Cramer shook his head in amazement. Martin swallowed. ‘Hollow legs, Mike. Family trait.’ He picked up two pieces of toast, slapped a sausage and two rashers of crispy bacon between them, and slotted them into his mouth, as if posting a letter.
Cramer poured himself a mug of coffee and sat down opposite. A neighbouring table held a large television set and a video recorder, and a white power cord trailed across the oak floorboards to a socket in the wall. Cramer nodded at the television. ‘What’s going on?’ he asked.
Martin shrugged and washed his food down with a mouthful of coffee. ‘Dunno. The Colonel set it up first thing.’
‘Where’s Allan?’
‘On the tennis courts with the boys. Running through a few set pieces.’
‘How do you think it’s going?’
‘Could go either way, Mike. I wish I could say I was confident that we’d get him, but we’ve got so little time to react, you know?’
‘Yeah. I know.’ Under Allan’s guidance, Cramer’s reaction times were getting shorter and shorter, but he was still failing to draw his weapon more often than not. And even when he did manage to get his gun out, he’d yet to get in a killing shot before being shot himself.
‘Allan and I’ll do everything we can to give you extra time, but at the end of the day it’s like two gunfighters, except that you don’t know who you’re drawing against.’ Cramer sipped his coffee. ‘Not eating?’ Martin asked.
‘Is there anything left?’
Martin grinned and made himself another bacon and sausage sandwich. Cramer heard the Colonel walk into the dining room behind him. ‘Good morning,’ said the Colonel, lifting the lids off the stainless steel serving dishes and sniffing like a golden retriever tracking game. ‘How are the sausages this morning?’
‘First class,’ said Martin. ‘I don’t know why Mike here isn’t tucking in.’
‘Maybe later,’ said Cramer.
The Colonel spooned scrambled eggs onto a plate and used tongs to pick up two grilled tomato halves. ‘I spoke to our friends in the States,’ the Colonel said to Cramer. ‘They’re going to run a check on previous murders using shots to the head. They’ll get back to us if they turn up anything.’
Cramer nodded in acknowledgement. The dining room was cold despite the portable gas heater and the Colonel was wearing his Barbour jacket. He went over to the video recorder and put in a cassette before sitting down next to Cramer. Martin slid to the side so that they could all get a good view of the screen. From his pocket, the Colonel took a remote control device. Before pressing the ‘play’ button, he pushed the plate of eggs and tomatoes in front of Cramer. Cramer started to protest but the Colonel silenced him with a wave of his hand. ‘Eat,’ he ordered and Cramer reluctantly picked up a fork. The television flickered into life. ‘These were taken by the security cameras in Harrods,’ said the Colonel. ‘The quality isn’t as good as it might be, but as you’ll see, it doesn’t really matter.’
On screen an Arab in desert robes moved through the store, preceded by three bodyguards. There were two other men in suits either side of the Arab, but they looked more like store executives than protection, and behind the Arab walked three women in black robes, their faces covered. Cramer didn’t hear the shots but he saw the first bodyguard slump to the floor and then the killer appeared on the screen, his arm outstretched as he aimed his weapon at the second bodyguard. The silenced gun fired twice again, two shots to the man’s chest. The third bodyguard died before he could draw his own weapon. Cramer’s mouth was dry. The killer was fast. Fast and accurate, faster even than the SAS men he’d been practising with on the tennis courts. The killer’s face was turned away from the security camera as he walked past the Arab and shot one of the women, a bullet in the face, one in the chest, then he walked quickly out of range of the security camera.
Cramer put a forkful of scrambled eggs into his mouth and chewed slowly as the screen flickered. This time the view was of the stairs. Two elegant blondes in designer coats were smiling and nodding and a young man in a denim jacket turned to admire their legs. The killer came into view, walking quickly, his head down and his face turned away from the camera, a handgun pressed to his side. One of the blondes put a hand to her mouth, her eyes wide and fearful, and then the killer was gone. Cramer frowned. ‘Was he limping?’ he asked.
‘Left leg,’ agreed Martin. Allan arrived, wearing a dark blue blazer and grey flannels, looking for all the world like an Olympic referee. Allan stood behind the Colonel, his arms folded across his chest. He nodded a silent greeting to Cramer, then studied the screen.
‘This is the Egyptian Hall,’ said the Colonel as the screen flickered again. The killer walked by a life-size copy of the Rosetta stone and past a display of small statues. Cramer put down his fork. There was no doubt about it, the man was limping. Again it was impossible to identify the man, his head was turned away from the security camera. As he passed out of the camera’s field the screen flickered and was replaced by a shot of the stationery department.
‘He’s really camera-shy, isn’t he?’ mused Martin as he assembled another bacon and sausage sandwich. No one seemed to be paying attention to the killer as he walked purposefully to a stock room door, even though he was still holding the silenced gun. He opened the door and disappeared behind it and the screen flickered once more.
The next shot was of the underground tunnel. This time the killer was wearing a warehouseman’s coat and there was no sign of his gun. He walked past two workmen but they ignored him. The limp seemed to be less pronounced, Cramer noticed.
The final section of the video showed a young security guard on the telephone. The guard looked to his left, opened his mouth to speak and then fell back, blood pouring from his throat. The killer appeared briefly at the bottom left of the screen, revealing nothing more than the back of his head and his shoulders. The Colonel used the remote control to switch off the television set. ‘That’s the only time our man has been captured on film,’ he said. ‘I want you all to play it as many times as it takes until you get a feel for the way he moves.’
‘The limp,’ said Allan. ‘He was faking it?’
The Colonel nodded. ‘We had an orthopaedic surgeon take a look at it and he says it’s not genuine. It’s redirection. You spend so much time looking at the limp that you’re not aware of his other characteristics.’
‘He knew where all the security cameras were,’ Cramer pointed out. ‘He must have staked the store out first.’
‘Agreed,’ said the Colonel, ‘but the security tapes are wiped regularly. We have tapes for the forty-eight hours prior to the assassination and we’ve gone through them, but there’s no sign of him.’
‘Well, we know he’s white and we know he’s right-handed,’ said Martin. ‘And he’s cool.’
‘Cool? He’s ice,’ said Allan. ‘There’s no nervousness about him, no tension. It’s like he’s on a Sunday afternoon stroll in the park. I’ve never seen anything like it. He takes out three bodyguards and his target and then he walks away without even looking back.’
‘It’s like he doesn’t care,’ said Cramer.
Martin shook his head. ‘No, he’s a real pro. He knows that hurrying or looking around will just draw attention to him.’
Allan put a large hand on Cramer’s shoulder. ‘Ready, Mike?’
Cramer drained his mug and stood up. The Colonel raised an eyebrow at Cramer’s unfinished breakfast but said nothing.
‘We’ll run through some moves in the gymnasium,’ said Allan. Cramer walked out of the dining hall with Allan and Martin either side. The suit felt like a straitjacket, even though it was a perfect fit. He would have much preferred to have been wearing a bomber jacket and jeans, but he realised how important it was to dress the part. It was camouflage, as vital to the role he was playing as the green and brown fatigues he’d worn in the Falklands and in the border country of Northern Ireland. He reached inside his jacket and touched the butt of his PPK as if to reassure himself it was still there.