by Lex Lander
The sun peeping over the skyline had as yet no warmth and the dew sparkled on the rare patches of grass like scattered gemstones. It was the sort of morning that takes a couple of years off your age and puts bounce in your step. It was his favourite time of the day.
His paces were even and measured. He counted them as he had counted up the slope from the Crillon house to the copse. At eight hundred exactly he stopped and turned towards the house. He could afford to be fifty paces out plus or minus and it would make no difference to the accuracy of his shooting. Anything more and he would lose maybe a millimetre of precision for every metre of distance. He would have to be out in his calculations by a hundred metres or more to miss altogether.
Apart from his indoor trials at Boghe’s chateau, he had zero first-hand experience of the Barrett. But he had worked with a variety of rifles in the past and so long as the sights were correctly set, the model, calibre, size and style of gun - unless it was of substandard manufacture - was a matter of indifference to him. The Barrett had several advantages over more conventional riflery. For a start its long barrel gave it greater range and a flatter trajectory. Its large calibre also meant that a clean kill was more likely. And its bipod provided stability. It was the ultimate assassin’s weapon.
Keeping hold of the gun, he one-handedly shook out the plastic sheet and spread it on the dry earth. He swung out the bipod legs and splayed them. He placed the gun carefully on the sheet, muzzle pointing towards the house. The bill of the forage cap shielded his eyes as he studied his targets. His vision was near twenty-twenty but at this distance the dummies were no more than pink smudges against the wall.
The sun was behind him and he could feel its growing heat on the back of his neck. The forecast was for twenty-five degrees Celsius, with a mistral predicted to arrive in the evening. He got down on his knees then on his belly. He removed the magazine and flipped the ten Winchester rounds it contained onto the plastic. Taking his time, he examined each one for flaws. It takes a lot of imperfection to make a cartridge jam and an absolute guarantee against a misfire doesn’t exist. But it was his custom and he stuck to it religiously. Satisfied that they were as good as factory-made ammunition would ever be (which, it has to be said, is pretty good), he reloaded and refitted the magazine. His last act of preparation was to transfer the ear muffs from his neck to his ears.
The two sound suppressors Boghe had supplied were identical and not designed for longevity - a truly efficient silencer never is. Presently he would test the one he had brought with him, then discard it. To begin with he would fire the gun unmuffled.
At a range of eight hundred metres, which is long bordering on extreme, he expected to achieve a 6-inch grouping with all shots. But the object of this expedition was not to check out his shooting skills - though it would serve to reaffirm them; it was to put the weapon through its paces in ‘field’ conditions and above all to set up the sights for optimum results.
He tucked the stock with its soft recoil pad into his armpit. He wrapped his fingers almost lovingly around the pistol grip. His body was completely relaxed, his breathing regular and light. He flipped open the hinged covers of the Ubertl mil-dot recticle scope and set it to full magnification. A squint down it brought the dummies up close, the equivalent of less than a hundred metres. He sighted on the left hand one. He operated the cocking lever and a round slid without effort into the firing chamber. The wall of the house faced almost true east and was therefore brightly lit by the rising sun and the pink plastic of the dummies stood out well against the blackened crepi. He altered the position of the gun slightly, bringing the crosshairs to bear on the bull of his chalked target, roughly midway in the space between the two heads. His hold on the pistol grip tightened. His finger hooked around the rather wide trigger and commenced a gentle caress. The application of pressure to the trigger creates a reflex contraction in the tendons in the space between thumb and forefinger, so that the space between grip and trigger is caught in a clamp that grows tighter and tighter until the trigger mechanism trips and the process set in train by which the firing pin travels forwards and discharges the cartridge. It is this equalisation of pressure which ensures a true aim; conversely, the tendency among the unskilled to drag or jerk at the trigger guarantees a miss.
He breathed in, once-twice-three times, and held the air in his lungs. The crosshairs were so steady on the bull they might have been drawn there. A final squeeze of the trigger and the massive round sped on its way with a boom that sent every bird within five hundred metres erupting into the air and doubtless every mammal scurrying for cover. The recoil shoved him back several inches on the plastic sheet, the pad absorbing most of the kick. The report racketed off across the open ground with no echo and hardly any lingering resonance.
His opening shot struck the wall pretty much where he intended, raising a puff of crepi and brick dust. He examined it through the scope. The hole was not round but more or less trapezoid in shape. He hoped the bullet had been stopped within the ruined building and not travelled on through all the walls to emerge from the other side. Although properties in the vicinity were few and far between, there was always the danger of a stray bullet causing collateral damage. Barrett-propelled bullets travelled a heck of a distance.
For his second shot he placed the crosshairs on the hole. In theory, if his aim was perfect, the bullet would pass through without touching the brickwork. In practice, because no two rounds are exactly the same, this was an unlikely outcome. Again the pincer action of finger and thumb, the pressure on the trigger, the sensation of metal moving against metal. Boom! A much smaller puff this time. He checked it through the scope. A minuscule alteration to the shape of the hole was just detectable. It was a near-exact bull, the payoff of years of practice, a regime never neglected, never compromised. That, coupled with a first class weapon.
The third shot was a whisker to the right, chipping a notch in the blackened crepi. Numbers four to six passed through the same hole without visibly touching its sides. Seven was a repeat of three, but a smidgen lower. Eight to ten were spot on. Overall, it was an even better performance than he had hoped.
The outside of the muzzle was threaded to a depth of about 1cm to accommodate the arrowhead muzzle brake, which he now unscrewed and replaced with a silencer. The thread was coarse and required only three turns to lock it fast. The silencer was a top notch job made of fibre glass, and was maybe two inches in diameter and ten inches long. A pure silencer would have knocked about twenty per cent off the gun’s power and lowered the velocity of the bullet to below that of sound, which in turn would make for a less flat trajectory - at eight-hundred metres to target, an unacceptable penalty. Hence Lux had specified a sound suppressor, which has negligible retarding effect on the bullet’s velocity. It would deaden the crash of the discharge, though the supersonic crack of the bullet would still be audible. Crucially, the suppression of the blast would make it difficult for anyone in the target area to trace its source, thus alleviating the hazards he would face in the immediate sequel to the kill. It would buy him valuable seconds that could make the difference between escape and capture. Or death.
A major drawback of the most effective silencing products is their limited life. After six shots it would be finished, or at least unreliable, the internal baffles burned out. In this instance it was not a factor. Lux reckoned on taking out the President with one or at most two bullets. If he needed more the attempt would be a bust, no matter what.
Because of its lightness the silencer barely influenced the balance of the gun and any tendency to muzzle heaviness was negated by use of the bipod. When fitted the ten-inch tube added to the already considerable length, of course, though he would carry it separately and only screw it in place just before the kill.
Removing the ear muffs, he refilled the magazine, not rushing, inspecting every round. The brass cartridge case of one bullet had a shallow dimple; he returned it to his pocket. The gun reloaded and cocked, he sighted on the hole.
Holding his breath, he fired. A cough, no, a grunt, the gun’s kick no less vicious than normal; the smack of the round into the wall a good inch below the hole was as loud as the whip crack of the bullet travelling at the speed of Concorde. Surprised by the extent of the miss, he loosed off the next four rounds with great care and precision, noting that the last shot made more noise than its predecessors as the silencer began to degrade. He had produced about a three-inch grouping, thrown a shade low and to the right. Still within his personal tolerances. With the jeweller’s screwdriver he made a tiny adjustment to the horizontal hair to compensate for the trajectory curve. None at all for the throw to the right. It was insignificant, a couple of millimetres, and the other silencer might throw to the left and he wouldn’t know until the day.
To make sure he wasn’t imagining the deterioration in performance of the silencer he tested it to destruction: after five more rounds - a two-inch grouping - it was displaying a marked loss of efficiency as the sound suppression material was burned away by the muzzle blast.
His eardrums were ringing from the noise of the last few rounds, so he replaced the ear protection. Leaving the silencer in situ, he reloaded yet again and slammed the first round into the firing chamber. With the stock snuggling into his now-aching shoulder and his finger hovering over the trigger he positioned the crosshairs dead centre of the left hand dummy’s moon face. One, two, three breaths, hold it, squeeze the trigger. The now unsuppressed crash of the gun galvanised wildlife anew but Lux heard little of the commotion, cocooned as he was within his ear muffs. Through the telescope he watched dispassionately as the head was literally blown to fragments, leaving a neatly decapitated body.
‘Right on,’ he whispered to himself. ‘Say your prayers, Mister Chirac.’
He swung the barrel on to the other dummy and went through the now familiar procedure. The result was identical, the head bursting asunder as if a grenade had gone off inside it. It was a testimony to the awesome destructive force of the high calibre bullet.
By now the sun was well clear of the hills to the east and already signalling hot times to come. It was almost seven. Early risers would be up and about and maybe getting curious about the gunshots. He dragged the ear muffs off and left them around his neck. The birds were beginning to settle down once more. Now there was only the odd chirp, the drawl of an aircraft too high to be seen. Few realise how remote are some parts of the South of France. Even at the height of summer it is still possible to escape the milling multitudes by avoiding the coastline and the more obvious tourist attractions.
He hunted round for the fallen cartridge cases. It took a while to find them but he persevered until all twenty-two were accounted for. He dropped them in the shoulder bag with the remaining live rounds and carried bag, plastic sheet, gun and the other bits and pieces back to the car. Under the dash was a vacuum flask. He swigged the lime juice, kept chilled by fast shrinking ice cubes. He loaded the headless dummies in the trunk of the car, plus the larger fragments of plastic scattered about the immediate area, and stamped the smaller pieces into the earth. The only other evidence of his handicraft was the holes in the wall of the house. He yanked a tuft of grass from the soil and scrubbed at the holes with the root, artificially ageing them. The bullets themselves were long gone, scattered about the countryside.
A last look around and he was all through there, never to return.
* * *
All his efforts to secure an interview by consent having failed, Maurice Incardona had spent most of the preceding week tailing Soon-Li Nixon all over the city. She only ever ventured out in her chauffeur-driven Mercedes, with a minder riding shotgun. And the minder, a Schwarzeneggar clone in build, was not someone Incardona, for all his skills in unarmed combat, cared to tackle.
Today he was in luck. Soon-Li, accompanied by a relative or friend of the same ethnic origins, went shopabout in Auckland’s snooty Newmarket district. After a protracted dawdle through the shopping mall they finished up in the trendy Modes of Broadway fashion store, leaving the minder on sentry duty in the doorway. Incardona avoided him by entering via a side door and tagged along behind the two women as they meandered from skirts to trousers to lingerie to dresses, chattering endlessly and incomprehensibly to each other. His chance came when the companion went off to the rest room and Soon-Li plunged into a changing cubicle, staggering under armfuls of cocktail dresses. A quick glance left and right assured Incardona that the only sales assistant in this section was otherwise occupied and he darted into the cubicle to confront a startled Soon-Li, already stripped down to fetching apricot-hued bra and pants.
As she opened her mouth to yell Incardona clapped his hand over it, forcing her back against the wall, and for good measure rammed an automatic pistol into her cheek.
‘One sound and you’re dead,’ he said in his passable English, putting on the tough gangster voice he used when intimidating people. ‘Understand?’
She stared back at him with fearful eyes.
‘Do you understand?’ he snarled, and thrust his knee between her thighs, promptly giving himself the first stirrings of an erection.
Soon-Li was no shrinking violet. She had had a tough upbringing in Hong Kong and her education had included the best part of a decade as prostitute and stripper, starting while she was still a schoolgirl. Incardona’s pistol wasn’t the first she had seen from the business end.
So she recovered fast. Nodded three or four times and was rewarded by a fractional lessening of the pressure on her cheekbone.
‘All I want is a little information,’ he said, which produced another series of nods.
With her nearly naked body pressed against his he was finding it hard to keep his mind on priorities. His erection was now full-blown and he guessed she could feel it.
‘You want rape me?’ she said in a childlike voice, on the surface not in the least perturbed at the prospect. ‘You want make jig-a-jig?’
He wouldn’t have said no but the murmur of voices was all around, only feet away. Apart from which she would probably yell ‘rape’, the minute it was over. The resultant uproar, if they were discovered, would finish him forever as a Government employee.
‘Shut up, bitch. All I want from you is the name of the person who runs the Greenwar organisation.’
Soon-Li gaped. ‘You not want rape?’
‘Greenwar,’ he repeated, in his gangster snarl. ‘Who’s in charge?’
‘You not want jig-a-jig?’
Incardona raised his eyes to the ceiling and wondered if her vocabulary was limited to words with a sexual connotation.
‘Green-war,’ he enunciated, slowly and precisely. ‘Who is boss?’
Her expression cleared and she smiled, further feeding Incardona’s lust.
‘Ah, Greenwar. Boss is Sheryl.’ She had difficulty getting her tongue around the name; it came out as ‘Sheller.’
‘Sheryl Glister?’
‘Yes, that her name. Eddie give her lot of money. I try to get back, it my money. I Eddie’s wife.’
‘Are you all right in there, madam?’ called someone on the other side of the cubicle curtain.
‘Answer,’ a nervous Incardona hissed in her ear, jabbing anew with the gun.
A second telling was not required.
‘I okay,’ she called back. ‘Trying dresses, okay?’
‘That’s fine,’ said the assistant and was heard moving away.
‘You help me get money back from Sheller?’ Soon-Li said, tugging at the lapels of Incardona’s jacket.
‘What?’ he said. He backed away, holstered the gun. Then, thinking quickly and reminding himself to speak as to a five-year old, ‘Yes, yes … I detective. We find Sheryl Glister. We get your money.’
She swayed towards him, eyes sparkling mischief, her nipples salaciously defined through the thin silky material of her bra.
‘It true, you get my money?’ Now her hand was at his fly, unzipping. ‘Okay, mister, I let you make jig-a-jig.’
* * *
That evening he sent a short note to Le Renard via the overnight diplomatic bag. The note read:
Sheryl Glister confirmed head of Greenwar. No other known executive. Present whereabouts uncertain, presume Europe. Await your further instructions.
Twenty-Four
* * *
The last item on Lux’s list of material needs was a face mask in his own likeness. Enquiries via an acquaintance who worked for Canal Plus, the pay-tv channel, led to a special effects outfit in Fontainebleau.
To avoid leaving traces of his movements as D-Day drew nearer, he went by car, a journey of some nine hours, excluding breaks. After an overnight stay at the rustic Legris et Parc Hotel he presented himself at the reception desk of SPEFEX at nine. A woman - brisk, business-like, early forties and very Irish - took charge of him.
‘You’re going to make a lovely mask, Mr Vincent,’ she said after introducing herself - her name was Moira; well, that’s what it sounded like. The spelling was probably something like Maireagh.
‘You wouldn’t make a bad one yourself,’ he riposted in kind.
She cackled, nudged him, and said something like ‘G’wan with you. I expect you use that kind of blarney on all the girls.’
That was as far as the flirting went. She whisked him off to a room that reminded him of a hairdresser’s salon, with its padded reclining seats, wall-width mirrors, wash basins and impedimenta of the trade. There he was handed over to yet another obvious queer. This one had a Canadian accent and was called Timothy.
The next two hours were among the most uncomfortable he could recall ever spending. His hair was tucked under a hair net, which made him feel foolish - especially when Moira poked her head around the door and sniggered, ‘Hello there, Granny.’ His eyes were covered in small circular pads, two slender plastic tubes like drinking straws were stuck up his nostrils, and he was ready for the plaster to be applied.
