The Double Tap (Stephen Leather Thrillers) (59 page)

       
Blackie popped his head around the door. ‘All packed, boss,’ he said. ‘Are you coming with us?’

       
‘No, I’ll hang on here for a while,’ said the Colonel. ‘I’ve got my own transport.’

       
One of the telephones on the desk rang. The trooper looked at the Colonel expectantly, but the Colonel shook his head. ‘I’ll get it,’ he said. It was a chief inspector in Special Branch, one of the few non-military personnel in Britain who had been appraised of the operation.

       
‘Good news, bad news, I’m afraid,’ said the chief inspector.

       
The Colonel’s heart sank. ‘You couldn’t get a match?’

       
‘Oh yes, we got a match all right. The problem is, he can’t be your killer.’

       
‘I don’t follow you.’

       
‘The man you killed is Dermott Lynch. From Belfast. He’s  . . .’

       
‘I know who he is,’ the Colonel interrupted. He wanted to ask if there was any possibility of a mistake, but he knew that the chief inspector was too thorough to have called with inaccurate information.

       
‘The problem is, we had Lynch under surveillance for quite some time last year,’ the Special Branch officer continued. ‘In Belfast and elsewhere in Northern Ireland. We know exactly where he was during three of the killings. And it would be virtually impossible for him to travel to the United States without us being aware of it. He’s on the FBI’s watch list.’

       
The Colonel said nothing, but deep creases furrowed his brow. If the man that Allan had killed was Dermott Lynch, then the assassin was still on the loose. And the Vander Mayer contract was still open.

       
‘Are you there?’ the chief inspector asked.

       
‘Yes. Sorry. I was just thinking.’

       
‘There’s no possibility that we have our lines crossed and that the killings have all been the work of the IRA?’ asked the chief inspector. ‘Perhaps the IRA is moving into new territory. Selling their expertise to the highest bidder.’

       
‘Unlikely in the extreme,’ said the Colonel.

       
‘Ah,’ said the chief inspector. ‘So, did Lynch have a personal reason for going after your man?’

       
‘I’m afraid so, yes.’

       
‘So it’s an unfortunate coincidence, that’s all?’

       
The Colonel sighed. ‘Yes. Just bad luck. The worst sort of luck. Anyway, thanks for letting me know so promptly. We were in the process of standing down. Obviously, in view of what you’ve told me, the operation is still live. I’ll inform my opposite number in the States.’

       
The Colonel thanked the chief inspector and cut the connection. He wasn’t looking forward to telling Dan Greenberg. He was about to tap out the FBI agent’s number when he realised that Mike Cramer was still unaware of the latest development. And with Allan and Martin in hospital, the Colonel would have to provide alternative protection. He punched out the number of Vander Mayer’s apartment.

Su-ming jumped as the telephone rang. ‘Leave it,’ said Jackman. He kept his gun pointed at Cramer’s head. ‘Let it ring.’

       
‘Why are you doing this?’ Su-ming asked.

       
‘You wouldn’t understand,’ said Jackman.

       
‘It’s all right, Su-ming,’ said Cramer. ‘It’s not you he wants.’

       
‘Really?’ sneered Jackman. ‘So tell me, Mike, what exactly is it that I want?’

       
Cramer stared at Jackman. Jackman stared back. ‘I don’t know,’ Cramer admitted. ‘It’s not money, is it?’

       
‘I’ve all I need,’ said Jackman. ‘More than I need. It was never about the money.’ The telephone continued to ring.

       
‘So it’s what? The challenge?’

       
Jackman shook his head. ‘There’s no challenge, not really. Not for someone like me. It’s all in the planning. You know that. You’re a soldier.’

       
‘Was,’ said Cramer. ‘I was a soldier. Not any more.’

       
‘Sit down!’ Jackman shouted at Su-ming. She had been edging towards the door but she stopped dead.

       
‘I, I  . . .’ she began but Jackman waved the gun at her.

       
‘Sit down,’ he repeated. Jackman covered them both with his gun until she’d dropped into a leather and chrome armchair, then he levelled it at Cramer. ‘How many people have you killed, Mike?’

       
‘I don’t know,’ Cramer answered.

       
‘Like fuck you don’t know.’ The telephone stopped ringing. ‘How many?’

       
‘Nine.’

       
Jackman smiled broadly. ‘Yeah? Nine? I’ve killed fifteen.’

       
‘It’s not a competition, Bernie,’ said Cramer. There had only been twelve in the files. He wondered if Jackman was lying about the number of kills.

       
‘It’s Bernard,’ said Jackman, with the emphasis on the second syllable. ‘Bernard. Not Bernie.’

       
Cramer shrugged as if it made no difference to him. ‘Fifteen? All for money?’

       
‘Mostly. Like I said, it’s not about the money. It’s power. The power of taking a life. Isn’t it the most unbelievable feeling, Mike? To take another human being’s life?’

       
Cramer rubbed the back of his neck, trying to massage away the tension that was building there. ‘No. I never felt that way. I never did it for kicks. It was my job.’

       
‘Killing isn’t a job,’ said Jackman. ‘It’s a vocation.’

       
‘You’re sick.’

       
Jackman smiled tightly. ‘No, I’m not sick. I’ve interviewed psychos, Mike. I’ve spent time with them. I’ve rooted around inside their heads, I know what makes them tick. I’m not crazy.’

       
Cramer held his hands out, palms uppermost. ‘Hey, okay. You’re not crazy.’

       
Jackman’s eyes narrowed. ‘Don’t humour me, Mike. You’re not smart enough to play mind games with me.’

       
Cramer didn’t reply. The telephone started to ring again. ‘How do you feel when you kill someone?’

       
Cramer thought about the question for a few seconds. ‘At the time, nothing. It’s what I was trained to do.’

       
Jackman frowned as if he didn’t understand. ‘You don’t get excited? You don’t get a rush from it?’

       
Cramer couldn’t believe what he was hearing. He’d never enjoyed killing. Ever. And he’d never met anyone in the SAS who did. There was nothing thrilling about taking another person’s life, even in the heat of battle. He’d been in fire-fights in the Falklands and in Northern Ireland and he’d killed men to save his own life, but there had been no feelings of elation, no adrenalin kick. ‘No,’ he said, ‘I never enjoyed it.’

       
‘I don’t believe you,’ said Jackman. ‘It’s the best feeling in the world. It’s the ultimate power. And to do it close up, to stand in front of someone and watch them as they die, that’s the absolute best. It’s better than drugs, better than sex, better than anything.’ Jackman shook his head animatedly. ‘Don’t tell me you don’t get a kick out of it, Mike.’

       
Cramer folded his arms across his chest. He felt something hard press against his right hand. The stiletto. He’d forgotten that he still had the blade strapped to his left forearm. ‘I don’t know anyone in the SAS who does enjoy the killing. They might enjoy being in combat, but that’s because it’s what they’re trained to do. But the act of killing, no. No one enjoys that. Only sadists and madmen kill by choice.’

       
Jackman grinned. ‘Yeah? And which am I, Mike?’

       
Cramer let his hands fall to his sides. The telephone stopped ringing again. Jackman was standing fifteen feet away, his back to the window. Out of reach of the stiletto. ‘You wrote the profile,’ said Cramer.

       
‘Yeah, I did, didn’t I? That was half the fun, you know? Being close to the investigation, watching the idiots chase their tails, knowing that they’d never come close to catching me.’

       
‘Unless you wanted to get caught.’

       
Jackman shook his head. ‘No, that’s not what this is about. It’s not a case of me wanting to be stopped. I don’t want to be caught and punished to satisfy some inner need for retribution. I fully intend to spend the rest of my life as a free man. I’ve enough money tucked away to live wherever I want. South America. Africa. There are plenty of places for a rich man to hide. And I’m a very, very rich man, Mike.’ He smiled at Vander Mayer’s body, sprawled on the polished wooden floorboards. ‘Not as rich as him, but then he’s dead, isn’t he? And you can’t take it with you, right?’

       
Jackman was waving his gun around like a conductor with a baton. Cramer took a step forward, but Jackman immediately levelled the gun at his face. ‘Don’t even think about it,’ Jackman warned. ‘I can put a bullet in your skull before you get anywhere near me.’

       
Cramer said nothing. He could reach Jackman with three steps but that would be more than enough time for Jackman to shoot. Cramer needed a distraction, something to give him the time to pull out the knife and get in close. He looked across at Su-ming. She was staring at Jackman, fear etched into her face. He willed her to look across at him, but her eyes remained fixed on Jackman and the gun.

       
‘What was it like for you, the first time?’ Jackman asked.

       
Cramer was concentrating on Su-ming so intently that he almost didn’t hear the question. ‘What?’ he said.

       
‘The first time. What was it like?’

       
Cramer shrugged and didn’t answer. ‘Why did you kill Vander Mayer?’ he asked. ‘Why did you kill him when you knew that you’d be caught?’

       
‘I haven’t been caught, Mike. I’m in control here, not you.’

       
‘But it’s over now. Your cover’s blown. We know who you are.’

       
Jackman pursed his lips. ‘It was always going to happen,’ he said. ‘It was just a matter of time.’ He licked his lips and they glistened wetly. ‘Anyway, I’ve nothing to lose now, have I?’

       
Cramer took a step forward, trying to look as non-threatening as possible. ‘Let the girl go.’

       
‘Maybe I will. What was it like for you? Your first kill?’ Cramer felt his teeth clench involuntarily. Jackman looked at Su-ming and gestured with the gun. ‘I’m waiting,’ Jackman pressed.

       
‘The first person I killed was my mother,’ said Cramer.

       
Jackman’s jaw dropped. Then his expression changed, from amazement to admiration. He whistled softly.

The Colonel went over to the window and looked across at the tower block opposite. Most of the floors were in darkness, but the lights were on in Vander Mayer’s apartment. He could make out a figure standing by the study window but it wasn’t possible to see whether the figure was looking in or out. The Colonel couldn’t even tell who it was. He looked around for his binoculars but they’d been packed away, along with his transceiver and the rest of the equipment he’d been using. The Colonel tapped his lips with the flat of his hand as he considered his options. The figure in the window hadn’t moved.

       
The Colonel picked up the telephone and tapped out the number of the doorman in the main lobby.

Jackman put his head on the side as he looked at Cramer. ‘Your mother? You killed your own mother? Why, did you want to go to the orphans’ Christmas party or something?’

       
Su-ming turned to stare at Cramer. Cramer looked at her, wishing there was some way to communicate with her, some way to tell her to cause a diversion so that he could get the stiletto out, because if they didn’t do something Jackman was going to kill them both. Jackman needed time to get away, and the only way to buy it would be to leave two more bodies on the floor next to Vander Mayer. ‘She was dying,’ said Cramer flatly.

       
‘Cancer?’ said Jackman.

       
‘Brain tumour. Inoperable.’

       
Jackman nodded and there was something almost sympathetic about the gesture. ‘Tough.’

       
‘Yeah. If it had happened today they’d probably have saved her. Back then, there was nothing they could do. They sent her home to die.’

       
Cramer looked at Su-ming. All he needed was for her to distract Jackman for a moment. As soon as Jackman pointed the gun at Su-ming and not at him, Cramer could make his move. One step. Pull out the stiletto. Another step. Drive the knife forward. The last step. Up into Jackman’s throat. It would take one second, two at most. Su-ming was staring at him, aghast, her hands up to her face, covering her mouth.

       
‘She was in pain every day. Every minute of every day. Pain like you wouldn’t believe. I used to hate getting home from school. I used to stay out of the house as much as I could.’ Cramer knew he had to keep talking, to play for time.

       
‘How old were you?’ Jackman asked. His interest seemed to be academic, as if he were a psychiatrist analysing Cramer’s case.

       
‘Eleven,’ Cramer answered. ‘I was eleven.’

       
‘How? How did you do it?’