‘And the real waiter turned up dead?’ The Colonel opened his eyes again. He looked out of the window at the Conrad Hotel to his right. The Colonel was sitting in a disused apartment which had been requisitioned because of its proximity to the tower block which housed the Vander Mayer apartment. In an adjoining room sat two SAS troopers in leather jackets and jeans, drinking coffee and watching television with the sound turned down. Another trooper was sitting at the stern of a large motor yacht moored in the marina below. The trooper had dressed for the part in a white turtleneck sweater and blue jeans and was drinking from a can.
‘In a storeroom. Garrotted.’
‘How many of your men saw the killer?’
‘Two.’
‘And that’s the only description you have?’
‘He was wearing a false moustache and a wig,’ said Greenberg defensively. ‘We’re not even sure about the eye colour. One of our guys thought he might be Mexican but that was probably the moustache. Do you think it was our man?’
‘How close did he get to Discenza?’
‘He stood right next to him. Why?’
‘Because if he was that close and it was our killer, he’d have used a gun. A shot to the face, a shot to the heart. Business as usual. Did anyone else get hurt?’
‘Nah. He pushed in the trolley, opened a couple of beers, and left. Two minutes later Discenza was dead. We’ll have the poison identified by tomorrow.’
‘It doesn’t sound like the man we’re looking for,’ said the Colonel. ‘As far as we know, he’s never used poison.’
‘You know what it means if it was,’ said Greenberg.
‘Yes, Dan. I know what it means.’ If the assassin had discovered that Discenza had betrayed him, then the operation was blown. ‘Has Discenza got any other enemies?’
‘Like a dog’s got fleas. He’s crossed a lot of heavy guys in Miami.’
‘The sort of people who’d be prepared to kill a man in protective custody?’
‘It’s possible.’
‘Possible or probable?’
There was a long silence, then Greenberg exhaled. ‘I’m not sure what it is you want me to say,’ he said. ‘We fucked up. I don’t know who knocked off Discenza. It could have been the killer, it could have been someone hired by people in Miami, hell, it could even be someone from out of town. And the way things are going I don’t think we’re going to be any the wiser, not with the description we’ve got. It’s got to be your call. If you want to cancel the operation, we’ll understand.’
The Colonel tapped the receiver against his ear. ‘No, we go ahead,’ he said. ‘As things stand, we put Discenza’s death down to bad timing. If our killer doesn’t attempt to carry out the Vander Mayer contract within two weeks, we’ll know then that he’s onto us.’
‘Agreed,’ said Greenberg.
‘Can you keep a lid on the situation there, at least for two weeks?’
‘No problem,’ said Greenberg. ‘We’re doing the autopsy in-house and no one else knows that Discenza’s dead.’
‘Good,’ said the Colonel. ‘I don’t want to be accused of trying to teach my grandmother to suck eggs, but you might want to look into how the killer discovered Discenza’s location.’
‘It’s been taken care of,’ said Greenberg. ‘If I get anything, you’ll be the first to know. Oh yeah, by the way, I got our guys to cross-check with previous killings, to see if the same method had been used before the current rash of killings. The guys at Quantico had already done it, but I did a check internally, just to be one hundred per cent sure.’
‘And?’
‘And it’s just like I said, there’s no match. Not recently, anyway. There was one guy about ten years back, he used to kill his victims with a shot to the head and one to the heart, but he’s in a maximum security prison. And he’s a psycho, he used to torture his victims with a wire coat hanger. There’s no way he’s our man. He’s been well-documented by the profiling boys.’
‘Any chance of you sending me the file?’
‘Sure, I’ll have his details faxed to you, but you’ll be wasting your time. You could ask Jackman, I think he was with the Bureau at the time they were interviewing him. How’s Jackman getting on?’
‘He said he was off to South Africa to investigate the assassination there. He gave us a briefing before he went.’
‘Was he much help?’
‘Frankly, not really. What he gave us was academically interesting, but what we need is a description rather than a psychological profile.’
‘Yeah, I know what you mean. But I bet you a month’s pay, when we get the guy, we’ll find that he matches Jackman’s profile exactly. He’s one of the best. The boys at Quantico really like him. We’re lucky to have him on the case.’
‘Well I’m sure that his bill will reflect his ability,’ said the Colonel dryly.
‘It’s not the money,’ said Greenberg. ‘Jackman approached us offering to help, we didn’t go after him. He’s working on a book about serial killers and I think he reckons the publicity will get him onto the bestseller list. Then there’s his professional pride. He wants to be the best, or at least to be acknowledged as the best. You know the type. It’s like he’s got something to prove.’
‘Yes, I know the type.’ The SAS was full of such men, men who were driven to prove that they were the best. Mike Cramer had been such a man, willing to push himself beyond the limits of normal human endurance for no other reason than to demonstrate that he could. It wasn’t only Cramer’s terminal condition which had led him to accept the mission that the Colonel had offered. Cramer’s willingness to go up against the killer was also a result of his desire to demonstrate that he was as good as ever, a bid to recapture his glory days. Yes, Cramer and Jackman had much in common, though Cramer’s quest was likely to result in his own death while Jackman was only risking his professional reputation.
The Colonel stared at his chess computer as he replaced the receiver. The cursed machine had forced him into a corner, and there was nothing that the Colonel hated more than to have his options decided for him. He stared balefully at the pieces and stroked the side of his often-broken nose. He was no longer enjoying the game. It had stopped being fun, it was no longer even an intellectual challenge. Now it was war.
The boy stared at the television with unseeing eyes. It was some detective show set in San Francisco but he wasn’t really watching. He kept on looking up at the ceiling, expecting to hear the thud of the walking stick on the bedroom floor at any minute. He stood up and paced around the room, his mind in turmoil. On the television, the two cops arrested a black guy, threw him against the car and put handcuffs on him.
He went into the hall and listened, but all he could hear was his own breathing. He went back into the living room and looked at the brass clock on the mantelpiece. It was half past four. His father wouldn’t be home for another two hours. The boy swallowed. He looked up at the ceiling again, then back at the clock. He stood stock still for a full five minutes, then tiptoed upstairs and knocked timidly on the door to his mother’s bedroom. There was no reply. He pressed his ear against the door and listened, his brow creased into a frown. He could hear his mother moaning. Slowly, as if afraid it would bite, he reached for the doorknob and turned it.
His mother was lying diagonally across the bed, one arm draped across the pillows, the other across her stomach. Her mouth was wide open and frothy, white fluid was trickling between her lips and dribbling onto the sheets. As the boy watched, horrified, she coughed and turned her head to the side. Her chest was heaving and she arched her back as if she was being electrocuted. Her hands were clenching and unclenching seemingly with a life of their own. The medicine bottle lay next to her. It was empty.
The boy walked over to the side of the bed and stood looking down on his mother. She began to mumble and he bent down to listen but the sounds that were coming from her mouth didn’t make any sense. She’d knocked one of her pillows onto the floor and the boy picked it up. It was stained with sick and saliva and spotted with blood. The boy clutched the pillow to his chest and closed his eyes, promising God that he’d do anything if only He’d spare his mother. He opened his eyes. The white stuff was coming from her nose. It was the milk, the boy realised. The milk he’d given her. He climbed up onto the bed and knelt over her, tears running down his cheeks. He kissed her on the forehead, lightly, then put the pillow over her face and pressed down with all his might.