch him, Martin,’ said Allan. Martin grunted. He still had his VP70 machine pistol in his hand. Allan nodded at Cramer to back into the inner office and he followed him inside, closing the door behind them. ‘He’s the right build, give or take, I’m not sure about his accent and he had a gun. It could be him, Mike.’

       
Cramer pulled a face. ‘I don’t think he’s faking it. And our man wouldn’t just walk in here like that, he’d have shot you and Martin and then blown me away. He’s never given anyone time to search him before, he just starts shooting.’

       
Allan sighed deeply. ‘I don’t want him alone with you.’

       
‘Where’s he going to go, Allan? You and Martin will be on the other side of the door. It’d be suicide, and we know the killer doesn’t have a death-wish.’

       
Allan thought about it for several seconds. ‘Okay,’ he said. ‘But keep close to him, watch him when he opens the case and if he makes any threatening moves  . . .’

       
‘Get my defence in first. Yeah, I know.’

       
Allan held Cramer’s look, then turned and open the door. ‘Let him through,’ Allan said to Martin.

       
Martin held his machine pistol down at his side as he stepped away from Tarlanov. The Russian picked up the metal case and carried it through to the inner office. Su-ming closed the door and stood with her back to it. Tarlanov nodded and smiled at Cramer as he put the case onto the desk.

       
‘I didn’t expect you to be able to speak English,’ Cramer said.

       
Tarlanov frowned and looked at Su-ming. She translated and he shrugged. ‘A little,’ he said.

       
‘Where in Russia are you from?’

       
Again Tarlanov immediately looked at Su-ming and Cramer realised that the Russian spoke hardly any English at all.

       
Su-ming looked at Cramer. ‘I don’t think we should be asking him questions,’ she said, speaking quickly so that the Russian would be even less likely to understand.

       
Cramer raised an eyebrow. ‘Ask him where he’s from, please,’ he said. Su-ming’s eyes hardened. ‘Let’s not have a scene,’ added Cramer, smiling pleasantly.

       
Su-ming looked for a moment as if she might argue, then she spoke to Tarlanov. ‘St  Petersburg,’ she said.

       
Cramer nodded. ‘Okay, let’s see what’s in the case.’ He pointed at the metal case and mimed opening it. The Russian nodded. He reached into his raincoat pocket and Cramer tensed, even though he knew that Allan’s search had been thorough. Tarlanov’s hand reappeared with a set of keys. He sorted through them and used one to open the locks.

       
Cramer moved towards the desk so that he was standing just behind the Russian. He peered over the man’s shoulder as he lifted the lid. Cramer held his breath, his right hand straying towards his hidden gun.

       
The lid opened and Cramer saw a sheaf of papers. Tarlanov picked them up and handed them to Cramer. He spoke in Russian and Su-ming translated. ‘This is the documentation about the process and details of the consignments available,’ she said.

       
Cramer flicked through the sheets. They were all in Russian, and scattered through the text were chemical symbols and equations. He gave them to Su-ming. ‘Can you make sense of these?’ he asked.

       
As she read through the paperwork, Tarlanov stood to the side and waved his hand over the open case. The bulk of the case was filled with grey foam rubber, but in the centre, nestled into a snug cut-out hollow, was a metal canister shaped like an artillery shell, grey at the top, red for most of its length and with a brass fitting at the bottom. The object was about nine inches long with Russian writing on the red section, mainly numbers.

       
Cramer bent over the case and stared at it, scratching his chin thoughtfully. It wasn’t a shell, he was sure of that. In fact, it didn’t look like any weapon he’d ever seen. ‘Ask him if it’s okay to touch it,’ he told Su-ming.

       
‘I don’t think that’s a good idea,’ she said.

       
‘Just do it,’ said Cramer, keeping his voice as pleasant as possible. He didn’t want Tarlanov to guess from his tone that there was anything wrong.

       
Su-ming spoke to Tarlanov in Russian, listened to his answer, and then replied. ‘It’s not dangerous.’ Cramer picked it up gingerly. It weighed several pounds. ‘But he says be careful not to drop it,’ Su-ming added.

       
Cramer turned the object around in his hands. It was smooth with no rivets or screws, and the brass fitting appeared to be screwed into the red metal part. It reminded him of a Christmas tree light only much, much bigger. ‘Where does it come from?’ Cramer asked. It wasn’t a shell, he realised. It was a flask. A metal flask.

       
When Su-ming didn’t translate, Cramer turned and looked at her. She was glaring at him, her arms folded across her chest. ‘That’s not what we’re supposed to do,’ she said.

       
‘Keep smiling, kid,’ said Cramer. ‘And do as you’re told.’

       
The Russian looked at Su-ming expectantly. She forced a smile and spoke to him in Russian. His reply was a single word. ‘Ekaterinburg,’ said Su-ming. ‘It’s a city in the Urals, about 600 kilometres to the east of Moscow.’

       
Cramer nodded. Tarlanov spoke again and Su-ming listened intently. ‘But it was manufactured in Krasnoyarsk-26, that’s a military city in Zhelenogorsk,’ she translated.

       
Cramer could get no information from the writing on the flask so he put it back in its cut-out in the case. He really wanted to ask the Russian what was inside the flask, but that was out of the question: Vander Mayer would obviously know what the Russian was bringing him. ‘How much does it cost?’ he asked.

       
Su-ming translated and the Russian replied with a careless shrug. ‘It depends on how much you want,’ she said. ‘The base price is four hundred thousand dollars for a kilogram.’

       
The Russian closed the case. ‘Ask him how much he can get hold of,’ Cramer asked.

       
Su-ming spoke to Tarlanov in Russian. He nodded, then turned and headed towards the door. Cramer realised that Su-ming had told him the meeting was over. She dashed ahead of the Russian and opened the door, ushering him out before Cramer could protest.

       
As soon as the Russian stepped out of the inner office, Su-ming closed the door and stood with her back to it, her eyes flashing. ‘You weren’t supposed to ask him anything,’ she said. ‘Mr  Vander Mayer said you were only to take delivery of the consignment. You didn’t do as you were told.’

       
‘He’s your boss, not mine.’

       
‘You could have ruined everything.’

       
Cramer shrugged dismissively. ‘That’s not my problem.’ He pointed at the case. ‘Now, what the hell is that? What’s so important that it’s made in a Russian military city and it costs four hundred thousand dollars a kilogram?’

       
‘It doesn’t concern you.’

       
‘You’re wrong, Su-ming. You’re dead wrong. I’m looking after whatever it is that’s in that case, it’s my responsibility, and if it’s some sort of germ warfare weapon then I have a right to know.’

       
‘It’s not germ warfare,’ she said, pouting like a little girl who wasn’t getting her own way.

       
‘So you say. What if I drop it, what if the car gets involved in an accident? Suppose whatever it is in the flask escapes? We could all die.’

       
Su-ming shook her head. ‘It’s safe.’

       
‘How do you know?’

       
She waved the typed sheets in front of his face. ‘Because it says so, here, that’s how I know. Until it’s activated, it’s virtually inert.’