by Scott Blade
They weren’t wrong.
One of the commentators on the video said that the Valkyrie took only seconds to put together and to disassemble. Widow counted and the guy wasn’t lying. It wasn’t exactly short seconds, but the whole thing could be set up in less than two minutes in the hands of the right operator. Maybe even less than a minute.
Widow stopped the video, went back to the video of Lenny being murdered and watched it. Then studied the timestamps. He played the other camera angle from the target, watched the black figure go by again. He studied this timestamp.
He sat back and calculated the timestamps, the time it took to disassemble the rifle and place it into the backpack and then calculated the yards from the point of the shot to the target, factored in that it took long to walk the twenty-seven hundred yards. He used the speed it looked like he was walking and made some of it was rough estimations.
Cassidy said, “What?”
“It took the killer forty-one seconds to take the rifle apart, put it in the bag, and walk across this camera.”
CHAPTER 22
“NOW, TELL US WHO can get this rifle in country?” Widow asked. “Who would the killer go to for it?”
Cassidy looked at Gregor. The former military. The unit’s gun expert.
Gregor said, “The man to get this in Cork would be Cathery.”
“Who is he?” Tiller asked.
“He runs a pub on the end of town.”
What end? Widow thought.
Cassidy said, “He’s the biggest smuggler within two hundred miles.”
“Why is he still operating?”
“We haven’t been able to touch him.”
Cassidy said, “He’s got connections to The Cause.”
Tiller asked, “The Cause?”
Widow looked at him.
“The IRA.”
Cassidy nodded.
“That’d be the one. He’s connected.”
Gregor said, “Not highly connected. Just enough to keep his nose clean. As long as he doesn’t give us any reasons.”
Widow nodded. It was the standard balance found in any ecosystem. Every community on the planet had one. There was crime and there was order. And there was always a balance.
Cassidy said, “If the killer used the Valkyrie, that’s the man who would’ve gotten it for him. Let’s go see him.”
Tiller stood up and said, “I need to use the bathroom or the toilet or whatever you call it.”
Gregor nodded and said, “I’ll show him. Meet you downstairs.”
They all stood up. Cassidy closed her laptop and tucked it under the same arm as earlier, revealing the same Walther P99C in a shoulder rig.
Widow watched.
Gregor escorted Tiller out of the room, down the hall, and to the men’s toilet.
Widow followed Cassidy out of the lab and out past the corridor and the glass and to the elevator.
“Let’s take the stairs up.”
Widow nodded and they went up the stairs to her office.
The office was empty. They walked in. Cassidy set the closed laptop on her desk and spun around. Widow stayed in the doorway. She walked up to him, stopped at the center of the room.
“You’re not one of them,” she said.
“One what?”
“One of them.”
Widow stayed quiet.
“Be honest, Widow.”
Widow stayed quiet.
“You’re not with Tiller and those other two guys.”
“I came with them. You picked me up at the airport.”
“You know what I mean. You’re not with the CIA?”
“How d’ya figure?”
“You don’t look like a CIA agent.”
“What does a CIA agent look like?”
She took a breath and said, “Tiller.”
She paused.
“He looks like a spy. Not you.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment.”
“It is one. Spies don’t look like James Bond, you know. Not in real life. James Bond is handsome, dashing, suave.
“There’s nothing suave about Tiller.”
“I think that’s the point. He’s not supposed to be memorable.”
“But in a way, he is. He’s not repulsive, but he’s on the same street, in a douche way.”
“Douche?”
“Yeah, like he dresses to impress, but it’s all cheap and inauthentic. Like a car salesman. He’s slimy. He sticks out because he throws his weight around like he owns the place. And he doesn’t really give a shit about helping us catch this killer.”
I’m not here to help you either, Widow thought.
“He’s corporate. That’s all.”
She nodded.
“Yeah, he’s corporate. He’s just a suit.”
Widow nodded, said, “You know Bond wasn’t originally supposed to be dashing either.”
“How’s that?”
“Take his name. James Bond.”
She stayed quiet.
“It’s a plain, forgettable, common name. James Bond. Could be anybody. That’s what Ian Fleming intended. He wanted Bond to be a superspy who was forgettable, unnoticeable. A chameleon. Because that’s what you gotta be.”
She stepped closer to him, closer to the door. She stopped about a foot from him.
“Forgettable name, huh? Like Jack Widow?”
“That’s my real name.”
“Sure it is.”
“It is. Given to me by my own mom.”
Cassidy nodded and reached past him, switched off the light. Brushed his chest with her hand, on purpose.
“Let’s go.”
Cassidy led him out of the office, down the hall back to the elevator. They rode down to the motor pool, where Tiller and Gregor were waiting, but there was no sign of Rosencrantz and Guildenstern.
They waited near the same parked Range Rover that Cassidy had used to pick them up at the airport.
Widow stepped over to Tiller and stood there.
Cassidy said, “Where are your guys?”
“They’re going to meet with us later.”
She shot him a look.
“We’ll catch up to them later.”
She shrugged and they got in the Range Rover and took off out of the motor pool.
CHAPTER 23
THE FOREIGNER and the young girl walked out of Malcolm’s hobbit house, with his keys, and stepped over to his truck.
The Foreigner walked to the bed of the truck, just over the driver’s side tire. He reached in and fumbled around and found a shotgun. He took it out. It was a Mossberg, no stock. He pumped it, twice, ejected a shell. Buckshot.
He reloaded the shell and checked the rest. Then he took the gun into the cab of the truck with him. The young girl opened up the other door and climbed in and shoved a tool bag and a bunch of paper out onto the driveway. She sat down and slammed the door.
The Foreigner smiled at her and slid the Mossberg down in the footwell between them.
“Can I listen to the radio?” she asked, in a foreign language.
He responded in the same language.
“Of course.”
He smiled at her and she leaned in and fumbled with the old radio knobs until she found a station that worked. It was Irish music, she guessed. She continued on until she found an American country music station. She left it there.
He looked at her.
“I like this music.”
He shrugged, started the engine and backed out of the drive.
“Where to now?”
“We’ve got another loose end to take care of?”
“Does it really matter?”
“Yes. When you’re good at something you have to act professional.”
“But is it professional to kill the guy who sold us the gun we needed?”
He nodded.
“It’s more professional to protect your identity. We have to assume that the cops are onto us now. No reason to leave them witnesses.”
&nb
sp; “Shouldn’t we wear gloves then?”
“No need. Our fingerprints won’t show up anywhere.”
She nodded.
He said, “But in the future, we might have to. On other jobs.”
“When we’re on a job.”
“Yes, when we’re on a job. After we get established, then we won’t have to kill our allies. Then we can cover our tracks better.”
She nodded, like a pupil learning from a master.
“Who’s next? Who’s the next target?”
“I told you we have to go back to the source and take him out.”
“That’s the loose end. I mean who’s the next target?”
The Foreigner smiled.
“The next target will be fun.”
CHAPTER 24
THIRTY MINUTES LATER, Widow and Cassidy and Tiller and Gregor sat in the Range Rover; the rain had been a thing all morning. It reminded Widow of Seattle, and a little bit of DeGorne.
Cork was like a smaller Seattle, he thought. Which made him think of coffee. They were parked across and down the street from a pub called Cathery’s.
Tiller asked, “Why don’t we just go in?”
Gregor looked back from the passenger seat and said, “They don’t open until noon.”
“So?”
“So, he may not be there yet.”
“He’s probably there.”
“Yeah. Maybe. But we can’t go giving away our presence. Not yet.”
Widow asked, “Why not?”
“Look, this is how we do things in Ireland. Okay? It’s called a stakeout.”
Cassidy reached up and adjusted the rearview mirror.
She said, “Today’s Sunday.”
Tiller asked, “What’s that mean?”
Widow looked into the mirror at Cassidy’s eyes. They were beautiful, hard to take his eyes off, hard to recall whom he had just been thinking about.
He said, “This is Ireland.”
Tiller said, “What’s that got to do with anything?”
“Cathery is Catholic, deep Catholic. It’s before noon on a Sabbath. He won’t be there yet.”
“What? He’s at church?”
Widow shrugged.
“That’s where Catholics go on Sunday.”
“Why don’t we just go pick him up at church?”
Both Gregor and Cassidy looked back at Tiller.
“We respect the house of God around here, Mr. Tiller,” Gregor said.
“Are you serious?”
Widow said, “Relax. He’ll come around.”
“I thought Catholics don’t work on Sunday.”
Cassidy said, “He ain’t that Catholic. He sells weapons that kill people, remember?”
Tiller said, “Plus, he owns a bar. Hello? He sells alcohol to the public. Isn’t that a no-no in the Bible? Or whatever?”
Cassidy smiled.
“Not in Ireland.”
Widow smiled.
They were quiet for five long minutes.
Widow asked, “What time is it?”
Cassidy looked at her watch. Gregor looked for a clock face on the radio, only there was only a digital readout of the radio station, which had the volume turned all the way down.
Cassidy said, “It’s a quarter after eleven.”
“You know what we’re missing for a stakeout?”
No one answered.
“Coffee.”
Cassidy said, “There’s a café up the block.”
“Great. Let’s go there. I could eat anyway.”
Gregor looked at her.
“Someone should stay here.”
She nodded.
Tiller said, “I’ll stay.”
Gregor said, “I’ll stay too. You need an official cop here.”
“You guys want anything?”
They both shook their heads.
“You keep the Rover,” Cassidy said.
Gregor nodded and she twisted in her seat, looked back at Widow.
“There’s an umbrella back there. Behind your seat.”
Widow nodded and undid his seatbelt and wrenched back, searched with one hand, found the umbrella. It was a long thing, black with a cane handle at the base.
He grabbed it and showed it to her.
“Let’s go.”
Widow handed her the umbrella first. She paused and refused it.
“You take it. I can’t hold it over your head.”
He nodded and they both stepped out into the pouring rain.
THE STREETS WERE COBBLESTONE. Widow could hear soft music playing in the distance. It echoed over the alleyways. The rain beat down around them like a thumping chorus to the music. Like soft island drums.
He held the umbrella at the lowest height he could and still cover Cassidy, because of the height difference between them. He tried to balance it and still be able to see out from underneath it.
It wasn’t working out.
Cassidy noticed. She reached her arms around him, taking him off guard for a moment, but he didn’t reject her. She held onto his waist like they were on a honeymoon.
She said, “Relax. I’ll guide you.”
He relaxed.
“You trust me, right?”
“How can I not? You’re the police.”
“I am. I could arrest you. If I wanted to.”
“For what?”
She was quiet. They walked down the sidewalks and she stopped him and looked both ways, preparing to guide him across the street.
“Jaywalking?”
He followed her lead, across the street, over the cobblestone, though the pouring rain.
“Do you have jaywalking here?”
“We got it.”
They continued on, turning once, twice more, and crossing another street, all down hills, until they made it to a long walk that followed alongside a river.
He asked, “What’s this side town called?”
“We’re in Pope Quay. That’s the River Lee.”
He nodded, which moved the umbrella.
“Here we go.”
They stopped and he raised the umbrella. They went into a café that was more like a New York style coffeehouse. And it was called Book Shelf Café Coffeehouse. Which was confusing.
Widow guessed they embraced the hybrid combination of both a café and a coffeehouse. And when they entered, he realized it was also a bookstore. They had books shelved on walls and couches spread out near a fireplace and café tables. There was a long countertop with a glass display of bakery foods and roasts of local coffee, stocked in bags to choose from. They could be purchased wholesale or opened and brewed for a single cup, according to a sign on the countertop.
There were no wait staff. It was order as you go.
They went to the counter and ordered.
Cassidy picked up a large fruit bowl with heated syrup for dipping and a cappuccino, which came out all neat with foam shaped like an Irish shamrock, a touristy thing, obviously. Widow picked up an egg-and-bacon muffin, which they heated, and he ordered coffee, black. No cream. No sugar.
They sat near the last window on the street and ate their breakfasts. After he finished, she spoke.
“So you’re in the NSIS?”
“NCIS.”
“I know. It’s a joke.”
He nodded.
“I’m not in the NCIS. Not anymore.”
“But you were?”
“Right. Once upon a time.”
“Why are you here? You some kind of expert on snipers?”
He stayed quiet, took a pull from his coffee.
“You’re not gonna tell me?”
“I was just wondering.”
“What?”
“Are you using your looks to interrogate me?”
“How do you mean?”
“You must know that you are probably the best-looking woman to ever wear a badge here.”
She was quiet. Stared right at him, unfazed.
“You must use it all the time.”
“You
think I’m flirting with you to peel off information?”
“The thought crossed my mind.”
“Well, I’m not.”
“Okay.”
She drank some of her cappuccino, ruining the foam shamrock. He watched her, watched her lips, hoped it wasn’t obvious. Then he realized he could care less if she was trying to trick him or not.
“Why are you here?”
“Your department didn’t tell you anything?”
She shook her head.
“You already know what I know.”
“You figured Tiller for CIA.”
“That’s obvious. What about you?”
“What do you think?”
She said, “You’re an ex-cop. Got that. Now you’re a private investigator? Hired by Tiller because he needs your skills and, no offense, but he needs someone expendable.”
“Gee. Thanks.”
“I didn’t mean it as an insult. That’s doesn’t mean that you are. Just that’s what he thinks of you. I doubt he doesn’t think of ninety-nine-point-nine percent of the world’s population as expendable.”
Widow nodded.
“So, am I right?”
“About what?”
“Are you a private investigator?”
He shook his head.
“No. Not really.”
“So what do you do?”
“Nothing.”
“What?”
“I do nothing.”
She paused a beat and stared at him.
She said, “Everybody does something.”
“You know what a nomad is?”
She nodded.
“That’s me.”
“You’re itinerant?”
He shrugged.
“You don’t have a job?”
“Not in…” he said and stopped and looked up at the ceiling and counted on his fingers.
“Three-plus years.”
She said, “You’ve been unemployed for three years?”
He nodded, said, “When you say it like that, makes it sound like a bad thing.”
“Where do you live?”
“I live right here.”
“You live in Ireland?”
“Right now I do.”
“You’re pulling my leg.”
He shook his head.
“You have no job. You don’t live anywhere. So, what? You’re a drifter?”
“More of a nomad, but yeah. I’m a drifter.”
“No home?”
He nodded.
