it was a side- effect of the painkillers. The doorbell rang again. Su-ming walked along the corridor and into the sitting room. ‘I’ll get it,’ she said.
‘Yeah, I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I fell asleep.’ Cramer realised that there was a blanket over his legs.
‘I know,’ she said, smiling. She’d changed into blue jeans and a white silk shirt and she looked fresh and clean as if she’d just had a shower.
Cramer could taste something bitter at the back of his throat. He swallowed and grimaced. As he looked around he realised that the bottle of capsules and the Walther PPK were no longer on the coffee table. Su-ming must have moved them while he was asleep. He rubbed his face with his hands. When he took his hands away, Su-ming had the door open. A man walked into the room carrying a slim leather briefcase. He was in his mid to late forties, a dapper little man who couldn’t have been much more then five feet eight tall. His hair was slicked back and he had the sleek, well-fed look of a man who lived off expense accounts. ‘This is Mr Vander Mayer,’ said Su- ming as she closed the door.
Vander Mayer strode across the floor, his arm outstretched like a used-car salesman greeting a prospective customer. ‘Mike, good to see you at last,’ said Vander Mayer.
Cramer got to his feet unsteadily, still disorientated. Vander Mayer seized his hand and pumped it enthusiastically. Cramer recognised the man’s voice, but his appearance was a surprise. Vander Mayer was immaculately dressed in what was clearly an expensive made-to-measure suit and a gold Rolex glinted from under the sleeve of a starched white shirt cuff as he shook hands, but Cramer had expected a much bigger man. While Vander Mayer’s voice was deep and authoritative, the man himself was unimposing. If anything he appeared to be slightly shifty with sharpish features that made Cramer think of a small bird.
‘I would have been here earlier but the traffic was a bitch,’ said Vander Mayer. ‘I’ve been pushing them to get a helicopter pad installed, but the neighbours won’t have it.’
‘Shame,’ said Cramer.
Vander Mayer released his grip on Cramer’s hand and put his briefcase on a low sideboard. Cramer’s gun was there, along with the painkillers. Vander Mayer raised an eyebrow at the weapon. ‘Walther PPK,’ he said. ‘I thought the SAS used Glocks?’
‘I’m ex-SAS,’ said Cramer.
Vander Mayer nodded. ‘Even so, it’s not one of my favourite guns. May I?’ He gestured at the pistol.
‘Sure,’ said Cramer.
Vander Mayer picked up the Walther, ejected the clip and quickly and efficiently stripped the gun, then reassembled it just as quickly. Cramer had the feeling that he was only doing it to show off his familiarity with the weapon. Vander Mayer gave the gun to Cramer and without thinking Cramer slipped it back into the shoulder holster under his jacket. He saw Su-ming look at him anxiously, but before she could say anything Vander Mayer went over to her and put his arm around her shoulders. ‘How are you, baby?’ he asked.
‘Great,’ she said. She turned up her head and kissed him, close to the lips. Cramer felt a sudden pull inside and realised with a jolt that he was jealous. He turned away, unwilling to watch any more, suspecting that Vander Mayer’s demonstrations of affection were as contrived as his manoeuvre with the Walther.
‘Miss me?’ Vander Mayer asked.
‘Yes,’ Su-ming said quietly.
Vander Mayer nodded as if satisfied. He turned back to Cramer. ‘So, Mike, have you got the consignment?’
‘It’s in the safe,’ said Su-ming before Cramer could answer. ‘I’ll get it.’
As Su-ming left the room, Vander Mayer went over to the picture window and looked out. ‘I never tire of this view,’ he said.
‘Yeah,’ said Cramer unenthusiastically.
‘Best view in London.’
Cramer didn’t say anything.
‘Where are you from, Mike?’
‘Glasgow.’
‘Yeah? Scotch, huh?’
‘Scottish,’ corrected Cramer. ‘Scotch is the drink.’
‘You don’t sound Scottish,’ said Vander Mayer. He clasped his hands behind his back and squared his shoulders.
‘Yeah, well I left when I was young.’
‘To join the army?’
‘Pretty much, yeah.’ Cramer didn’t enjoy talking to the man. He wasn’t sure if it was because he hated answering questions about his background, or if it was a reaction to the way Vander Mayer had treated Su-ming. There had been something proprietorial in his attitude, as if she was merely an adjunct to the car, the flat, the jets.
‘Well, you won’t have to work again, not after the money I’m giving you.’
Cramer smiled bitterly. ‘Yeah. Early retirement.’
Su-ming came back into the sitting room with the metal case. She handed it to Vander Mayer, who acknowledged her with a smile.
‘What are you going to do with it?’ Cramer asked.
Vander Mayer sat down in one of the leather and chrome easy chairs and swung the case up onto his knees. ‘That depends,’ he said, clicking open the locks.
‘On what?’
‘First I get my people to test it. And if it’s what I’m told it is, I’ll be buying as much of it as I can get my hands on.’
‘And then?’
Vander Mayer took out the metal flask. He handled it reverently, as if it were a holy icon. ‘Then?’ Vander Mayer repeated, his eyes fixed on the flask.
‘Who do you sell it to then?’
Vander Mayer grinned. ‘To the highest bidder, Mike. To the highest bidder.’
‘No matter who?’
Vander Mayer put the flask back in the case. He closed the lid and then took a handkerchief from his pocket and carefully wiped his hands. ‘This is business, Mike. It’s a commodity like any other.’
‘It’s used in nuclear weapons,’ said Cramer.
Vander Mayer looked sharply across at Su-ming. She visibly flinched as if he’d struck her. Vander Mayer smiled and looked back at Cramer. ‘So is steel, Mike. Are you suggesting that we stop selling steel?’ He put the case on the floor beside his chair and crossed his legs.
‘There’s a big difference.’
Vander Mayer shrugged dismissively and put the handkerchief back in his top pocket, taking care to arrange it neatly. ‘Eye of the beholder, Mike. Eye of the beholder. Besides, there are lots of potential uses for it.’
‘Are you saying that it won’t be used in a bomb?’
Vander Mayer leaned forward, his elbows on his knees. ‘No, I’m not saying that. But that’s not really any of your business, is it?’ He raised his eyebrows and nodded, as if trying to get Cramer to agree. Cramer just looked at him, unable to conceal his disdain. Vander Mayer stood up and went over to a steel and glass drinks cabinet. He picked up a bottle of twenty-year-old malt whisky and unscrewed the cap. He poured himself a large measure. ‘Do you want a Scotch?’ he asked Cramer. He smiled thinly. ‘Or is it Scottish?’
Cramer shook his head. He’d lost the taste for whisky. He’d pretty much lost the taste for everything. The telephone rang and Su-ming picked up the receiver. She listened and frowned, then put her hand over the mouthpiece. She looked at Vander Mayer. ‘You have a visitor downstairs. A Mr Jackman.’
‘Jackman?’ said Cramer. ‘Bernard Jackman?’
Su-ming nodded.
‘You know him?’ asked Vander Mayer.
‘He’s the FBI profiler,’ said Cramer. ‘Well, former FBI profiler, actually. He’s the guy who profiled the assassin who was after you. I wonder what he wants?’
‘There’s one way to find out,’ said Vander Mayer. He gestured at Su-ming. ‘Tell him to come up. I’d like to
