On Scope: A Sniper Novel

by Jack Coughlin

  The April sunshine was warm on her shoulders as Mannix fell into her stride, matching that of the postlunchtime crowd, hundreds of people on the same street, heading in both directions and illegally crossing between cars as taxi horns blared. A hawker selling fake Rolex watches had set up his open briefcase beside a parking meter, and a boxy kiosk newsstand overflowing with newspapers and magazines squatted on the corner. A subway rumbled by underfoot, shaking the metal sidewalk grate. She flowed through the crowd, never so much as brushing a shoulder or an elbow. Moving alone in a sullen crowd was a special New York thing; she loved it.

  Her rhythm was suddenly broken when a tall, clean-shaven man with dark hair and bright blue eyes zigged when he should have zagged, and they were doing the foot-to-foot sidestep dance before he actually bumped hard into her. He grabbed her right shoulder, as if to steady himself, smiled, and muttered, “Excuse me. Sorry.” Djahid Rebiane hurried on. No one had noticed the bump, and she was ready to give the automatic glare and maybe a shouted curse—Fucking moron!—but the words didn’t come. Her momentum kept her moving forward; then a pain like none she had ever felt tore at her insides and her steps faltered and slowed and she grabbed her expensive purse hard as she sank to the pavement on her knees, and bright colors mingled in her swirling vision and I’m hurt, I’m hurt, I’m hurt somebody help me screamed in her head, but no words came from her mouth, only gurgling blood. She hit the sidewalk on her right side and rolled onto her back in a spasm of pain, and the moving crowd opened to accept the newly occupied space and kept moving, texting and talking on their cell phones.

  The last thing Mannix Dillon ever saw was a beautiful canopy of light over the towers of lower Manhattan.

  * * *

  UPTOWN in the West Seventies, Yanis Rebiane was sharing a Central Park bench alongside an ambitious young investment banker, handing him a business card and finishing the pitch. “As a token of my goodwill, allow me to give you the name of a German company that is facing disaster. It’s trading somewhere in the fifties right now but is going to nosedive about thirty points.”

  Peter McNamara had curly brown hair and big teeth and was itching to close this deal to become the money transfer point for a slice of that outside money being pumped into Spain. Two years out of Wharton, as an anonymous Wall Street drone, he was paid well enough for him to wear this blue suit from last year’s end-of-summer discount rack at Barney’s, but Peter thought of himself as more of a tailored Brooks Brothers kind of guy, with a pair of handcrafted J. M. Westons on his feet. He had no family money, but he was smart and willing to work harder than anybody else, and cut a few corners, for the right price. Arab money spent as well as American money. Show confidence!

  He read the card, then stuck it in an inside pocket. “You know that one of my specialties is midcap internationals, Mr. Blanco, and I am always looking for undervalued companies that show growth potential. So I’m familiar with this one. From what I remember of the latest quarterlies, it is not in any trouble at all.”

  Yanis had not been entirely truthful with Mannix Dillon. He indeed was quite concerned about the possible material that had been scooped out of the villa belonging to Cristobál Jose Bello. The strike showed the tradecraft of professionals, not some waterfront toughs. Only Allah, praise be unto his name, knew what secrets Bello had memorialized on his hard drives, all of which were gone. Yanis had to assume the worst case, that they were being unraveled somewhere, possibly by intelligence agencies—American most likely, but the special forces from the U.K. and Spain were also possibilities. Nothing had leaked to the press, indicating it was a tightly run operation.

  Certainly there would have been some record of transactions with Dillon’s BQM Private Advisers. That was why Rebiane’s son, Djahid, had just bumped into her on Wall Street and shoved an eight-inch blade between her ribs, digging around to cause maximum damage and leaving her staggering to die on the busy sidewalk. BQM had been a handy and efficient contact, but Yanis was confident that the avaricious Peter McNamara, with his country-boy smile and big-city tastes, could take her place. It had been a mistake to allow Mannix to know his real name, a mistake he would not repeat.

  To McNamara, Yanis Rebiane would be Carlos Blanco, and he looked around the sidewalk for people who seemed out of place before speaking again. “The roof is caving in on them, due to a class-action lawsuit that is as good as lost even before it has been filed. Loans are already being called, and the company is hiding the troubling data. Bankruptcy in two months at the outside, and the chairman yesterday failed in a suicide attempt.”

  “They’ve been cooking their books?” McNamara’s smile grew to include a large expanse of healthy pink gums above the teeth.

  “A short sale might be a good investment.”

  Peter McNamara was thinking the same thing. With such access, he could reap a fortune. Making the biggest deal of his life, he agreed to Mr. Blanco’s terms for a future relationship.

  9

  MADRID, SPAIN

  THE FIRST MORNING of surveillance broke with a serene sky that polished the streets of the old city with the glow of promise for still another new day. They could only hope it would last. It rained a lot in April, when a downpour seemed always just over the horizon.

  When Juan de Lara, still in his pajamas, opened the French doors that led onto the little balcony of his apartment, he stepped outside for a moment to enjoy the view of the capital and breathe deeply, huffing fresh air deep into his lungs. Marta was still sprawled on the creamy silk sheets with her dark hair fanned on the pillow, but de Lara had to go to work. He was eager to get out and about, for today he was to collect another wire transfer for a hundred thousand U.S. dollars for his personal account from Mannix Dillon at BQM to spread around Spain like a political lubricant.

  He noticed that he was not the only early bird this morning, for a petite woman down the block was wrestling with a tripod, a large sketchbook, and a small valise of her paints and brushes. She was facing away from him, probably setting up to catch the morning light on the dome of the Almudena Cathedral over on Calle Bailén. Artists seemed to love the massive architecture of the cathedral, which took more than a century to build and had not been consecrated until 1993, but de Lara thought the bulky gray building was somewhat grotesque, a new pretender in a land of antiquity. The Muslims might have something to say about that in the future, for beneath the ornate cathedral were the ruins of a mosque.

  He was dressed and out of the front door in thirty minutes, strolling briskly, his big stomach rocking back and forth with each step. The fat man took his usual table at a sidewalk café and sat alone for fifteen minutes to read both El País and El Mundo del Siglo Veintiuno while enjoying a thick coffee-and-milk mixture with sugar around the rim and a shot of brandy. The carajillo tasted so good that he had two more. He read that police had been forced to fire rubber bullets into a crowd of demonstrators yesterday, which he considered even better news than the 3–nil soccer score, Real Madrid over AC Milan. When finished with his liquid breakfast, he walked to his office.

  Kyle Swanson followed.

  * * *

  AT ONE O’CLOCK, the city began to shut down for siesta, and de Lara made his leisurely way back to the apartment, taking a taxi all the way to the door. The little artist was still at her tripod, proving that she was not a native. Nobody but sub-Britons and Americans avoided the time-honored habit of the siesta, taking a break during the long day. He noticed that the woman was young and pretty, with blond hair pinned up beneath a bright green kerchief, and wondered what she was painting. Artists were strange people, he thought. They didn’t necessarily draw what other people saw. He went inside and found Marta waiting, eager for his return. She had not even gotten out of her bedclothes from the morning, and he put on his pajamas and crawled in beside her, nuzzling the midnight hair before falling asleep.

  “He’s down for the count.” Swanson’s voice came to Coastie through a flesh-colored earbud hidden beneath the bright scarf. “
I’m on deck, so you go ahead and break down your stuff and get out of here. We don’t want you getting too much of his attention.”

  Beth Ledford took out her cell phone for a quick call, and by the time she was packed up, a hired car pulled to the side and Lady Pat opened the door. She slid inside while the driver, part of her security guard, stashed the art gear. “I did great work today,” Coastie said. “I smeared some blue paint on the canvas, along with red paint and yellow paint, and drew circles and stuff. A nice lady stopped and asked what I was painting, and I said I was an impressionist.”

  “Let’s get some lunch and continue your education, child,” said Pat. “I’m taking you through the Prado this afternoon, where you will see the works of El Greco, Goya, Velázquez, and other Spanish artists. Everything from monsters and lunatics to court portraits and naked ladies.”

  “Our target appears totally unconcerned,” Coastie said, scrubbing her fingers with some damp wipes.

  “Wealth does that to some people, Beth. They view themselves as undefeatable sharks in the money sea, creatures with no natural enemies.”

  “I mean, he’s trying to overthrow the government, but first he’s going home for nappies with his babe? What kind of crazy is that?”

  Lady Pat recognized the tone. Coastie was working through the mechanics without knowing it. “These things never fly in a straight line. You just do your part of the job and don’t get sidetracked with conflicting thoughts.”

  “Should we go pick up Kyle?”

  “Leave Kyle alone. He’s at work, almost like a snake coiling in a corner and getting ready to strike. You and I have to do the Prado now.”

  * * *

  AT THREE O’CLOCK, de Lara awoke and once again padded to the balcony in his slippers and pajamas, leaving Marta still snoring slightly. He threw the doors apart with a grand flourish and stepped outside again, smiling. The city was still there, beckoning him. The little artist was gone. He stretched, opening both arms wide, and thought about the cash that had come in that morning. There was a new source, not Dillon, along with a note that the new contact was another American, Peter McNamara.

  * * *

  DAY TWO was a repeat of Day One, for Juan de Lara was a thorough creature of habit, and they tracked him with ease from morning until after siesta.

  The young artist was back at her easel on the street below early that morning, again facing the cathedral dome, and the mogul crossed over to walk by her on his way to the coffee and newspapers. She was cute, no doubt, and he said hello to her in English. She glanced up and briefly smiled but said nothing in return. Her canvas looked like a mishmash of colors, but what did he know about art? Later, when he returned for siesta, he wondered if he should make a more direct approach. Artists never had any money, and maybe a generous amount might lure her into bed with him and Marta for an afternoon. By the time he stepped onto the balcony right at three o’clock, she was gone again.

  While Beth and Pat went to the Centro de Arte Reina Sofía to view the Picasso and Dalí collections, Swanson roamed the blocks around the apartment with a Canon camera around his neck, snapping photos like a tourist, and was in position at three to snap de Lara in his sleepwear. He also had a laser range finder, a GPS locator, and a wind meter, and he carefully measured and drew up a sniper range card.

  De Lara had no security whatsoever. It would have been easy just to walk up and shoot him, but getting away after that might be impossible. The police of Madrid and Spanish security forces had stepped up their defensive posture since Islamic terrorists in 2004 killed 191 people on four trains, and Kyle had seen numerous cops cruising the avenues at random, while security cameras hung everywhere. An escape and evasion route had to be planned as well as the hit.

  Swanson was not arrogant enough to think that such increased vigilance might not have spotted him. Having done such countersurveillance himself, he spent a lot of time that afternoon watching for watchers. A broad window in a jewelry store mirrored the opposite side of the street; sudden stops and reversing his route would make any tail duck for cover; going into a store and stopping behind a counter just inside would force a follower to hesitate long enough to be noticed; and changing lines on the Madrid Metro or swapping taxis made it almost impossible for only one or two people to keep him in view. He saw no suspicious people or cars behind him.

  The street was a broad hive of buildings, mostly residential apartments and many ground-level shops. Windows and doorways galore offered opportunities which he bypassed. Swanson had decided to take down de Lara at three o’clock the following afternoon, so he was looking for a secure platform with a direct line of sight to the balcony. There was no hope of anything from a window directly across the street unless they risked breaking into a private apartment or a store, which heightened the odds of a police response. The possibility of taking a position on the rooftop of the opposite building was also discarded; sloping red tiles almost guaranteed failure.

  He walked along straight for a while to create a channel that would stretch out any surveillance, then made a sharp left turn, a right at the next corner, and left again. No familiar faces or automobiles were tracking him.

  A final wide detour brought him up the next street over from the de Lara place. The value of the property in such an exclusive area had overcome the depression, and an old building was being renovated. Kyle saw the opportunity. Checking his map, he counted his steps from the west corner until he was standing at exactly the distance from the west corner of de Lara’s street to the front door of his apartment. The construction area was precisely on the needed spot.

  During siesta, the workers had left the site unattended, and Kyle slipped beneath a yellow tape that cordoned off the building and went inside. He stood still, taking in the sights and smells and sounds. Empty. A staircase led from the ground floor all the way to the top, and he went up, his eyes searching everywhere for potential risk. A door frame beckoned at the top floor and he went in, pulling out a small pair of binos. Standing at the window, he had a clear and direct view of the balcony of Juan de Lara.

  Turning around, he examined the far wall of the room in which he stood. It was back far enough to be in shadow from the midday sun, and carpentry debris littered the floor. He liked it. This would do. He used a broom to give the area a quick sweep and brush away his footprints.

  There would be no time to loiter after the shot, because the Madrid residents would be on the move again, showing up for their afternoon shifts, but he counted on the laborers on this job to milk their siestas for as long as possible. He and Beth would not need much time to break down their gear and go down the stairs after taking the shot. The entire ground floor was wide open except for machinery and tools, wallboard, and paint, with multiple points of egress. He made a note to arrange for his CIA contact to park a 4x4 truck two blocks from the site, so they could get over to the M-30 and out of town.

  It should work. Then the rain started, a few gentle drops that increased steadily in strength before he waved down a cab. It was slashing at the rooftops and flooding the streets by the time he reached their hotel. Night came early, preceded by thick and rolling storm clouds and curtains of falling water.

  10

  MADRID, SPAIN

  KYLE SWANSON rapped on the door of the hotel room, and when Beth Ledford opened it, he stepped inside. She closed and locked it behind him and put her pistol back on the little table beside a vase of flowers. “This rain looks like it will be hanging around for a while,” he said.

  Beth’s face was flushed, she had her hair swept back in a ponytail and was in a cutoff T-shirt that exposed her tight midriff, above cotton Victoria’s Secret pajama bottoms, gray with PINK in big letters across the butt. No bra, and her chest heaved from hard breathing. Damned near naked, he thought.

  She stretched, ignoring his disdainful look. The usual man-woman sexual tension was there, but neither acknowledged it, knowing it wasn’t going to happen, not tonight or any other night. There would be no “fr
iends with benefits” between the two predators. Coastie said, “I was watching the Weather Channel while I exercised. The forecast is for more rain over the next two days. De Lara may change his routine.”

  Swanson went straight to the big window and looked out at the downpour that was sweeping over Madrid. “I found a good site for a hide,” he said. “A direct line of sight to his balcony. If this weather holds sour, then we need to be ready in case the target decides to run up to his sunny villa and play golf instead of waiting here. I want to get set things up tonight. Tomorrow may be too late.”

  She walked up beside him and looked out, crossing her arms. Lightning bolts split the sky to the west. “Kinda dirty weather for a precision shot, Kyle.”

  “It’s only about two hundred yards, Coastie. I’ve made up a good range card, and we’ll adjust for conditions once we are in position.” There was no discussion about who would take the shot; that belonged to Swanson. “OK. I’m going to get cleaned up and pack my gear, and you do the same. Boots and jeans, and be ready to stay there all night. Meet you at the truck in thirty mikes.”

  They left the hotel by different doors at different times, pulling dark rain-cape hoods over their heads and with backpacks dangling from their shoulders. The few other pedestrians outside were all carrying wide umbrellas and hurrying to shelter, their faces down in the blowing rain, and no one gave them a second look. Kyle was waiting behind the wheel of the stubby black Renault Koleos SUV when Beth threw her pack in the rear and climbed into the passenger’s seat.

  They were already mentally in the mode of special operators in unfriendly territory, although downtown Madrid was not at all similar to Pakistan or Afghanistan. To be discovered, arrested, and exposed would be a major diplomatic setback that Washington could ill afford. They put on latex gloves, which would prevent leaving fingerprints, and black wool beanies, which they would pull down to become masks with eye and mouth holes once they reached the building. In addition to the long waterproof capes and hoods, the extra gear would make them little more than shadows in the storm.