‘So the FBI doesn’t even trust its own people?’
‘No, the Bureau’s safe, at least the people I’m dealing with are. But the fewer Americans involved, the better.’
Cramer nodded. ‘Understood.’
‘Are you okay?’ the Colonel asked.
Cramer realised that he’d been holding his stomach. ‘Yeah,’ he said.
‘Are you sure?’ The Colonel’s concern was genuine.
‘It’s not just indigestion, Colonel. This pain isn’t going to go away.’
‘I could get painkillers from the Doc. Something strong.’
‘Not yet,’ insisted Cramer. ‘I want to go into this with a clear head, I don’t want anything that’ll slow me down.’
‘It’s your call,’ said the Colonel.
‘I know.’ Cramer wiped his face with his hands. He was sweating, despite the cold night air. He desperately wanted to change the subject; it wouldn’t take much for the Colonel’s concern to change to pity. He started walking again and the Colonel followed. ‘This banker, the guy who takes the contracts for the assassin. How do his clients know how to get in contact with him?’
The Colonel frowned. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Well, he can’t advertise, can he? So how does he drum up business?’
The Colonel pulled a face. ‘Word gets around,’ he said. ‘The sort of people and organisations who can afford his fee talk to each other. Phone numbers are exchanged. He’s a neutral, he doesn’t take sides, he’s a tool to be used by anyone with enough money.’ The Colonel narrowed his eyes. ‘Let’s face it, Joker, if you wanted someone killed, you know people who’d do it for a couple of thousand pounds. Maybe less. Hell, you probably know people who’d do it for you as a favour, right?’
‘Right,’ Cramer agreed.
‘This guy’s the same, he just operates for much bigger sums. The people who need him know how to get in touch. Word gets around.’
‘Okay, but if you and the Yanks know who the banker is, why can’t you just haul him in and put pressure on him?’ Cramer smiled without warmth. ‘We both know people who’d love the opportunity for a spot of show and tell.’
‘Wouldn’t do any good,’ said the Colonel patiently. ‘They never meet, I doubt that they even talk to each other. The banker is like a circuit breaker — if we trigger him the killer will know we’re on to him. He’ll just disappear, then start up again somewhere else. It’s a perfect system.’
‘What about the money? Can’t that be traced?’
The Colonel shook his head. ‘It’s not even worth trying,’ he said. ‘All he’s got to do is press a few buttons and it can be routed through the Cayman Islands, Paraguay, anywhere. Forget it, Joker. This is the only way we’re going to catch him.’
Cramer rubbed the back of his neck. The skin was damp there, too. ‘The way he does it. The way he shoots them in the face, then the heart.’
‘What about it?’
‘It doesn’t feel right. I’m sure the guy has a reason for doing it that way.’
‘You can ask the profiler when he gets here.’
‘There’s nothing about it in his report.’
The Colonel scraped his walking stick along the gravel path. ‘What are you getting at?’
‘You shoot a guy in the head if he’s tied up. If he can’t fight back. That’s how the IRA do it. They tie the guy up and they shoot him in the head. Bang! That’s how the Mafia do it, too, if they can. Tie the guy up and blow him away. Maybe that’s how the guy used to operate, and the head-shot became a habit.’
‘Possible,’ said the Colonel.
‘Or maybe he did it that way by accident the first time. Maybe he killed a guy before he became a pro. Maybe he got into a fight and shot a guy, got him in the head with the first shot. It worked so he figured that’s how he’d do it in future. It could be as easy as that.’
‘You’re just guessing,’ said the Colonel.
‘Maybe. But did the FBI check if there had been any other killings using the same method, killings that weren’t high profile assassinations? Killings that might have taken place while our guy was learning his trade?’
The Colonel nodded thoughtfully. ‘Okay. I’ll find out. And don’t worry about Vander Mayer’s consignment. It’s his business, not ours. You just concentrate on what you’ve got to do.’
Cramer grinned. ‘Concentrate on being bait, you mean? Sure, I can do that.’
The Colonel returned the grin. ‘Yeah, I knew you were the right man for the job.’
Dermott Lynch dropped a coin in the slot and dialled Eamonn Foley’s number. The two handguns were tucked into the back of his trousers, hidden by his jacket. They pressed into the small of his back as he leaned against the side of the call box and waited for Foley to answer the phone. Everything depended on how he reacted to the sound of Lynch’s voice. If he was in on it, Foley would be surprised and Lynch doubted if he was good enough an actor to hide that.
Foley picked up the receiver. ‘Yeah?’
‘Eamonn. It’s Dermott.’
‘Hiya, Dermott. You on the piss?’
‘Yeah. I had a few pints down the Warwick.’
‘Feeling no pain?’
‘Aye, you could say that.’ Lynch couldn’t sense any tension in Foley’s voice. ‘Has anyone been asking for me?’
‘No, mate. You expecting someone?’
‘No phone calls?’
‘What’s wrong?’ Foley’s voice was suddenly serious. Lynch decided that he could trust the man. Besides, he had no other choice.
‘I’m in deep shit, Eamonn. Can you get my stuff and bring it to me?’
‘Now?’
‘Now.’
‘What’s happened?’
‘I don’t have time to explain. Just put everything in the suitcase and bring it to Edgware Road tube station.’
‘The tube’s not running this time of night.’
‘I know, I know. I’ll be waiting outside. And Eamonn, make sure you’re not followed.’
‘Jesus, Dermott. Who’d be following me?’
‘Just be careful. Ten minutes, okay?’
‘Fifteen.’
‘Ten, Eamonn. You can make it if you leave right now. What sort of car have you got?’
‘Ford Sierra. Blue.’
‘Leave straightaway, okay?’ Lynch replaced the receiver. He waited exactly one minute and then dialled Foley’s number again. It rang out and Lynch cut the connection immediately. Foley wasn’t calling anyone. That at least was a good sign.
Lynch jumped as a siren went off and the call box was lit up by a flashing blue light. Instinctively he reached behind him, going for one of the guns, but then he smiled as he saw the ambulance rush by. ‘Easy, boy,’ he whispered to himself. He kept the phone pressed against his ear as he waited for Foley. He could see the front of the Underground station from his vantage point, its entrances now closed behind metal gates, and he was safer in the call box than he would be out in the open.
Foley arrived exactly eight minutes after Lynch’s phone call, which Lynch took as another good sign. He slipped into the passenger seat and told Foley to drive. ‘Where to?’ asked Foley.
‘Just drive.’ Lynch twisted around and quickly checked through the contents of the suitcase on the back seat. His passport was tucked into a side pocket, along with an envelope containing five hundred pounds. He took out a green pullover and closed the case.
‘Something strange happened just after you phoned,’ said Foley as he drove down the Edgware Road. ‘The phone rang, then went dead.’
‘Don’t worry about it,’ said Lynch. He bent his head to look in the wing mirror.
‘There’s no one following us,’ said Foley. ‘Are you going to tell me what happened? Maida Vale was swarming with cops.’
‘Four guys in a Transit attacked me.’ Lynch pulled out the wallet he’d taken from the driver. There was a driving licence and a Barclaycard inside. ‘They were from Belfast.’
‘UFF?’
‘The driver was from the Falls Road. Name of Sean O’Ryan. Does that sound like a Prod to you, Eamonn?’
Foley shook his head. ‘Doesn’t make sense, does it?’
Lynch pointed to a car park. ‘Drive in there and let me out,’ he said.
‘Don’t be daft. You’re safe in my flat.’
‘I don’t think so. I’m going to have to lie low.’