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.
Cramer’s chest heaved and he threw up, the yellow vomit splashing over the wooden toilet seat and dribbling down into the bowl. He groaned. His head was throbbing, his stomach felt on fire. He massaged his temples and spat, trying to get the bitter taste out of his mouth. As the waves of nausea subsided he struggled to his feet and drank from the cold tap, swilling the water around his mouth and then spitting it out.
There was a timid knock on the bedroom door. ‘Yeah, wait a minute,’ he called. He cleaned his teeth, using lots of toothpaste to get rid of the lingering bitterness. He splashed cold water over his face and then wiped the toilet seat with a piece of tissue and flushed it.
When he opened the door, Su-ming was waiting there. ‘Is there something wrong?’ she asked.
Oh yes, thought Cramer, there’s something very wrong. There’s a cancer growing in my guts and there’s an assassin out there with a bullet with my name on it, and if one of them doesn’t kill me soon I’m feeling so much pain that I’ll be putting a gun in my mouth and pulling the trigger myself. ‘I’m fine,’ he said.
‘Mr Vander Mayer wants to speak to us,’ she said.
‘He’s here?’
‘No. We have to telephone him.’
‘The Colonel knows about this?’
‘Mr Vander Mayer has already spoken to him.’
Cramer leant against the door frame. He felt weak but he didn’t want Su-ming to know how ill he was. ‘What’s going on?’ he asked.
‘I think Mr Vander Mayer wants to tell you himself, but it’s about a meeting he wants you to have the day after tomorrow.’
‘In London?’
Su-ming nodded. ‘Are you sure nothing’s wrong?’
Cramer straightened up. ‘Which phone?’ he asked.
‘The Colonel’s study.’ She turned and walked down the corridor. Cramer stood and watched her go, then followed her downstairs.
The only light on in the study was a green-shaded desk lamp which illuminated the desk and little else. The Colonel was sitting behind the desk, a cellular telephone in front of him.
‘I thought he was supposed to keep his head down until this was over,’ said Cramer.
‘Something came up.’
‘Something so important that he thinks it’s worth risking his life?’
The Colonel nodded in agreement. ‘I told him, but he insists. And we do need his goodwill for this to work.’
‘His goodwill? There’s a contract out on his life.’
‘He says that unless you and Su-ming meet this man, he’ll come over himself. And if he appears on the scene, the whole thing’s dead in the water.’
Cramer sat down in one of the armchairs. ‘This man I’m supposed to meet, who is he?’
‘All Vander Mayer would say is that he’s a Russian with something to sell.’
‘And I’m supposed to negotiate with this guy? But I don’t know anything about Vander Mayer’s business.’
‘Which is why he wants to brief you first.’ He handed the phone to Su-ming.
She tapped in a succession of numbers and held it to her ear. Vander Mayer answered within seconds. ‘It’s me,’ said Su-ming. She listened intently. ‘Yes,’ she said, looking at the Colonel. ‘Yes,’ she repeated. She lowered the phone. ‘Mr Vander Mayer asks if we could have this conversation in private.’
The Colonel got to his feet. He picked up his walking stick and tapped it on the wooden floor. He looked as if he was going to argue, but he walked stiffly to the door and let himself out. ‘Okay,’ Su-ming said into the phone. She listened again for what seemed to be several minutes, nodding as she held the phone to her ear. ‘Okay, I’ll put him on,’ she said eventually. She walked over to Cramer and gave him the phone.
‘Yeah,’ said Cramer, laconically.
‘Mike? Is it okay if I call you Mike?’
‘Sure,’ said Cramer. There was a distinct delay on the transmission and he could hear a faint echo of his own voice as he spoke. It was distracting and he concentrated hard.
‘Okay, Mike, has your boss told you what’s happening?’ His voice was over-friendly, the sort of cheerful bonhomie used by double-glazing salesmen and television evangelists. The accent was American, from one of the southern States, Cramer figured. The vowels were long and drawn out and there was a laziness about the voice, as if it was too much of an effort to talk quickly. It was the sort of voice that Cramer could tire of very quickly, he decided.
‘You want me to meet a Russian, that’s all I know.’
