The Long shot mc-1

by Stephen Leather

  “No, doctor, I’m afraid you can’t.”

  The door opened again and Don Clutesi came in, carrying a large brown parcel which he dropped on the bed. “There’s a shirt and a sports jacket, and underwear. There’s a pair of trousers, but I’m not sure that they’ll fit. And I had to buy the shoes.”

  “Keep the receipt,” said Howard, knowing how difficult it was to get anything past the eagle eyes of the FBI’s accountants.

  “I’ll get the vitamin shot,” said the doctor. “And I’d like to change his dressings before he leaves.”

  Howard looked at his wristwatch. “No problem,” he said. “We’ve got plenty of time.”

  The Colonel parked his dark green Range Rover in the garage and pressed the remote control device which closed the overhead door. His back ached, the lingering soreness the result of several High Altitude Low Opening freefall parachute jumps he’d made over Salisbury Plain a week earlier. He rubbed the small of his back with his knuckles. Leading from the front was all well and good, he thought, but he was getting too old for jumping out of planes.

  He took his keys and opened the two high security locks on the door which led from the garage to the kitchen of the four-bedroom stone cottage. The door looked like painted wood but in fact it had a steel core and was impenetrable by any means short of a bazooka. Immediately he opened the second lock he pushed open the door and stepped into the kitchen, closing it behind him. He crossed the tiled floor quickly, opened a closet door and stuck another key into a white metal box on which a red light was flashing, neutralising the silent burglar alarm which was connected to his local police station and which would have a carload of armed police on his doorstep if it wasn’t switched off within thirty seconds.

  He rubbed his back again and went through to his sitting room where he opened up a large floor-mounted globe which looked antique but which contained several bottles of malt whisky and crystal tumblers. He poured himself a large measure of an Islay malt and savoured it, breathing in its rich, peaty bouquet as he walked over to a table by the side of the fireplace where a chess game was laid out, a problem he’d been working on for several days. He looked down at the wooden pieces, his brow furrowed. The game was the ninth of a series Bobby Fischer had played against Boris Spassky in the summer of 1992. Fischer had opened with the ancient ‘Spanish Game’, but using the Exchange Variation. Spassky had resigned black’s position after only twenty-one moves but to the Colonel it was clear that he’d really lost the game on his seventeenth move when he’d moved his king. The Colonel had decided that Spassky should have taken one of white’s knights with his bishop instead, but he hadn’t yet decided where the game would have gone from there. It was an intriguing strategical problem and one that he relished.

  The telephone on his hall table rang and he went over and picked it up. The light on his answer machine was flickering, indicating that he’d received several messages while he was out. The rich, almost plummy, voice on the line didn’t identify itself, but there was no need. The Colonel knew who it was, and that what he had to say must be important for him to call him at home.

  “The operation has been discontinued,” the man said. “One of my operatives has been eliminated, one is missing, presumed inactive.”

  “Damn,” said the Colonel quietly. “What happened?”

  “Your man liquidated one at the house, for what reason I have yet to determine. The other operative followed the objective, but has since disappeared. The house was destroyed in a fire, your man is now in the Shock-trauma Unit of the University of Maryland Hospital in Baltimore and I am at a loss how to proceed further.”

  “So we’ve no idea where the objective is?” asked the Colonel.

  “That’s the position, yes.”

  “What is my man’s status?”

  “Injured, but not seriously. A request for information on his cover name has come through from New York, along with a set of fingerprints. It appears that he is sticking to his cover, but there is no way of knowing how long that will last. There is, of course, the question of what we do with him now. I do have other operatives in the area; they could tidy up the loose ends for us.”

  The Colonel smiled grimly. If Joker had discovered how he’d been used, he would be bent on retaliation, and an angry SAS sergeant, albeit one who was out of condition, was not a threat to be taken lightly. Joker’s ire would be aimed not just at Mary Hennessy. “Does he know how he was being used?”

  “I have no way of knowing, but if he has discovered that Five is involved there is a reasonable chance he will draw that conclusion.”

  The Colonel nodded. He looked out through a leaded window across rolling countryside, not unlike the hills of the Brecon Beacons where the SAS trained its men and honed their killing edge. “I will handle him,” he said quietly.

  “Are you sure?” asked the voice, though it contained little real concern; it was more a matter of ensuring that there was no misunderstanding, in case there should be ramifications at a later date.

  “I’m sure,” said the Colonel. “Thank you for informing me so promptly. I’ll call you from the office tomorrow to clear up the paperwork. And I am deeply sorry about your operatives.”

  “They knew the risks,” said the voice. “We’ll talk again.”

  The line went dead and the Colonel replaced the receiver. It was true, the MI5 agents did know the risks, it was Joker who’d gone in blind, not knowing that he was being used as bait. The Colonel had gone through a lot of soul-searching before deciding to send his former sergeant to the United States, but in the end had decided that the ends did justify the means, and that Joker was expendable if the end result was the capture or elimination of Mary Hennessy. He doubted whether Joker would see it that way, though.

  Carlos parked at the far end of the car park, facing the entrance to the huge Toys R Us warehouse, and switched off the engine. He settled back in his seat and looked at his wristwatch. When he looked up again it was to stare down the barrel of an M16 rifle. The pudgy finger on the trigger tightened and the weapon crackled and then the little boy holding it giggled. He put the rifle back to his shoulder again and aimed at Carlos’ head. The gun was almost as big as he was. Carlos smiled thinly as the boy pressed the trigger a second time. The boy’s father came up behind the boy and cuffed him around the ear.

  “Don’t point your gun at strangers, son,” he chided. He apologised to Carlos and hauled the young would-be assassin off to a blue pick-up truck. Only in America, thought Carlos. They gave replica guns to four-year-old boys and wondered why they had the highest murder rate in the world. Carlos felt nothing but disgust for a society which treated guns as playthings. A gun had only one function — to kill, and it deserved always to be treated with respect.

  Carlos watched the white Volkswagen turn into the car park and head in his direction. The driver parked, climbed out, and walked over to Carlos’ car. Carlos leaned over and opened the passenger door for Khatami. Khatami eased himself into the seat. He made no move to shake hands; it had been clear from the start that their relationship operated purely on a business level, but he acknowledged Carlos with a curt nod of the head. Khatami looked much the same as when the two men had first met in the First Class cabin of a jet parked on the tarmac of a Middle Eastern airport: a small, nervous man with a pointed chin and an adolescent’s moustache.

  “Things are not going well,” said Khatami. It was a statement, not a question.

  “Not as planned, but we shall not fail,” said Carlos.

  The pick-up truck drove away, the barrel of the toy gun sticking out of the passenger window.

  “The death of Rashid is a major problem,” said Khatami.

  “But certainly not insurmountable,” said Carlos. “I’ve fired her weapon before, and I will do so this time. The operation can go ahead exactly as planned.”

  “I’m afraid not,” said Khatami. “We had other plans for Rashid.”

  Carlos narrowed his eyes. “What do you mean?” he said
softly.

  “We have invested a great deal of time and money in this endeavour,” said Khatami. “Do you think we would have committed so many resources simply to help the IRA?”

  Carlos said nothing. It was a thought that had occurred to him, but he’d assumed that his paymasters were vindictive enough to want to help anyone who acted against their enemies.

  “We had our own agenda,” Khatami continued. “That is why we were so insistent that you use Rashid as one of the snipers. She was working for us. She had her own target.”

  Carlos closed his eyes and sighed as he realised how he’d been manipulated all along. “The President,” he said.

  “Indeed,” said Khatami. “We knew that the IRA would have nothing to do with an assassination of an American president. They depend on American goodwill for money and support. But we needed their expertise.”

  Carlos reached up to grip the steering wheel. Mary Hennessy and Matthew Bailey were being set up to take the blame for the assassination of the President. And he, unwittingly, had been the one doing the setting up. He had betrayed them. And Dina Rashid had betrayed him. Was there no-one in the world who could be trusted any more? The answer hit him immediately. Of course there wasn’t. Loyalty counted for nothing in the world of the 1990s. It was every man for himself. That had been proved to him once and for all when he’d been betrayed by the Sudanese in 1994, delivered to a French ministerial jet drugged and trussed up like a chicken. “Why didn’t you tell me what you had planned?” he asked.

  “It was enough that Rashid knew of our intentions. The fewer people who knew, the better. Your role in this did not depend on the nature of the target.”

  Carlos nodded. He understood. He had himself sent terrorists on missions without putting them in the complete picture. Sometimes they hadn’t come back, but it was a price that had to be paid. It was results which counted, not the sensibilities of those involved. He understood what Khatami had done, but he still resented being used.

  “You will be firing Rashid’s rifle,” said Khatami quietly. “Are you prepared to shoot at her target?”

  Carlos felt his insides tighten. Khatami was asking him if he was prepared to assassinate the President of the United States. The enormity of what was being asked of him made him almost light-headed. But he knew that he could not refuse. Khatami was his only hope for a safe haven. Without his support Carlos would be thrown to the wolves. He quickly ran through the technicalities of the shot. The President would be in the sky box, which meant there would have to be two shots: the first to smash the glass, the second to hit the target. His marksmanship was up to it. Just.

  “It would be an honour,” said Carlos.

  Patrick Farrell, Sr, was sitting at his desk going over the service records of a Cessna 172, which his company used to broadcast traffic information to several radio and television stations in the area, when his secretary told him that he had visitors. She showed in two men wearing almost identical black suits and sunglasses. They looked and acted almost like robots, sweeping the room with their shielded eyes, their lips together in neither smiles nor frowns.

  “Can I help you, gentlemen?” Farrell asked, getting to his feet.

  “Patrick Farrell?” asked one of the men, his impassive face impossible to read. Farrell nodded. The two men flashed their credentials and identified themselves as Secret Service agents. “We’d like you to come with us, Mr Farrell,” said one.

  “What’s wrong?” asked Farrell.

  “We’d just like you to come with us,” said the second agent.

  “And if I refuse?”

  “We’d still like you to come with us,” said the first agent.

  “Can I call my lawyer?”

  “There’ll be time for that later, Mr Farrell,” said the first agent.

  “Am I under arrest?”

  “No, sir,” said the second agent. He held out his hand as if to guide Farrell out of the office.

  Farrell looked over the man’s shoulder at his secretary who was nervously biting her lip. “Get hold of my son and tell him what’s happened,” said Farrell.

  The two agents looked at each other as if communicating telepathically. The first agent looked at the secretary. “I think you’d better come with us, too, miss.”

  Don Clutesi drove the blue Dodge to the Secret Service’s Baltimore field office in West Lombard Street, about a mile from the Shock-trauma Unit. Cole Howard briefed Joker in the back of the car. The jacket Clutesi had supplied fitted Joker around the shoulders but was slightly short in the arms and was a garish plaid. Clutesi had explained that he’d borrowed it from the Baltimore police’s Vice Squad and that it was the best he could do in the time. Joker wondered if Clutesi had deliberately chosen the most noticeable outfit so that he’d be a better target. The only thing easier for a sniper to hit would be a bullseye on the back.

  Joker had continued to express surprise at the notion that one of the former Navy SEALs would go for a two thousand yard shot with the bullet taking a full four seconds to reach its target. He’d worked with military snipers before, both in Northern Ireland and the Falkland Islands, but never over that distance. It almost defied belief.

  Clutesi stopped the car outside the Federal Building and dropped off Howard and Joker. He drove away in search of a parking place while the two men went inside and up to the Secret Service’s office. There Howard introduced Joker to Bob Sanger who the FBI agent explained was in charge of security arrangements for the President’s visit. Sanger looked curiously at Joker’s strange sports jacket over the top of his pince-nez spectacles. Joker felt that he ought to say something to explain his attire, but before he had the chance Sanger was shaking hands and ushering them to chairs.

  Sanger handed a stack of faxes to Howard. “This is the latest from the Kims,” he said.

  Howard skimmed them. They contained lists of places where the snipers might be located. He showed them to Joker. “It’s a big list,” said Joker.

  “Not really,” said Sanger. “We’d be pretty much covering all those places anyway in advance of a presidential visit. We normally go through every building with a view of the President within a half-mile radius. All this does is extend our search area.”

  “They seem quite specific,” said Joker. “He says the sixth and seventh floors of the Holiday Inn, but not below. That should make it easier.”

  “Yeah, that would be a help, but it doesn’t mean we won’t be searching all the floors which overlook the ballpark. We can’t assume he’s right, we have to look everywhere. I mean, we wouldn’t stop searching the sewers for bombs just because we think a sniper is going to try to kill the President. We still send the Technical Security Division into the sewers, looking for time bombs, taking away trash cans and sealing manhole covers shut. We’re talking about a hundred advance agents, and since we’ve put them all on red alert we’re all working overtime.”

  Howard nodded and handed back the faxes. “It’s still okay for Mr Cramer and I to be as close as possible to the presidential party for the next few days?”

  “I’m still not overjoyed about the idea, but I can’t think of a good reason to deny your request,” said Sanger. “I’ve photographs of Hennessy, Bailey and Sanchez here. They’ve been handed out to all our men.” He pulled open a drawer and handed over three Secret Service identification badges, with metal chains so that they could be hung around necks. “Wear these at all times,” he said. “If one of my men or the agents who come with the President from Washington see you trying to get close without one of these, at best you’ll get your arm twisted.” He frowned. “I thought there were three of you?”

  “Don Clutesi will be here shortly. He’s parking the car.” He picked up the three badges and handed one to Joker.

  Sanger stood up and went over to a closet. He took out three ballistic-protective vests, gave one to Joker and the other two to Howard. “I’d be happier if you all wear these,” he said, almost apologetically. “Just in case. I wouldn’t want you
guys getting hurt.”

  Joker weighed his vest in his hands. It felt lighter than the body armour he’d worn in the SAS, and seemed more flexible.

  “It’s made of a special woven fabric, the trade name is Spectra,” said Sanger. “They’re supposed to be ten times stronger than steel but with a fraction of the weight. We get them from a company run by Ollie North. These are certified to stop a 9 mm 124 grain full metal jacket bullet at fourteen hundred feet per second.”

  Joker raised an eyebrow. “Impressive,” he said.

  “Yeah, they hardly show under a shirt, either,” said Sanger.

  “Do we get the dark glasses?” asked Joker.

  “I don’t follow,” said Sanger, confused.

  “The regulation shades. Do we get those, too?”

  Sanger grinned as he realised that his leg was being pulled. “No, Mr Cramer, those you’ll just have to buy yourself. Is there anything else you guys need?”

  “Binoculars would be handy,” said Joker.

  Howard nodded. “We can get those from our field office,” he said. He looked at Sanger. “The President’s helicopter touches down at six, right?”

  “Right,” agreed Sanger. “I’ll be at the ballpark an hour before Marine One lands. I’ll meet you there, if that’s okay with you.”

  “That’s fine,” said Howard.

  The intercom on Sanger’s desk buzzed and he depressed one of its buttons. A secretary told him that Don Clutesi was outside. Howard and Joker said their goodbyes and left Sanger working his way through the faxes.

  Mary Hennessy drove back to the motel where she found Carlos and Schoelen cleaning their rifles on sheets of polythene spread out over a bed.

  “How did it go?” Carlos asked.