Smolev shook his head. ‘The pictures have arrived,’ he said. ‘It’s time to contact Zurich.’
‘Jeez, let me finish my dinner first, will ya? Besides, it’s past midnight in Switzerland.’
Smolev flicked the edge of the padded envelope with his thumbnail. ‘We’ll need to arrange the money transfer, too.’
‘I’m working on it,’ said Discenza. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and then took a drink from a bottle of Budweiser. ‘Wanna Bud?’ Smolev shook his head. ‘I’m gonna get this money back, right?’ said Discenza. ‘That’s what we agreed. Half a million dollars is a lot of money, you know?’
‘Yeah, Frank, I know. It’s about three per cent of what you owe the government, right?’ Smolev probed his aching tooth with his tongue. The pain was getting worse.
Discenza’s grin widened. ‘Yeah, I never thought of it like that. America, it’s a great country, isn’t it?’ He ripped a claw off the lobster, waved it in the air. ‘Where else in the world, huh?’ Smolev looked at the man, barely able to conceal his contempt. He hated doing deals with men like Discenza, but he was enough of a realist to know that there was no other way of catching the assassin. ‘And Andrew doesn’t know what’s going on, right? I mean, he doesn’t know it was me that was planning the hit, right?’
Smolev smiled. ‘No, Frank. He doesn’t know.’ A sudden thought hit Smolev, and it made him smile all the more. Andrew Vander Mayer didn’t know that Discenza had been planning to have him killed, but when all this was over, when the assassin had been captured, then maybe the arms dealer would receive an anonymous tip. An unsigned letter. Or a late night phone call. Smolev would have to be careful, of course. These days, you never knew who was listening in.
Mike Cramer sat on his bed reading the file provided by the American profiler. The first section listed the killings in the order that they happened, starting with the assassination in Miami and ending with the murder of a trial witness in a Baltimore hospital two weeks earlier. A second section detailed the common features of the killings, with the profiler focusing on the physical appearance of the assassin. The profiler had concentrated on the descriptions provided by witnesses who could be expected to be reliable — such as law enforcement officials and bodyguards — which is what Cramer himself had done when reading the individual case reports.
There were several facts which were constant. The killer was white, male, able-bodied, had no visible scars, and he was right-handed. There were other factors which were variable but fell within certain parameters, he was between five feet seven and six feet two inches tall, his weight was somewhere between one hundred and seventy pounds and two hundred and ten pounds, and estimates of his chest measurement varied between forty inches and forty six. Of less use were the characteristics which the killer changed on a regular basis — hair length, hair colour, eye colour, facial hair. Cramer scanned the lists. There was nothing that he hadn’t read for himself in the individual reports on the killings.
Jackman had compiled his own reports on each of the killings. They each came with a heading sheet which read VICAP Crime Analysis Report and a logo which spelled out what VICAP stood for: Violent Criminal Apprehension Program. Stripped across the bottom of the sheet were the address and telephone number of the FBI Academy in Quantico, Virginia. Each case had its own VICAP number as well as an FBI case number, and went on to classify the crime, the victim, the MO, the cause of death and any forensic evidence. Like the FBI Facial Identification Fact Sheets, most of the questions were answered by ticking appropriate boxes which resulted in a scientific analysis of the facts rather than subjective comments. The VICAP reports emphasised the similarities between the actual killings, but they also threw up the differences in the victims and the descriptions provided by the witnesses.
The next section was more interesting; Jackman’s profile of the assassin. The profiler said the assassin had a military background, possibly Special Forces, and was likely to have risen to the rank of non-commissioned officer. He had probably left the services, perhaps for health reasons, and had had trouble maintaining steady employment afterwards. He was gregarious and liked crowds but had a tendency to pick fights. He would be above average intelligence, with a feeling of superiority to most people he came into contact with. He was possibly divorced, or had a string of sexual contacts, and was probably good looking. He was certainly attractive to women. He would have committed a number of motoring offences, and his licence had possibly been suspended.
The killer probably came from a family where emotional abuse was the norm, but the home was stable, at least during his early childhood. He may have been a bully at school, and despite his intelligence probably didn’t go on to university.
There was plenty of detail, though the report was peppered with ‘probably’ and ‘possibly’ as if Jackman was afraid of being proved wrong and was therefore constantly hedging his bets. There was little in the way of explanation for the various conclusions, though Cramer guessed that the killer’s familiarity with different weapons would suggest the military background. He had no idea why Jackman thought that the assassin would have had his driving licence taken away.
Most of Jackman’s observations concerned the killer’s psychological make-up and his childhood, and while they made fascinating reading, Cramer knew that they wouldn’t be any use to him. The fact that the assassin didn’t have a university degree wouldn’t make him stand out in a crowd. Cramer needed a description, physical characteristics that he could watch out for. Cramer slid his feet off the bed. He padded over to the bathroom in his bare feet and drank from the tap. He wanted to use the toilet but he fought the urge. The last time, he’d seen blood in the bowl and it had frightened him.
Dermott Lynch parked the Sierra in Kensington Park Road and walked to Ladbroke Gardens. Marie Hennessy’s flat was in a terrace of white-painted stucco houses, once homes to the rich but now subdivided into flats for the almost-wealthy. Her name wasn’t on the entry-system bell but she’d told him that she was in flat C and when he pressed the button she answered immediately, as if she’d been waiting for him. ‘I’m on the third floor, come on up, I’ll buzz you in,’ she said, her voice crackling over the speaker.
The lock buzzed and Lynch pushed the door open. He could feel the Czech 9mm pistol pressing into the small of his back. The gun had a fifteen round magazine and there were ten bullets still in it. The gun he’d taken from the driver was a slightly smaller Russian-made Tokarev with eight rounds in the magazine. He’d left it in the boot along with the body of Eamonn Foley. The hallway was in darkness but as he stepped inside the lights came on. The stair carpet was dark blue and plush and there were framed watercolours on the walls. The staircase spiralled up and mahogany doors led off to the flats, two on each floor. The door to Marie’s apartment was already open when he reached the third floor, though she’d kept the security chain on. She waited until he got close before taking off the chain and opening the door wide. ‘I wouldn’t have recognised you if you hadn’t told me you were coming,’ she said.
‘I shaved off the beard,’ said Lynch, stepping inside. He had recognised her immediately. The chestnut hair, the slightly upturned nose, the blue eyes that had been brimming with tears the last time they’d met.
‘And you’ve cut your hair,’ said Marie, closing the door behind him. ‘And you weren’t wearing glasses. Go on through.’
‘You’ve got a good memory, right enough,’ said Lynch as he walked into the sitting room. It was expensively furnished with comfortable antiques, very much a girl’s room. A small circular table held a collection of painted miniatures behind which he saw several framed photographs. Lynch recognised Marie’s mother, Mary, and her father, Liam. The last time Lynch had seen Marie was at her mother’s funeral three years earlier. Lynch bent down to look at a photograph of Mary and Liam, she in a wedding dress, he in tails, a stone church in the background. Mary was in her early twenties back then, Liam maybe a decade older. ‘You look just like your mum,’ said Lynch.
‘I know,’ said Marie, closing the sitting room door.
Lynch straightened up. There was a large gilt-framed mirror hanging over the marble fireplace and in it he saw Marie studying him, a look of concern on her face. ‘Are you alone?’ he said to her reflection.
She nodded. ‘Why do you ask?’
Lynch turned to face her, smiling to put her at ease. ‘Because I wouldn’t want anyone to overhear us, that’s all.’
‘I’m alone,’ she said. ‘There’s only one bedroom. You can check for yourself if you don’t believe me.’
‘I believe you,’ he said.
‘I’m honoured.’
Lynch grinned.
‘What are you smiling at?’ she asked archly.
‘It’s the sort of thing your mother would have said.’
She narrowed her eyes and looked at him as if deciding whether or not he was trying to flatter her. Then she smiled, showing white, even teeth that would have done credit to a toothpaste advert. ‘Would you like a drink?’
‘Coffee, please. Black.’ If he was going to get through the next few hours, he was going to need a clear head.
Marie went into the kitchen. While she made his coffee he studied the photographs again. Liam Hennessy, the Sinn Fein adviser who’d been murdered by the SAS. Mary Hennessy, shot by a police sniper in Baltimore. Both had given their lives to the Cause, literally. Lynch wondered how their deaths had affected Marie, and if he could trust her.
One of the photographs was of Marie and a young man. Lynch recognised the man as her brother, Philip, one of the pall bearers at Mary Hennessy’s funeral. Philip, at twenty-five, was a couple of years older than Marie and Lynch seemed to recall that he was now working in the Far East, something to do with banking or insurance. Marie returned with his coffee. ‘How’s Philip?’ he asked.
‘Fine,’ she said. ‘I haven’t seen much of him, not since. .’
She didn’t finish and Lynch realised she had been about to say ‘the funeral’. Marie placed the tray and two coffee mugs onto a low table, then sat down in a Queen Anne chair and crossed her legs. She was wearing a short black skirt and a large beige pullover that tried but failed to conceal her figure. She had good legs, long and shapely, another thing she had in common with her late mother. ‘So, what brings you to London?’ she asked.
‘I need your help.’
Marie narrowed her eyes. ‘You? Or the organisation?’
To the best of Lynch’s knowledge, Marie had never been an active member of the IRA. Neither had her brother. ‘Me,’ he said.
Marie stirred her coffee slowly. ‘I’m not sure that there’s anything I can do for you, Mr Lynch.’
‘Dermott,’ said Lynch. ‘Mr Lynch is my dad.’
Marie gave a small shrug as if she didn’t care either way what she called him. ‘What is it you want?’
Lynch sat down on a hard, uncomfortable couch and leaned forward, his hands clasped together. ‘You know Mike Cramer. The SAS sergeant who. .’
Marie’s hand froze above her coffee mug and she spoke quickly, interrupting him before he could finish. ‘Yes. I know who Cramer is.’
‘I think I might be able to get to him.’
‘Where is he?’ Her voice was monotone, almost mechanical. The silver spoon remained suspended in her hand.
‘Best I don’t tell you too much.’ He ran his hand across his face. The beard had gone but it still itched. ‘I’ll need money.’
Marie frowned. ‘Surely the organisation would. .’
Lynch shook his head. ‘I’ve been told not to take it any further. The Army Council doesn’t want the boat rocked. They don’t want anything to derail the peace process.’
‘They what? Cramer is one of the men who killed my father. And he was directly responsible for my mother’s death.’