The Double Tap (Stephen Leather Thrillers) (9 page)

       
‘Did you get a chance to read any of the files?’

       
‘Half a dozen, in detail.’

       
The Colonel put down his mug of coffee. ‘Any thoughts?’

       
Cramer shrugged and stirred his eggs with his fork. ‘Half of the hits were in the States, right? That suggests that the killer is an American.’

       
‘Maybe. Or it could imply that Americans are more willing to hire professionals to do their killings.’

       
Cramer nodded. ‘I can’t work out why he shoots them in the face first. You know the drill. Two shots to the chest, then one to the head to make sure, if you have the time. But only if you have the time. In the Killing House it’s two chest shots, then on to the next target. We don’t have the luxury of head-shots.’

       
‘Which means what?’

       
‘Which means, I suppose, that he’s not SAS-trained,’ answered Cramer. ‘In fact, I can’t think of any Special Forces group which trains its people to go for head-shots.’

       
‘Perhaps he didn’t agree with the way he was trained,’ said the Colonel as Cramer put a forkful of eggs in his mouth and swallowed without chewing. ‘Remember, he’s always very close to the target. Within ten feet, often closer. At that range, head-shots are less chancy.’

       
Cramer shrugged and stirred his eggs again. They were good scrambled eggs, rich and buttery with a hint of cheese, but he had no appetite. ‘It’s a question of training, though,’ he said. ‘If it’s drilled into you to kill one way, it’s damn difficult to do it any other way.’

       
‘We can talk that through with the profiler when he arrives,’ said the Colonel, placing his knife and fork together on the plate. As if by magic, Mrs Elliott appeared and whisked it away.

       
‘Profiler? What’s the deal there?’

       
The Colonel wrapped his hands around his steaming mug. The dining hall was cavernous and the propane heater at the end of the table provided little in the way of warmth. ‘The man we’re looking for is a professional assassin, there’s no doubt about that. That’s how the police would look at it. A psychiatrist might take a different view. He could look at him as a killer who keeps killing. A serial killer. And serial killers develop patterns. By analysing those patterns we might be able to build up a picture of what makes him tick. The FBI has a team of specialists based in Quantico who profile serial killers for police forces around the country.’

       
‘And one of these profilers is working on our killer?’

       
‘The FBI did the initial profiling, but now we’ve got a guy who used to work for the Bureau helping us,’ said the Colonel. ‘Name of Jackman. He used to be one of their best operatives, now he runs a private profiling agency in Boston.’

       
Cramer swallowed another mouthful of eggs without chewing. ‘A private serial killer profiler?’

       
‘He offers recruitment advice to companies, stops them hiring bad apples. He gets called in to help movie stars with problem fans, stalkers and the like. And he’s helped resolve several kidnapping cases where the police haven’t been called in. Some of the biggest insurance companies use him.’

       
Cramer frowned. He washed his eggs down with his tea. ‘I don’t get this, Colonel. Why isn’t the Bureau helping us?’

       
‘The FBI have less than a dozen profilers on staff and a single manager and they’re on a tight budget. They do a total of about eight hundred profiles a year but they have to turn away at least two hundred. The Bureau’s total budget for profiling is just over a million dollars a year, despite all the publicity the unit gets. They don’t even have the time to do written profiles on a lot of the cases they handle – they offer advice on the phone to law enforcement agencies all across America. But Jackman can give us as much time as we need. He’s had access to all the case files for the past three months. I want you to meet him before we put you in place.’

       
Cramer put down his fork. The bulk of his scrambled eggs remained untouched on the plate. ‘What will he be able to tell me?’

       
‘He might be able to give you an idea of what sort of man the killer is, give you a profile so that you recognise him when he moves against you.’

       
Cramer smiled thinly. ‘Moves against me? You mean tries to kill me.’

       
‘Whatever. It’ll give you an edge.’

       
‘I’ll take whatever I can get,’ said Cramer. He rubbed his stomach.

       
The Colonel leaned forward, concerned. ‘Are you okay?’

       
‘A bit sore, but nothing like as bad as it’s going to be in a few weeks.’

       
‘There’s a doctor coming later. He’ll give you a check-up.’

       
‘I’ve been seen by experts, Colonel. I’ve had all the second opinions I need.’

       
‘All the same, I want him to look at you. He might be able to prescribe something for the pain.’

       
Cramer shook his head. ‘I don’t think so,’ he said. ‘Painkillers will just slow me down. Besides, the pain lets me know I’m still alive.’ He pushed the plate away and drained his mug.

       
They both looked over at the door as they heard footsteps in the hallway. A short, portly man carrying a large briefcase entered the dining hall, walking quickly as if he was behind schedule. He was wearing a dark blue blazer and black slacks and his shoes gleamed as if they’d just been polished. The Colonel stood up. ‘The doctor?’ asked Cramer.

       
‘The tailor,’ said the Colonel.

       
‘A tailor? What the hell do I need a tailor for?’

       
‘The man whose place you’ll be taking wouldn’t be seen dead in clothes like yours, Joker.’

       
The tailor put his briefcase on the table, opened it and took out a tapemeasure and a small notebook. ‘Up, up, up,’ he said to Cramer, talking as quickly as he walked. Cramer got to his feet and held out his hands to the sides. The Colonel smiled as the tailor busied himself taking Cramer’s measurements and scribbling them down in his notebook. ‘Three suits, we said?’

       
‘That’s right,’ said the Colonel. ‘All dark pinstripe, double breasted, no turn-ups. A dozen shirts, all white, double cuffs. Socks, underwear, a selection of casual shirts and trousers. Conservative.’

       
‘Of course, of course,’ said the tailor, kneeling down in front of Cramer and deftly measuring his inside leg.

       
‘And an overcoat,’ said the Colonel. ‘Cashmere.’ Cramer raised an eyebrow. ‘Quality shows,’ the Colonel explained. ‘Especially when you get up close.’

       
The tailor measured Cramer’s arms, his waist and his chest. ‘Which side will you be carrying?’ the tailor asked Cramer.

       
‘Carrying?’ repeated Cramer, confused.

       
‘Shoulder holster,’ said the tailor.

       
‘Left side,’ said Cramer.

       
‘Good, good.’ The tailor turned to the Colonel. ‘What about accessories?’ he asked. ‘Belts, ties, cufflinks?’

       
‘I’ll leave that up to you,’ said the Colonel. ‘Bring a selection.’

       
‘Certainly,’ said the tailor. ‘Certainly.’

       
‘And you can supply shoes?’

       
‘Of course, of course.’ The tailor looked up at Cramer expectantly.

       
‘Ten and a half,’ said Cramer.

       
The tailor made a note, stood up, picked up his briefcase and left.

       
‘Regular whirlwind,’ said Cramer, his hands still out at his sides.

       
‘He puts the guys in Hong Kong to shame,’ said the Colonel. ‘He’ll have it all ready within forty-eight hours.’

       
‘And I get to keep them after it’s all over?’

       
The Colonel began to reply, then he realised that Cramer was being sarcastic. He shook his head, almost sadly. ‘I’d forgotten why they called you Joker,’ he said.

       
Cramer shrugged and sat down again. ‘So when does it happen?’

       
‘A few days. There’s still some preparation to be done.’

       
‘Just don’t leave it too long,’ warned Cramer.

The top shelf of the larder was just out of the boy’s reach so he had to stand on a chair to reach the tin of beef stew. He opened the can, emptied it into a pan and stirred it carefully on the gas stove. When the stew began to bubble and spit he poured it onto a plate and carried it upstairs with a glass of milk. His mother was sitting up, her back propped up with pillows. The walking stick lay on the covers next to a stack of old magazines. ‘I made you lunch,’ said the boy.

       
His mother smiled. ‘You’re a good boy,’ she said.

       
The boy carried the plate and glass over to the bedside table and put them down next to a box of tissues. He handed his mother a fork. ‘It’s beef stew,’ he said.

       
‘My favourite.’

       
‘It’s not your favourite. Your favourite is roast chicken, you always say. But I couldn’t make roast chicken.’

       
‘This is my favourite today.’ She took the fork and the boy held the plate for her as she speared a small piece of meat. She chewed slowly, then nodded. ‘Delicious.’

       
‘Yeah? Are you sure?’

       
‘Sure I’m sure.’ She reached over and ruffled his hair. ‘How was school today?’

       
‘Okay, I guess.’ He stood watching her, waiting for her to take a second bite, but she put the fork back on the plate and lay down, wincing as she moved. ‘Try some more,’ he urged. ‘It’s good.’

       
‘Maybe later.’ She sounded tired. She always sounded tired, the boy thought. As if she’d given up hope.

       
‘Didn’t I cook it right?’ he asked, frowning.

       
She smiled. ‘You cooked it just fine. I’m tired, that’s all.’

       
The boy put the plate on the bedside table and gave her the glass of milk. ‘Milk’s good for you,’ he said. She took a sip. It left a white frothy line across her upper lip. He reached over and wiped away the milk on her lip with his hand. ‘When are you getting better, Mum?’ he asked.

       
‘I don’t know,’ she said.

       
‘Soon?’

       
‘Maybe soon.’ She patted the edge of the bed and he climbed up and sat next to her. ‘Do you know where Daddy keeps my medicine?’ she asked. The boy nodded. ‘I think I need some more,’ she said. ‘Can you bring it up to me?’ The boy chewed the inside of his lip. ‘You can do that for me, can’t you?’ she said. The boy shrugged. ‘Go and get it for me. Please.’

       
‘Daddy says . . .’ He tailed off, unable to finish the sentence.

       
His mother reached over and patted his leg. ‘Your daddy says what?’

       
The boy sighed deeply. ‘Daddy says only he can give you the medicine. He said you’re not to have it.’

       
His mother nodded as if she understood. ‘I’m sure that if Daddy knew how much I needed my medicine he’d give it to me.’

       
The boy turned his head away and stared at the door. ‘Daddy said not to.’

       
His mother began to cough. The boy picked up the box of tissues and pulled one out for her. She took it and pressed it to her mouth as her chest heaved. He watched anxiously until the coughing spasm was over. When she took the tissue away from her mouth it was spotted with blood. His mother screwed the tissue up as if hiding the evidence of her illness. ‘You’re going to have to help me,’ she said.

Dermott Lynch drove the Ford Granada slowly down the rutted track, the steering wheel threatening to tear itself from his gloved hands. It was only after he’d picked up the car that he realised it was an automatic and he was having trouble remembering not to use his left foot. It wasn’t as if he had a choice – the vehicle had been appropriated for him by two teenagers acting under IRA orders, and left in a car park close to Belfast railway station with its ignition key in the exhaust pipe. The Granada belonged to an old couple who lived in the outskirts of Belfast and they wouldn’t report it stolen until the following day, not if they knew what was good for them.

       
Davie Quinn sat in the front passenger seat, sniffing as if he had the beginnings of a cold. His brother Paulie was in the back. From occasional glances in the driving mirror, Lynch could see that the younger Quinn brother was nervous. His cheeks were flushed and there was a thin sheen of sweat on his forehead. ‘You okay, Paulie?’ Lynch asked.

       
Paulie jerked as if he’d been stung. ‘What? Oh yeah. I’m fine.’

       
‘Good lad,’ said Lynch, smiling to himself. Thomas McCormack had insisted that the Quinn boys be taken on the job. They’d both conducted themselves well in Howth, but no shots had been fired and no one had been hurt. It was important to discover how the boys would react under pressure. He looked across at Davie. Davie was by far the more confident of the two brothers and had all the makings of an ideal volunteer. He had a sharp intelligence but he kept quiet when necessary. Lynch was all too well aware of how many operations had been blown by a youngster who was the worse for drink showing off to his mates or a girlfriend. The ceasefire meant that it was more important than ever before for the organisation’s volunteers to conduct themselves well. The IRA wasn’t being dismantled, it was simply going even further underground, waiting for the call to return to violence if the political process failed to come up with the goods. Discipline had to be maintained, volunteers had to be trained, and active service units continued to gather data on prospective targets in Ireland and on the mainland.