Moscow Sting

by Alex Dryden

  To his left, at the head of the bay, was the small town and its tourist beach. The absence of any sand visible on the beach at this distance was explained by the inseparable mass of humanity that had camped on it for the day in rows of beach chairs.

  Directly to the right, out to sea, were four or five large yachts, some of them more like ships. He passed his eyes over them, resting briefly on the one that interested him, the Aurora. She’d finally arrived. He’d been right, at least he was sure about that. The island was the only place to get a shot.

  Then he walked around the island, which took only a few minutes, until he faced south. From there, the rocky cliff coastline to the left and ahead of him dodged in and out of bays and estuaries. On each promontory stood some human mark—a lookout post, a lighthouse, the religious motif of a cross or small chapel—each in its own way reaching out to the calm blue Adriatic Sea with a hand to welcome or repel, and an eye to observe.

  Lars put down the pack and took out a small telescope. He looked across the southern waters, empty except for a few small yachts with their sails furled in the dead air. He studied the farthest visible promontory and read the distance; just over three and a half miles. It might take an hour and a half, he thought, depending on the currents. Too far for the small air tank. If he took that exit, he would have to come in to shore earlier than he’d have liked.

  Then he carefully replaced the scope in the pack, strapped it up, and walked back to the cypresses, across the flagstones and past the church of Saint Sava, into the cool darkness of the monastery itself.

  There were still some stragglers from his party, admiring the painting of the Virgin painted onto the old pink plaster.

  He joined them and looked up at the crumbling, sad-eyed figure of the Madonna. She was a figure that expressed life, not the death he had come to give. He exchanged a curt nod with the two remaining tourists, the bulky American man and his frizzy-haired woman—foreigners like himself, visiting another country. He saw them watch him take out a sketchbook and begin to make some outlines. He was drawn to the eyes of the Virgin, big, dark, and almond-shaped, which seemed to contain a message of vulnerability and peace.

  Lars felt the power of his anonymity amongst these tourists, but he didn’t feel anonymous before the Virgin, and this unnerved him. He turned away, not wanting her gaze on him any longer.

  He admired the paradoxical privacy of his own fame; he was concealed within his complete disconnection from the world around him. Soon—after this second hit perhaps, and with the invaluable help of the media—he would begin the transformation into myth. He was what myths were made of. That’s what he believed. The myth of the assassin meant a lot to him. Even the word—assassin—was common to over fifty languages.

  The man and the woman finally walked away from the painting, and he waited until they’d disappeared into a side room. He put the sketchbook away and, on the far side of the vaulted room, found the door to the steps that led up to the bell tower. It was locked, as it had been a month before. That was good. A newer piece of plastic tape explained in Montenegrin, Serbian, English, and French that the stairs were dangerous and undergoing repair work.

  When he was sure that the last of his party had walked out of range and were looking at a collection of zinc cannonballs around the corner at the far end of the central chamber, he swiftly picked the ancient lock and entered the narrow stairway. The stairs began immediately inside the door, and with just enough room to turn with his backpack in the small space, he relocked the door and shot a bolt across from the inside to make sure.

  Standing at the bottom of the narrow stairs, he looked up at a bright shaft of sunlight that came down in a diagonal stripe from the very top. It amused him for a moment that the monastery had once been engaged in the manufacture of cannonballs. War and the church had always been bedfellows.

  Then he walked slowly up the winding stone staircase, until he reached the top, and through another door that led out into the bell tower.

  The top of the tower was as far again above the roof of the monastery as the roof was above the ground. There was a fine, sweeping view, with a high balustrade for protection. The sea was blazing with the high light of the sun at midday, but the reflection wouldn’t affect his aim from this height.

  The target was on the yacht lying at anchor farthest out at sea, the Aurora, just beyond the rocky claws of the huge sweeping bay. The twin promontories of the bay enclosed it, nearly three miles apart. The yacht was right in the middle; a safe distance, one would have thought, if you didn’t factor in the island with the monastery.

  Lars undid the straps of the backpack and took out the barrel, casing, bipods, and lens. He fitted the barrel and screwed on the lens. The space in the bell tower was too small for lying flat. He would have to crouch, jacking up the rifle as far as the forward bipod would go and dispensing with the rear bipod altogether. It would be a sitting shot, knees drawn up, too much tension in the body, but that was all the space allowed. He kept below the balustrade all the time.

  Now he looked again through the scope between the columns of the balustrade and towards the target, the lens in the shade of the tower’s roof and away from the sun’s glare.

  The yacht Aurora was more like a ship, 235 feet long, rising 30 feet out of the water at the bow. Built in Sweden just the year before, it looked futuristic, something out of a science-fiction film. Its arrow-curved bow, indented halfway down with an aerodynamic wing, seemed to shoot the ship’s lines of design around the sides to the stern, as if it were in motion even when at anchor. There was a bridge, with a sheer, almost flattened glass curve that extended above and around the foredeck, slightly forward of midships; a helicopter pad behind it, and behind that a swimming pool surrounded by umbrellas and deck chairs and a long, curved bar that stretched almost to each side of the ship. Uniformed waiters attended to several slim topless girls and fat topless men. The target himself was nowhere to be seen.

  Lars checked his watch: 12:20 p.m. The target’s visitor was late.

  Then he checked the scene again through the rifle scope, which was more powerful, and read the distance: 2,401 yards—a greater distance than before, but still not the record.

  He noted, however, that if he made this shot, he would have the two longest shots for a single sniper. Nobody would ever know it except him. But to Lars, this was like owning a stolen Picasso, kept hidden in the secret room of a collector’s home. His knowledge of his own achievement alone would be enough for him.

  He saw two members of the crew, wearing white uniforms with white caps, begin to descend the ladder to the starboard side of the ship and step onto a wooden motor launch that gleamed with bright varnish. They started the engines and immediately cast off, heading towards the beach.

  Lars picked up the scope and trained it on the town. The road along the front, above the beach, was crowded with cars and buses as before. But there was a dark blue custom Bentley parked at the top of an old stone causeway now. He saw a short man wearing a cream seersucker jacket step out of the back seat of the Bentley, the door held open by a uniformed chauffeur. It was the American.

  A few onlookers tried to get a closer look at who was in the car, but they were kept at bay. Nearly a dozen bodyguards were in evidence, as far as Lars could count. Someone tried to take a picture of the Bentley. They had their camera snatched by a bodyguard, smashed on the ground, and then returned with a wad of cash wrapped around it.

  The short American put on a wide straw hat and pulled it over his eyes. In his attempt to dress in the understated fashion of the rich, he looked immediately noticeable.

  Then the American walked down the causeway, flanked by four bodyguards, and onto some old stone steps, green with dried seaweed, at the bottom of which the launch had tied up. Two of the bodyguards came with the short man onto the launch; the rest returned to a pair of Hummers that were parked, Lars now saw, on the far side of the street from the Bentley. How these Russians flaunted their wealth in front of
the American!

  Turning his scope back to the launch, he watched it as it cut across the glassy bay to the yacht at a more sedate pace now that it had the visitor on board.

  The five figures walked up the steps and onto the yacht. The short American was met by two other men who wore dark glasses and matching khaki shorts.

  One of them shook the American’s hand, the other guided him to a colourful striped armchair; there was a small debate on whether he wished to be in the sun or shade, and he chose the shade.

  When the American took his hat off, Lars recognised the face. He had seen it before in pictures, a necessary part of his preparation, and he already knew the identity of the American visitor; Richard Rivera, PR guru, general fixer, and networker, with clearance from the CIA. He was one of three senior advisers to the Republican candidate in the American elections in just under three months’ time.

  The target didn’t seem to be on deck.

  Lars waited. The sun began its slow descent from the meridian. It was nearly an hour before the target appeared.

  When he finally emerged and walked out into the sun, Slava the Russian, as he liked to be known, was dressed in a pair of faded jeans and a white T-shirt. Barefoot and unshaven, he stood on the deck, stretched, looked at the sky, then finally glanced down at his guest. It seemed to Lars that he wanted to demonstrate that he’d been sleeping. It bordered on disrespectful.

  Rivera stood and shook hands with the Russian. Lars saw the words of greeting pass between them and then a joke, followed by a short laugh from Slava.

  Levelling the rifle, Lars squatted with his back hard against the rear balustrade. It was uncomfortable, and he didn’t want to hold the position for long. But by the time he had gotten comfortable and squinted down the rifle scope again, he saw that a party of bodyguards and crew were descending the steps again towards the launch. The target and Rivera were still on deck, but walking away into the door from which the target had just emerged.

  Lars watched the launch take off. It did a couple of sweeps of the yacht and then seemed to be widening its area of observation. Two of the guards were training binoculars on the beach, on other boats, and towards the monastery itself. Lars pulled the inch or two of barrel that might be visible back inside the balustrade, making the shot impossible now. He was too cramped with the trigger up this close.

  He withdrew the rifle completely and screwed on the silencer.

  The launch widened its circle and finally came to rest a hundred yards away from the island, only a hundred and fifty yards from the bell tower. It sat there, rolling gently from its own motion rather than any great movement in the water.

  Lars dared not use the scope while it was there. Its antireflective lens was no guarantee, and the sun was coming at more of an angle every twenty minutes or so.

  Then the launch started its engine and made its way in loops back towards the yacht.

  Lars turned the scope onto the deck of the yacht. The target and Rivera were standing at the top of the steps now. Two more launches had been lowered, or withdrawn from some internal dock at the stern. The deck seemed to be teeming with men in dark glasses, phones wired to their ears. There was activity all around Rivera and Slava the Russian, who stood there, apparently oblivious to the commotion around him, a man accustomed to being waited on by dozens of acolytes. Slava lit a cigar from a proffered humidor. Rivera declined his offer of another.

  The three launches were gathered now at the foot of the steps. Slava ushered Rivera down the steps first, and then followed himself. They stepped into the first launch, which waited with idling engines for the guards to fill the other two. When all were aboard, the three launches set off.

  Lars assumed they’d be going to the town—for a late lunch perhaps; a restaurant reserved outright by Slava, as was his custom. But then he saw they were coming right towards him, straight at the island, directly into the sights of the rifle. Slava the target was dead ahead. Lars’s heart thumped against his chest. They were coming to the monastery.

  He broke into a sweat. He could stay where he was, wait and see. Or he could pack up and join the others down below for the return trip across the isthmus. If the Russians came, there was a risk that they would insist on opening up the bell tower, no matter that it was closed for repairs. They would donate some huge sum of money to the monastery, just for the pleasure of going to the forbidden. That was how these Russians were. Show them a forbidden entrance, and that was the only place they wanted to go.

  He could disappear in the tourist bus. Or he could shoot now.

  Gently, he pushed the rifle through the gap in the stone balustrade and picked up the first launch through the scope. It was rising and falling as the engines cut deeply into the water. It was a straight shot, with the movement up and down only. He didn’t think long. He didn’t have time. He zeroed again for the reducing distance and fired.

  Through the rifle scope, he saw the first launch suddenly fall from its rearing advance down onto its bow, pushing the water ahead of it as it lost way. The other two launches shot ahead, then saw what had happened and swerved in towards each other in tight circles, returning fast to the first launch. Lars saw Slava the Russian, Slava the target. He seemed to have been punched in the chest, hit squarely by the .50-calibre shell and knocked over the seat and into the stern.

  Lars levelled the rifle again. He had the zero this time. Same distance. One boat was stopped in front of Slava’s launch, idling its engine. Lars fired his second shot. It entered the engine of the boat, shattering it.

  The skipper of the third boat now jammed its throttle into forward gear. Its engine raced, and its prop churned the water. Lars’s third shot hit the upper pins that clamped the outboard engine to the top of the transom. Held only by the pins at its lower edge, the wildly racing engine snapped back from its fixture; the propeller rammed upwards, screaming through the water and up into the wooden hull. Gouging easily through the hull, it shot up into the crowded boat.

  There was chaos, blood flying, screams. The boat flew out of control.

  He had two more shots left in the magazine. He fired one towards the engine of the target’s launch, but it was still face on, the engine sheltered by the rest of the boat from where Lars was crouched. He decided to aim the last shot at the engine a second time, and prayed a second time.

  The last of the scene he witnessed in the bay was a wild, scrambled pandemonium of bodies and arms. There were two men still intact enough to be making desperate phone calls. Lars didn’t know any more than that, as he swiftly unscrewed the silencer, then the barrel, thrust the rest of the equipment into the pack, and headed back down the steps. The shadows had crept over the stone steps beneath his feet, changing their colour from honey to grey.

  At the foot of the stairs, he gently pushed the bolt back and unlocked the door. The two Americans saw him exit. The woman with her pinched face stared at him; the man looked embarrassed, afraid even, as if he knew they had no business looking. Lars pinned the No Entry tape back over the door. There was a different group entering now, from another run of the bus across the isthmus. At least they hadn’t seen him on the bus, as the American couple had. They stared at him, but he lowered his eyes and walked past them.

  He crossed himself briefly in front of the Virgin’s picture, avoiding Her eyes too, and walked out of the monastery’s entrance into the blinding sunshine. He heard a distant sound: engines starting. Passing the small chapel of Saint Sava, under the cypress, where the chickens had a new sprinkling of food to pick at, he headed to the south shore.

  On the pile of rocks that made up the southern breakwater of the island, he unslung his backpack, reached inside, and removed the small air bottle, then the micro aqualung and a pair of fins. The engine sound was growing. He looked back over his shoulder and saw that a helicopter had left the deck of the Aurora and was heading for the launches, which wallowed uselessly in the perfect sea.

  Lars carefully descended through the tumbled rocks to the water
, dragging the backpack with him. He picked out two of the smaller rocks under the water, broken off from the huge ones, and put them into the pack, then towed it and himself into the sea. He glanced back. He couldn’t see the launches down here, but he saw the helicopter sweeping towards the island. Stumbling down the rocks, he slid under the water.

  He swam heavily and clumsily with the pack in one hand down to the lowest of the piled rocks. He drew a waterproof packet out of the pack—his passport and money—and then shoved the pack under a rock until it was wedged fast. He rolled several other smaller rocks over it until it was invisible.

  Then he set out beneath the sea.

  Only now did he try to slow his panicked breathing, to conserve the precious air. He had only five litres, not enough for his liking. He wouldn’t make the three and a half miles to the promontory, that was certain, not with all the exertion. He’d have to come in to land earlier.

  Chapter 9

  ANNA SAT ACROSS A blue-painted wooden table in the Restaurant des Alpilles and took a sip from the glass of Sancerre Willy had ordered.

  “Cheers,” Willy said, and they drank together. “Happy birthday, my dear.” He looked at her. It had been only three weeks since they’d last met, but he was always looking to make a compliment. “You’re looking so French, Anna,” he said, and smiled. “After just a year in the village. Like one of those women in the magazines. Chic, and as beautiful as ever. Happy birthday!” He raised his glass, and they drank.

  “Thank you, Willy. You should see me normally,” she replied. “Dungarees and grass in my hair.”

  “You look good whatever you wear,” he insisted. “You look well too.” He put his hand over hers on the table and squeezed it.

  Willy was a good man. “A dependable Hungarian”—that was how Finn had described him before she and Willy had met, with a heavy emphasis on “dependable.” And he was smart too. “You know what they say about the Hungarians, Anna,” Finn had once said to her. “They come into the revolving door behind you and come out ahead of you.”