The Double Tap

Marie looked at him earnestly. ‘I’ll help,’ she said softly. ‘I want him dead as much as you do.’

They sat in silence for a while. Lynch looked at his watch. ‘I’m going to call him again,’ he said. ‘You wait here.’

Lynch went back to the line of telephones and dialled McDonough’s number. The air traffic controller answered himself this time. ‘It’s a privately-owned jet, not a charter firm. The owner is registered as Vander Mayer. Andrew Vander Mayer. Do you want the address?’

‘Definitely.’ Lynch copied it down. It was an office in Kensington. McDonough even had the postcode and a telephone number. ‘Where was the plane going?’ Lynch asked.

‘They filed for Heathrow. They should be landing just about now.’

‘What then? Are they going on somewhere else?’

‘They haven’t filed another flight plan, if that’s what you mean. Look, I’ve got work to do, okay?’

‘Thanks, Luke.’

‘Yeah. Right.’ McDonough cut the connection. Lynch stared at the name and address he’d written down. Andrew Vander Mayer. Who the hell was Andrew Vander Mayer? And why was the Sass-man flying around in his corporate jet?

Lynch turned around to find Marie standing behind him. He raised an eyebrow. ‘Not worried that I’d do a runner, were you?’

Marie held up the keys to the Golf and jangled them. ‘Not really,’ she said. She tossed the keys to him. ‘So, what did he say?’

Lynch gave her the name and address. ‘Unusual name,’ she said. ‘What do we do now?’

‘Back to London.’

‘Isn’t that dangerous? Bearing in mind what’s back there.’

Lynch weighed the keys in the palm of his hand. ‘We could leave the Golf here and rent another car. So long as we keep away from your house, we should be okay.’

‘But they’ll be looking for you, right?’

‘Let’s check the papers and find out.’ They went over to the newsagent’s in the departures terminal and bought The Times, the Daily Telegraph and the Independent, and most of the tabloids. Only the broadsheets carried the story of Foley’s body being discovered in the boot of the Sierra, and none had connected it with the deaths of the IRA men in Maida Vale. Lynch frowned as he read the story in the Telegraph. The police were sure to have dusted the car for prints, and unless the technicians had been totally incompetent, they wouldn’t have had too much trouble getting a match.

‘No mention of you,’ said Marie.

‘Aye, but it could be a trap. It could be they want me to think it’s safe.’ He made a clicking sound with his tongue, then quickly came to a decision. ‘What the hell, I’m no worse off in London. And the longer we leave it, the more likely it is that Cramer’ll disappear again. Come on, let’s go.’

‘Why don’t we fly back?’

‘Because Special Branch cover all the airports as a matter of course. You don’t always see them, but they’re there, checking all arrivals. Besides, we’d never be able to get the gun through the metal detectors. No, we’re better off driving.’

‘Do you want me to do it in my name?’ she asked.

‘No, love. I’ve got a licence in another name, and a credit card.’ Lynch thought it better not to mention that the licence and credit card had belonged to Sean O’Ryan, one of the men he’d killed in Maida Vale.

The Lear jet touched down gently, its tyres kissing the tarmac so softly that Cramer couldn’t even discern the point at which they made contact with the ground. ‘Smooth,’ said Allan appreciatively. ‘These guys know what they’re doing.’ He unclipped his seatbelt as the jet taxied to its parking space, guided by a man in blue overalls. A large Mercedes pulled up in the distance. It appeared to be a twin of the one they’d left behind in Swansea. The man in overalls guided the Lear to a halt fifty yards from the Mercedes.

‘Okay?’ Allan asked Cramer.

‘Sure,’ said Cramer.

‘From this point on, you don’t relax, you don’t let your guard down for one second, you don’t trust anyone.’ He loomed over Cramer and put his hands on Cramer’s shoulders, staring straight into his eyes like a hypnotist attempting to induce a trance. ‘You can do it, Mike. You can take anything that this guy throws at you. You’re better than he is. Okay?’

‘Okay,’ Cramer repeated.

‘Don’t let me down. If you let this guy beat you, I’ll be mightily pissed off at you. Right?’ Allan straightened up. ‘Okay, Martin, check out the vehicle and then we’ll be off.’

The pilot who’d given them the abbreviated safety briefing stepped out of the cockpit and opened the door. A mobile ladder was pushed up against the fuselage and the pilot signalled that Martin could go down. Cramer asked Su-ming for a look at the itinerary and she handed it to him. According to the typewritten schedule, they were heading for Vander Mayer’s flat in Chelsea Harbour, and the afternoon was to be spent in his Kensington office. Cramer looked out of the window. Martin had opened the bonnet and was giving the engine compartment the once over. ‘Just to remind you, the Merc’s windows are bullet-proof and the side panels are reinforced,’ said Allan. ‘In the car you’re completely safe, but you’re vulnerable getting in and out.’

Cramer stood up and stretched. He took several deep breaths. ‘I’m ready,’ he said.

Martin reappeared. He’d produced a peaked chauffeur’s cap from somewhere and was wearing it sergeant-major style with the peak halfway down his nose. He gave Allan a thumbs-up. They headed down the steps. Martin held the rear door open for Cramer and Su-ming and closed it behind them. Once again Cramer felt as if he’d been wrapped in a luxurious cocoon. He wondered what it must be like to spend one’s life insulated from the dirt and discomfort of the real world. The car alone would have taken Cramer several years’ salary when he was a sergeant in the SAS, and he could only imagine how many millions of pounds the jet had cost.

‘Okay if I put the radio on?’ Martin asked.

‘Sure,’ said Cramer.

Martin flicked through the channels and found an all-news station. They listened as they drove into central London, but there was little to hold Cramer’s attention: the Prime Minister had announced a minor reshuffle of his Cabinet, the police were still searching for a man who had killed three and injured one in a Maida Vale shooting, England were losing at cricket. Cramer had long since given up reading newspapers, watching television or listening to the radio. There was nothing happening in the world that he was the least bit interested in any more. He sat back in the leather seat and closed his eyes. He was dog tired. The previous night he’d slept fitfully and when he did sleep he’d had a succession of nightmares. In most of them he was being chased by a shadowy figure with a gun and it didn’t take a psychiatrist to tell him what was troubling him. At first light he’d climbed out of bed, wrapped a bath towel around himself and sat by the window, going over the assassination files for a final time. One shot to the face, one to the chest. Bang bang. Was that going to be his own fate? Did the victims hear the second shot, or were they already dead by the time the bullet blasted into their chests? Cramer’s interest was more than academic; he knew there was an even chance that he would end up as the subject of another file, and that the Colonel would pass it on to the next man selected to go up against the assassin. Cramer could imagine the conversation. ‘The last killing was one of ours. Name of Cramer. Former SAS, but he’d let himself go. He’d lost his edge. Hopefully you’ll do better.’ Cramer shuddered.

‘Are you cold?’ asked Su-ming.

Cramer opened his eyes. She was looking at him, clearly concerned. ‘Someone just walked over my grave, that’s all.’

‘You didn’t eat today, did you?’

‘I wasn’t hungry.’

‘I will cook for you when we get to the apartment.’

Cramer rubbed his face and yawned. ‘Where do you call home?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I’ve never heard you refer to anywhere as home.’

‘We have homes all over the world.’

‘Houses. Apartments. Not homes.’

She studied him as she considered what he’d said. ‘You’re right,’ she said eventually. ‘I suppose I don’t really have a home. What about you?’

Cramer interlinked his fingers and cracked his knuckles. It had been a long time since Cramer had ever thought of anywhere as home. The regiment, maybe. That had been a home, even though he was constantly on the move. Home to Cramer wasn’t somewhere to hang his clothes, it was a sense of belonging. And since he’d been forced to leave the SAS, he had never felt that he belonged anywhere. ‘I guess I’m the same,’ he said. ‘Home is where the heart is, so they say.’

‘They?’ she asked. ‘Who’s they?’

Cramer began to wish he’d never asked her about her home. ‘I don’t know. It’s a saying.’ He looked out of the window. They were driving through Fulham, though driving was hardly an accurate description of the snail’s pace at which they were crawling through the traffic-choked streets.

‘Not far now,’ said Allan, twisting around in the front passenger seat.

‘You’ve been here before?’ Cramer asked.

‘I did a preliminary look-around before I went to the school. The flat is close to the top of the tower, each floor is a separate apartment with one elevator which has a security code, and two fire escape stairways. The door to that can only be opened from the inside, so it’s an easy place to secure. Same old problem, though. You’re vulnerable entering and leaving, but we’ll be doing that through the underground car park.’

‘Doorman?’

‘Several. They’ve all been checked out and Martin and I have photographs of them all. If there’s a new face on the door, we’ll know right away. The foyer leading onto the underground car park is the most important, so we’ll have our own man there, but on no account must you acknowledge him. Treat him like one of the staff.’

Cramer nodded. ‘What do you think, Allan? Do you think he’ll try it here? In London?’

Allan pulled a face as if he had a bad taste in his mouth. ‘We’ve got to assume he will. But hand on heart, I think it’s more likely he’ll wait until you’re in the States; that’s where most of the killings have taken place. Now, that’s probably because almost half of the targets have been Americans, but I get the impression that that’s where he’s most comfortable. He’s got your itinerary so he knows you’re going to be in New York in three days.’ He pointed his forefinger at Cramer. ‘Not that you can let your guard down, though. As far as you’re concerned, you’re at risk no matter where you are, no matter who you’re with.’

They turned off the main road and Martin took the Mercedes through the back streets with the confidence of a licensed taxi driver. They drove along King’s Road and its trendy antique shops and then they turned onto the road that led to the Chelsea Harbour complex, a mixture of modern offices and apartment blocks. One apartment block towered above the rest — a grey steel and glass finger that pointed skywards, topped by a cream pagoda-like pyramid. ‘That’s where we’re heading,’ said Allan, nodding at the tower. ‘Each apartment costs about a million quid. It’s a different world, isn’t it? Who the hell can afford a million quid for a place to live?’

‘Me,’ said Cramer, grinning. They drove by a huge white hotel, the Conrad, and then Martin guided the Mercedes into an underground car park. He made two sharp left turns and brought the Mercedes to a smooth halt in front of the entrance to the tower block. He left the engine running as he got out and walked around to open Cramer’s door. Allan was already in place as Cramer slid out of the back seat and the three men walked together to the entrance, exactly as they’d rehearsed time and time again, with Su-ming bringing up the rear. The double glass doors hissed open electronically and a doorman in a charcoal grey uniform looked up as they entered. Cramer recognised him as one of the men who’d been on guard duty at the school in Wales. His name was Matt but Cramer followed Allan’s instructions and ignored him, playing the part of Andrew Vander Mayer, a man far too rich to bother with the hired help.

They rode up to the ground floor, where there was another doorman on duty wearing an identical charcoal grey uniform as the first. He was in his early sixties with the lined face and wiry grey hair of a former merchant seaman. He smiled a greeting at Su-ming and handed her a small stack of mail. If he realised that Cramer wasn’t the usual resident of Vander Mayer’s apartment, he showed no sign of it.

They had to walk across the foyer to a second elevator which led up to the higher floors. The lift arrived within seconds of Allan pressing the button and they stepped inside. Su-ming keyed in an access code on a small keypad above the buttons panel and the doors quietly slid shut. There was merely a vague sensation of movement, the sort of ride that only very expensive Japanese technology could produce. The doors hissed open again. Cramer was just about to step out into the lobby when Allan’s giant hand fell on his shoulder. ‘Me first,’ he said. ‘You never exit or enter an elevator until Martin or I have checked it out.’

Cramer flushed. The first day and he’d already forgotten one of the rules that Allan had drummed into him from the start. He waited until Allan had stepped into the lobby before following. Su-ming took a keycard out of her bag and ran it through a reader at the side of the front door. The door clicked open and she stood aside to allow Allan and Martin to go in first. ‘They are very thorough,’ she said.

‘Doesn’t your boss have bodyguards?’ Cramer asked.

‘Yes, two Americans, former Secret Service agents. They’re always with him.’

‘How do they compare with Allan and Martin?’

She put the keycard back in her handbag. ‘I always felt that Mr Vander Mayer’s bodyguards worked only for the money. For them it was just a job. Your friends care about you. It’s more than a job to them.’

Before Cramer could say anything else, Allan returned. ‘All clear,’ he said, holding the door open wide.

The apartment was huge, with panoramic views of the Thames and south London from the floor-to-ceiling windows. The sitting room ran the full length of the block and its size was emphasised by the minimalist furniture: stark black sofas, steel and black leather armchairs, glass and marble coffee tables and low level black ash sideboards. The floors were pristine bare oak boards, the walls painted white with just a hint of blue, the light fittings were stainless steel. Everything about the apartment was hard, it was full of sharp edges and gleaming surfaces. It had style, it was clearly very, very expensive, but it belonged in the pages of an architectural magazine. There were no personal touches, no indications that anyone actually lived there. ‘Who cleans it?’ Cramer asked.

Su-ming smiled. ‘That’s a funny thing to ask,’ she said.

‘It’s just that it looks so perfect. How often do you come here?’

‘A few days each month. It depends.’

‘On what?’

‘On whether we have business here. The cleaning is done by an outside firm.’

Cramer rubbed a finger along the edge of one of the glass coffee tables and inspected it. ‘They do a good job. It’s as clean as an army barracks,’ he said.

‘Mr Vander Mayer sets very high standards,’ said Su-ming. ‘In everything.’

‘The bedrooms are through there,’ said Allan, indicating a door to the right of the sitting room. ‘You should take the master bedroom, Su-ming has her usual room, Martin and I’ll take turns to sleep in the first bedroom, closest to the door. One of us will be in the bedroom, the other will be out here.’

‘I’m going down to park the Merc and bring up the cases,’ said Martin, doffing his peaked cap.

As Martin went back out into the lobby, Su-ming dropped her handbag on a sofa and opened another door that led off the sitting room. She motioned for Cramer to follow her. It was a huge kitchen, some twenty feet long and almost as wide, lined with oak units and spotless German equipment. Su-ming stood by a massive refrigerator. ‘Are you hungry?’ she asked.

‘Not really.’

She pulled open the refrigerator door. It was packed with food. Cramer frowned. ‘The same company that cleans the apartment keeps the fridge and larder stocked,’ she explained. She took out a carton of low-fat milk and a plastic wrapped polystyrene tray containing two fresh chicken breasts. ‘There’s rice in the cupboard behind you,’ she said as she knelt down and began pulling polythene bags of vegetables from the bottom of the refrigerator.

‘Does your boss like your cooking?’ Cramer asked as he took out a plastic container and shook it. It sounded as if it was filled with rice.

‘That’s it,’ she said without looking around. She straightened up and closed the refrigerator door. ‘Yes. He likes most Oriental food. Wash a handful of the rice and put it in a saucepan.’ Cramer did as he was told. Su-ming watched him as she used a large cleaver to slice the chicken breasts into small pieces. He put the pan of rice onto the cooker. ‘You’ll need water,’ she said, smiling. ‘Two cupfuls.’

Cramer took the pan over to the sink and poured in cold water. ‘What’s the deal with you and Vander Mayer?’ he asked.

Su-ming froze. The cleaver glinted under the overhead fluorescent lights. ‘What do you mean?’ she asked.

Cramer shrugged as he put the pan back on his stove. ‘I just meant that you’re quite young to be doing such a job. He’s obviously a very important man, it must be very demanding to be his assistant.’

‘Turn the heat on. Medium,’ she said. She paused. ‘I’ve been trained to look after his interests,’ she said. She began chopping the meat again with small, precise movements.

‘What, like secretarial college?’

‘No. Mr Vander Mayer trained me.’

‘Trained you? How?’

‘He taught me about his business. He introduced me to all his contacts. He showed me how to deal with people.’ She finished cutting up the meat and scraped it off the chopping board and into a small, white bowl. She wiped her hands on a kitchen towel. ‘But he didn’t teach me cooking.’ She took a steel wok down from its hook on the wall and put it on the stove.

‘What about the fortune-telling?’

She looked at him sharply, then she saw from the amused look in his eyes that he was deliberately teasing her. She waggled a finger at him. ‘You’re trying to upset me, Mike Cramer.’ There was a blue and white striped apron hanging on the back of the door and she put it on and tied her hair back. ‘My grandmother taught me how to use the I Ching. My mother showed me how to read palms when I was a child. Most of it can’t be taught. It’s an ability. An inherited ability.’

‘A talent?’

‘A gift.’

‘Is that why Vander Mayer chose you, because of your gift?’

Su-ming folded her arms across her chest. Her chin was thrust defiantly up as if she was preparing to pick a fight with him. ‘Why? Why do you keep asking about him?’

Cramer leaned back against the sink. ‘It just seems strange, that’s all.’

‘Strange? What’s strange?’

‘He’s American, you’re. . hell, I don’t even know where you’re from.’

‘I’m half Thai, a quarter Chinese, a quarter Vietnamese. My father was Thai, my mother half Chinese, half Vietnamese. What difference does that make?’

‘Because it feels like there’s more to your relationship than just work. It’s like. .’

‘Like what?’ she said coldly. Her eyes had gone hard.

Cramer held up his hands in surrender. ‘Hey, I didn’t want to offend you. It’s obviously something that you don’t want to talk about.’

‘No, you brought it up, you tell me what you think is wrong with my relationship with Mr Vander Mayer.’

Cramer took a deep breath. He wished that he’d just kept his mouth shut. ‘The way you talk about him, the way you’re so defensive, it’s like he’s your father or something.’

Su-ming licked her lips. Her tongue was small and pointed. Cramer said nothing for a while. Su-ming waited for him to speak. ‘Back in Wales, you said you’d been with him for fifteen years?’

‘That’s right.’

‘You couldn’t have been more than a teenager.’

‘I was eleven.’

‘So Vander Mayer adopted you, is that it?’

‘Sort of.’

‘And your parents are dead?’

‘No. They’re not dead.’

‘So they gave you up for adoption?’

‘Sort of.’

‘Vander Mayer’s not married, is he? Isn’t that sort of unusual?’

‘I suppose it is. Mr Vander Mayer is a very unusual man.’

The rice began to bubble over on the stove and Su-ming turned down the heat. ‘My parents were very poor,’ she said, keeping her back to him. ‘All they had were children. I had five brothers. We lived in northern Thailand on a small farm, near the Cambodian border. It was a very hard life, Mike Cramer. You have no idea how hard it was. It was dangerous too, when I was a child. There were mines everywhere, left by the Khmer Rouge. My father had to clear the fields by hand because the mines were so small.’ She used the cleaver to slice vegetables, her head bent low over the chopping board. ‘Mr Vander Mayer came to our village on the way to the border. This was a long time ago, his business wasn’t as big then as it is now. He had this big car and a driver and a translator. There was a place in our village, a noodle shop. They sold Thai food and soft drinks. Mr Vander Mayer stopped there. He saw me and tried talking to me but of course I couldn’t speak English and he knew no Thai or Chinese. My mother asked him if he’d like me to read his palm. He thought that was so funny. He was quite a young man then, handsome and always smiling. He gave my mother five baht and sat down on a stool so that I could see his hand.’

Su-ming put the wok on the stove and turned on the burner under it. ‘He knew something about palmistry because he asked my mother how I’d learned. It’s not something Orientals do, you see. The Chinese read faces, but palm reading originated in France. My grandmother was Vietnamese and she learned it from an old French woman in Hanoi. My mother told him about my gift. Palm reading isn’t just a matter of interpreting the lines, anyone can do that. A machine could do it. It’s what you pick up from the person that makes the difference. I don’t think he believed her. He was laughing, I think he expected me to tell him that he would have a long and happy life and have three children and that seven would be his lucky number.’ She laughed bitterly, a harsh exclamation that sounded more like a cry of pain. ‘At first his translator wouldn’t tell Mr Vander Mayer what I was saying. He kept arguing that he’d be annoyed, that I should only tell him good things. My mother scolded him and eventually he translated exactly what I said. I told him things that had happened to him in the past. Things he thought no one else knew about, things no one else could possibly know about. Secrets. He stopped laughing then. I can’t even remember what I told him, not all of it. After a few minutes I stopped looking at the lines on his palm. I was still holding his hand but I was looking through it. He started asking questions of the interpreter, and he translated them for me, but I couldn’t answer them, I could only tell him what I saw.’ She splashed a little oil into the hot wok and swirled it around. ‘Then I saw something in his future. I told him to be careful of an older man, a man who wouldn’t look him in the eye and who was always smiling. I warned him not to turn his back on the man, that he planned to harm him, that he wasn’t to be trusted. He asked me when, but I didn’t know, that’s not how it works. He wanted to know more, but I was tired and my mother told me to stop. You can’t force it, it either happens or it doesn’t.’

Cramer nodded, even though she wasn’t looking at him. He could picture the little girl, the man’s hand appearing enormous in hers, her eyes wide as she stared at his palm. ‘And it came true?’

‘He got back into the big car with his interpreter and they drove up north, to the border. I never thought I’d see him again. My mother took the money and used it to buy kerosene for the lamps and some material to make me a dress. She was sewing it that evening when the big car drove up to our farm.’

She dropped the chicken pieces into the hot wok and used a pair of chopsticks to keep the sizzling meat turning. ‘It was Mr Vander Mayer. He was on his own. The back window of the car had been shattered and there were bullet holes all along one side. He’d used his shirt to make a sling and there was blood all over the inside of the car. He’d come back to thank me. He said that I’d saved his life and he gave me ten thousand baht. It was more money than my father had earned in his whole life. Then he went, back to Bangkok, I suppose.’ Su-ming scraped the vegetables into the wok and a cloud of steam billowed around her. She used a wooden spatula to stir the frying chicken and vegetables.

‘Your prediction came true?’

‘That’s what he said. He never told me the details. Later that year we had floods and we lost our crops and our animals. All the money was spent. Then Mr Vander Mayer came back. He told my father he wanted to help. He had a deal. He’s always been good at doing deals. He’d pay for my education, he’d take care of me, and he’d give my father one hundred thousand baht a year. In return, I would live with him, like a daughter.’

Cramer’s jaw dropped in surprise. ‘He bought you?’

‘Not bought, no.’

‘He paid for you, Su-ming. That’s like slavery.’

She shook her head as she stirred the contents of the wok. ‘You don’t understand what it’s like in Thailand. You can’t even imagine how poor we were. I had brothers who needed an education, medicine, food even. My parents had given me everything and they were about to lose the farm. It was a small sacrifice, Mike Cramer. And look what he was offering me. A chance to travel, to see the world. To learn things I couldn’t even dream about. And in return, all I had to do was to help him. Help him run his business and tell him things, tell him what I sensed about people.’

‘And what about your family? Do you still see them?’

She took the wok off the stove and poured the steaming chicken and vegetables onto a plate. ‘Of course I do. I see them whenever I want to. They’re very rich now, the richest people in the village. One of my brothers is a doctor, the other is at university in Bangkok. Mr Vander Mayer has been very good to me, and to my family. Get the rice, please.’

Cramer drained the rice as Su-ming took small bowls and ivory chopsticks from a cupboard. She stopped as she saw Cramer looking at her. ‘Don’t,’ she said.

‘Don’t what?’

‘Don’t pity me, Mike Cramer. I chose the life I have. Nobody forced me.’

‘Are you happy?’

She shrugged as if her own happiness was a matter of absolutely no importance. ‘Eat,’ she said.

Lynch could see Marie’s hands tense on the steering wheel as the police car roared past, siren wailing and lights flashing. ‘Easy, Marie, love,’ he said. The police car flashed its headlights and a white Toyota pulled over to the roadside.

‘Sorry,’ said Marie. They were on the outskirts of West London and had made good time in the hired Rover. Marie had offered to drive once they’d reached Bristol and Lynch had readily agreed. Marie drove well, albeit a little aggressively. A couple of times he’d had to remind her to keep within the speed limit and she’d smiled shamefacedly and slowed down.

‘We’re going to need a street map,’ Lynch said.

‘I’ll stop at a newsagent’s. They’re bound to have an A to Z. What’s the plan? To go to this Vander Mayer’s office?’

‘I suppose so,’ replied Lynch. ‘I wish I knew more about him.’

‘It’s an unusual name.’ Her brow furrowed as if she was deep in thought.

Lynch patted her thigh. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll think of something. You’re right, we can start with his office.’

‘I’ve an idea. I’ve a friend who works for The Times. He could get me into their cuttings library.’

‘Wouldn’t he want to know why?’

‘He’s never asked why before. I’ll tell him it’s for work. Researching a possible client.’

‘Are you sure he won’t be suspicious?’

‘Positive.’

Lynch thought about it as Marie drove. ‘This friend. Boyfriend, was he?’

‘With the accent on friend, Dermott. We went out a few times, I jumped his bones twice. Okay, three times maybe. Now he’s just a mate. It’s worth trying, they’ll have any story ever written about this Vander Mayer. They might even have his picture. Look, I tell you what, I’ll call him first, test the water. If he seems okay about it, we can drive to their offices in Wapping.’

Lynch looked at his wristwatch. He wanted to get to Vander Mayer’s office before rush hour, but they had plenty of time. ‘Okay, give it a go.’

Marie found a newsagent’s in Hammersmith. She left Lynch in the car and returned a few minutes later with an A to Z of London which she dropped through the window. ‘There’s a call box over there, I’ll give him a ring,’ she said.

Lynch watched as she went over to the phone. She played with her hair as she spoke to her friend and she winked at Lynch, letting him know it was okay. He caught sight of himself in the rear-view mirror and realised that he’d have to shower and shave before too long. A scruffy appearance always attracted attention, that was one of the things that had been drummed into him when he’d first enlisted as a volunteer. Marie looked good, considering they’d spent more than twenty-four hours on the road, but even she’d need to freshen up. Lynch decided that he might as well drive the rest of the way into the city so he moved across to sit in the driver’s seat. Marie came back to the car and got in the passenger side. ‘He said I can come around whenever I want. I’m to call him from the gate.’

‘Okay, let’s go,’ said Lynch. ‘We’ll get a ticket if we sit here any longer.’

Martin drew the Mercedes up in front of the office block. ‘Here we are,’ he said.

Cramer looked out of the side window. It was a nondescript building, grey stone with square metal-framed windows and double glass doors. A security camera was mounted above the door to provide video coverage of the entrance. A young man sat huddled in a duffel coat next to a black and white mongrel. On the ground in front of him was a piece of brown cardboard on which had been written ‘Please Help The Homeless’.

‘I see him,’ said Allan, as if reading Cramer’s mind. Martin was already out of the car and opening the passenger door. Allan moved quickly, striding around the back of the Mercedes and putting himself between Cramer and the beggar.

Cramer got out of the car. The suit and overcoat felt more confining than ever. The gun was snug in its holster and Cramer could feel it pressing against his flesh through the handmade shirt. He shrugged his shoulders against the restrictive clothes, tugged nervously at the sleeves of the overcoat, and then followed Martin towards the double doors. Allan looked from side to side but his eyes kept returning to the beggar.

A man in a dark suit carrying a furled umbrella walked quickly down the street towards them and Cramer tensed. The man was the right size, the right age, the right build, but then so was half the male population of London. The man walked by at speed. He had the bearing and stride of a military man and Cramer marked him down as a former soldier who’d taken a job in the City.

Martin opened the double doors and quickly checked the foyer before nodding to Cramer to let him know that it was secure. Allan kept himself between Cramer and the beggar as Cramer followed Martin inside. A uniformed concierge looked up from his newspaper. He frowned at the men but smiled benignly when he saw Su-ming.

They headed over to the lift. It arrived empty and Allan stepped in first, followed by Cramer and Su-ming. The lift doors closed and Cramer took several deep breaths. ‘You okay, Mike?’ Allan asked.

‘Yeah,’ said Cramer. ‘I just wish he’d get it over with.’

‘Take it easy, we don’t know how long it’s going to be. You’ll wear yourself out if you stay this tense.’

Cramer put his finger inside his shirt collar and tried to loosen it. He could feel rivulets of sweat trickle down his back though his mouth was still as dry as sandpaper. ‘I’ll be okay,’ he said.

‘Remember, you’ve got to be alert, but not tense. If you’re tense you’ll slow down.’

Cramer nodded. Su-ming was watching him anxiously and he smiled to reassure her, though he didn’t feel like smiling. He felt trapped within the made-to-measure clothes and he had a hollow feeling deep inside his stomach, a cold dread that, despite all the training, when he came face to face with the killer he wouldn’t be able to react in time.

The lift doors opened and Cramer followed Martin and Allan down a grey-carpeted corridor with Su-ming bringing up the rear. As they walked by an office door it opened and Cramer’s hand reacted instinctively, jerking upwards towards his hidden gun. It was a middle-aged woman in a tweed suit. Cramer let his hand fall to his side, cursing himself under his breath. If he carried on like this, he’d be a nervous wreck by the end of the week.

Vander Mayer’s office was at the far end of the corridor. Cramer waited outside with Allan while Martin and Su-ming went in. Through the open door Cramer could see a brunette, her hair tied back in a ponytail, sitting behind a teak desk. Su-ming was talking to her while Martin prowled around the office. Martin turned and nodded to Allan and he ushered Cramer inside. Cramer saw a second desk as he walked into the office. It was unoccupied.

A door led through to Vander Mayer’s private office and Su-ming motioned for him to go through. The inner office was much bigger, and furnished in much the same way as the flat in Chelsea Harbour — oak floorboards, polished to a deep shine, a simple black oak desk and steel and leather furniture. The desk was bare except for a personal computer, but one wall was lined with television monitors which showed share prices and news wires from around the world, and below them was a bank of fax and telex machines.

‘We’re going to wait outside,’ said Allan. He looked at his watch. ‘The Russian won’t be here for a couple of hours. We’ll search him before we let him in to see you, but be prepared, okay?’

Cramer gave Allan a Boy Scout salute. ‘Dib, dib, dib,’ he said.

‘I’ll give you dib, dib, dib if he pulls out a gun and shoots you,’ said Allan. He made a gun with his fingers and pretended to shoot Cramer in the face. ‘Be on your feet when he comes into your office. It’s much harder to draw your weapon when you’re sitting.’

Allan and Martin closed the door behind them, leaving Cramer and Su-ming alone. Cramer stood behind the chair and rested his elbows on it. He nodded at the monitors. ‘What exactly does he do, your boss?’

‘I thought the Colonel had told you.’

‘An arms dealer, he said. ‘So what’s all the financial stuff for?’

Su-ming leaned against the desk and studied the monitors. ‘Mr Vander Mayer has many investments and he prefers to handle them himself.’

‘He doesn’t trust anyone else to touch his money, is that it?’

Su-ming looked at him over her shoulder and flashed him a thin smile. ‘It’s not a question of trust. No one can do it better than him.’

‘So how much is he worth?’

Su-ming shrugged noncommittally and turned away from him again. ‘He is a very rich man.’

‘Rich? Or rich rich?’

‘Very rich.’

‘Millions or billions?’

‘That depends on which currency you’re using.’ She pushed herself away from the desk and went over to the telex machine. She toyed with the keys. ‘Is money that important to you, Mike Cramer?’

Cramer sat down in the chair and tried to open the drawers. They were locked. Cramer wondered whether they were always locked or if they’d been locked because he was using the office. ‘No. Money’s never really mattered to me. Is that what drives him?’

Su-ming stopped playing with the telex keys. ‘I suppose so.’

‘So tell me, what does he do? He has these offices, he has three jets, but I can’t get a feel for what it is exactly that he does.’

‘He puts deals together. Say you’re running a country in Africa and you want to buy armoured vehicles. And suppose you can’t buy direct from the manufacturers. Then you’d have to go through a middle-man. Someone like Mr Vander Mayer.’

‘Why couldn’t I buy from the manufacturer?’

‘It could be that the country of origin preferred not to trade with you.’

‘Because I’m a dictator?’

‘Whether someone is a dictator or a leader is often a matter of semantics. When Saddam Hussein was in favour, governments all around the world were more than happy to trade with him.’

‘Then he invaded Kuwait.’

‘And suddenly he became persona non grata. That didn’t mean that the West stopped trading with him, it just meant that businessmen like Mr Vander Mayer started to make a lot of money.’

‘Vander Mayer’s still dealing with Iraq?’

Su-ming nodded. ‘Of course.’

‘You don’t see anything wrong with that?’

‘He’s a businessman. More than that, he’s a realist.’

Cramer ran his finger along the edge of the desk. Like the furniture in Vander Mayer’s flat, it was spotless. ‘What sort of arms does he sell?’

Su-ming turned to face him. ‘Anything.’

‘Anything?’

‘You sound surprised. Arms are a commodity, like anything else. There are sellers and there are buyers.’

‘Jets?’

‘Yes.’

‘Missiles?’

‘Yes.’

‘Is he doing much business with Russia?’

‘Quite a bit.’

‘Is that why he wanted you to learn Russian?’

‘It gives him an advantage during negotiations. They don’t expect an Oriental to speak their language.’

Cramer swivelled his chair around so that he could look out of the window. ‘I suppose there’s a lot of Russian equipment going cheap following the break-up of the Soviet bloc.’

‘They’re desperate for foreign currency. And that’s one thing that Mr Vander Mayer has a lot of.’

‘Do you know what this Russian is trying to sell?’ He swivelled around and could see from the look on her face that she did.

‘Mr Vander Mayer said I wasn’t to say.’

‘But it’s a weapon?’

‘In a way. It depends how you use it. In the right hands, a pencil can be a weapon, or it can be used to write a poem.’

Cramer laughed. ‘Give me a break, Su-ming. You don’t believe that fortune cookie philosophy. A bomb’s a bomb. A gun’s a gun. You’ve heard that other great saying, “It isn’t guns that kill people, it’s people that kill people.” Well that’s crap, kid. Guns kill people. Guns and bombs and missiles and grenades. And I don’t like the way I’m being used. I don’t like it one bit.’

Su-ming studied him silently as if embarrassed by his outburst. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I know you’re just doing as you’re told.’

She nodded. ‘Like you, I’m following orders.’

Cramer slumped back in the chair and looked up at the ceiling. ‘Where did I go wrong? I spend my life training with weapons and I end up with nothing. He sells the stuff and makes millions.’

‘You choose your own life,’ said Su-ming.

Cramer sighed. ‘Yeah, I guess you’re right.’ He put his hands behind his neck and interlinked his fingers. ‘So, what do I do?’

Su-ming took the itinerary from her handbag and looked at it. ‘We wait here until five o’clock.’

‘Can’t I do a deal or two while I’m here? Maybe I could sell a few F-16s, what do you think?’

Su-ming studied him with amusement. ‘I think, Mike Cramer, that I shall miss your sense of humour when this is all over. That’s what I think.’

Dermott Lynch dropped Marie off at the front entrance to the huge News International complex. A line of sixty-foot delivery trucks were queuing up to enter the site, in preparation for the evening’s print run. The throbbing diesel engines vibrated up through his seat. He drove alongside the high brick wall which surrounded the newspaper offices and printworks and parked next to an old warehouse which had been converted into upmarket apartments. All the old ironware which had once been used to haul sacks and crates up to the storage areas on the upper floors had been painted a bright red, and wire baskets of brightly coloured flowers were hanging by the windows.

He switched on the radio and listened to a phone-in programme where listeners were calling up to give their views on the death penalty. Lynch half-listened as he watched the trucks file into the printworks. The Times, the Sun, the Sunday Times, the News of The World, most of the country’s large circulation newspapers were printed there. The IRA had drawn up plans to bomb the plant several times and at one stage they had actually stored over a ton of fertiliser explosive and several kilos of Semtex in a lock-up garage on the Isle of Dogs, in preparation for the go-ahead from the Army Council. Lynch had helped put the explosive in place and another active service unit was instructed to commandeer one of the delivery trucks, fill it with the explosive and drive it into the plant. The 1994 ceasefire had put an end to the planned spectacular, and the explosive cache was now buried somewhere under the New Forest in plastic dustbins. A pity, thought Lynch. It would have made one hell of an explosion. And he’d never liked the Sun, anyway.

Most of the callers to the radio station seemed to be in favour of bringing back the death penalty, and several offered to do the deed themselves. Lynch smiled to himself. He had long thought that there was a vicious side to the British character, a nasty undercurrent that was never far from the surface, and radio talk shows seemed to bring out the worst in the population. String ’em up and hang ’em high appeared to be the consensus, and even the presenter agreed with the majority. It was as if the British public had never heard of the Guildford Four or countless other miscarriages of justice, where if there had been a death penalty, there would have been no chance of an appeal, no chance to prove that evidence was faked or juries misled.

The programme was coming to an end when Marie walked out through the security gates and down the street towards the Rover. There was a spring in her step and her hips swung from side to side as she walked. It was a sexy walk, a youngster’s walk, the walk of a girl who was used to being watched. It was also a walk that men would remember, and that could be dangerous. It wasn’t a good thing to be remembered, Lynch knew. Better by far to blend, to remain anonymous, so that you could come and go without anyone knowing you’d ever been there. All the volunteers had that quality, an ability to remain unnoticed in a crowd. The idea that members of the IRA were big, threatening figures was a figment of the media’s imagination. They weren’t the monsters that papers like the Sun painted them, most of them looked no more threatening than an assistant bank manager. It wasn’t physical size or strength that counted in a war, it was a mental attitude, mental toughness. Character. Lynch wondered if Marie had what it took. She had the enthusiasm, and the motivation, but there was a world of difference between wanting to see another person dead and helping to pull the trigger.

Marie opened the passenger door and slid into the car. ‘Your man Vander Mayer’s a secretive soul,’ she said.

‘Secretive?’

‘He’s been mentioned twice in the last ten years.’

‘In The Times?’

‘In any British or American publication. They’ve got this on-line computer database which lets you put in key words and call up any article that ever used the words. It goes back ten years with most publications, even further with some. And Andrew Vander Mayer has had two honourable mentions, one in a feature on arms dealers in Newsweek three years ago, and another in the Asian Wall Street Journal five years ago.

‘What was that about?’

‘The Chinese planning to sell tactical nuclear weapons. They were said to have approached several international arms dealers and he was one.’

‘Jesus Christ, nuclear weapons?’

Marie handed him a computer printout. ‘Read it for yourself. The story is pretty thin on facts, but it names him as an American arms dealer who has contacts all over the world.’

Lynch sniffed and took the cuttings. He scanned them quickly. As she said, the mentions were brief; one sentence in the Newsweek piece, two paragraphs in the Journal.

‘I think you can pretty much discount the nuclear weapons stuff,’ said Marie. ‘It was three years ago and it never happened. It reads to me like one of those “what if” stories.’

‘Yeah, but he’s obviously pretty high-powered. It makes you wonder what he’s doing with Cramer.’ He stuffed the printout in the glove compartment. ‘What about photographs?’

Marie pulled down the sunvisor and checked her make-up in the mirror. Lynch realised she must have kissed the journalist she’d met. ‘No photographs. There were no photographs of Vander Mayer used with the two articles, and none in The Times’ files. My friend called up Reuter and AP and the news agencies don’t have any either. Andrew Vander Mayer has never been photographed.’ She folded the sunvisor back up. ‘What now?’

‘Vander Mayer’s office. It could be that Cramer’s there. If he isn’t, maybe we can get hold of Vander Mayer. We’ll play it by ear.’

The man Simon Chaillon had known as Monsieur Rolfe popped the tab on a can of Diet Coke and put his feet up on the coffee table. The television was tuned to CNN, a financial news programme. A blonde with blow-torched hair and a middle-aged man with matinee-idol looks were discussing the strength of the dollar against the yen with the measured seriousness of people who weren’t quite sure of what they were talking about and were frightened of being caught out.

The man had no interest in the world’s financial situation. He had more than enough money, more than he could reasonably be expected to spend, tucked away in safety deposit boxes around the world. Interest rates and currency fluctuations didn’t concern him one way or the other. He picked up the remote control unit and channel-surfed for a while as he drank from the can but he found nothing to hold his attention. He settled for a channel which was playing country music videos. A manila envelope lay on the table next to a stack of new magazines. He put down his soft drink and picked up the envelope. Inside were three colour photographs, but he tossed them to the side. It was the three A4 typewritten sheets he was interested in. The top sheet was a biography of the target, Andrew Vander Mayer, and details of his entourage. He leaned over and picked up the photograph of the target walking away from a Mercedes. A young Oriental girl, pretty but with a frown creasing her forehead, was just behind him. Su-ming, her name was. There was no mention of a surname. The man studied the picture, tracing his finger along her face and down her body. She had a boyish figure, trim and tight, just the way the man liked them. He’d have enjoyed meeting Su-ming under other circumstances, but he doubted whether they’d get to spend much time together. The man kissed his forefinger and then pressed it onto the photograph. ‘Don’t worry, Su-ming, it’s not you I’m after,’ he whispered.

He dropped the photograph back on the table and read through the Vander Mayer itinerary. London. Then New York. Then back to London and on to Hong Kong. Vander Mayer’s residence in London was in Chelsea Harbour, a place the man had visited several times. It boasted an excellent restaurant, the Canteen, part-owned by the movie star Michael Caine, and a five-star hotel. It was generally a quiet area, especially in the evenings — a perfect place for a hit.

The man put the sheets of paper back into the envelope. The Vander Mayer assassination could wait. He had more urgent business to take care of first. He took a long drink from his can of Diet Coke and turned up the sound on the television.

Dermott Lynch parked the Rover in a side street overlooking the building which housed Vander Mayer’s office. Marie got out and fed the meter, then leant into the car through the window. ‘There’s a call box over there,’ she said. ‘I won’t be long.’

‘Just be careful,’ he said, handing her a ballpoint pen and the piece of paper on which he’d written down the details of the owner of the jet. ‘Be relaxed, low-key, don’t give them any reason to remember you.’

‘Yeah, yeah, yeah,’ she said.

Lynch grabbed her wrist, hard enough to hurt. ‘Marie, this isn’t a game,’ he hissed.

Marie suddenly became serious. ‘I know.’

Lynch let go of her arm. ‘Be careful,’ he repeated.

She rubbed her wrist. ‘I will be. Don’t worry. I won’t let you down.’ She patted the top of the car as if saying goodbye to a family pet, then walked along Kensington High Street to the call box, one of the old-fashioned red boxes that were fast disappearing from London’s streets. She dropped in a coin and dialled the number on the piece of paper.

A girl answered with the jarring vowels of an Essex accent. Marie could picture her, short skirt, too-tight top, highlighted hair and, in all probability, white high heels. ‘Hello,’ said Marie in her best Cheltenham Girls’ School voice, ‘can you tell me if Mr Vander Mayer is there today?’

‘Yes, he is. Do you want me to put you through?’

‘No, I’m just about to send him a brochure for our conference facilities and I wanted to make sure that I had the correct address. Can I just check it with you?’ Marie read out the address and the girl confirmed it was correct. ‘Does Mr Vander Mayer have offices in other countries?’ Marie asked.

‘Oh yes,’ said the girl enthusiastically. ‘He has an office in New York, one in Los Angeles, and another in Bonn. That’s in West Germany.’

‘West Germany, really?’ said Marie. ‘Do me a big favour, will you, and let me have their addresses. I’d like to send brochures there, too.’

The girl did as asked. Marie copied down the addresses, thanked her and replaced the receiver. She went back to the car and climbed in next to Lynch. ‘He’s there. Vander Mayer’s there.’ She was panting like an over-excited dog. ‘Now what do we do?’

‘Now we wait. If Vander Mayer’s in there, maybe Cramer’s there too.’

Allan looked up from his copy of The Economist as the secretary put down the telephone. ‘Problem, Jenny?’ he asked.

Jenny smiled and fiddled with her ponytail. ‘Nah, it was a woman from some conference centre checking her mailing list.’

‘Nothing out of the ordinary?’

‘Happens all the time. Junk mail and junk phone calls are pretty much all we get to deal with, unless Mr Vander Mayer’s in town. Then it’s a mad rush, I can tell you.’

Martin was sitting on the unoccupied desk and staring vacantly out of the window. ‘I’m hungry,’ he said.

‘You’re always hungry,’ said Allan.

‘Do you want anything?’

‘A Ferrari. A house in the country. A woman who loves me. The sort of stuff every man wants.’

‘I meant food,’ said Martin patiently.

‘Yeah, I know. A cheese roll.’

Martin straightened up. ‘Do you want anything, Jenny?’ he asked.

‘Nah, I’m on a diet. Thanks anyway.’

Allan flicked through The Economist as Martin left the office. He looked at Jenny over the top of the magazine. She was a pretty brunette who couldn’t have been much more than nineteen years old. She was shapely and obviously intelligent — Allan had been impressed by the confident way in which she’d lied to the caller about her boss being in the office. She’d been briefed to say that Vander Mayer was in the office and if it was a business call to transfer it to Vander Mayer’s yacht.

Jenny beamed at Allan. He smiled and nodded and started reading again. Under other circumstances he’d have been tempted to chat her up a little, but he was too much of a professional to mix business with pleasure. That and the fact that her accent was as annoying as fingernails being scraped across a blackboard.

‘So, Allan,’ she said, fluttering her long eyelashes, ‘how long have you been a bodyguard then?’

Jim Smolev locked the door to his Dodge and walked slowly to the hotel. It was a hot morning, the Florida sky a brilliant blue, devoid of clouds, and the sun was beating down relentlessly. He ran his hand absent-mindedly across the bald spot at the back of his head. He’d discovered the thinning patch only a month ago, but it had become a regular ritual to check it in the bathroom mirror first thing each morning. It was only the size of a quarter, but Smolev’s father had been as bald as a bowling ball by the time he was forty-five. Smolev was in his mid-thirties and had resigned himself to the fact that he was heading the same way as his father. Smolev’s wife had made all the right noises, telling him that his hair didn’t matter, that she’d love him just as much if he didn’t have a single hair on his body, that it didn’t look so bad anyway. It was, Smolev knew, all Grade A bullshit. She’d never look at him the same way again. Smolev had started reading all the adverts for hair-weaves and had even thought about asking his doctor for details of Rogaine. He was determined not to lose his hair without a fight.

He walked through reception. One of the agents from the Miami field office was sitting on a sofa facing the main entrance and he nodded discreetly at Smolev. Smolev nodded back and headed for the elevator. The rear of the elevator was mirrored and after the door closed Smolev twisted his neck and took a quick look at the bald spot, using his hand to smooth a lock of hair over it. He turned his head left and right as he checked the coverage. It would do. He sighed deeply. His whole body seemed to be in revolt. He’d gone to the dentist to have his aching back tooth checked out only to be told that he needed root canal work. His glasses didn’t seem to correct his vision as well as they used to, and his wife kept telling him to go and get his prescription checked. And his knees kept clicking when he climbed out of bed. He was thirty-five years old and he felt like an old man.

The elevator doors hissed open and he walked down the corridor towards Frank Discenza’s suite. A single agent stood guard outside the door. ‘Hiya, Jim. What’s up?’ asked the man. His name was Ted Verity, a recent addition to the Bureau’s Miami office. He was wearing what looked like a made-to-measure suit and a pair of Armani spectacles, and he had, Smolev noticed with a twinge of envy, a head of thick, black hair.

‘My blood pressure, for a start,’ said Smolev. ‘Is he still giving you trouble?’

‘Just moaning. You heard what he’s asking for?’

‘That’s why I’m here.’

‘Yeah? Better you than me, Jim.’ Verity grinned and ran a hand through his hair as if emphasising how thick it was. ‘Pimp’s an ugly word, isn’t it?’

‘My instructions are to persuade him to accept a blow job from you instead,’ said Smolev. He smiled as Verity’s face fell. ‘Only joking, Ted. Just kidding.’

Smolev patted Verity on the arm, opened the door and stepped inside. Discenza was sprawled along a sofa, a stack of magazines and newspapers at his side. A football game was showing on the large-screen television, the sound turned down to barely a whisper. Discenza swung his legs onto the floor and sat up. ‘Well?’ he said, his eyes gleaming eagerly.

‘They’re not happy about it, Frank,’ said Smolev.

‘I don’t give a shit whether they’re happy about it or not,’ said Discenza. ‘They’re not the ones sitting locked up with only Playboy for company. I tell you, Jimmy, I’ve been seeing too much of my right hand recently and the other one’s starting to get jealous. I want a woman, and I want one now.’

‘It’ll all be over in a few days, Frank. The photographs have already arrived in Zurich. Just a few days more. Can’t you wait?’

‘Are you married, Jimmy?’

Smolev sighed patiently. ‘Yes.’

‘How long?’

‘Eight years.’

Discenza beat a rapid tattoo on his knees with the palms of his hands. ‘Well, unlike you, I still enjoy sex, Jimmy. Lots of it. I like sex, I enjoy being with a woman. Twice a day, sometimes three times. I like pussy, the hotter and tighter the better. Keeping me locked up here is totally unnatural. It’s driving me crazy, it’s like I’m gonna explode.’ He leaned forward conspiratorially. ‘I gotta tell you, Jimmy, even you’re starting to look pretty tasty. Now, what did they say?’

Smolev fought to control his disgust. ‘They said okay. If there’s no other way to shut you up, it’s okay.’

‘Trust me, Jimmy. There’s no other way to shut me up.’

There was a knock at the door and both men looked towards it as Verity stepped inside. ‘Room service,’ explained Verity.

‘Great,’ said Discenza. He leered at Smolev. ‘You hungry? I’m having steak, I could get you something. After all, Uncle Sam’s paying, right?’

Smolev watched a white-jacketed waiter push a laden trolley across the carpet. There was a plastic hotel identification badge clipped to the waiter’s pocket and the small colour photograph seemed to match. The man looked vaguely Mexican, with a darkish complexion and a thick moustache that curled down either side of his lips. Smolev looked across at Verity and Verity nodded, confirming that he’d checked out the waiter.

‘No, thanks, Frank. I’ve already eaten.’

The waiter reached for the silver cover with a cotton-gloved hand and Smolev felt his stomach tense but when the cover was removed there was just a large rump steak with onions, a fried egg and French fries. Discenza nodded his approval and waved his hand at Verity. ‘Sign the check, Ted, will ya? And give the guy a ten dollar tip, yeah?’

‘Whatever you say, Mr Discenza,’ said Verity, barely able to conceal his disdain. There were two bottles of Budweiser on the trolley, beaded with condensation, and the waiter deftly whipped off the metal tops before handing the check to Verity. As Verity signed for the food, Discenza picked up one of the bottles of Budweiser and drank deeply. He drained half the bottle in one go. ‘You sure?’ he pressed Smolev. ‘The food’s great here.’

‘Considering what it’s costing us, I’m sure it is. You go ahead.’

Discenza carried the plate and Budweiser over to the sofa. ‘Get me the ketchup, will ya?’ he said.

Smolev stared at Discenza’s back and imagined plunging a large butcher’s knife into it again and again. ‘Sure, Frank. I’ll get the ketchup.’

He put the dish of tomato sauce down on the coffee table and Discenza jabbed a French fry into it. He smacked his lips and began cutting his steak up into small pieces like a mother preparing food for a toddler. ‘So, when do I get the girls?’ he asked.

‘Girls?’ repeated Smolev. ‘We’re talking about one girl. One visit. And I’m not even happy about that.’

Discenza shook his head. ‘How I get my rocks off is my own business,’ he said. He popped a piece of steak into his mouth and chewed noisily. ‘Sure you don’t want something?’ he asked, his mouth full of food.

‘I’m not an escort agency, Frank. You asked for a woman, I’ll arrange it. But that’s it.’

‘I asked for company. Female company. I never said how many I wanted.’ He dunked a handful of French fries into the ketchup and thrust them into his mouth, smearing his lips with sauce. He looked as if he’d cut his lip.

‘Don’t jerk me around,’ Smolev warned.

‘That’s an option,’ retorted Discenza, ‘but between you and me I’d prefer a couple of eighteen-year-olds.’

The waiter left the room, followed by Verity. Smolev went over to the window and looked out at the car park.

‘Is it hot in here, or is it me?’ Discenza asked.

Smolev turned around to face him. ‘Feels okay to me. You want me to turn the air-conditioning up?’

Discenza nodded and took another swig from the bottle of Budweiser. He burped as he put the bottle down on the table. Smolev looked around for a thermostat but couldn’t find one. Discenza took a card from his jacket pocket and held it out to Smolev. ‘Call this number,’ he said, ‘tell them I want Terry and Amanda.’

Smolev took the card. ‘How stupid are you, Frank?’ he said.

Discenza’s jaw dropped. The man’s mouth was full of half-chewed food and Smolev averted his eyes. It was a disgusting sight. ‘Now what’s wrong?’ Discenza asked.

‘What’s wrong is that you’re in protective custody, and you expect me to call your regular hookers and invite them over. Don’t you get it? The man we’re after is a stone-cold killer. And if he finds out that you’ve betrayed him, how long do you think it’ll be before he comes after you?’

Discenza swallowed. ‘You said I’d be in the clear, you said you and the Brits would get him, that was the deal, right?’ He loosened his collar. A trickle of sweat ran down the side of his cheek.

‘If you let us take care of you, sure. But if you contact dial-a-hooker, it’s just asking for trouble.’ He paused. ‘Terry is a girl, right?’ he asked.

Discenza scowled. ‘Of course Terry’s a fucking girl. What do you think I am?’

Smolev fought the urge to sneer at the man. He knew exactly what sort of man Discenza was. A liar, a fraud, a cheat, a man who was prepared to pay to have another man killed, a man who’d do anything to save his own skin. A man without honour. ‘Just checking,’ he said, and forced a smile. ‘I’ll arrange the girl.’

‘Girls,’ said Discenza.

‘Girl,’ repeated Smolev.

The two men stared at each other for several seconds. Eventually Discenza smiled. ‘A blonde,’ he said. ‘With tits out to here.’ He held out his cupped hands in front of him.

‘I’ll see what I can do,’ said Smolev.

Discenza nodded and drained his Budweiser. He put it down and then drank from the second bottle. His forehead was damp with sweat. He stabbed a chunk of steak with his fork. ‘Does the Bureau use a regular agency?’ he asked.

‘Oh sure, we have an account with Tits ’R Us,’ said Smolev. ‘What do you think, Frank? You think we call up and say the FBI’s got a hard on and would they send someone over?’ Smolev went back to the window. A large white delivery truck with the name of a laundry service drew up in the car park.

‘Jesus, it’s hot in here,’ complained Discenza.

‘It’s not that bad,’ said Smolev.

‘Yeah, well you’re not cooped up here all day,’ said Discenza.

‘It won’t be for much longer,’ said Smolev, turning around. ‘Like I said, the pictures have been delivered. Vander Mayer’s out of the way, our man’s in place. A few days, max.’

Discenza squinted over at the FBI agent. ‘How the hell did you find someone dumb enough to take Vander Mayer’s place?’

Smolev’s tooth began to ache and he rubbed his jaw. ‘I don’t know. The Brits got him.’

‘Yeah? Does he know what he’s letting himself in for?’

Smolev shrugged. ‘That’s not my business. All I’ve got to do is keep you safe until we’ve got the killer.’

Discenza thrust another handful of ketchup-covered French fries into his mouth and washed them down with Budweiser.

Smolev spotted a thermostat on the wall by the bathroom door. It was set at sixty-five degrees and Smolev felt comfortable, but he lowered it anyway. ‘Tell me, Frank. Why did you take out the contract on Vander Mayer?’

Discenza sneered. ‘That’s between me and my lawyer, Jimmy.’

Smolev sat down opposite Discenza. ‘Come on, Frank, you can tell me.’

Discenza loosened his tie and undid the top button of his shirt. ‘It wouldn’t be smart for me to tell you, now would it?’ He pushed the plate away.

‘Something wrong with the food?’

‘I’m not hungry any more. Maybe the steak’s gone bad.’

Smolev picked up the plate and held it under his nose. ‘Smells all right to me. The food’s supposed to be first class here.’

‘Yeah? Well maybe the chef’s having a bad day.’ He took another swig of beer then slumped back on the sofa. ‘So you wanna know why I wanted Vander Mayer taken out, right? I guess it can’t hurt to tell you, what with the deal my lawyer’s worked out. The conspiracy charge has been dropped, right?’

‘That’s the deal, Frank.’

‘How much did they tell you?’

‘Me? They’re treating me like a mushroom.’

‘A mushroom?’ frowned Discenza.

‘You know, they keep me in the dark and feed me bullshit.’

At first Discenza didn’t get it, then he broke out laughing. ‘Good one, Jimmy. A mushroom. Good one.’ He picked up a white napkin and used it to wipe his forehead. ‘He killed my brother.’

‘Yeah?’

‘Killed him or paid to have him killed. Comes down to the same thing: one dead brother.’

‘How come?’

Discenza undid another button on his shirt. ‘We were putting together a deal in the Keys, a hotel development. Vander Mayer was putting up most of the money, I was doing the legal work and bringing in extra investors and a management team. My brother Rick was helping me. Keeping everyone sweet, you know? He was just a kid. Twenty-five years old. Just out of Harvard.’ Discenza rubbed his throat. ‘God, I’m thirsty,’ he said. ‘Get me some water, will ya?’

Smolev was going to protest but he could see that Discenza was in considerable discomfort. He went to the bathroom and filled a glass tumbler with water. ‘Why did Vander Mayer kill your brother?’ he called through the open doorway.

‘He’s got this assistant, this Oriental girl. Chinese or something. She’s always with him, he never goes anywhere without her. She’s some sort of adviser to him, and God knows what else. She took an instant dislike to Rick. Wouldn’t have anything to do with him. You got that water?’

‘Coming,’ said Smolev. He carried the glass of water out to Discenza, taking care not to spill any.

‘Seems she told Vander Mayer that Rick wasn’t to be trusted,’ said Discenza, taking the glass from Smolev and drinking greedily. He drained the glass and put it down on the coffee table. ‘Funny thing was, she was right. Even I didn’t know. He was planning to put Mafia money in the investment through a company in the Bahamas. He’d lost a bundle gambling and some pretty heavy guys were putting the screws on him.’

Smolev went over to the window and stood looking out. The laundry truck was driving out of the car park. ‘So Vander Mayer had him killed?’ Smolev asked.

‘Not right away. Rick went around to talk to the girl. Things got out of hand.’

‘Out of hand? How exactly did they get out of hand?’

‘Depends who you believe. Rick said she led him on, she says he tried to rape her. Two days later Rick disappeared and the deal was off.’

Smolev saw a man walk out of the front entrance of the hotel. Smolev vaguely recognised him but couldn’t place the face.

‘I knew it was Vander Mayer, but I could hardly go to the cops, could I? A friend in Dallas gave me a number, told me that a Swiss banker could get the job done for me for half a million dollars. Jimmy, I don’t feel so good. Maybe I need a doctor.’

Smolev tapped his fingers on the windowsill as he stared at the man walking away from the hotel. He frowned. Suddenly he realised that the man was the waiter who’d delivered Discenza’s food. But his appearance had changed: his hair was shorter now, and he was missing his moustache. Smolev turned around. Discenza was lying back on the sofa, his mouth open, his chest heaving. Frothy white saliva dribbled from between Discenza’s lips and his eyes were wide and staring. ‘Oh shit,’ Smolev gasped. He rushed over to Discenza. ‘Ted!’ he yelled. ‘Get in here.’

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.’

‘Activated? What the hell do you mean, activated? What is it, Su-ming?’

She tapped the papers against the palm of her hand as she looked at him. ‘Red mercury,’ she said. ‘It’s only a sample for Mr Vander Mayer to test.’

‘Red mercury?’ Cramer repeated. ‘What is it, some sort of explosive?’

‘I shouldn’t even have told you that much,’ she said.

Cramer walked over to her. She looked so small when he stood next to her. She barely came up to his shoulder and she had to tilt her head back to keep looking into his eyes. ‘What’s it used for?’ he pressed.

She frowned. ‘Fuses, mainly.’

‘For bombs?’

She nodded. ‘It’s got civil applications, too, though. Mining companies can use it to help extract gold from ore.’

Cramer kept looking at her. He was sure she wasn’t telling him everything.

Marie looked at her wristwatch. ‘Do you think I should put more money in the meter?’ she asked.

Lynch stretched his arms out in front of him and opened and closed his hands. He sighed. ‘Aye, I suppose so.’ He tapped his fingers on the steering wheel as he stared across the crowded street at the block containing Vander Mayer’s office. ‘Come out, come out, wherever you are,’ he whispered.

Marie got out, fed the meter, and climbed back into the Rover. ‘Of course, Cramer might not be in there,’ she said.

‘He’s in there,’ said Lynch. ‘I know he’s in there.’

‘What about something to eat? A sandwich or something?’

Lynch shook his head. He rubbed the back of his neck. His whole body seemed to be aching. It felt as if he’d been sitting in the car for months. ‘Maybe a coffee,’ he said.

‘Tired?’

‘Knackered.’

‘It’s just after five, the offices should start emptying soon. I’ll get you a coffee before the rush starts.’

She was reaching for the door handle when Lynch sat bolt upright. ‘Wait,’ he said.

Marie’s hand jerked away from the handle as if she’d received an electric shock. ‘What?’

‘Look.’ Lynch nodded at the office block. A Mercedes had pulled up and the driver, a large man in a dark blue suit and a peaked cap, was getting out.

‘That’s the same car they had in Wales,’ said Marie.

‘Same type. Different registration number. But that’s the driver all right.’ He started the engine. ‘Keep the map out. Rush hour isn’t the best time to be tailing someone in London.’

Lynch pulled away from the kerb and indicated that he wanted to turn right. He had to make sure he didn’t get stuck in the side road when the Mercedes drove off. A middle-aged woman in a battered MGB flashed her headlights and Lynch nudged the Rover into the traffic. The only place he could find to park was on a double yellow line but he didn’t think he’d have to wait long so he pulled in and watched the Mercedes in his driving mirror. Marie twisted around in her seat to watch the building itself.

‘Oh shit,’ said Lynch under his breath. A black traffic warden was walking towards them, notebook in hand. He was about fifty feet away.

‘The driver’s gone inside,’ said Marie.

Lynch drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. The traffic warden was heading purposefully towards the Rover. Marie opened the door. ‘What are you doing?’

‘I’ll talk to him,’ she said. She got out of the car and walked towards the traffic warden, smiling and waving the street directory. She said something to the man and showed him the map. Smart girl, thought Lynch, but he doubted whether the ruse would buy them more than a minute or two. The traffic warden took the map from Marie and began talking to her and pointing down the road.

Lynch turned to look through the back window of the Rover. The door to the block opened but it was a young woman who came out. ‘Come on, come on,’ Lynch muttered. He felt exposed and vulnerable, sitting on the double yellow lines with a traffic warden only yards away. There were no other parking spaces nearby and if they had to drive off they’d have to double back, and that could take ages in the heavy traffic. The door to the office block opened again and the driver came out. He stood at the entrance, looking left and right, and then held it open. Another big man came out wearing a dark grey suit, and Lynch recognised him immediately: it was the man he’d seen walking with Cramer in the grounds of the school in Wales.

Marie was still talking to the traffic warden. Lynch didn’t want to risk sounding his horn, even though the street was bustling with vehicles and pedestrians. He flashed his headlights a couple of times and she waved at him before spotting the two men. Marie took the map from the traffic warden, said something to him and then walked quickly back to the Rover. Lynch kept his eyes glued to the driving mirror. A third man came out. Lynch’s eyes narrowed. It was Cramer. He was carrying an aluminium briefcase.

Marie got into the Rover and closed the door. The traffic warden was still walking towards them. Marie wound down her window and gave him a wide smile. ‘Thanks for your help,’ she called, waving the map at him. He walked by, but looked over his shoulder. ‘You’re going to have to go,’ Marie whispered. ‘He’s watching us.’

‘Pretend to give me directions,’ Lynch said. Marie leaned over and made a show of holding the map in front of him as he kept an eye on the rear-view mirror. The three men were getting into the Mercedes. The two large men moved efficiently, and as he watched Lynch realised how cleverly they were shielding Cramer. The young Oriental girl came out of the office block and opened the rear door of the Mercedes herself. Marie continued to point at the map and nod her head. Lynch nodded as if agreeing with her. In the mirror he saw the traffic warden walking away. ‘Okay, he’s going,’ said Lynch.

The Mercedes drove away from the kerb. As it drew level with the Rover, Lynch turned his head away. He let a couple of cars go by and then edged the Rover into the traffic. Marie had the map open on her lap and she kept looking at it as Lynch followed the Mercedes. The traffic was moving slowly and while Lynch wasn’t worried about the Mercedes getting away, he wanted to stay fairly close in case he got held up by traffic lights.

A taxi forced itself in front of Lynch and he cursed. ‘He’s turning left,’ said Marie.

Lynch indicated and followed the Mercedes down the side road. The Mercedes made another two turns in quick succession. For a brief moment Lynch wondered if the driver had spotted them, but then the Mercedes drove straight on for almost half a mile. Lynch allowed two vehicles to overtake but kept reasonably close.

‘Fulham,’ said Marie. ‘They’re heading for Fulham. They could be crossing the river.’

‘If they’re driving back to Wales I’ll be really pissed off,’ said Lynch through clenched teeth.

‘No, they’re going north-east. If they were going to Wales they’d be heading west to the M4.’

They drove by antique shops full of gilded furniture and extravagant light fittings, then past a football stadium. ‘Chelsea,’ said Marie. ‘It’s where Chelsea play.’

The traffic had thinned out and Lynch hung back, giving the Mercedes plenty of space. There was little chance of losing it; the driver was sticking religiously to the speed limit.

‘I think we’ve got a tail,’ said Martin, glancing in his rear-view mirror.

Su-ming began to turn around but Cramer reached over and took her hand. ‘Don’t look around,’ he said. ‘Are you sure?’ he asked Martin.

‘I noticed it about five minutes ago, but this is the best way to Chelsea Harbour so it might be coincidence. Two people, one’s a woman, I think.’

‘Our man usually works alone,’ said Allan.

‘Yeah, but not always,’ said Cramer. ‘Remember the Kypriano killing? Someone else was in the boat that picked him up. And there’ve been other cases where he’s had someone driving a getaway car.’

Allan turned his head and surreptitiously moved the wing mirror so that he could see directly behind the Mercedes. ‘The metallic grey Rover?’

‘That’s the one,’ said Martin. ‘It’s not one of ours, is it?’

‘No, it’s bloody well not. And if it was, I’d have their balls on toast. Can you make out the registration number?’

‘Too far away,’ Martin replied. ‘Shall I lose them?’

Allan looked at him scornfully. ‘If we lose them, they’ll know we’re onto them. That’s not what we’re trying to achieve here, right?’

‘I was joking, Allan,’ said Martin.

‘Slow down, see if we can get the number.’

‘I guess I should do that without braking, right?’ Martin flashed a grin at Allan and took his foot off the accelerator.

Allan watched the Rover in the mirror. ‘He’s slowing too.’

The driver of the black taxi behind them beeped his horn impatiently. Martin accelerated again.

‘Drive to the apartment,’ said Allan. ‘They can’t do anything while we’re in the car. Let’s see what happens when we get to Chelsea Harbour.’

Cramer smiled at Su-ming. ‘It’ll be okay,’ he said. She nodded, unconvinced. Cramer realised that he was still holding her hand. He released his grip and folded his arms. ‘It might not be him,’ he said.

‘They’re still there,’ said Martin.

Cramer squeezed his arms. He could feel the gun in its holster pressing against his ribs but wasn’t reassured by its presence.

Martin turned onto the road that led to Chelsea Harbour, his eyes flicking between the rear-view mirror and the way ahead. ‘He’s indicating,’ he said. ‘Yeah, here he comes. Still too far away to get the registration.’

They drove by the Conrad Hotel towards the towering apartment block with its blue-framed balconies and pyramid roof. Martin turned left to follow the road around to the car park. ‘False alarm,’ said Allan. ‘They’re pulling up in front of the hotel.’

Cramer tried to relax. He uncrossed his arms, rested his head on the back of the seat and sighed. His heart was racing and his palms were sweating.

‘Okay?’ asked Allan as they drove down into the underground car park and stopped in front of the entrance to the apartment block.

Cramer nodded but didn’t reply. Martin and Allan got out of the Mercedes and walked around to Cramer’s door. The area outside the entrance was clear but the two men still formed a protective barrier as they escorted Cramer inside. The doorman nodded at them.

They took the elevator up to the ground level and walked across the marble-floored foyer. The doorman on duty wasn’t the man who’d been there when they’d left that morning. He was younger, with a thin face and pale blue eyes. Cramer transferred the metal case to his left hand. The doorman waved a greeting to Allan, then reached under the counter. Cramer tensed and flexed the fingers of his right hand. ‘Easy,’ said Allan out of the corner of his mouth, ‘he’s one of ours.’

The doorman brought an envelope out from under the counter and held it out for Su-ming as Allan and Martin walked either side of Cramer to the elevator.

Marie opened the door of the Rover and climbed in, her face flushed with excitement. ‘They went into an apartment block, the tall one,’ she said. ‘The two big guys kept really close to him as they went in.’

‘They’re bodyguards all right,’ said Lynch.

‘Why would Cramer need a bodyguard?’ asked Marie. ‘Do you think they know we’re after him?’

‘I can’t see how,’ said Lynch. ‘Besides, it doesn’t make sense. If they were trying to protect him, they’d make him disappear. The Brits could give him a new identity, a new passport and a ticket to anywhere in the world. They wouldn’t put him on full view like this. Maybe Vander Mayer’s in the apartment. What did they do with the car?’

‘The chauffeur came out after a few minutes and parked it.’

‘So it looks like they’re staying for a while, doesn’t it? And who’s that girl hanging around with them?’

Marie shrugged. ‘I don’t know. But the bodyguards definitely aren’t for her. She was following them.’

Lynch made a clicking sound with his tongue. It was a nervous habit, and he didn’t realise he was doing it until Marie started to copy him. ‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘I’ve always done that when I think, ever since I was a kid. Used to annoy the hell out of my teachers during exams.’

‘I bet. What are you thinking about?’

‘I’m working out what to do.’

‘What are our options?’

Lynch put his head on one side as he looked at her. ‘We can keep following him, we can try to find out what Cramer’s up to. Or we can pull back, see if the bodyguards are a permanent feature. Or we can go for the hit now.’

Marie put her hand on Lynch’s shoulder. ‘You know what my choice would be?’

Lynch stared into her eyes. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Yes, I know what you want.’ He sighed and rubbed his hands over his face. ‘I’m knackered,’ he said. ‘Whatever we do, we should rest for a while.’

Marie nodded at the hotel. ‘Well, we’re in the right place for that,’ she said.

As soon as they entered the flat, Su-ming disappeared down the corridor towards the bedrooms with the metal briefcase. Cramer heard a door shut and he figured she was probably putting the case into Vander Mayer’s safe.

Martin went off into the kitchen and Cramer and Allan followed him. ‘I’m starving,’ said Martin. He pulled open the door to the refrigerator and peered inside. ‘Jesus H. Christ, there’s enough food in here to feed a regiment,’ he said. He took off his jacket and hung it on the back of a chair, unclipped his underarm holster, then stripped off his shirt to reveal the dark blue bullet-proof vest he was wearing. He ripped away the Velcro straps, slid the vest off and dropped it onto the table. The table shuddered.

‘Should be enough to keep you going until tomorrow, then,’ said Allan as he switched on the electric kettle.

Martin put his shirt back on, then took a carton of eggs, a plastic-wrapped pack of Danish bacon, a pack of Walls sausages and half a pound of butter from the fridge. ‘You can’t see any bread, can you?’ he asked.

Cramer pointed at a large stainless steel bin with ‘BREAD’ etched into its side. ‘Shot in the dark, but that could be it,’ he said.

Martin piled the foodstuffs onto the work surface by the stove and opened the bin. ‘Perfect,’ he said, taking out a loaf of Hovis. ‘I love a bit of fried bread.’ A large frying pan was hanging from a hook on the wall and Martin took it down. ‘One egg or six?’ he asked Allan.

‘Two. Fried. Black on the bottom, runny on the top, same as you always do them.’

‘Mike?’

Cramer shook his head.

‘Not worried about your cholesterol level, are you?’ asked Martin. ‘That Su-ming’s got you on some sort of health kick, hasn’t she?’

‘Yeah, she’s taking a real interest in you,’ added Allan.

‘Leave it out,’ said Cramer. ‘She’s just doing her job.’

Martin ripped open the pack of bacon with his teeth and laid the slices down on the pan. They started to sizzle and Martin prodded them with a plastic spatula.

‘Either of you guys heard of red mercury?’ Cramer asked, leaning against the kitchen door.

‘It’s a con,’ said Allan. He opened one of the kitchen cupboards, looked inside, and closed it again.

‘What do you mean, a con?’

‘A hoax. There’s no such thing.’ Allan opened another cupboard and took out a jar of coffee. He took off the lid. The paper seal inside was untouched. ‘There’ve been rumours for years, but as far as the Ministry of Defence is concerned, it doesn’t exist.’

Cramer ran a hand through his hair. ‘What’s it supposed to be?’

‘Something to do with nuclear weapons. It’s supposed to make them more effective or something. It’s supposed to be a sort of Russian secret weapon, there were rumours that they came up with it just before the end of the Cold War.’

‘So why do you say it’s a hoax?’

‘Because no one has ever been able to deliver the stuff.’ He spooned coffee into three mugs. ‘Every now and again some middleman will claim to have a supply of the stuff but it always turns out to be something else. The Russian Mafia have been making a fortune duping Arab buyers.’

‘Yeah, ragheads will buy anything,’ agreed Martin, dropping sausages into the frying pan. ‘Except sand, maybe.’

‘So if it’s a hoax, why do they keep buying it?’

‘Because,’ said Allan, ‘there’s always a chance that it does exist and that the powers-that-be are lying.’

‘Why would they lie?’ asked Cramer.

‘Habit,’ said Martin, but Allan and Cramer ignored him.

Allan poured hot water in the mugs and stirred the coffee. ‘The way I heard it, if the stuff does what the Russians claim, they can use it to produce a nuclear bomb the size of grapefruit.’

‘So they’d try to suppress it?’

‘If it exists,’ said Allan. ‘And that’s a huge bloody if. The Russian Government says there’s no such thing.’

‘Yeah, well they would, wouldn’t they?’ said Martin. He used a fork to juggle the sausages and bacon onto two plates and then began cracking eggs one-handed into the hot fat.

‘Yeah, but if there was such a thing and the Russians had it, they’d sell it to the Yanks, or the Yanks would pay to get it off the market,’ said Allan.

‘Yeah. I guess.’

Cramer didn’t sound convinced and Allan looked up from the coffee mugs. ‘Hey, wait a minute. Are you saying that’s what’s in the case? Vander Mayer’s buying red mercury?’

‘That’s what he said.’

‘Well he’s wasting his time,’ said Allan, handing one of the mugs to Cramer.

‘There’s documentation with it,’ said Cramer.

‘In Russian, I suppose,’ said Allan. Cramer nodded. ‘So it could be anything?’

‘Yeah, you’re right.’ Cramer put his coffee mug down on the work surface. ‘But Vander Mayer doesn’t strike me as the sort of guy who’d go on a wild goose chase.’

Martin used the spatula to lift the fried eggs out of the pan, and he replaced them with two slices of brown bread. ‘It’s not our problem though, is it?’ he said.

‘I guess,’ said Cramer. ‘How do you know so much about it, Allan?’

‘Only what I’ve read in the papers. And I think Newsweek did a piece on it a while back. Hey, Martin, I want mine fried, not cremated.’ Allan went to stand behind Martin and looked over his shoulder at the frying pan and its sizzling contents.

‘Bit of charcoal never hurt anyone,’ said Martin, flipping the fried bread over.

‘The thing is, Vander Mayer offered me money to make sure no one asked questions about the case.’

‘How much money?’ asked Martin.

‘A lot.’

‘So take it,’ said Allan. He reached into the frying pan and took out one of the pieces of fried bread with his fingers and dropped it onto his plate. He scowled at Martin.

‘He wouldn’t do that unless he was pretty sure that it was the genuine article, right?’

‘Hell, I don’t know, Mike. Maybe he’s got more money than sense.’ Allan carried his plate back into the sitting room. Cramer followed him. Allan sat down in one of the steel and leather armchairs and ate off his lap. ‘If I were you, I’d take his money, hand over the case, and not worry about it,’ he said.

Lynch went over to the window and looked across at the apartment block. ‘Perfect,’ he said. Down below he could see the entrance to the tower, though the angle was too steep to look inside the foyer.

‘It’s a nice room all right,’ said Marie, dropping her Harrods bag onto the large bed. ‘Should be, too, for what it’s costing.’

‘I meant the view,’ said Lynch.

Marie walked over to stand next to him. She rested her head on his shoulder as she gazed at the tower block opposite. ‘He’s in there,’ she whispered. ‘The bastard who killed my parents is in there.’ She shuddered as if she’d been caught in a draught.

Lynch wondered which floor Cramer was on. He couldn’t see into any of the apartments, either the windows were slightly tinted or the evening sun was reflecting off the glass. Either way, the tower block windows gazed blankly back at Lynch, like the eyes of a dead man. He turned away from the window. ‘I need a shower,’ he said.

The bathroom was luxurious, gold fittings and flawless marble. Lynch stripped off his clothes and turned on the shower. He studied himself in the mirror behind the twin washbasins. He looked tired, the whites of his eyes were flecked with red and his hair was greasy and unkempt. They’d been worried that his dishevelled appearance might cause comment at reception, so Marie had done the talking and had used her credit card to pay for the room. All he needed was to get clean, followed by a few hours’ sleep. Then he’d work out what to do next.

He stepped into the shower and let the steaming hot water play over his face and neck. He lathered up a bar of soap, keeping his eyes closed as the water cascaded over his aching muscles.

He didn’t hear Marie get into the shower, and he jumped when he felt her hands slip around his waist. ‘Easy, boy,’ she whispered, pressing herself against his back. Her hands slid between his legs and she took hold of him. He gasped and the soap dropped from his fingers. Lynch started to turn around but Marie tightened her hold on him and told him to stay put. He raised his arms and placed his hands on the tiles, as Marie continued to caress him.

She kissed him between his shoulder-blades, her soft breasts pressed tight against his back, her hands making him hard and erect. ‘Tell me what you’re going to do, Dermott.’ Her hands tightened and he moaned. She loosened her grip and then rubbed him, agonisingly slowly, teasing him until he was almost crazy with desire. ‘Tell me, Dermott. Tell me what you’re going to do.’

Lynch tried to turn again but she pressed him against the wall of the shower cubicle, keeping her grip on him. ‘I’m going to kill him,’ he gasped. ‘I’m going to shoot him like a mad dog.’

Marie let him go and he twisted around. He grabbed her and picked her up. She pushed herself away from him, her eyes hard. ‘You promise?’ she urged. ‘You swear you’ll do it?’

‘Yes,’ he gasped. Marie raised her legs as he pushed her against the wall and he entered her, so hard that she almost screamed.

Cramer walked along the corridor to his bedroom. A strip of light shone from under the door to Vander Mayer’s study. He stopped and listened but couldn’t hear anything so he knocked gently. Su-ming asked who it was.

‘It’s me.’

‘What do you want?’

Cramer thought about that for a few seconds. He wasn’t sure exactly what he did want, or why he’d knocked on the door.

‘Come in,’ she said eventually. Cramer pushed open the door. She was sitting on a black leather sofa at the far end of the room, her legs curled up under her. By her side was a small stack of paper and she was holding a sheet in her hands. Cramer saw to his surprise that she was wearing glasses, a pair of oval lenses in a thin wire frame. She took them off as she looked at him. ‘What’s wrong, Mike Cramer? Can’t you sleep?’

Cramer walked over to the window. The study was as big as the master bedroom with views to the north, towards the hotel with its curved balconies and white stone walls and the brick-built office complexes of Chelsea Harbour. Between the tower block and the hotel was a small marina with a channel leading to the Thames. The boats moored in the marina were big, expensive models, vessels to be seen on, not to sail. To the left and right of the marina were smaller apartment blocks, their walls as white and gleaming as the boats in the water. ‘I’m sorry about earlier on,’ said Cramer. He paced the length of the room. The far end was covered with mirrored tiles, giving the illusion that the office was twice its true size. He watched her in the mirrored wall. She looked like a teenager studying for an important exam.

‘Earlier?’

‘That business with the Russian. I was out of order.’

She didn’t reply and he turned to face her. She was watching him with an amused smile on her face. ‘You were like a child who’d been told he couldn’t open his Christmas present yet,’ she said.

Cramer grinned sheepishly. ‘Yeah. I behaved like a kid, didn’t I?’

‘You’re not a man who likes secrets. But you’re right, you did behave badly. You could have jeopardised our position. Mr Vander Mayer has spent a lot of time and money trying to get in touch with Mr Tarlanov.’

Cramer pointed at the papers she was reading. ‘Those are the papers he left?’

Su-ming nodded. ‘They’re very technical. I’m having trouble with some of the terms.’

‘I’m amazed that you can even speak Russian.’

She pulled a face. ‘Languages aren’t that difficult. Grammar and vocabulary, that’s all. Once you’ve studied two or three you start to see the patterns, then it’s just a matter of memorisation.’

Cramer walked over to the large desk that dominated the far end of the study, facing away from the mirrored wall. Apart from a computer and VDU and two telephones, it was bare. On the wall behind the desk was a large map of the world. Cramer stared at it. England looked so small, so insignificant, compared with the total land mass of the world. There was something egocentric about the way it was placed dead centre, as if everything else revolved around it. That might have been the case in the days when most of the map was coloured pink and the British had an empire, but now it was little more than a small island on the edge of Europe.

‘Are you trying to find yourself, Mike Cramer?’

Cramer smiled. Nothing could have been further from the truth. He knew exactly where he was and where he was heading. He turned away from the map. ‘Do you go to New York a lot?’ he asked.

‘Fairly often. In the last year we’ve been out in the Far East most of the time. That’s where the fastest growing markets are.’

‘What about the red mercury? Do you think your boss plans to sell that out there?’

Su-ming put the paper she was holding onto the stack. ‘It’s a possibility,’ she said. ‘Why?’

‘It’s for making bombs, you said?’

She put her hands together, like a child about to say its prayers. ‘That’s one of its uses, yes. It can be used for lots of other things, too.’

‘What you didn’t tell me was that it’s used in nuclear bombs.’

If Su-ming was surprised at Cramer’s newly acquired knowledge, she didn’t show it. ‘Red mercury isn’t a bomb. It’s a chemical. And it’s a chemical with many uses.’

‘Is it used in nuclear weapons, yes or no?’

‘The honest answer is that we don’t know. Nobody knows. Nobody has yet detonated a nuclear weapon containing red mercury.’

‘Yet?’

‘I mean ever. It’s never happened, maybe it never will.’

‘And what about those documents? What do they say?’

She waved her hand over the papers. ‘According to the section I’ve just been reading, it can be used to start up civilian nuclear reactors, nothing more sinister than that. And there’s a section describing a coating based on the substance which appears to make whatever you paint with it become virtually invisible to radar.’

Cramer went over to her. The coffee table was carved from a solid block of black and grey marble, more than capable of bearing his weight, so he sat down on it, facing her. He linked his fingers together and leaned towards her. ‘So Mr Vander Mayer just wants to kick-start nuclear reactors and help keep the friendly skies safe, is that it?’

‘Mr Vander Mayer is a businessman. He does what business he can.’

‘Tell me about the other uses for this stuff.’

Su-ming pulled a face as if she had a bad taste in her mouth. ‘I told you about the fuses. It can be used to detonate bombs. All sorts of bombs, not just nuclear. I don’t quite understand how, but it also makes nuclear bombs more effective.’ She patted the pile of papers beside her. ‘The chemistry is way beyond me, but it’s some sort of catalyst.’

‘And your boss will sell it to the highest bidder?’

‘Of course.’

‘Even if it’s to terrorists?’

‘Terrorists? No. Mr Vander Mayer wouldn’t deal with terrorists.’

‘Are you sure?’

She frowned as if she was considering his question, then nodded. ‘Yes. I’m sure.’

Cramer shook his head in amazement. He could scarcely comprehend what sort of life Vander Mayer must live, travelling the world selling instruments of death to anyone with the money to pay for them. ‘The sample that Tarlanov gave us. How is it made?’ he asked.

‘Why do you want to know?’

Cramer shrugged. ‘Just curious, I guess.’

Su-ming studied him for a while, then picked up the papers and riffled through them. She put her spectacles back on and looked at Cramer over the top of them. ‘It starts off as mercury antimony oxide.’ She studied the sheet of paper for a few seconds, her mouth working soundlessly. ‘Okay, it’s a ternary oxide with a cubic pyrochlore structure.’ She smiled up at him. ‘I’ve no idea what that means.’

Cramer returned her smile. ‘Me neither.’

‘They take the oxide and dissolve it in mercury and irradiate it for three weeks.’

‘So the stuff in the case is radioactive?’

‘Slightly. Don’t worry, it’s shielded.’

‘Yeah? So was Chernobyl.’

‘I’m being serious, Mike Cramer. If the red mercury is going to be used in nuclear weapons, plutonium has to be added and it’s irradiated again. Then it is radioactive, but it can only be stored for thirty days. The sample we have is inert.’

‘So what is it that your boss is hoping to buy? The inert stuff or the radioactive stuff?’

‘I don’t know,’ she replied. Cramer narrowed his eyes. ‘Really,’ she insisted. ‘I don’t know.’

Cramer nodded at the stack of papers. ‘What else does it say there?’

‘Most of it’s very technical.’ She scanned the sheet of paper. ‘It explains how the red mercury works — it’s something to do with the way it changes the mass value of isotopes which makes the nuclear material more effective. Do you understand what I’m saying?’

Cramer shook his head. ‘You lost me at the cubic structure part.’

Su-ming smiled. ‘I don’t follow it either. I can translate it, but that doesn’t mean I understand it. Mr Vander Mayer has experts who will be able to tell him what it means.’ She took off her glasses again. ‘It’s not something you should be worried about. You should be more concerned about the man who’s trying to kill you.’

Cramer shrugged. ‘There’s nothing I can do but wait.’

Su-ming stared at him for several seconds, then suddenly she leaned forward and kissed him gently on the cheek, close to his lips. It was a fleeting touch, little more than a peck, but it electrified Cramer. He sat with his mouth open as she moved away and put her glasses back on. ‘What was that for?’ he asked.

Su-ming didn’t look at him. She began to read again. ‘Just curious,’ she said.

Cramer watched her, stunned by the sudden kiss, and the longer he sat there, his fingers still interlinked, the more it seemed that he’d imagined it. Su-ming brushed a lock of hair behind her ear, as she studied the typewritten sheet, her brow furrowed as she tried to make sense of the technical information. Cramer wanted to press her, to get her to tell him why she’d kissed him, but somehow the question seemed inappropriate. He stood up and rubbed the spot where her lips had brushed against his skin. ‘I guess I’ll go to bed,’ he said.

‘Good night,’ she said, not looking up.

Cramer left her sitting on the sofa. He closed the door behind him and walked slowly to his room. By the time he was lying on his bed and staring at the ceiling, he couldn’t even remember what the kiss had felt like.

The Colonel was studying his chess computer, his brow creased in concentration. He had the machine set to its highest level which meant it took almost fifteen minutes between moves, and after two hours of play it had the Colonel in an almost impossible situation. Computers were taking almost all the fun out of chess, thought the Colonel. Now that they could regularly beat human grandmasters, what was the point? He sat back in his chair and pulled a face. It would be mate in four moves, maybe five, unless he was missing something. One of the three telephones on his desk rang, jarring his concentration. He stared at the black and white plastic pieces as he picked up the receiver. It was an overseas call.

‘Colonel?’ The accent was American.

‘Yes.’

‘It’s Dan.’

Dan Greenberg, the Colonel’s liaison in the FBI headquarters in Washington. ‘What’s the problem, Dan?’ There was no mistaking the tension in Greenberg’s voice.

‘Discenza’s dead.’

‘I suppose it’s too much to hope that it was natural causes.’

‘It was a hit. Poison.’

The Colonel slumped back in his chair. ‘That’s the last thing I want to hear right now, Dan.’

‘Tell me about it. Heads are rolling as we speak.’

The Colonel closed his eyes and rubbed the bridge of his nose. If Greenberg had been one of his own men, the Colonel would have ripped into him. There was no excuse for losing a man in protective custody. None. And Discenza had been Greenberg’s responsibility: if anyone’s head was going to roll, it should have been his. ‘Do we know who it was?’

‘White male, early thirties, about six feet tall, brown eyes. Got in as a waiter. Had the right ID, Discenza had just ordered room service. .’

‘And the real waiter turned up dead?’ The Colonel opened his eyes again. He looked out of the window at the Conrad Hotel to his right. The Colonel was sitting in a disused apartment which had been requisitioned because of its proximity to the tower block which housed the Vander Mayer apartment. In an adjoining room sat two SAS troopers in leather jackets and jeans, drinking coffee and watching television with the sound turned down. Another trooper was sitting at the stern of a large motor yacht moored in the marina below. The trooper had dressed for the part in a white turtleneck sweater and blue jeans and was drinking from a can.

‘In a storeroom. Garrotted.’

‘How many of your men saw the killer?’

‘Two.’

‘And that’s the only description you have?’

‘He was wearing a false moustache and a wig,’ said Greenberg defensively. ‘We’re not even sure about the eye colour. One of our guys thought he might be Mexican but that was probably the moustache. Do you think it was our man?’

‘How close did he get to Discenza?’

‘He stood right next to him. Why?’

‘Because if he was that close and it was our killer, he’d have used a gun. A shot to the face, a shot to the heart. Business as usual. Did anyone else get hurt?’

‘Nah. He pushed in the trolley, opened a couple of beers, and left. Two minutes later Discenza was dead. We’ll have the poison identified by tomorrow.’

‘It doesn’t sound like the man we’re looking for,’ said the Colonel. ‘As far as we know, he’s never used poison.’

‘You know what it means if it was,’ said Greenberg.

‘Yes, Dan. I know what it means.’ If the assassin had discovered that Discenza had betrayed him, then the operation was blown. ‘Has Discenza got any other enemies?’

‘Like a dog’s got fleas. He’s crossed a lot of heavy guys in Miami.’

‘The sort of people who’d be prepared to kill a man in protective custody?’

‘It’s possible.’

‘Possible or probable?’

There was a long silence, then Greenberg exhaled. ‘I’m not sure what it is you want me to say,’ he said. ‘We fucked up. I don’t know who knocked off Discenza. It could have been the killer, it could have been someone hired by people in Miami, hell, it could even be someone from out of town. And the way things are going I don’t think we’re going to be any the wiser, not with the description we’ve got. It’s got to be your call. If you want to cancel the operation, we’ll understand.’

The Colonel tapped the receiver against his ear. ‘No, we go ahead,’ he said. ‘As things stand, we put Discenza’s death down to bad timing. If our killer doesn’t attempt to carry out the Vander Mayer contract within two weeks, we’ll know then that he’s onto us.’

‘Agreed,’ said Greenberg.

‘Can you keep a lid on the situation there, at least for two weeks?’

‘No problem,’ said Greenberg. ‘We’re doing the autopsy in-house and no one else knows that Discenza’s dead.’

‘Good,’ said the Colonel. ‘I don’t want to be accused of trying to teach my grandmother to suck eggs, but you might want to look into how the killer discovered Discenza’s location.’

‘It’s been taken care of,’ said Greenberg. ‘If I get anything, you’ll be the first to know. Oh yeah, by the way, I got our guys to cross-check with previous killings, to see if the same method had been used before the current rash of killings. The guys at Quantico had already done it, but I did a check internally, just to be one hundred per cent sure.’

‘And?’

‘And it’s just like I said, there’s no match. Not recently, anyway. There was one guy about ten years back, he used to kill his victims with a shot to the head and one to the heart, but he’s in a maximum security prison. And he’s a psycho, he used to torture his victims with a wire coat hanger. There’s no way he’s our man. He’s been well-documented by the profiling boys.’

‘Any chance of you sending me the file?’

‘Sure, I’ll have his details faxed to you, but you’ll be wasting your time. You could ask Jackman, I think he was with the Bureau at the time they were interviewing him. How’s Jackman getting on?’

‘He said he was off to South Africa to investigate the assassination there. He gave us a briefing before he went.’

‘Was he much help?’

‘Frankly, not really. What he gave us was academically interesting, but what we need is a description rather than a psychological profile.’

‘Yeah, I know what you mean. But I bet you a month’s pay, when we get the guy, we’ll find that he matches Jackman’s profile exactly. He’s one of the best. The boys at Quantico really like him. We’re lucky to have him on the case.’

‘Well I’m sure that his bill will reflect his ability,’ said the Colonel dryly.

‘It’s not the money,’ said Greenberg. ‘Jackman approached us offering to help, we didn’t go after him. He’s working on a book about serial killers and I think he reckons the publicity will get him onto the bestseller list. Then there’s his professional pride. He wants to be the best, or at least to be acknowledged as the best. You know the type. It’s like he’s got something to prove.’

‘Yes, I know the type.’ The SAS was full of such men, men who were driven to prove that they were the best. Mike Cramer had been such a man, willing to push himself beyond the limits of normal human endurance for no other reason than to demonstrate that he could. It wasn’t only Cramer’s terminal condition which had led him to accept the mission that the Colonel had offered. Cramer’s willingness to go up against the killer was also a result of his desire to demonstrate that he was as good as ever, a bid to recapture his glory days. Yes, Cramer and Jackman had much in common, though Cramer’s quest was likely to result in his own death while Jackman was only risking his professional reputation.

The Colonel stared at his chess computer as he replaced the receiver. The cursed machine had forced him into a corner, and there was nothing that the Colonel hated more than to have his options decided for him. He stared balefully at the pieces and stroked the side of his often-broken nose. He was no longer enjoying the game. It had stopped being fun, it was no longer even an intellectual challenge. Now it was war.

The boy stared at the television with unseeing eyes. It was some detective show set in San Francisco but he wasn’t really watching. He kept on looking up at the ceiling, expecting to hear the thud of the walking stick on the bedroom floor at any minute. He stood up and paced around the room, his mind in turmoil. On the television, the two cops arrested a black guy, threw him against the car and put handcuffs on him.

He went into the hall and listened, but all he could hear was his own breathing. He went back into the living room and looked at the brass clock on the mantelpiece. It was half past four. His father wouldn’t be home for another two hours. The boy swallowed. He looked up at the ceiling again, then back at the clock. He stood stock still for a full five minutes, then tiptoed upstairs and knocked timidly on the door to his mother’s bedroom. There was no reply. He pressed his ear against the door and listened, his brow creased into a frown. He could hear his mother moaning. Slowly, as if afraid it would bite, he reached for the doorknob and turned it.

His mother was lying diagonally across the bed, one arm draped across the pillows, the other across her stomach. Her mouth was wide open and frothy, white fluid was trickling between her lips and dribbling onto the sheets. As the boy watched, horrified, she coughed and turned her head to the side. Her chest was heaving and she arched her back as if she was being electrocuted. Her hands were clenching and unclenching seemingly with a life of their own. The medicine bottle lay next to her. It was empty.

The boy walked over to the side of the bed and stood looking down on his mother. She began to mumble and he bent down to listen but the sounds that were coming from her mouth didn’t make any sense. She’d knocked one of her pillows onto the floor and the boy picked it up. It was stained with sick and saliva and spotted with blood. The boy clutched the pillow to his chest and closed his eyes, promising God that he’d do anything if only He’d spare his mother. He opened his eyes. The white stuff was coming from her nose. It was the milk, the boy realised. The milk he’d given her. He climbed up onto the bed and knelt over her, tears running down his cheeks. He kissed her on the forehead, lightly, then put the pillow over her face and pressed down with all his might.

Martin was finishing a bacon sandwich when Allan walked into the kitchen. ‘Ready for the off?’ Allan asked, putting his shirt on over the top of his bullet-proof vest.

Martin nodded and washed the sandwich down with several gulps of coffee. ‘I’ll get the Merc,’ he said, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. ‘How’s he doing?’

Allan shrugged his massive shoulders. ‘He’s quiet, but he’s got a lot on his mind.’

‘It takes balls to be a sitting duck, all right.’ He picked up the car keys. ‘I’ll be outside.’

Martin took the elevator down to the ground floor and walked across the lobby. He couldn’t be bothered with the lift down to the car park and took the stairs instead. The doorman on duty in the lower foyer nodded at Martin. ‘Looks like rain,’ said the doorman. Martin recognised him as Matt Richards, another of the SAS troopers who’d been at the school.

‘Yeah, forecast said it was going to piss down.’ Martin opened the door that led to the car park stairs. His footsteps echoed off the bare concrete walls as he headed downstairs.

The Mercedes was parked at the far end of the car park in the middle of three bays that had been allocated to the Vander Mayer apartment. Before he opened the door, Martin used a small mirror to check underneath the vehicle and peered through the side windows to make sure that nothing was amiss inside. When he was satisfied that the car hadn’t been touched overnight, he opened the door electronically and slid in. His chauffeur’s hat was on the passenger seat and he put it on, then looked at himself in the same mirror he’d used to inspect the underside of the car. He stuck out his tongue at his reflection and then dropped the mirror into his pocket. ‘Hi ho, Silver, away,’ he muttered to himself and started the car. All he could hear through the costly German sound-proofing was a faint purr, and there was barely any vibration. It was a beautiful car, but it wouldn’t have been Martin’s choice, if he’d had the money. The Mercedes was a soft man’s car, built to insulate the occupants from the outside world. And it was a car designed not for driving, but to be driven in. He preferred something more aggressive, something with power, something that roared rather than purred. A Porsche, maybe, or an XJS.

He put the Mercedes in gear and slowly reversed. He didn’t see the grey car until the last minute and he hit it side on, the bumper of the Mercedes crunching into the car’s rear door. ‘Where the hell did you come from?’ he cursed, glaring at the car in his rear-view mirror. He doubted if he’d done much damage to the Mercedes, it was a much heavier car than the one he’d hit. He twisted around in his seat. The driver of the other car climbed out of the far side. Martin smiled when he saw it was a woman, and a pretty one at that.

‘Women drivers,’ sighed Martin, putting the Mercedes into neutral and applying the handbrake. He got a side view of the woman as she walked around to the passenger side of her car. She was a brunette, attractive, with an aerobics figure. Mid to late twenties, and almost certainly out of Martin’s class. She put her hands on her hips and glared at the damage, then kicked the front wheel, hard. Martin smiled at her display of petulance, completely out of character with the designer clothes and Vogue make-up. He opened the door and climbed out. ‘Not too bad, is it?’ he asked.

The girl turned to face him, smiling pleasantly. ‘Just perfect,’ she said.

It was only when Martin felt the gun press into the small of his back that he remembered it was the same car that had been behind the Mercedes when they drove into Chelsea Harbour the previous evening.

Cramer was staring out of the window when Su-ming walked into the sitting room. She was wearing a cream silk suit, the trousers loose and the jacket with a mandarin collar, and she was carrying a black leather handbag. ‘Good morning,’ she said.

‘Hi,’ said Cramer. ‘Did you finish your homework?’ She frowned, not understanding. ‘The paperwork,’ he explained. ‘Did you read it all?’

‘Ah. Yes. Eventually. Are we ready?’ She sounded curt and business-like, and Cramer wondered again if he’d imagined the stolen kiss.

Allan came in from the kitchen. ‘The car should be downstairs,’ he said. ‘Let’s go.’

They walked together to the elevator. Su-ming stayed two paces behind Cramer as if trying to distance herself from him. Allan pressed the elevator button and smiled at Cramer. ‘Sleep well?’

Cramer made a so-so gesture with his hand. He’d hardly slept at all.

Marie Hennessy wiped her hands on her skirt. They were damp with sweat and she couldn’t afford to have them slipping on the steering wheel. She smiled to herself as she realised how strange it was that her hands were so wet and yet her mouth was bone dry. She swallowed but the muscles in her throat didn’t seem to be working properly. Her hands began to tremble and she gripped the steering wheel tightly to stop the shaking. She was actually going to do it. She was going to go through with it. In a minute or two she was going to help kill the man who’d been responsible for the death of her parents. The anticipation was almost sexual. She’d waited so long for vengeance, and now Dermott Lynch was going to help her get it.

She pressed down on the accelerator, gunning the engine to make sure that the Rover didn’t stall. The engine roared, echoing off the concrete walls of the subterranean car park, and she flinched as she realised that she risked drawing attention to herself. Soon, she thought. Soon it would all be over. All she had to do was to keep her nerve and to do exactly as Dermott had told her. She stared at the entrance to the apartment block, her heart racing. A figure appeared, walking through the double doors. It was the bodyguard, the one with the square jaw and the wide shoulders. Marie put the car in gear. It was time.

The Colonel looked at his wristwatch. It was nine o’clock and according to the schedule they should just be leaving the apartment. On the windowsill stood a transceiver. It was switched on, but only static crackled from the loudspeaker. The Colonel had insisted on radio silence until the moment that the assassin made his move. One of the Colonel’s troopers came up behind him. ‘Coffee, boss?’ he said.

‘Thanks, Blackie,’ said the Colonel, taking the mug of black coffee. ‘Everything ready for New York?’

‘Kit’s all packed.’

The Colonel tapped his stick on the bare floor. ‘Tell the lads to be nice to the Yanks when we get there. No cracks about friendly fire, you know how sensitive they can be.’

The trooper grinned. ‘Sure, boss.’

The Colonel turned back to the window and sipped his steaming coffee.

It was a cold morning but Cramer was sweating in the cashmere overcoat. Su-ming was still following in his footsteps. He stopped and waited for her to catch up. ‘Are you okay?’ he asked.

She jumped as if startled. ‘What?’

‘I asked if you were okay.’

She shivered. ‘I’m fine.’

‘You looked miles away.’

‘I’m fine,’ she replied. This time there was a hard edge to her voice as if she resented his intrusion into her thoughts. ‘Where’s the car?’

Cramer looked around. She was right. The Mercedes wasn’t outside. Allan was standing on the pavement, looking around and stamping his feet impatiently. ‘Stay where you are, Mr Vander Mayer,’ he said. Cramer backed into the foyer with Su-ming. The doorman looked up, then visibly relaxed as he saw who it was. ‘Okay,’ Allan called. ‘Here he comes.’

Lynch edged the Mercedes out of its parking space. Ahead of him he saw Marie in the Rover, a slight dent in the rear door on the passenger side. White smoke plumed from its exhaust. She looked apprehensive, staring straight ahead, her hands tight on the wheel. He wanted to nod or wave, to let her know that everything was all right, but he’d told her not to look at him, because any sort of acknowledgement would tip off the bodyguard.

‘It’s going to be okay, Marie, love,’ Lynch whispered to himself. He had the peak of the chauffeur’s cap pulled low over his nose and he was wearing the chauffeur’s jacket. On the passenger seat lay the gun the chauffeur had been carrying in an underarm holster, but Lynch was planning to use the Czech 9mm he’d brought with him. The ten bullets in the clip would be more than enough, so long as Marie kept her nerve. Lynch turned the Mercedes to the right and headed towards the apartment entrance. On the pavement the bodyguard was waving to Cramer and the girl, urging them out of the foyer.

Allan swivelled around, checking the surroundings for possible threats. Most of the parking spaces were occupied by expensive cars, including several Rolls-Royces and a Ferrari. A young woman was sitting at the wheel of a Rover and was preparing to drive out of the car park. She seemed to be alone in the car. Cramer and Su-ming joined Allan on the pavement.

The Mercedes was about fifty feet away and Allan moved to the edge of the pavement, preparing to open the door for Cramer and the girl. The Rover accelerated. Allan frowned. She wasn’t heading for the exit, she was heading directly for the apartment entrance. Something was wrong.

Allan stepped between the car and Cramer, holding his left arm out to the side, ready to push Cramer back. He kept his eyes on the Rover. He half expected to see a man with a gun appear from the back seat but the young woman was definitely alone in the car. ‘Stay back,’ Allan said to Cramer. The Mercedes was still heading towards them and Allan beckoned it with his hand. If Martin put his foot down he’d get in front of the Rover and the threat would be neutralised. The Mercedes continued to crawl towards them.

‘Back in the foyer,’ said Allan, but as he spoke the Rover’s tyres squealed and the car leapt forward. Su-ming screamed. Allan reached for his gun with his right hand and pushed Cramer with his left. His fingers touched the butt of the gun, but before he could pull it out the Rover was upon him. He threw himself to the right but the wing clipped him and he heard his leg snap above the knee. The pain followed a second later as if his whole leg was on fire and he bit down on his lip to stifle a scream.

The Rover veered to the left and sped away. Allan rolled across the pavement in agony, the gun falling from his fingers. The Mercedes accelerated towards them, its engine roaring in the confines of the car park.

The Colonel blew across his coffee mug. The steam condensed on the window pane and he rubbed it away with his hand. Down on the luxury motor yacht, the trooper was washing down the decks with a bucket and sponge.

A grey-haired man in a blazer and white slacks was helping two blonde teenage girls onto a fifty-foot motor launch. The Thames was at its lowest level of the day and the channel connecting the marina to the river was empty, so the man obviously wasn’t planning to take the boat out, not for a few hours at least. The taller of the two blondes stumbled as she stepped from the dock onto the boat and the man put a hand on her backside to steady her. The Colonel supposed the man might just be the girls’ father, but there was no mistaking the predatory gleam in his eyes. They disappeared inside the boat. It was, thought the Colonel, entirely possible that the man was showing them the engine room. ‘And pigs might fly,’ he mused.

The Colonel looked over at the tower block. Vander Mayer’s apartment was almost at the top of the tower. The sun was reflected off the windows so the Colonel couldn’t see inside. He shaded his eyes with his right hand but it didn’t make any difference.

Behind him, his fax machine rang, three times, and then it hummed as a fax began to come through. Down in the marina, the motor yacht began to rock gently. The Colonel shook his head in amazement, then he realised that it made sense. Eyebrows might be raised if an elderly man booked into a hotel with two young girls, so a luxury boat moored close to the city centre made a perfect venue for illicit assignations, providing you had the money. The Colonel wondered how much the boat had cost. A hundred thousand pounds? Maybe more.

The first sheet fell out of the machine. It was a memo from Dan Greenberg saying that he was faxing the notes on the killer they’d spoken about. His name was Anton Madeley, and he’d been held in Marrion Prison for the past nine years, mostly in solitary confinement. The Colonel stood by the machine as the second sheet began to spew out.

It was halfway out of the machine when the transceiver crackled. It was Richards, the young trooper who was sitting in the foyer by the car park. ‘Allan’s been hit,’ said Richards. ‘Allan’s been hit in the car park.’

The Colonel dropped his mug as he turned and grabbed the transceiver. He pressed the transmit button. ‘Move in!’ he yelled. ‘Everybody move in now!’

Cramer and Su-ming dashed over to Allan. He was lying on the pavement like a broken marionette, his right leg sticking out at an awkward angle, blood pouring from the knee. ‘Get back!’ Allan shouted. ‘Get the fuck out of here!’

‘It’s okay, she’s gone,’ said Cramer. As Su-ming examined the damage to Allan’s leg, the Mercedes pulled up in front of them. Cramer looked up, expecting to see Martin at the wheel. He did a double-take as he realised that the man in the chauffeur’s cap wasn’t Martin.

Allan reached along the pavement for his gun. The man in the Mercedes threw open the car door and fired twice at Allan. The first shot screamed off the pavement inches from his hand, the second hit him in the right shoulder, close to the neck. Cramer got to his feet, pushing Su-ming behind him. Allan lay on the floor, gasping for breath as blood gushed around his shoulders.

The man in the chauffeur’s cap pointed his gun at Cramer’s face. ‘No!’ screamed Su-ming from behind Cramer.

Matt Richards didn’t hear the Rover accelerate but he heard the thud as it hit Allan. He yelled into his transceiver as he pulled his Heckler amp; Koch MP5 submachine gun from under his seat, then leapt over the counter. He almost slipped on the marble foyer but quickly regained his balance as he brought his weapon up into the firing position. He ran towards the double doors, slipping his finger onto the trigger. On the pavement outside he saw Cramer and the girl standing in front of Martin, while Allan lay on the ground, blood pooling around his neck. The car that had hit Allan was screeching away, towards the exit. For a second Richards was confused; he couldn’t understand why Cramer and Martin weren’t firing after the car. Then realisation hit him like a shower of freezing water — it wasn’t Martin wearing the chauffeur’s cap, and whoever it was he was holding a gun on Cramer.

The double doors hissed open as Richards got within three paces of the electronic sensor. He saw the man with the gun look over Cramer’s shoulder. The man’s eyes opened wide with surprise as he spotted Richards. Richards stepped to the side, trying to get a clear shot but Cramer and the girl were in the way. ‘Down! Down! Down!’ Richards screamed, the staccato commands piercing the air like bullets.

Lynch had no idea who the doorman was or why he had a high-powered automatic weapon in his hands, but he knew that he was in big trouble. What had started as a straightforward hit was escalating into a full-scale war. He aimed the gun at Cramer’s face and tightened his finger on the trigger, but as he did so the doorman began to scream for Cramer to get down and Lynch knew that if he didn’t react immediately he was going to die there and then on the pavement.

Lynch swung his pistol to the left and fired at the doorman. The bullet whizzed past Cramer’s face, missing him by inches. The first shot hit the doorman square in the chest and it knocked him back, but Lynch could see that there was no blood. The man’s face was contorted with pain but he kept hold of his weapon. Lynch realised he must be wearing a bullet-proof vest under his charcoal grey uniform.

Cramer dived to the side, pushing the girl out of the way. Lynch ignored them. He fired two shots at the doorman in quick succession. The first hit the upper part of the man’s chest and from the dull thud it made Lynch could tell that it had hit the reinforced vest. There was no mistaking where the third bullet went. It hit the doorman in the throat, snapping the man’s head back. Blood poured down the man’s chest and his weapon clattered to the floor. Cramer and the girl were down on the pavement. Cramer was on top of her, shielding her with his body as he reached inside his coat. Lynch grinned and brought his aim to bear on Cramer’s face. He grinned. He had five shots left. More than enough.

Marie Hennessy hit the brakes. She looked over her shoulder, wondering why Lynch was still standing in front of the apartment entrance. His instructions had been crystal clear. She was to take out the bodyguard with the car, Lynch was to pull up in the Mercedes, shoot Cramer, and then run to the Rover. They’d used the street map to work out the quickest way to Fulham Broadway Station, where they would abandon the car and disappear into the Underground system.

Marie had done her bit, she’d hit the guy hard, though it appeared that she hadn’t hit him hard enough because she’d kept one eye on the rear-view mirror and had seen Lynch shoot him twice as he lay on the ground. There had been three more shots, but when she turned around she could see Lynch still standing there with his gun aimed at Cramer. Cramer didn’t appear to be dead, he was lying on top of the Oriental girl and staring up at Lynch. Cramer’s hand was inside his coat but it seemed to be frozen there. ‘Come on, Dermott,’ Marie hissed. ‘Come on.’

Cramer glared up at the man with the gun, his teeth bared like a cornered dog. His fingers were touching the butt of his Walther PPK but he knew it would be futile to pull out the weapon. He slowly withdrew his hand, his eyes fixed on his attacker. Why hadn’t the man fired? It didn’t make any sense. All he had to do was pull the trigger and it would all be over. He felt Su-ming struggle and he rolled off her. The barrel of the gun followed him like an accusing finger. In the distance he heard the Rover’s horn blare. The man ignored it. There was hatred in the man’s eyes, a burning contempt that suggested he was going to enjoy killing Cramer. A small part of Cramer was surprised by the man’s emotional intensity, because everything he’d read about the assassin suggested that he was a stone cold killer, a consummate professional.

Su-ming crawled away until her back was against the wall, her eyes wide with fear. ‘Don’t,’ she whispered, her hands covering her face. ‘Please don’t.’ Cramer wondered if she was pleading for her own life or for his, he had no way of telling which. Whatever, Cramer himself had no intention of begging for mercy.

‘Do it,’ Cramer growled.

‘No!’ shouted Su-ming.

Cramer rolled over, putting more distance between himself and Su-ming. He looked into the barrel of the gun. He imagined he could see the bullet there, the bullet that would shortly smash through his skull and blow his brains across the concrete. The cold, clinical part of his mind hoped that the blood wouldn’t spray across Su-ming’s silk suit. He forced himself to look away from the gun and into the eyes of the man who was about to end his life.

‘Do it!’ Cramer hissed. He pushed himself up off the ground and sat back on his heels. He glared at the man with the gun.

The man smiled cruelly. Cramer imagined he could see the knuckle of his trigger finger whiten as he increased the pressure. Cramer had an unexpected feeling of well-being, and he realised that he really wasn’t scared of death, that there were worse things than a shot to the head, and that the man with the gun was actually doing him a favour. Cramer smiled.

The man with the gun seemed confused, as if a smile was the last thing he expected to see on the face of his victim. Then the confusion vanished, leaving only hatred in his eyes. ‘This is for. .’ the man began, and then his face exploded outward in a mass of pink brain tissue and splinters of white bone. The bloody fragments splattered across Cramer, blinding him. He didn’t see the second shot or the third, but when he wiped the blood from his eyes he saw the man with the gun pitch forward and slam into the ground.

Allan had levered himself up on one elbow. His gun was in his left hand, shaking from the effort of shooting the man. The Glock tumbled from Allan’s hand as he fell back onto the pavement.

Marie Hennessy screamed as she saw Lynch pitch forward, blood streaming from his face. She threw the Rover into gear and stamped on the accelerator. She had no doubt that Lynch was dead; there had been hardly anything left of his face.

The barrier at the exit to the car park was down but Marie didn’t hesitate. The Rover crashed through the pole, which collapsed in a shriek of tearing metal. The steering wheel bucked and twisted as if it had a life of its own and Marie fought to control it. She wrenched it to the right and the rear wheels skidded on the tarmac. A black taxi with its hire light on was heading down the road towards her and she narrowly missed colliding with it. The Rover banged against the kerb and a hubcap was ripped off in a shower of sparks but Marie regained control and sped off down the road.

The white walls of an apartment block went by in a blur. She risked a quick look in her driving mirror and smiled grimly as she saw that there was no one following her. As her eyes flicked back to the road ahead of her, she noticed a man in a white turtleneck sweater and jeans standing by the roadside, a large automatic held in both hands. She saw the gun kick up and instantly her side window shattered. A piece of glass sliced through her cheek but she scarcely felt the pain. As she passed the man he fired again, and she heard a dull metallic thud as the bullet buried itself in the rear wing of the Rover.

Marie was hit by a wave of elation as she realised that she’d got away. The road ahead was deserted, if she could just make it to the tube station she’d be free and clear. She pressed the accelerator to the floor, but suddenly she heard another shot and then the car juddered and veered to the left. The steering wheel twisted out of her hands and the car hit the kerb. Marie realised with clinical detachment that the man in the sweater had hit one of her tyres. The Rover slammed into a street lamp and then began to skid sideways. The car tipped up and Marie’s head banged against the back of her seat, hard enough to stun her. She closed her eyes and almost passed out. Her stomach heaved as the car rolled and the top of her head slammed against the roof. The windows exploded and she was showered with broken glass and then she was thrown forward against the steering wheel, so hard that the breath was forced from her body. The car came to a halt, upside down, rocking from side to side. Marie could taste blood in her mouth and she realised she’d bitten her tongue. She coughed and spat to clear her throat, then gingerly moved her arms and legs. She was all right. She wasn’t even really hurt. She felt light-headed and giggled despite herself. She’d been shot at, she’d survived a car crash, it was as if the fates had decreed that she should emerge from the debacle relatively unscathed. She reached for the door handle and tried to open the door. It was jammed, the frame had been distorted by the crash. Marie wriggled around and managed to get hold of one of her shoes. She used it to smash away the remaining pieces of glass. All she had to do was to crawl out then she’d be able to run to the tube. She was going to be okay. That was when she smelled the petrol seeping out of the ruptured tank. There was a loud whooshing sound as the petrol ignited and Marie Hennessy began to scream as she realised just what a cruel sense of humour the fates truly had.

Cramer crawled over to Allan. Blood was oozing from the wound in his shoulder but it didn’t look fatal. He took off his overcoat, rolled it up and stuck it under Allan’s head. ‘Thanks, Mum,’ said Allan, his eyes still closed. For a wild moment Cramer thought Allan was delirious but then he opened his eyes and grinned up at him. ‘I got him, huh?’ asked Allan.

‘And some,’ said Cramer. ‘It’s his blood I’m wearing all over my face.’

‘Su-ming?’

‘She’s okay. Now lie still and shut up.’

‘Okay, but tell me one thing first.’

‘What?’

‘What happened to all our fucking training, Mike? You stood there like a rabbit caught in headlights.’

Cramer felt his cheeks redden. ‘I’m sorry.’

‘You froze.’

‘Yeah. I froze. I’m sorry.’

Su-ming came up behind Cramer. She took off her shirt and gave it to him. ‘Use this,’ she said.

Cramer used the silk shirt to stem the bleeding from Allan’s shoulder. It looked as if the bullet had gone straight through. ‘Can you move your fingers?’ Cramer asked. He watched Allan wiggle the fingers of his right hand. At least the nerves weren’t damaged.

‘Do you think I’ll be able to play the piano again?’ Allan asked. Cramer couldn’t help smiling.

‘Will he be all right?’ Su-ming asked.

‘He’ll be fine.’

‘Now it’s over?’

Cramer looked at the body of the killer, sprawled on the ground, the head surrounded by a halo of congealing blood. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘It’s over.’ As he said the words he was aware of a nagging doubt at the back of his mind.

Cramer took off his tie and threw it onto a chair. He stared out through the picture window at the sprawling city. Six million people, give or take. He wondered how many would ever be aware of what had happened in the underground car park. Half a dozen, maybe. It wasn’t the sort of operation that would be trumpeted to the press. The bodies would be taken away; the trooper buried in Hereford with the minimum of fuss, his name added to the plaque on the regimental chapel wall where the SAS remembered those who had died on active service; the assassin probably cremated with no memorial to mark his passing. There would be no inquest, no investigation, no publicity. It would be as if it had never happened.

The Walther was still in its holster but Cramer was reluctant to take it out. Removing the gun would signify that the operation was over, and that was something that Cramer wasn’t yet prepared to deal with. It had all happened so quickly that he hadn’t had time to think about the future. His future.

He rubbed his stomach. The pain was pretty much constant, though occasionally it felt as if a knife was being twisted deep inside, a reminder that he shouldn’t be complacent, that there was worse to come. While he was being trained, and while he was waiting for the assassin to make his move, Cramer had managed to blot the pain out of his mind, but now it was over it had returned with a vengeance.

He realised that Su-ming wasn’t in the room with him. He went in search of her and found her in Vander Mayer’s study, standing by the desk. She looked up as he walked towards her. ‘Cramer. .’ she said, her voice trembling.

She was shaking as if she had a fever and there were tears in her eyes. Cramer stepped forward and held her tightly, pressing her against himself as if his life depended on it. Her small hands slipped around his waist as she buried her face in his chest. Cramer stroked her black, silky hair with his right hand as she sobbed. ‘Hey, it’s all right,’ he soothed.

He caught sight of his reflection in the mirrored wall. Su-ming looked like a child next to him and he suddenly felt big and clumsy. Cramer saw that he still had the killer’s blood on his face. He looked like he’d just walked away from a traffic accident; there were black circles under his eyes, his hair was in disarray and there was an unhealthy pallor to his skin. He hadn’t realised until then how sick he looked. She squeezed him but there was hardly any strength in the movement and she continued to cry softly. Cramer wondered if it was the first time she’d seen anyone killed. Flying first-class around the world with an international arms-dealer was one thing, seeing the effects of the tools of the trade close-up was a different matter all together.

The doorbell rang. He tried to untangle her arms from around his waist but she tightened her grip and wouldn’t let him go. The doorbell rang again. ‘I have to get it,’ said Cramer. Su-ming reluctantly released him and Cramer went back to the sitting room to answer the door.

It was the Colonel. ‘Are you okay?’ he asked.

Cramer nodded. ‘How’s Allan?’

‘The paramedics said he’ll be okay. Allan keeps insisting that it’s just a flesh wound, but he’d say that if his arm had been blown off. You know what he’s like.’

‘Yeah. He saved my life.’

‘He did his job. You both did, Joker. You should be proud of yourself.’

‘I fucked up,’ said Cramer. ‘I fucked up big time.’

‘We got the guy, and that’s what counts.’

‘I froze. I pushed Su-ming out of the way, then I froze. I did everything wrong.’

The Colonel tapped his walking stick on the wooden floor. ‘Stop playing the martyr, will you? We took out a professional killer, the best in the business. And we did it with the minimum of casualties. No one’s blaming you, Joker. No one. How is Su-ming?’

‘She’s in shock,’ Cramer answered.

‘The doctor’s on his way. He’ll give her something.’

Cramer nodded, but he wasn’t convinced that it was tablets that Su-ming needed. ‘What about Martin?’ he asked.

The Colonel grinned. ‘Just a bump on the head. He was in the boot of the Mercedes, bound and gagged. He’s embarrassed more than anything.’

‘He’s lucky they didn’t kill him.’

‘There was no need. Vander Mayer was the target, and Martin wasn’t a threat. Allan was.’

Cramer rubbed his forehead with the palm of his hand. He was sweating. ‘That’s what I can’t figure out,’ he said. ‘Why did he hesitate?’

‘What do you mean?’ asked the Colonel.

‘He had the drop on me, Colonel. He had me bang to rights. But he waited.’

‘It was bedlam, Joker. He was in the middle of a firefight. Richards was there, Allan had his gun out, it wasn’t going the way he’d planned.’

‘Yeah, but he’s always been such a pro in the past. Nothing’s fazed him before.’

‘No one had set him up before.’ The Colonel put a reassuring hand on Cramer’s shoulder. ‘You’re worrying too much.’

‘Post-traumatic stress syndrome?’ said Cramer, sarcastically. ‘I don’t think so. Been there, done that. This is different. Something’s not right. He was trying to say something. Before he pulled the trigger, he wanted to tell me something.’

The Colonel squeezed Cramer’s shoulder. ‘Forget it. You’re worrying about nothing. You did a good job, Joker. A hell of a job.’

‘Thanks, Colonel.’ Cramer shook his head as if trying to clear his thoughts. ‘What happens now?’

‘I’m winding down the operation here. We’ll run the killer’s prints through the Fingerprint Bureau and we should have an ID by tonight.’

‘I meant, what happens to me?’

There was an uncomfortable silence as the Colonel considered Cramer’s question. ‘What do you want to do?’ asked the Colonel eventually.

‘I don’t know. I really don’t know.’

‘Why don’t you sleep on it. We’ll talk about it tomorrow.’

‘It’s not as if I have many options, is it?’

‘We’ll talk about it tomorrow,’ the Colonel repeated firmly. ‘Okay?’

Cramer nodded. He showed the Colonel out and then went back to the study. Su-ming didn’t appear to have moved. He put his arms around her. She’d stopped trembling, now she was as stiff as a tailor’s dummy. They stood together in silence, looking out of the window.

It was Su-ming who broke away first. ‘I have to call Mr Vander Mayer,’ she said.

‘Sure. He’ll be glad to hear that he’s in the clear.’

Su-ming picked up the phone and looked at Cramer. The message in her eyes was obvious. She wanted to make the call in private.

Cramer shrugged and walked disconsolately back to the sitting room. He stared out of the window, deep in thought. A few minutes later she reappeared carrying a mobile telephone. ‘He wants to speak with you,’ she said, holding it out.

There was static on the line and a short satellite delay. ‘Mike? Congratulations. First class.’

‘Thanks,’ said Cramer. He didn’t think that two men in hospital and a dead SAS trooper was something to be congratulated on. And he was still embarrassed about his own performance, or lack of it.

‘Mike, listen. Remember the conversation we had before? About the Russian consignment?’

‘Yes. I remember.’

‘Well I want you to stay with it until I get there.’

‘It’s in your safe,’ said Cramer. ‘It’s not going anywhere.’

‘I’d feel a lot happier if you’d keep an eye on it,’ said Vander Mayer. ‘The fee we spoke of, it’s still available. A quarter of a million dollars.’

Cramer looked at Su-ming. She was pacing up and down in front of the window. ‘Where are you now?’ he asked.

‘I can be there in eight hours. Nine, max.’

Cramer nodded slowly. ‘Okay. I’ll be here.’

‘Great, Mike. Great. Now put Su-ming back on will you?’

Cramer handed the phone back to Su-ming. She pressed it to her ear and walked back along the corridor to the study, her shoes making no sound on the polished wooden floor. As she left the sitting room she whispered into the receiver but Cramer couldn’t hear what she was saying.

The Colonel picked up the phone and tapped out Dan Greenberg’s private number. The FBI agent answered on the second ring. The Colonel gave him a quick rundown on the situation but Greenberg interrupted him before he could finish. ‘Hot damn, good job,’ said Greenberg. The Colonel heard him shout over to his co-workers that the Brits had got their man. ‘You guys deserve a medal,’ said Greenberg. ‘And you saved us the cost of a trial, huh?’

‘That wasn’t intentional, Dan,’ said the Colonel archly. ‘He was about to kill our man.’

‘Same MO as the previous killings?’

‘He was close in and going for a head-shot,’ said the Colonel. ‘He wasn’t working alone, though. He had a woman with him. She’s dead, too.’

‘It won’t be the first time he’s had help,’ said Greenberg. ‘Any idea who she is?’

‘No, and it’s unlikely we’ll ever know. Her car went up in flames. We’ll run a check on her dental work, but we don’t even know where she’s from. We’ll have more luck with the killer. His face was shot up but we’re running his prints through our records now. I’m sending copies to you.’

‘If he’s on file, we’ll match them,’ said Greenberg. ‘And thanks, Colonel, I owe you one.’

The Colonel replaced the receiver. ‘Yes, Dan,’ he said to himself. ‘You certainly do.’

The doorbell rang. Su-ming was still in Vander Mayer’s study so Cramer lifted himself off the sofa, grunting with pain as his stomach muscles tightened. He opened the door to find the doctor whom he’d last seen at the school in Wales. Dr Greene looked at Cramer over the top of his gold-framed bifocal spectacles. ‘Sergeant Cramer, you can’t believe how pleased I am to see you in one piece,’ he said.

Cramer stepped aside to let the doctor in. He was wearing the same brown cardigan with leather elbow patches that he’d had on in Wales. Cramer wondered if it was some sort of uniform the man wore to put his patients at ease.

The doctor put his black leather medical bag down on one of the marble coffee tables then turned to face Cramer. ‘How have you been?’ Dr Greene asked.

Cramer was going to say something sarcastic, but he restrained himself. He knew that the doctor was sincere and only trying to help. ‘Worse,’ said Cramer. ‘Much worse.’

The doctor nodded sympathetically. ‘What about your motions?’

Cramer smiled grimly. ‘Motions?’ he repeated.

‘You know what I mean,’ Dr Greene said. ‘How are you in the toilet department?’

‘It’s painful,’ said Cramer. ‘And bloody.’

‘Constant pain?’

‘Constant dull pain, like a toothache. Then bolts of pain that come and go.’

‘Getting worse?’

Cramer paused. He hated showing weakness but he realised there was no point in papering over the cracks. He was sick, and he needed help. He nodded. ‘Much worse.’

The doctor bent over his bag. He clicked it open and took out a bottle of capsules. He held them out to Cramer. ‘Take as many of these as you need to kill the pain,’ he said. ‘But no more than eight in one day. They’re stronger than the others I gave you.’

Cramer took the bottle. There was no label. He wondered whether the doctor’s instructions were a subtle way of telling him how many he’d need to take if he decided to end it all. ‘Thanks,’ he said.

Dr Greene looked at him gravely. ‘They’ll only do the job temporarily,’ he said. ‘A week, maybe a little longer. Then I’ll have to give you something stronger, something in liquid form. I’ll come and see you next week and we’ll see how you’re getting on.’

Cramer put the tablets in his jacket pocket. He wanted to swallow a couple there and then, but that would have been too much of an admission of what a bad state he was in. He forced a smile. ‘Hopefully it won’t be necessary,’ he said.

The doctor looked at Cramer. He nodded as if he understood. ‘I wish there was something else I could do,’ he said.

‘You and me both, Doc, but I’m not complaining.’

Dr Greene clicked his bag shut and picked it up. ‘I’m told that the girl might need my attention. What’s her name, Sue something or other?’

‘Su-ming,’ said Cramer. ‘I think she’s okay now.’

The doctor raised an eyebrow. ‘I think I should be the judge of that,’ he said.

Cramer nodded wearily. ‘She’s in the study. Down the corridor, on the right.’ He waited until the doctor had left the sitting room before taking the bottle out of his pocket. He swallowed two of the capsules dry, almost choking on the second one. He sat down on the sofa facing the balcony and poured the capsules out of the bottle and into the palm of his hand. There were thirty-six. More than enough, said a small voice in the back of his mind. He tipped the capsules into the bottle and screwed the cap back on.

Dr Greene came back into the room. ‘She seems to have calmed down,’ he told Cramer.

‘Have you prescribed her anything?’

The doctor shook his head. ‘The best thing for her is a cup of hot, sweet tea. And someone to talk to.’

‘I’ll take care of her,’ said Cramer. He stood up and showed the doctor to the door.

On the threshold the doctor turned to face him. He put a hand on Cramer’s shoulder. ‘I hope I see you again,’ he said.

Cramer looked at him levelly. ‘Don’t count on it, Doc,’ he said quietly.

The doctor held Cramer’s look for several seconds. It seemed to Cramer that he was struggling to find the right words to say but before he could speak Cramer shut the door. He went back to the sofa and sat down. The bottle of tablets was on the coffee table and he picked it up and shook it. Eight, the doctor had said. Cramer figured sixteen would be better, to make absolutely sure. He began to unscrew the cap from the bottle, but suddenly stopped. He felt ashamed of what he was doing. There was no honour in swallowing tablets, it was a coward’s way out. Embezzling accountants or wronged wives took tablets. Soldiers didn’t. Soldiers fought like men and died like men.

He took the Walther PPK out of his shoulder holster, ejected the clip and checked that it was fully loaded — an unnecessary precaution because he hadn’t used it since he’d left Wales. He smiled to himself as he remembered a joke he’d heard while on a surveillance mission in the Falklands, lying in a trench overlooking Goose Green for three days, drinking rainwater and shitting into a plastic bag. The joke involved the Argentinians playing Russian roulette with an automatic, and at the time Cramer had thought it was the funniest thing he’d ever heard. Now, with a loaded automatic in his hand, it didn’t seem so amusing. He slotted the clip back into the weapon and flicked off the safety. His throat was dry, but it was going to be easier to swallow the barrel of the gun than it would have been to swallow the capsules.

Cramer took a deep breath. The dull ache in his stomach had begun to ease. He wondered if it was the medicine starting to weaken it or if the fear of what he was about to do was stimulating his body’s own natural painkillers. Whatever, in a few seconds he wouldn’t be feeling any pain. He took several deep breaths, then slowly brought the gun up so that the barrel was touching the tip of his nose. He could smell the lubricating oil that he’d used the last time he’d cleaned it. He licked his lips. They were as dry as his throat. He closed his eyes as if in prayer, but Mike Cramer had long since stopped believing in God or any higher power. It wasn’t heaven he was planning to visit, just a dark empty place where there would be no pain and no regrets. All it would take was to put the barrel in his mouth and pull the trigger. He’d fired the gun a thousand times on the range in the school, with Allan shouting encouragement. He could pull the trigger one last time. He pictured Allan standing behind him. Point. Aim. Take a breath. Let half of it out. Squeeze, don’t jerk. He imagined Allan’s voice, calm and confident. Cramer slipped the barrel between his lips. He almost gagged on the metal cylinder as his thumb tightened on the trigger. He took a deep breath. Slowly he began to exhale.

‘Cramer?’ Su-ming’s voice pierced his thoughts like a lance. He opened his eyes. Before he could react she had put her hands over his and pulled the gun away from his face. ‘What the hell are you doing?’

‘What does it look like?’

‘How dare you?’ she said angrily. She twisted the gun out of his grasp. He was much stronger than she was but she took him by surprise. ‘How dare you do this?’ She stood in front of him, her eyes flashing.

Cramer was genuinely confused. ‘What do you mean?’

She held the gun in front of his face. ‘You’d do this, with me here? How do you think I’d feel? You’d kill yourself with me in the next room? Just what was I expected to do, Mike Cramer? Wait for the ambulance to come? Have you die in my arms?’

‘Hey. .’

She shook her head. ‘Don’t hey me, don’t you dare hey me.’ She slammed the Walther down on the coffee table.

‘Jesus, Su-ming, be careful,’ said Cramer. ‘It could go off.’

She glared at him and Cramer couldn’t help but smile. ‘Don’t laugh at me,’ she said. ‘This isn’t funny.’

He held up his hands in surrender. ‘I’m not laughing at you,’ he said. ‘It’s just ironic, that’s all. There was I going to. . you know. . and now I’m worried that it might go off accidentally.’

‘English humour?’ she said dismissively. ‘Well, I don’t think there’s anything funny about trying to kill yourself.’

Cramer sat back in the sofa and looked away. She picked up the bottle of capsules. ‘What are these?’ she asked.

‘Painkillers,’ he said.

She frowned and sat down on the sofa next to him. She put a hand on his leg, her touch as soft as a child’s kiss. ‘How sick are you?’ she asked.

‘Very,’ he said. He finally turned to look at her. ‘Why else do you think I’d. .?’ He left the sentence unfinished.

‘I didn’t know,’ she said. ‘I didn’t realise.’

‘I thought you were psychic,’ said Cramer, unable to keep the bitterness out of his voice.

‘I have feelings, that’s all. But I always found it difficult to read you, Cramer.’

‘Yeah? Why’s that?’

Su-ming lowered her eyes. ‘I was confused,’ she said.

‘Well, now you know,’ he said. He looked across at her. Her hair had fallen across her face like a black veil. ‘What do you mean, confused?’

‘Nothing,’ she said.

Cramer snorted softly. ‘Not that it matters now.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I’m dying, Su-ming. I’m not going to get better, there’s nothing anyone can do. I’m going to die and I’m going to die in a great deal of pain.’

‘Isn’t there. .?’

‘There’s nothing,’ he interrupted sharply. ‘There’s no miracle cure, no operation, no nothing.’

Su-ming held up the bottle of capsules. ‘Don’t these help?’

‘A bit. But they’re not a cure, they just dull the pain. They’re only temporary. Su-ming, I really don’t want to talk about this. Just go. Leave me alone.’

‘So you can kill yourself?’

Cramer shrugged half-heartedly. ‘Don’t make this harder than it is.’ She pushed her hair behind her ears. There were tears in her eyes but she blinked them away as if she didn’t want him to see her cry. ‘Remember when you gave me the I Ching reading?’ he asked.

‘Of course.’

‘I had to ask a question, remember?’ Su-ming nodded. ‘And you remember the answer?’

‘An end to sadness,’ she said softly.

‘That’s right. An end to sadness. And I had to bring about that end myself. That’s what the I Ching said. The change must come from within. That was the answer to my question.’

‘And what was the question, Cramer?’

Cramer rubbed his hands together as if trying to keep warm. ‘I wanted to know how I’d die,’ he said, his voice a hoarse whisper.

Su-ming said nothing for a few seconds, then she impulsively put her arms around him and held him close. He felt something soft brush against his cheek and he realised that she’d kissed him.

The Colonel sat down at his desk as two troopers carried large cardboard boxes out of the apartment. The telephones and fax machines were still in place. The Colonel had hoped to receive confirmation of the assassin’s identity before leaving for Hereford, but it appeared that it wasn’t going to happen. He thought about calling Dan Greenberg to see if the Bureau had managed to obtain a match through their files, but decided against it. He was sure that Greenberg would notify him if he’d come up with an identification.

A sheaf of fax paper lay in the tray connected to the fax machine. It was the information that Greenberg had been sending through when the assassin had struck. The Colonel hadn’t had time to look through the faxes. He picked them up and was about to run them through a shredding machine when he had second thoughts. He flicked through the sheets. There were more than twenty sheets of close-typed reports, most of them from FBI files. The Colonel settled back in his high-backed chair and started to read. Anton Madeley was a nasty piece of work, and if he hadn’t been locked up in Marion Prison he could well have been a suspect in the recent killings. Marion Prison was a super-maximum security facility built by the US Federal Bureau of Prisons to replace Alcatraz, surrounded by a thirty-foot-high fence and bullet-proof watchtowers. Only the worst of the worst ended up there, and all of them were kept in virtually permanent solitary confinement. According to the psychiatric reports compiled before Madeley was sentenced, he had psychopathic tendencies but was well aware of what he had been doing. He’d tortured more than a dozen men and women, then killed them. There was no sexual motive, the psychiatrists reported, it appeared that Madeley was more interested in causing pain. And once he’d had his fill of torturing his victims, his method of killing them was always the same: two shots with a handgun, one shot to the face, one to the heart.

The Colonel scratched his chin. According to the psychiatric reports, Madeley believed that shooting his victims in the head trapped their soul, extending their misery into eternity. The man was obviously demented, but the psychiatrists insisted he was sane and should be sentenced as such. The Colonel wondered if Madeley had a relative who had decided to carry on his legacy. He flicked through the sheets and came to a sheet of biographical data. Madeley was fifty-two years old, had never married and had no known children. He was an only child, his mother had died when he was twelve and his father had abused him, physically and mentally. Madeley was taken into care and spent four years with foster parents, parents who Madeley claimed abused him as much as his father ever did. There appeared to be no one who was close to Madeley, so the Colonel discounted his theory that it was a family member whom Allan had killed in the car park. Madeley had left the foster home when he was sixteen and spent the rest of his life in and out of prisons, initially for stealing cars and graduating swiftly to mail order fraud. He had no known friends or associates, he was a true loner.

The file included summarised reports by FBI profilers from Quantico who had visited Madeley in Marion Prison, though he appeared to be unhelpful and uncommunicative. The last two sheets detailed all the visitors Madeley had received during his time in imprisonment. The Colonel ran his finger down the list. There were no family members, no friends; every name was a law enforcement officer, legal representative or psychiatrist. Bernard Jackman’s name appeared on the second sheet, initially visiting Madeley once a month, but then with increasing frequency, until at one point he met with the serial killer each day for a week. Jackman’s name was absent from the final section of the list, his place appeared to have been taken by another profiler. The Colonel realised it was because at that stage Jackman had left the Bureau to set up on his own.

One of the troopers came back into the apartment. ‘We’re all clear, boss,’ he said.

‘Okay, Blackie. You can pack up the communications equipment.’ He fed the sheets of fax paper through the shredder by the side of the desk. ‘The shredder can go, too,’ he added.

The doorbell jarred Cramer awake. He was disorientated for a few seconds until he realised he was lying on a sofa, his face buried in the soft black leather. He rolled over. The sky had darkened outside and several stars twinkled among the clouds. He couldn’t remember falling asleep. As he sat up he felt nauseous and he wondered if it was a side- effect of the painkillers. The doorbell rang again. Su-ming walked along the corridor and into the sitting room. ‘I’ll get it,’ she said.

‘Yeah, I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I fell asleep.’ Cramer realised that there was a blanket over his legs.

‘I know,’ she said, smiling. She’d changed into blue jeans and a white silk shirt and she looked fresh and clean as if she’d just had a shower.

Cramer could taste something bitter at the back of his throat. He swallowed and grimaced. As he looked around he realised that the bottle of capsules and the Walther PPK were no longer on the coffee table. Su-ming must have moved them while he was asleep. He rubbed his face with his hands. When he took his hands away, Su-ming had the door open. A man walked into the room carrying a slim leather briefcase. He was in his mid to late forties, a dapper little man who couldn’t have been much more then five feet eight tall. His hair was slicked back and he had the sleek, well-fed look of a man who lived off expense accounts. ‘This is Mr Vander Mayer,’ said Su-ming as she closed the door.

Vander Mayer strode across the floor, his arm outstretched like a used-car salesman greeting a prospective customer. ‘Mike, good to see you at last,’ said Vander Mayer.

Cramer got to his feet unsteadily, still disorientated. Vander Mayer seized his hand and pumped it enthusiastically. Cramer recognised the man’s voice, but his appearance was a surprise. Vander Mayer was immaculately dressed in what was clearly an expensive made-to-measure suit and a gold Rolex glinted from under the sleeve of a starched white shirt cuff as he shook hands, but Cramer had expected a much bigger man. While Vander Mayer’s voice was deep and authoritative, the man himself was unimposing. If anything he appeared to be slightly shifty with sharpish features that made Cramer think of a small bird.

‘I would have been here earlier but the traffic was a bitch,’ said Vander Mayer. ‘I’ve been pushing them to get a helicopter pad installed, but the neighbours won’t have it.’

‘Shame,’ said Cramer.

Vander Mayer released his grip on Cramer’s hand and put his briefcase on a low sideboard. Cramer’s gun was there, along with the painkillers. Vander Mayer raised an eyebrow at the weapon. ‘Walther PPK,’ he said. ‘I thought the SAS used Glocks?’

‘I’m ex-SAS,’ said Cramer.

Vander Mayer nodded. ‘Even so, it’s not one of my favourite guns. May I?’ He gestured at the pistol.

‘Sure,’ said Cramer.

Vander Mayer picked up the Walther, ejected the clip and quickly and efficiently stripped the gun, then reassembled it just as quickly. Cramer had the feeling that he was only doing it to show off his familiarity with the weapon. Vander Mayer gave the gun to Cramer and without thinking Cramer slipped it back into the shoulder holster under his jacket. He saw Su-ming look at him anxiously, but before she could say anything Vander Mayer went over to her and put his arm around her shoulders. ‘How are you, baby?’ he asked.

‘Great,’ she said. She turned up her head and kissed him, close to the lips. Cramer felt a sudden pull inside and realised with a jolt that he was jealous. He turned away, unwilling to watch any more, suspecting that Vander Mayer’s demonstrations of affection were as contrived as his manoeuvre with the Walther.

‘Miss me?’ Vander Mayer asked.

‘Yes,’ Su-ming said quietly.

Vander Mayer nodded as if satisfied. He turned back to Cramer. ‘So, Mike, have you got the consignment?’

‘It’s in the safe,’ said Su-ming before Cramer could answer. ‘I’ll get it.’

As Su-ming left the room, Vander Mayer went over to the picture window and looked out. ‘I never tire of this view,’ he said.

‘Yeah,’ said Cramer unenthusiastically.

‘Best view in London.’

Cramer didn’t say anything.

‘Where are you from, Mike?’

‘Glasgow.’

‘Yeah? Scotch, huh?’

‘Scottish,’ corrected Cramer. ‘Scotch is the drink.’

‘You don’t sound Scottish,’ said Vander Mayer. He clasped his hands behind his back and squared his shoulders.

‘Yeah, well I left when I was young.’

‘To join the army?’

‘Pretty much, yeah.’ Cramer didn’t enjoy talking to the man. He wasn’t sure if it was because he hated answering questions about his background, or if it was a reaction to the way Vander Mayer had treated Su-ming. There had been something proprietorial in his attitude, as if she was merely an adjunct to the car, the flat, the jets.

‘Well, you won’t have to work again, not after the money I’m giving you.’

Cramer smiled bitterly. ‘Yeah. Early retirement.’

Su-ming came back into the sitting room with the metal case. She handed it to Vander Mayer, who acknowledged her with a smile.

‘What are you going to do with it?’ Cramer asked.

Vander Mayer sat down in one of the leather and chrome easy chairs and swung the case up onto his knees. ‘That depends,’ he said, clicking open the locks.

‘On what?’

‘First I get my people to test it. And if it’s what I’m told it is, I’ll be buying as much of it as I can get my hands on.’

‘And then?’

Vander Mayer took out the metal flask. He handled it reverently, as if it were a holy icon. ‘Then?’ Vander Mayer repeated, his eyes fixed on the flask.

‘Who do you sell it to then?’

Vander Mayer grinned. ‘To the highest bidder, Mike. To the highest bidder.’

‘No matter who?’

Vander Mayer put the flask back in the case. He closed the lid and then took a handkerchief from his pocket and carefully wiped his hands. ‘This is business, Mike. It’s a commodity like any other.’

‘It’s used in nuclear weapons,’ said Cramer.

Vander Mayer looked sharply across at Su-ming. She visibly flinched as if he’d struck her. Vander Mayer smiled and looked back at Cramer. ‘So is steel, Mike. Are you suggesting that we stop selling steel?’ He put the case on the floor beside his chair and crossed his legs.

‘There’s a big difference.’

Vander Mayer shrugged dismissively and put the handkerchief back in his top pocket, taking care to arrange it neatly. ‘Eye of the beholder, Mike. Eye of the beholder. Besides, there are lots of potential uses for it.’

‘Are you saying that it won’t be used in a bomb?’

Vander Mayer leaned forward, his elbows on his knees. ‘No, I’m not saying that. But that’s not really any of your business, is it?’ He raised his eyebrows and nodded, as if trying to get Cramer to agree. Cramer just looked at him, unable to conceal his disdain. Vander Mayer stood up and went over to a steel and glass drinks cabinet. He picked up a bottle of twenty-year-old malt whisky and unscrewed the cap. He poured himself a large measure. ‘Do you want a Scotch?’ he asked Cramer. He smiled thinly. ‘Or is it Scottish?’

Cramer shook his head. He’d lost the taste for whisky. He’d pretty much lost the taste for everything. The telephone rang and Su-ming picked up the receiver. She listened and frowned, then put her hand over the mouthpiece. She looked at Vander Mayer. ‘You have a visitor downstairs. A Mr Jackman.’

‘Jackman?’ said Cramer. ‘Bernard Jackman?’

Su-ming nodded.

‘You know him?’ asked Vander Mayer.

‘He’s the FBI profiler,’ said Cramer. ‘Well, former FBI profiler, actually. He’s the guy who profiled the assassin who was after you. I wonder what he wants?’

‘There’s one way to find out,’ said Vander Mayer. He gestured at Su-ming. ‘Tell him to come up. I’d like to meet the guy.’

Su-ming relayed the message to the doorman and put the phone down. ‘He’s on his way up,’ she said.

‘What’s he like?’ Vander Mayer asked Cramer.

Cramer shrugged uncertainly. ‘He’s clever, but to be honest he wasn’t much help. It’s not as if knowing the killer’s characteristics helped us nail the bastard. It was Allan and his Glock that did that.’

‘Don’t knock it,’ said Vander Mayer. ‘One of Su-ming’s most valuable skills is her ability to judge people. To decide whether they can be trusted or not.’ He picked up the metal case and relocked it. ‘I’d better put this back in the safe,’ he said. ‘Once an FBI agent. .’ He left the sentence hanging as he went through the hall to his study.

Su-ming walked over to Cramer. She looked as if she was about to say something, but before she could speak the doorbell rang. She jumped as if startled by the noise, and her eyes remained locked on Cramer. The doorbell rang again. Su-ming took a step backwards, then turned on her heels and went to the front door. She opened it and stood to the side. It was Jackman. He was wearing a dark green jacket and grey slacks and as he walked into the room Cramer realised that the man’s ponytail was missing. Jackman’s hair looked lighter, too, as if he’d been out in the sun.

Jackman ignored Su-ming and strode across the sitting room. He shook hands with Cramer. ‘I wasn’t expecting you,’ Cramer said.

‘I came as soon as I heard, I wanted to get the details from you while they were still fresh.’

‘Details?’

‘Of the assassination attempt. I need to know everything that happened. For the files. What about Vander Mayer? Is he here?’

‘He got here just before you did,’ said Cramer. ‘Did the Colonel call you?’

‘Hell of an apartment, isn’t it?’ said Jackman, looking around.

Cramer wondered if Jackman hadn’t heard him or if he’d deliberately ignored the question.

‘It’s a different world, isn’t it?’ said Jackman as he turned around, smiling broadly. Cramer wondered what had happened to the ponytail. The man’s accent seemed slightly different, too. There was less of a Texan drawl and a harder edge to it. More East Coast than mid-West. ‘So, do I get to meet the guy whose life you saved?’ Jackman asked.

‘He’s in the study,’ said Su-ming.

Before Cramer could stop him, Jackman strode off down the corridor. Cramer and Su-ming followed him into the study where Vander Mayer was scrutinising a list of share prices on one of his many monitors. He looked up at the sound of their footsteps, then smiled. It was the same sort of smile that Jackman himself used, an emotionless baring of the teeth, a pale copy of the real thing. It wasn’t a pleasant smile. ‘You’re the profiler?’ said Vander Mayer.

Jackman nodded. ‘And you’re the target?’ he said, his fake smile broadening.

‘Not any more,’ laughed Vander Mayer. He held out his hand.

Jackman laughed, too. His hand slipped inside his jacket and emerged holding a snub-nosed revolver. He walked towards Vander Mayer, his arm outstretched, and shot him point blank in the face. Before Vander Mayer’s legs gave way Jackman fired again, this time at Vander Mayer’s chest.

Su-ming screamed as Vander Mayer fell backwards, his face and chest a bloody mess. Cramer reached for his Walther but before he could pull out his gun, Jackman had whirled around and aimed his own weapon at Cramer’s face.

‘Too slow, Mike,’ said Jackman. Cramer froze. Su-ming stared down at Vander Mayer. The body twitched on the floor, then went still. Jackman ignored her. ‘Take out your gun, slowly,’ Jackman said. ‘Use the thumb and index finger of your left hand.’

Cramer did as he was told.

‘Drop it on the floor, then kick it over here.’

Cramer obeyed. The gun came to rest by Jackman’s left foot. Jackman crouched down, keeping his own gun aimed at Cramer. He picked up the Walther, then straightened up. Su-ming had her hands up to her face, her eyes wide with shock. Jackman motioned with his gun for her to stand next to Cramer.

‘Well,’ said Jackman to Cramer. ‘You don’t know how much I’ve been looking forward to having a chat with you, Mike.’

The Colonel looked around the apartment. The equipment that had been installed prior to the operation had been removed. All that was left was the furniture that had come with the flat. The Colonel was sitting on a winged easy chair by an empty bookcase. He leaned forward and clasped his hands together and bent his head as if in prayer. Something didn’t feel right, but he wasn’t sure what it was. By rights he should have been over the moon; he’d achieved his objective with relatively few casualties. But there was a nagging doubt at the back of his mind, a feeling of unfinished business

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.’