The Double Tap (Stephen Leather Thrillers) (33 page)

       
‘That’s great,’ he said, running his thumb over the notes. He slipped the envelope into the back pocket of his jeans, then impulsively stepped forward and kissed her on the cheek. To his surprise she turned her face so that her lips brushed his and for a few seconds she returned his kiss. Lynch put his hands on her hips and tried to kiss her harder but she reached up and put her hands on his shoulders and pushed him away. She looked at him, one eyebrow raised archly, a lock of her hair across one cheek. ‘I don’t think this is a good idea, is it, Dermott?’ she said.

       
Lynch grinned. ‘Aye, right enough,’ he said.

       
Marie kept looking at him and he could see his own reflection in the pupils of her eyes. She smiled and put her head on one side as if reconsidering. ‘Maybe later,’ she said.

       
‘Aye, maybe,’ said Lynch. He knew that she didn’t mean later that day. She meant afterwards, after Cramer was dead. He nodded, still looking deep into her eyes.

       
She held his gaze for a few seconds then twisted around and pulled three cartons out of the carrier bag. ‘Hair dye,’ she said, handing them to him. ‘I wasn’t sure what to get, so I got one black, one blonde and one red.’

       
Lynch juggled the boxes thoughtfully and Marie slipped away to the other side of the kitchen, where she busied herself filling the kettle. ‘What do you think?’ asked Lynch.

       
‘I’d go for black,’ she said. ‘Red is always a risky colour. And it’ll only advertise the fact that you’re Irish. And I’m not sure you’ll suit the bleached surfer look. But I wanted to give you the choice.’

       
Lynch put down two of the packs and took the carton of black dye into the bathroom. Marie appeared at the doorway with an old towel as Lynch was reading the instructions. ‘Use this,’ she said, ‘and try not to get it everywhere.’

       
She was right; it was a messy business, and by the time Lynch had finished the bathroom looked as if a wet dog had shaken itself dry. He wrapped his wet hair in the towel and did his best to wipe the sink and mirror clean. When he walked back into the kitchen Marie was pouring him a cup of tea. Lynch took it and sniffed it appreciatively. She hadn’t made the mistake of brewing it too long and she’d poured the milk into the cup first so that the milk hadn’t scalded. He sipped it and sat down at the table. Marie reached over and unwound the towel. ‘Who cut this?’ she asked.

       
‘I did it myself,’ admitted Lynch. ‘Not good, huh?’

       
‘Not great,’ she agreed, running her fingers through the thick locks. ‘Let’s see if I can improve it.’

       
She took a pair of scissors from a drawer and led Lynch through to her bedroom and sat him down in front of her dressing table. Lynch watched her in the mirror as she combed his hair. She had a thoughtful frown on her face, like a little girl facing a difficult decision. She used the scissors carefully as if she was frightened of making a mistake. She tidied up the front and gave him more of a parting, then concentrated on the back, tapering it so that it just brushed the collar of his shirt. When she was satisfied she stood behind him and patted him on the shoulders. ‘How’s that, sir?’ she asked.

       
Lynch turned his head from side to side. She’d done a good job. ‘Excellent. Really good. Who taught you to cut hair?’

       
She leant across him to put the scissors on the dressing table and her hair brushed his cheek. ‘You’re my first customer,’ she said. Lynch turned towards her and his lips met hers. This time the initiative came from her, her lips pressed hard against his and her soft tongue forced its way between his teeth. She took sugar in her tea and Lynch could taste the sweetness on her tongue. She moved around him, still keeping her mouth pressed against him, sat on his lap and put her arms around his neck.

       
It was Lynch who broke away first, gasping for breath. ‘Hey, I thought this wasn’t a good idea,’ he said.

       
‘It’s not,’ she said. She kissed him again, harder this time. Lynch stood up and carried her over to the bed. He knelt on the quilt and lowered her gently. She lay there, her arms outstretched, a lazy smile on her face.

       
‘Are you sure?’ asked Lynch.

       
‘Just get on with it, Dermott,’ she laughed, reaching up for him.

Simon Chaillon flicked through his copy of
Euromoney
, looking for anything of interest. The magazine seemed to get bigger each year and if it continued to grow it would soon be the size of a telephone directory. There still seemed to be precious little to hold his attention, though. The brass plate on his office door gave his profession as personal banker and financial adviser, but Chaillon wasn’t a typical Swiss financier.

       
Chaillon’s secretary knocked gently on his door and walked into his office. ‘Courier delivery,’ she said, placing a Federal Express envelope on his desk.

       
‘Thank you, Theresa,’ said Chaillon, looking up from the magazine. If it came to a choice between reading the latest World Bank projections or watching the twenty-five-year-old blonde walk across his plush green carpet, it was no contest. Theresa walked slowly back to the door, swinging her hips as if she knew that he was watching, and swishing her mane of hair like an impatient racehorse. At fifty-eight, Chaillon was old enough to be her father, but there was nothing parental about his affections, or his intentions. She’d been with him for eighteen months – his previous secretary had died in a road accident – and he didn’t quite trust her yet, which was why he left the envelope unopened on the desk until she’d closed the door. Chaillon looked out of his window, across the River Limmat and its flat-roofed river boats towards the twin-towered Grossmunster Cathedral. Maybe today would be the day he’d suggest that they go out for dinner. Chaillon had no reservations about mixing business and pleasure. If anything, a sexual relationship would bind her closer to him.

       
He opened the envelope. Inside were three colour photographs taken with a long lens. They were slightly grainy but the images were clear: a man, tall with deep-set eyes and a worried frown, was stepping away from a large Mercedes, a bodyguard to his right, a young Oriental girl just behind him; the same man, coming out of a doorway; and a close-up, just of the man. Chaillon wondered how long it would be before the man in the photograph was dead. Chaillon’s client was the ultimate professional. He had never failed, he had never had to refund his fee. That was why he was so expensive.

       
Along with the photographs were three A4 typewritten sheets. Chaillon didn’t read them, he preferred to know as little as possible about the targets. It wasn’t that he was squeamish, it was simply a matter of self-protection. There was only one thing he needed to know. He picked up the telephone connected to his private line and called an office less than half a mile away. Chaillon gave a nine-digit identification number and asked if there had been any deposits made within the previous forty-eight hours. The answer was affirmative. Five hundred thousand dollars. Chaillon replaced the receiver. He put the photographs and typewritten sheets in another envelope and sealed it. The envelope went inside a fresh Federal Express packet.

       
Chaillon swivelled his chair around to face an IBM PC which was displaying a list of Japanese share prices. He manipulated the mouse to activate the computer’s modem and within seconds he was connected to a bulletin board on the West Coast of the United States. There was one word on the board: London. Chaillon cut the connection. His fingers played across the keyboard of his computer. From the screen he copied an address in London onto the Federal Express airbill, and then he pressed his intercom and asked Theresa to come back into the office.

       
She knocked again before entering. Chaillon was always amused by her politeness. As she sashayed over to his desk he wondered if she’d be as polite in bed. He smiled at the thought. ‘Send this right away, Theresa,’ he said, handing her the packet. He had no qualms about her seeing the name or the address: it was an accommodation agency, one of more than a dozen that his client used around the world.

‘Shall I be mother?’ asked the Colonel.

       
Jackman frowned. ‘Mother?’ he repeated.

       
‘It’s an English expression,’ said the Colonel, picking up the teapot. ‘It means I’ll pour.’ He poured steaming tea into a white china mug and handed it to the profiler. Jackman helped himself to milk and two lumps of sugar. ‘When are you going to South Africa?’ asked the Colonel.

       
‘I’m catching the red-eye,’ said Jackman. He stirred his tea thoughtfully. ‘Cramer didn’t seem very impressed with my work.’

       
‘He has a lot on his mind.’

       
Jackman nodded and pulled a face. ‘He’s got guts, that’s for sure.’ He tapped his spoon against the mug. ‘The target, he’s safely out of the way?’

       
‘Well out of reach,’ agreed the Colonel.

       
‘Good. What have you done with him?’

       
‘That’s need to know.’

       
‘And I don’t need to know, I suppose,’ said Jackman. ‘What about the man who placed the contract?’

       
‘Discenza? The FBI have him in protective custody in Miami. No one can get to him.’

       
Jackman stirred his tea again, staring at the brown liquid as it whirled around. ‘Does Cramer realise how closely he himself fits the profile of the man we’re looking for?’

       
The Colonel sipped his tea, then shook his head. ‘If he does, he hasn’t mentioned it.’

       
‘Set a thief to catch a thief?’

       
‘Not really. He was chosen for other reasons. The similarities hadn’t occurred to me until you read his file and pointed it out.’

       
Jackman walked over to the trolley and put down his spoon. ‘He lost his mother at a relatively young age, his father was rarely at home when he was in his teens, he wasn’t exactly well liked at school, SAS-trained, never been in steady employment since he left the regiment. I suppose you can account for his whereabouts over the past two years?’

       
The Colonel smiled thinly. ‘No, I can’t. But Mike Cramer is not our killer, I can guarantee that. He’s not the type.’

       
Jackman looked at his wristwatch. ‘That’s the problem, Colonel. He’s exactly the type.’

Lynch lay on his back, his arm around Marie. She toyed with the hair on his chest, winding it gently around her fingers and tugging it softly. ‘Still think it’s not a good idea?’ he asked.

       
‘Definitely,’ she giggled. ‘But I wouldn’t have missed it for the world. Who taught you to make love?’

       
‘You’re my first customer,’ said Lynch.

       
Marie laughed and slapped his chest. ‘I don’t think so,’ she said. She kissed the side of his neck and nuzzled against him. ‘I want to come with you,’ she whispered.

       
‘You just did.’

       
‘You know what I mean.’

       
‘No.’

       
‘I could help.’

       
‘No,’ he repeated.

       
‘Why not?’ Her hand began to move inexorably downwards.

       
‘Because it’s my fight, not yours.’

       
Her hand lingered between his legs, caressing and touching him. ‘They killed my father and my mother, Dermott. It’s as much my fight as yours.’

       
‘I know that, Marie. But this isn’t a sanctioned operation, it’s personal. I want Cramer because of what he did to Maggie.’

       
‘And I want him because of what he did to my father.’

       
‘No.’

       
‘You have to let me help you.’

       
Lynch rolled on top of her and took his weight on his elbows so that he could look down on her. ‘You have helped. More than you know.’ He kissed her again and she opened her legs, drawing them up and fastening them around his waist. She squeezed him, hard. ‘And that’s not going to make me change my mind,’ he said. He rolled off her and headed for the bathroom.

Cramer sat between Allan and Martin in the dining hall watching the Harrods video again. It was the tenth time they’d studied the footage. Cramer felt that he knew every second by heart, but he realised the importance of getting a feel for the killer, for the way he moved, the way he held himself. He’d spent countless days on surveillance operations in the border country watching and waiting for IRA terrorists, and on many occasions he’d been able to identify targets by the way they walked, the tilt of a head, the shrug of a shoulder. At a long distance bodies were often more distinctive than faces. The problem with the video was the faked limp. It affected everything about the man’s movement, and Cramer was starting to think that the video might actually prove counter-productive.

       
‘What do you think, Allan?’ Cramer asked. ‘Do you think you’d spot him in a crowd.’

       
Allan shrugged. ‘I’m getting a feel for his shape. The problem is that he can change that with padding.’

       
‘Or dieting,’ said Martin, who was munching his way through a stack of ham and pickle sandwiches that Mrs Elliott had prepared earlier.