The Long Shot (Stephen Leather Thrillers)

by Stephen Leather

  “He hasn’t left the lab in two days,” she said.

  Andy smiled and shrugged. “The hardest part was the measurements,” he said. “That laser measuring device you got from the Highways Department was a godsend.” His hands moved across the keyboard. For the first time Howard noticed how small and delicate they were. The computer monitor cleared and three yellow dots appeared, each about the size of a dime. “These are the snipers,” Andy explained. “To get the complete image on the screen I’m using a scale of about three hundred feet per inch.” He punched more keys and four blue circles appeared in a row on the far right of the screen. “These are the targets,” he said. “For the purposes of the model I’m assuming it’s the figure second from the right which is the assigned target. They’re so close together that over the distances we’re looking at it won’t make much difference which of them it is. Okay?”

  “Sounds fine to me, Andy.” Howard watched as thin white lines joined the yellow circles to the blue circles. “Again, I’m making another assumption here and that’s that the bullets go straight from the rifles to the target. You probably know that that’s not actually the case and that they follow a parabolic path, but for what we’re doing that doesn’t make any difference. There you have it.” Andy sat back from the screen while Howard looked at the geometrical shape formed by the seven circles and three lines. Andy smiled and flicked his unkempt hair from his eyes. “It doesn’t look much different from what I did for you on my micro at home, does it?” he said.

  “That’s just what I was thinking,” said Howard.

  “You’ve got to remember that it’s not the shapes and colours that are important – it’s the distances and the angles. What you’re seeing here is an accurate representation of what went down in the desert.”

  It sounded to Howard as if the mathematician was trying to justify all the hard work he’d put into the project, so he smiled reassuringly. “I understand, Andy. So where do we go from here?”

  “Now we have to input the locations where you think the target might be, using the same scale. Actually, that’s not so important because we can change the scale pretty easily once it’s in the computer’s memory. For an example I’ve done the White House and the area around it.” He took a floppy disc and slotted it into one of the disc drives. The computer made a growling noise as the information was transferred to the main hard disc. “Okay, so this is my representation of the White House,” said Andy, his fingers stabbing at the keys. A small line-drawing of the President’s home appeared on the screen, surrounded by lawns. “Now, I’ll reduce that to the same scale as we used for the snipers, and bring in the roads and buildings within a two thousand yard range.” The image changed and as it shrank in size it seemed more realistic. It looked like an architect’s drawing, and Howard appreciated how much work had gone into it. He understood why Andy hadn’t gone home in two days.

  “Okay, now I’ll superimpose the model of the snipers on the White House,” said Andy. “I’ll put the four figures in the Oval Office, but I can tell you now it doesn’t make any difference. You’ll see why in a minute.”

  He hit more keys and the circles and lines appeared over the line-drawings. Andy turned away from the screen. “See, no matter how we rotate the snipers around the White House, at no point do all of them coincide with buildings in the vicinity. I can say for a fact that they weren’t practising to shoot the President in the White House.”

  Howard watched the circles and lines slowly pivot around the building. Only once per revolution did one of the small yellow dots intersect with a building, and when it did the two others were suspended in space. “Andy, this is terrific,” said Howard. “Really terrific.” He leant forward and studied the screen. It would work, he realised. It would actually work. “How long did it take you to input the buildings?”

  Andy took off his spectacles and rubbed his eyes while Bonnie stood behind him and gently massaged his shoulders. “That’s the sticking point,” he said. “It took me twenty-four hours of solid programming.” He saw Howard’s face fall and held up his hands. “I know, I know, we don’t have the time. I’m working on a way to speed it up, using a scanner, so that the computer can take in the maps and floor plans itself and reduce them to scale.”

  “What about getting them directly from the city’s Zoning and Planning Department? Won’t they have their own records computerised?”

  Andy slapped his forehead. “Of course!” he said. “Why didn’t I think of that?” He looked at his watch. “I’ll get onto it right now.”

  “Use my name, and if there are any problems tell them to check with Jake Sheldon’s office in Phoenix,” said Howard.

  “Wait a minute,” said Bonnie, “which cities do we concentrate on?”

  “Good point,” said Howard. “Washington is obviously the place to start. I’ll get in touch with the Secret Service and see if I can get some sort of itinerary.”

  Bonnie stroked the back of Andy’s neck. “But first you must go home and sleep,” she said.

  He shook her off. “No, this is too important. I’ve got work to do. I’ll sleep tonight, once I’ve spoken to City Hall.”

  Matthew Bailey put his feet up on the chair opposite his own and sipped at his Budweiser as he watched a boat disgorge a group of scuba divers onto the quay. The divers were a mixed group: half a dozen young men with military haircuts, a handful of Oriental tourists with underwater video cameras, a middle-aged couple with matching wetsuits, two pot-bellied balding guys who seemed to be instructors, and a stunning blonde girl who wore a bikini several sizes too small and who was not exactly oblivious to the lustful looks she was attracting.

  “Prick-teaser,” he whispered to himself, though his thoughts were on Mary Hennessy and not the blonde on the boat. He put his glass down on the white circular table and ran his finger slowly around the rim. On the quay below, the divers were washing their gear in a large black plastic tank of water. As the blonde bent over, her breasts almost sprang free of her bikini top. “Bitch,” murmured Bailey. He ran the back of his arm over his forehead and wiped the sweat from his brow. It was in the low nineties and his white skin didn’t take kindly to the sun. He hadn’t wanted to leave Mary Hennessy but she had been insistent and Bailey found it difficult to oppose her in anything. He’d done as she’d said and headed for Orlando, even visited Disneyworld, but had soon grown bored.

  He’d hired a car using another of the licences supplied through the IRA’s New York contacts and headed south, driving through Miami to the Florida Keys, the line of tiny islands hanging from the tip of Florida like a string of pearls. He’d booked into the Marina del Mar Hotel in Key Largo, the largest of the islands and the one closest to the mainland, and spent his days at Gilligan’s Bar, drinking and brooding. There had been something different about Mary when they’d met at the airport, something in the way she’d smiled at him and touched his hand. Bailey had lusted after her for months, but she’d always kept the relationship on a purely business level. However, in the cafeteria he’d felt for the first time that there was the possibility of something sexual between them. Bailey felt himself grow harder under the table and he closed his eyes and squeezed his thighs together as he remembered the way she’d swung her hips as she’d left his table. God, she had the greatest figure: long, shapely legs, tight buttocks, a trim waist and breasts that he ached to touch. He opened his eyes again and saw the blonde leaning over to pick up a weight belt and dip it into the water tank. Her breasts swayed forward and from his vantage point on the balcony Bailey could see her nipples. The girl looked up suddenly and saw Bailey watching her. She smiled, and leant forward further to give him an even better view. Bailey grinned and raised his glass to her. “Prick-teaser,” he mouthed, knowing that she wouldn’t be able to read his lips from down on the quay. She averted her eyes, pulled the weight belt clear of the water and began to pick up the rest of her gear. One of the instructors rushed to help her.

  The blonde must have been about h
alf Mary’s age, but she didn’t come close to her in desirability, Bailey realised. All the girl had in her favour was a young body whereas Mary had experience, confidence, and a natural sexuality that turned heads wherever she went. The instructor placed a proprietary hand on the blonde’s shoulder and her laughter wafted up to the balcony. Bailey drained his glass and a waitress in white shorts and halter top appeared at his shoulder and asked if he wanted another. Bailey shook his head. Three of the weak American beers were more than enough.

  Bailey walked back to his room, feeling rivulets of sweat trickle down his back under his cotton shirt. When he opened the door to his room, cold air billowed out and chilled his perspiration. He’d left the air-conditioner switched on, knowing that if he didn’t it would be like returning to an oven. He closed the door behind him and drew the blinds. He put his sunglasses on top of the television set and stood at the end of the double bed, closing his eyes as he breathed in the chilled air. Images of Mary Hennessy filled his head: her soft brown eyes which glistened when she laughed, her tanned, muscular legs, her fine, shining hair, now dyed blonde, her pert nose and perfect white teeth. And her firm, inviting breasts. Bailey arched his back and ran his hands down the front of his shorts. He could feel how hard he’d become and he gripped himself. He shuddered and dropped down onto the bed, pulling down his zipper as he whispered Mary’s name to himself, over and over again.

  Cole Howard read the book Kratzer had given him on the flight back to Phoenix. The lack of emotion when the sniper described the kills was chilling. Howard had never had to draw his FBI weapon in anger, and despite all his training he knew that when the time came for him to fire his gun his mind would be in turmoil. He’d seen the damage bullets could do to human flesh, and the emotional problems suffered by agents who’d had to pull the trigger. Howard knew that he didn’t have what it took to be a sniper, he cared about people too much. A sniper had to be cold and mechanical. A killing machine.

  The cab dropped Howard in front of the nondescript brick building which housed the FBI’s offices. There was no indication from the outside that the building housed the bureau and other federal agencies. Howard paid the fare and got out of the cab. He looked up at the tinted-glass windows. Reflections of clouds scudded across the dark glass. An unshaven man in a stained T-shirt was sitting on the porch of one of the ramshackle wooden houses opposite. He scratched his expanding stomach and drank beer from a bottle before wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. Howard’s throat was dry and he massaged his neck.

  When he got back to his office there was a message on his desk asking him to go up and see Jake Sheldon. He found Kelly Armstrong already in with the director, her legs neatly crossed showing shapely calves and expensive high heels. She flashed him a condescending smile and then turned back to Sheldon.

  “Take a seat,” said Sheldon, waving Howard to the chair next to Kelly. Kelly moved her chair sideways as Howard sat down as if distancing herself from him. “Kelly was just filling me in on your progress,” Sheldon continued. Howard smiled tightly. The computer-enhanced pictures were spread out across Sheldon’s desk.

  “The young one, the one without the radio, used the name Justin Davies on a credit card and driving licence when he booked a rental car,” said Kelly. “His prints were in the car and on the rental agreement he signed. We’re running the prints through our files now. The other credit card and licence were in the name of Peter Arnold but there were no prints on his rental agreement, or his car. His was the car that had been cleaned.”

  “And we can definitely place those cars at the scene?” Howard asked.

  Kelly nodded. “Forensics had made casts of the tyre tracks they found close to what was left of the towers and we have a match with the rental cars.”

  Howard nodded thoughtfully, barely managing to conceal his annoyance. Kelly should have reported to him before briefing Sheldon. “Were the car hire people able to identify any of the photographs?” he asked.

  “No, the pictures from the video were too blurred to be of any real help,” Kelly said.

  Sheldon turned to Howard. “Did you have any luck with your sniping expert?”

  Howard nodded. “It looks as if we’re dealing with military-trained snipers. And I’ve a possible identification of two rifles involved.”

  “How will that help?” asked Sheldon.

  “Snipers have favourite weapons, it seems,” said Howard. “And one of the rifles, a Barrett it’s called, is quite unusual. I’ve got the name of a SEAL sniper who is an expert with that weapon. I’m planning to approach all the armed forces for any snipers not accounted for.”

  “It’s a pity we can’t do more with the photographs,” said Sheldon. “From what Kelly tells me, even the improved ones your father-in-law has supplied aren’t clear enough to make a positive identification.”

  “He tells me his researchers should have something more for me sometime this week,” said Howard. “We’re also tracking down the credit cards used to hire the car, right, Kelly?”

  “Already in hand,” said Kelly. “The Justin Davies credit card was used to buy a one-way ticket to Los Angeles on US Air and for a number of purchases since. We’re concentrating the search in California.”

  Howard gave them a rundown on his meeting with Andy Kim and Sheldon agreed to contact the Washington office and request that as many computer programmers as possible be seconded to the laboratory. “We’re going to need more manpower here in Phoenix, too,” he added. “I’m going to get McGrath to help Kelly out on the credit card side,” Sheldon said to Howard. “Do you need any help?”

  Howard thought for a moment, then shook his head. “I can handle it,” he said. “Though I’d like to make contact myself with the Secret Service’s White House office.”

  Sheldon agreed. “Let me speak to them first,” he said. “The Secret Service is always a bit touchy where protocol is concerned. I’ll get someone to call you.” He leant back in his chair. “Right, let’s get to it.” He smiled warmly at the two agents, though Howard had the distinct impression that it was meant more for Kelly than for him.

  Joker pulled the metal tab on a can of Guinness and sipped the dark brew as he watched the game. Gaelic football took the most aggressive aspects of soccer, rugby and all-in wrestling and was played as much for the physical contact as for the score. The lunchtime matches in the park in the Bronx were a magnet for New York’s Irish community, and for those native New Yorkers who appreciated the finer points of grown men knocking the shit out of each other. It was a warm day and Joker had unbuttoned his pea jacket. Birds were singing in the tree branches overhead and he’d actually seen people smiling in the street as if they realised that summer wasn’t too far away. Joker walked over to a wooden bench and sat down next to a man in a blue anorak who was reading a newspaper. The man looked up as if defending his territory and Joker smiled and raised his can. “Do yer mind if I sit here?” he asked. The man shook his head and went back to his paper. Joker concentrated on the game. Most of the shouts he heard, from the players and from the spectators, were Irish, and he saw several bottles of Irish whiskey being handed around.

  Joker wasn’t due behind the bar at Filbin’s until three o’clock and so he’d decided to leave Manhattan and cross to the Bronx. It was a pleasant enough borough in places and in some ways it reminded him of Glasgow, struggling to outgrow an image of deprivation and poverty which it no longer deserved. He’d spent most of his teenage years in Glasgow, and learnt to love it despite its rough edges, but it seemed that whenever he talked about the city to those who had never been there, the talk always turned to the Gorbals and the razor gangs. Joker had grown tired of explaining that the decaying tenement blocks of the Gorbals had long been torn down and that the bad guys in Glasgow now carried automatic weapons like bad guys everywhere.

  Joker took a mouthful of Guinness and swallowed slowly, enjoying the taste and feel of the thick, malty brew. Joker had read that pregnant mothers used to be given a half pint o
f the Irish stout when they were in British hospitals, it was so full of vitamins and goodness. As he drank he looked over at the paper his neighbour was reading. It was the Belfast Telegraph. Joker began reading the headlines and the man looked up, an angry frown on his face. Joker looked away. He stood up and walked around the pitch, scanning faces and listening to accents, trying to pick up any information which would give him a lead to Matthew Bailey’s whereabouts. He recognised two men from Filbin’s; he didn’t know their names but the tall one with a black, bushy beard and thick eyebrows drank vodka and tonic, the other, red-faced with a paunch that drooped over his belt, preferred Guinness with an occasional malt whisky. One of them waved him over and he joined them. They both knew him by name and they chatted like old drinking buddies. Joker had another can of Guinness in his coat pocket and he offered it to them. The Guinness drinker accepted with a mock bow while the other bemoaned Joker for not carrying vodka and tonic with him. “What sort of fockin’ barman are yez anyway?” he laughed.

  Joker confessed that he’d forgotten their names and they introduced themselves: the Guinness drinker was Tom, the other was Billy. As it always did when strangers from Belfast met, the conversation soon turned to the basics: where you went to school, where you lived, and who your family were. The answers to the three questions identified your religion, your politics, and your social standing, and woe betide the Protestant who supplied the wrong answers to a gathering of Catholics, and vice versa. Joker’s cover story was as ingrained as his real childhood, and he had no trouble convincing the two men that he was a working-class Catholic who’d left Belfast for Glasgow while still a teenager.

  “What brings you to New York?” Billy asked.

  “I was being paid under the table for the past couple of years, and the taxman got on my case,” said Joker, watching the teams run back onto the pitch. “Thought I’d lie low for a while.”