Free The Double Tap (Stephen Leather Thrillers) by Stephen Leather Page B

protruding ears. Cramer was beginning to understand what the Colonel had meant when he’d said that they had plenty of descriptions but no real idea what the assassin looked like.
            He finished drying himself and then looked around for clean clothes. There was none, the chests of drawers and the wardrobes were empty. Cramer shrugged and pulled on the clothes he’d arrived in. It seemed that the Colonel hadn’t thought of everything.
            As he went down the main staircase he smelled bacon and when he walked into the dining hall the Colonel was already there, sitting at one of the long refectory tables and tucking into a fried breakfast. The Colonel picked up his coffee mug and nodded at the stainless steel serving trays which were lined up on a table by the door. ‘Help yourself,’ he said. ‘If there’s anything else you want, Mrs Elliott will get it for you. She’s quite a cook.’
            Cramer walked along the row of trays. There were fried eggs, scrambled eggs, crisp bacon, sausages, tomatoes, fried bread, even kippers, enough to feed a battalion. Cramer wasn’t hungry but he knew that he’d have to eat. He spooned some scrambled eggs onto a plate and went over to sit opposite the Colonel. Mrs Elliott bustled out of the kitchen carrying two steaming jugs. ‘Coffee or tea?’ she asked. She sniffed and Cramer had the distinct impression that she could smell the whisky on his breath.
            Cramer asked for tea. The Colonel waited until she’d gone back into the kitchen before asking Cramer how he’d slept. Cramer shrugged. ‘Same as usual,’ he said. The Colonel didn’t have to point out the bags under his eyes, Cramer had seen them staring back at him as he’d shaved.
            ‘Did you get a chance to read any of the files?’
            ‘Half a dozen, in detail.’
            The Colonel put down his mug of coffee. ‘Any thoughts?’
            Cramer shrugged and stirred his eggs with his fork. ‘Half of the hits were in the States, right? That suggests that the killer is an American.’
            ‘Maybe. Or it could imply that Americans are more willing to hire professionals to do their killings.’
            Cramer nodded. ‘I can’t work out why he shoots them in the face first. You know the drill. Two shots to the chest, then one to the head to make sure, if you have the time. But only if you have the time. In the Killing House it’s two chest shots, then on to the next target. We don’t have the luxury of head-shots.’
            ‘Which means what?’
            ‘Which means, I suppose, that he’s not SAS-trained,’ answered Cramer. ‘In fact, I can’t think of any Special Forces group which trains its people to go for head-shots.’
            ‘Perhaps he didn’t agree with the way he was trained,’ said the Colonel as Cramer put a forkful of eggs in his mouth and swallowed without chewing. ‘Remember, he’s always very close to the target. Within ten feet, often closer. At that range, head-shots are less chancy.’
            Cramer shrugged and stirred his eggs again. They were good scrambled eggs, rich and buttery with a hint of cheese, but he had no appetite. ‘It’s a question of training, though,’ he said. ‘If it’s drilled into you to kill one way, it’s damn difficult to do it any other way.’
            ‘We can talk that through with the profiler when he arrives,’ said the Colonel, placing his knife and fork together on the plate. As if by magic, Mrs Elliott appeared and whisked it away.
            ‘Profiler? What’s the deal there?’
            The Colonel wrapped his hands around his steaming mug. The dining hall was cavernous and the propane heater at the end of the table provided little in the way of warmth. ‘The man we’re looking for is a professional assassin, there’s no doubt about that. That’s how the police would look at it. A psychiatrist might take a different view.