The Colonel leaned forward, his body tense. ‘Out of the question,’ he said. ‘Absolutely, totally, one hundred per cent out of the question.’
‘Colonel, I agreed to cooperate with you on condition that my business was not affected. This meeting is vital. The man who wishes to see me is doing so at great personal risk to himself and if I do not meet him in London, I will not get the chance again. And there are plenty of other buyers for what he has to sell.’
The Colonel frowned. ‘This man, you’ve met him before?’
‘No. But I know of him.’
‘You realise that this could be the assassin?’ There was no reply from Vander Mayer. ‘This could be the hit,’ said the Colonel.
‘I see,’ said Vander Mayer.
‘So you understand why you must not come to London?’
There was another long silence. ‘Very well. But I want Su-ming to meet with him. Alone.’
‘I wouldn’t recommend that either,’ said the Colonel. ‘That would be an indication that you were not available, and if this man is our killer, it would tip him off that something was wrong. Can’t you postpone the meeting?’
‘I’ve already told you, that’s not possible.’
‘What does this man have that’s so important?’ asked the Colonel.
‘Something I’ve been trying to get hold of for a long time,’ said Vander Mayer. ‘Okay, your man will have to meet him. There’s no other way. What’s his name?’
‘Cramer. Mike Cramer. What’s the point of the meeting, Mr Vander Mayer?’
‘I’m to take delivery of a sample and some documentation.’
‘So it won’t be necessary for Cramer to have an in-depth knowledge of your business?’
‘Not really. In any case, he’s Russian and speaks little or no English so Su-ming will have to translate everything.’
The Colonel considered Vander Mayer’s suggestion. If this was the assassin making his move, the worst thing the Colonel could do would be to pull Cramer out of the firing line. ‘Very well,’ said the Colonel. ‘When and where?’
‘It’ll have to be in my Kensington office. According to the itinerary you gave me, your man Cramer is going to be there in the afternoon on Thursday, so I’ll have the meeting arranged for half past four. I’ll need to brief him first.’
‘You’ll have to do that before we leave for London,’ said the Colonel. ‘Under no circumstances are you to contact me or him once the operation is under way. We’ve no idea what scanners or listening equipment he has.’
‘No problem. I’ll just sit on deck and soak up the sun.’
‘One thing, Mr Vander Mayer. This sample, what is it?’
‘It’s an industrial compound. Nothing dangerous. But valuable.’
Dermott Lynch left the Warwick Castle public house in Little Venice and walked back to the flat along Blomfield Road. To his left, the other side of a row of black-painted railings, was a canal, its banks lined with pretty narrow boats, many of them bedecked with flowers, homes rather than working vessels. As Lynch walked along the pavement, a rusting blue Ford Transit van came up behind him and slowed to match his pace. The window on the passenger’s side wound down. Lynch looked over at the vehicle. The passenger in the front seat was in his early twenties, a long, thin face and unkempt greasy hair. ‘Is this the right way to Elgin Avenue?’ the man asked. Lynch recognised the accent. West Belfast. The man had probably been born within a mile of Lynch’s own home. It was too much of a coincidence.
Lynch kept on walking. ‘Straight on, then take the second right. You’ll find it.’
The passenger nodded. ‘Are you Dermott?’
Lynch shook his head. ‘Not me, mate,’ he said. He quickened his pace. With his beard shaved off, his hair cut short and the wire-framed glasses he was wearing, there was no way he could have been recognised. Unless they were specifically looking for him.
‘Dermott Lynch,’ said the man.
‘Don’t know him,’ said Lynch. The only way they could have known that he was the man they were looking for was if they’d staked out the flat. But there was only one person who knew where he was and that was Thomas McCormack. So if Thomas had sent them, why hadn’t they simply knocked on the door? There was no need for late night assignations on a deserted street. Lynch knew he was in trouble. There were no windows in the side of the Transit so he had no way of knowing how many people were in the back.
‘You sure? We’ve got something for you. From McCormack.’ Lynch stopped. So did the Transit.
Lynch stood with his hands free, his legs apart. He wasn’t armed, not so much as a knife. ‘Yeah? Now what would that be?’
‘This.’ The man’s hand appeared at the open window, holding an envelope.
Lynch smiled. It looked like an envelope full of cash, but he knew without a shadow of a doubt that he was being set up. The money could just as easily have been handed to him in the pub, or at the flat, or the man could have telephoned and arranged the handover. There was no reason to do it out in the open. Lynch walked towards the van, his hand outstretched, an easy smile on his face. ‘Why didn’t you say so in the first place?’ he asked.
The passenger grinned. He was holding the envelope in his left hand, his right was hidden. As he got closer, Lynch saw that the man’s jaw was clamped tight, a sure sign of tension, and his eyes had a fixed stare. They weren’t planning to kill him there and then, he decided. They had other plans for him.
‘What’s your name, son?’ asked Lynch. The question caught the man by surprise. Lynch saw him frown, but before he could reply Lynch reached out, grabbed the man’s hair and smashed his face into the window frame. The cartilage of the man’s nose cracked with a satisfying splintering sound. Lynch banged the man’s head down a second time and this time his face made more of a soft crunching noise. There was blood everywhere. The driver began yelling and Lynch heard the clatter of feet in the back of the van.
Lynch grabbed the passenger’s hair with both hands and yanked him through the window. He was struggling wildly so Lynch kicked him in the ribs, hard. The man was still holding the envelope and in his other hand was a pistol. Lynch grabbed at the weapon and wrestled it out of the man’s grasp. He pointed it at the back of the man’s neck and fired. The explosion echoed from the row of houses bordering the road. Lynch knew the police would arrive within minutes, maybe sooner.
Lynch swung around to face the van. The driver had a pistol in his hands and he pulled the trigger, gritting his teeth as he fired. To Lynch’s amazement, nothing happened. ‘Shit!’ screamed the driver and Lynch realised with a feeling of satisfaction that the man had left the safety on. Lynch fired his own weapon and the driver slumped back, a gaping red hole where his nose had been.
The back doors of the van crashed open. Lynch leaned inside the passenger window. One of the men was standing silhouetted by a street lamp, about to jump down. Lynch shot him in the back then threw himself to the ground, rolling to the side as the fourth man appeared at the side of the van, bent double with a Kalashnikov in his arms. The Kalashnikov exploded, the bullets spraying across the side of the van, thudding through the metal as if it were cardboard. Before the man could lower his aim, Lynch put a bullet in his throat. The man whirled around and dropped the assault rifle, his hands clutching at his neck. His mouth opened and closed but no words came out. Blood trickled from between his teeth. Lynch got to his feet. The man’s eyes glazed over and he fell to his knees, gurgling. Lynch walked past him and checked the back of the van. The man there was dead, lying face down on the metal floor. Lynch went through his pockets and pulled out his wallet.
In the distance he heard a siren. He ran around to the driver’s side of the van. The driver was covered in blood and there was a smear of brain matter and bone fragments across the windscreen and a strong smell of urine. Lynch prised the gun from the dead man’s fingers and patted down his bloodstained jacket until he found his wallet in an inside pocket. The siren was getting louder and Lynch heard shouts from the houses which overlooked the road. He ran down the pavement, vaulted over the railings and onto the towpath, escaping into the darkness.