The Long Shot (Stephen Leather Thrillers) Page 11

  Howard nodded. He scribbled the numbers into his notebook because he knew he’d never remember them.

  “Now, suppose you’re trying for the really long shot. Two thousand yards, say. Over that distance the bullet will slow to under a thousand feet per second, about one-third of the velocity it had as it left the barrel of the rifle. And the drop is of the order of two thousand inches.”

  “Two thousand inches?” said Howard, in disbelief.

  Kratzer smiled, pleased by the FBI agent’s response. “Uh-huh. That’s one hundred and sixty-seven feet,” he said, “give or take.”

  “So you’re saying that the sniper would have to aim one hundred and sixty-seven feet above his target?”

  “It’s not quite as simple as that, because like I said, the bullet follows a parabolic path. And you’d have to take into account if the target was above or below the sniper. But that’s the basic idea. Is that what you’re after, a sniper who’s planning a two thousand yard hit?”

  Howard nodded and Kratzer’s eyes widened. “You know that it’ll take a bullet four seconds to travel that distance?” Kratzer asked. “Four full seconds. He’d have to be sure of his shot, he’d have to know that his target wouldn’t move. Even at a slow walk the target could easily get out of the way.” Kratzer steepled his fingers under his chin. “It’d be one hell of a long shot,” he mused. To Howard, the man sounded almost envious.

  “So any sniper attempting such a shot would probably have a number of practice shots first?” asked Howard.

  “Absolutely. He’d be crazy not to. But not everything can be planned in advance. A sniper has to be able to calculate the wind velocity in the field at the instant he shoots: he looks for drifting smoke, the movement of grass or the waving of tree branches. There’s a sort of Beaufort scale for wind. A wind under three miles an hour, you wouldn’t feel it but it’d make smoke drift. Between three and five miles an hour and you’d feel it on your cheek. Between five and eight miles an hour and you’ll see leaves on trees moving all the time, between eight and twelve and dust is raised from the ground, and a wind of between twelve and fifteen miles an hour will make small trees sway. Those figures are pretty accurate.”

  The words were rattling from Kratzer’s mouth like bullets, as if the man was charging by the word rather than the minute. Most of the numbers went right by Howard.

  “Now, say the range is one thousand yards. You multiply the wind velocity, say it’s four, by ten, the range in hundreds of yards. That gives you a figure of forty. You divide that number by a constant, in this case it’s ten, and that gives you the number of minutes of angle you have to take into account as the windage factor. Four. You understand about MOA?”

  Howard frowned and shook his head.

  “MOA is Minute of Angle,” explained Kratzer. “It’s a measure of the accuracy of a weapon. Basically, if a rifle has one MOA it means that over a hundred yards a test firing will give you a grouping of about one inch. For serious sniping, one MOA is the minimum. Okay, so two clicks on the scope compensate for one minute of angle. Eight clicks puts you right on the target if the windage factor is four. Now, I’ve made that sound simple.”

  Howard smiled ruefully. “Yeah, right.”

  “Back in Nam we either did the sums in our head or used charts we carried with us. These days there are pocket calculators that can work it all out for you.”

  Howard tapped his notebook with his pen. “It seems to me that there’s a dehumanising effect in all this,” he said. “The sniper becomes so focused that he’s no longer aware of what he’s shooting at. The target almost becomes abstract.”

  Kratzer nodded enthusiastically. “That’s probably true,” he agreed.

  “So to what extent would a sniper concern himself with the nature of the target?”

  “I’ve killed three women, and it doesn’t keep me awake at night, if that’s what you mean.” Kratzer seemed proud of the achievement.

  Howard opened his briefcase and handed the photographs to him. “I’d like your opinion on the weapons being used here. And if you recognise any of the faces, I’ll not only be amazed, I’ll be eternally in your debt.”

  Kratzer studied the faces. “I see what you mean,” he said. “These were taken with a hell of a long lens, right?”

  “Something like that,” said Howard.

  “These three guys were all shooting at the same target?”

  “Yeah.”

  Kratzer tossed one of the pictures back to Howard. “This one was furthest away, right?”

  Howard was impressed. The man had picked out the sniper who had been two thousand yards from the dummies. “How did you know?” he asked.

  Kratzer grinned. “That there is a Barrett 82A1 semiautomatic rifle. Short recoil operated, magazine-fed, air-cooled. Takes .50 calibre ammunition. If my memory serves me well it has a maximum range of more than seven thousand yards but for sniping you wouldn’t go much beyond two thousand. It’s American made, the firm is based in Virginia, I think.”

  “It looks almost futuristic.”

  “Yeah, they used one in the movie Robocop. Remember when the terrorists blow up a car with one shot from a rifle? That was a Barrett. It’s one hell of a weapon.”

  “Does the army use it?”

  “Yeah, all the armed forces use it. It was responsible for a lot of long-range kills in Iraq and Kuwait during Desert Storm. The UK uses them, too, and they’ve got them in France, Italy, and Israel, I think. The company’ll give you more details, I’m sure.”

  Kratzer took the photograph back and studied it again. “There’s a sniper in the Navy SEALs, name of Rich Lovell. He’s an expert shot with the Barrett. I’m not certain, not a hundred per cent, but this might be Lovell. The face isn’t clear, but there’s something about the way he holds his head when he uses the scope. That could be him.”

  Howard noted down the name and Kratzer told him where the SEALs were based. They were one of the units happy to pay the former Marine for sniping coaching. “What about the other two weapons? My father-in-law said that one of them might be a Horstkamp.”

  Kratzer looked at the photographs for some time, chewing the inside of his lip. Eventually he passed over one of them. “Well, I’ll be honest, I’m not as sure as I am about the Barrett, but that could be a Horstkamp. It’s a much more traditional shape so it’s hard to tell. It’s used by some SWAT teams, and it’s reckoned to get one MOA accuracy beyond one thousand yards.”

  Howard nodded. “It’s German, right?”

  Kratzer shook his head. “They’re made in Wisconsin, designed and built by a guy called Klaus Horstkamp. They’re sort of made-to-measure, so if it turns out to be a Horstkamp it shouldn’t be too hard to get a list of owners.” He reached over and took the photograph back. “Wait a minute,” he said. “See the slots on the muzzle break?” He showed the picture to Howard and pointed at the barrel. “The basic Horstkamp has holes here, not slots. The slots are only on the company’s sniper version.”

  “And the third rifle?”

  “No way of telling. Standard profile, it could be any one of a dozen makes.”

  “Okay, two out of three is better than I expected,” said Howard. “Earlier you said that ammunition is important?”

  Kratzer nodded. “Factory ammunition isn’t consistent enough for really long-distance sniping requirements, so the men you’re after probably reload their own. That gives them a much greater degree of control. Both the Barrett and the Horstkamp use .50 calibre ammunition, the sort that’s used by the Browning machine gun. It’s readily available and I doubt you’ll be able to track them down that way.”

  Howard settled back in his chair and put his notebook back in his pocket.

  “Have I been of help?” Kratzer asked.

  “A big help,” said Howard.

  “Do you have a card?”

  “Sure,” said Howard. He took out his wallet and pulled out one of his business cards. As he handed it to Kratzer a Trivial Pursuit card fell ont
o the desk.

  “You into game-playing, Agent Howard?”

  Howard flushed and picked it up. “I hate the game,” he said, “with a passion.”

  Kratzer waved the business card. “Okay if I send my invoice through you?” he asked.

  “I guess so,” said Howard. “Can you give me an idea of how much it’ll be?”

  Kratzer sighed. “I usually charge by the full day,” he said. “Twelve hundred.”

  “Twelve hundred dollars a day!” said Howard.

  “Plus expenses,” said Kratzer.

  “Jesus Christ,” said Howard. He could only imagine what Jake Sheldon would say when he saw Kratzer’s invoice.

  Kratzer looked at his watch. “Look, we’ve only been talking for half an hour, and I’m going to be claiming expenses from the Germans for most of today. I’ll invoice you for two hundred dollars, okay?”

  “Sounds like a bargain,” said Howard, thankfully.

  Joker slotted his Visa card into the automated teller machine and keyed in his PIN number. He took out $300, looking quickly over his shoulder to check that he wasn’t about to be mugged, and slipped the cash into his wallet. If ever he needed to begin a life of crime, Joker decided he’d start out by hanging around automated bank tellers with a knife. They were a mugger’s paradise. The machine spat out a receipt and Joker pocketed it. He had yet to be convinced of the value of the daily withdrawals from a security point of view. He could see how it would allow the Colonel to know where he was, but it wouldn’t help if he got into trouble. He wondered how long it had taken the SAS to realise that Manyon was missing. He wondered, too, what Mary Hennessy was doing to him as the men in Hereford scrutinised the bank records.

  He walked to Filbin’s, his head down in thought. A black woman with a small child stood in front of him and held her hand out for money. Her eyes were blank and lifeless and the baby was snuffling and coughing. The woman looked as if she was in shock and was making small, rocking movements on the balls of her feet. Joker averted his eyes and stepped around her but was suddenly hit by guilt and he went back. He took ten dollars of the Colonel’s money and handed it to her. A skeletally thin hand took it and she mumbled thanks, but didn’t look at him. Joker had never in all his life seen so many street people or been asked for money so frequently. It seemed that he could barely walk a hundred yards down any New York street without being asked if he had any spare change. There were men with handwritten signs saying they were homeless, or dying of AIDS, women with sickly children, beggars with dogs, others just lying in doorways with hands extended, palms upward, like heart-attack victims. Joker shuddered.

  Filbin’s was almost empty, midway between the lunchtime rush and the early evening clientele, and Shorty was the only barman on duty.

  “How’s it going, Damien?” the barman asked. “Usual?” he added, before Joker could reply. Joker nodded and Shorty placed a double Grouse in front of him. “Any joy?”

  Joker shook his head. “Couple of places said they might have something next week, but nothing definite. Cheers.” He raised the glass, saluted the barman, and drank half the whisky. He’d told Shorty that he was looking for work and the barman had taken a sympathetic interest in his search. He leaned across the bar conspiratorially, even though there were only two other customers present. “Look, Damien, I might be able to put a little work your way.”

  “That’d be great, Shorty.”

  The barman raised a hand. “I’m not promising, you understand, but we’re short-handed at the moment and one of our lads is going back to Ireland. I’ll have a word with the boss, if you like.”

  “Would I?” said Joker. “Shorty, you’re a lifesaver. You know I haven’t got a social security number?”

  “Don’t let that worry yez,” said Shorty with a Puckish grin. “Half the lads who drink in here are in the States illegally. You’ll be paid in cash, under the table. No names, no pack drill, know what I mean?”

  Joker nodded and finished his whisky. He pushed the empty glass across the bar and Shorty refilled it. “There is one thing, though, Damien. You’re going to have to cut back on your intake while yer working, okay?”

  Joker grinned and raised his glass to the diminutive barman. “Sure, Shorty. Whatever you say.”

  Kelly Armstrong flashed her FBI credentials at the young woman behind the reception desk. The name on the badge pinned above the woman’s right breast said Tracey.

  “Are you Tracey Harrison?” asked Kelly.

  “Yes, miss,” said Tracey eagerly. “You’re the lady from the FBI I spoke to yesterday?”

  “That’s right. Is there somewhere we can talk?”

  “Sure. Just let me get someone to cover for me.” She disappeared through a door and returned a few moments later with a middle-aged man whom Kelly took an instant dislike to. He looked her up and down with an expression she’d seen a thousand times before and knew that he was wondering how someone with her looks could be working for the FBI.

  “You’re a Fed?” he asked, his gaze hovering around her breasts.

  “Special Agent Armstrong,” she said, holding out the ID.

  “Never seen a Fed like you before,” he said, looking at her legs.

  “I’m sure,” she said, tartly. “I’d like a few moments with Miss Harrison, please.”

  “It’s nothing I can help with?” he said. “I’m her superior.”

  Kelly wanted to laugh in his face because superior was the last description that came to mind: he had a flabby body, pale, flaccid skin and greasy, slicked-back hair and he reminded her of the Italian baker who was always trying to pat her on the butt when she was six years old. Before she could reply, Tracey spoke up. “It’s about the cars I rented, Wally.”

  Wally could barely conceal his disappointment. “Maybe I should sit in on it,” he said.

  “That won’t be necessary,” said Kelly. “Can we speak in private, Miss Harrison?”

  As Kelly followed Tracey out of the reception area she had to walk by Wally and for an awful moment she flashed back to the sweet aroma of freshly-baked loaves and cakes and the floury smell of the Italian’s thick forearms as he twiddled the ends of his moustache and waited for her mother to look the other way before trying to touch her. Kelly looked at Wally, her eyes blazing, and he took an involuntary half-step backwards. Kelly smiled. “Thank you, Wally,” she said. “We won’t be long.”

  The office was light and airy with a window which overlooked the car park. The two women sat down and Kelly opened her briefcase and took out a notebook. “The forensic people were here this morning?” she asked.

  “That’s right,” said Tracey. “They’ve left it a mess, too. Will they come back and clean it? Everything is covered in that white powder they use for fingerprints.”

  “I think you should leave it as it is for a while,” said Kelly, “we might need it for evidence.”

  “Yeah, that’s what the men said, but they couldn’t tell me how long it would be.”

  “I’m sorry,” said Kelly. “But I can tell you that we really appreciate your help.” She took out a big white envelope and slid out the computer-enhanced photographs which Cole Howard had given her. “Can you look at these for me, see if you recognise anyone?”

  Tracey went through the pictures one at a time. She looked up, frowning. “They seem a little out of focus,” she said. “Can’t you make them any clearer?”

  Kelly laughed. “Tracey, you wouldn’t believe how much time and trouble we’ve gone to in order to get to this stage,” she said. “I’m afraid that’s the best we can do.”

  Tracey handed back the pictures of the woman. “It certainly wasn’t her, it was two guys I saw.” Then she passed over the photographs of the bigger man. “He’s too big, they were normal build, and younger.” She studied the three photographs left which were all of the man who had been standing next to the woman. “Yeah, this could be one of them. His hair was more red than this, though.”

  “That could be because of the en
hancement process,” said Kelly. “What about the shape of his face, his build?”

  “I think so, yes,” said Tracey. “I mean, I can’t say for certain, but I’m reasonably sure.”

  “Was this the one with the accent?”

  “That’s right. Justin Davies.”

  “Scottish, you said. Or Australian.”

  “Well, I’ve been thinking about that since you called. I’m really not sure what sort of accent it was, you know? They all sound the same.”

  Kelly nodded. “I know exactly what you mean,” she said. “You know the accent is different, but you’re not sure how.”

  “That’s right, absolutely,” agreed Tracey.

  “I thought of a way that might help,” said Kelly, taking a tape-recorder out of her briefcase. “I’ve brought along some recordings of different accents, and I’d like you to listen to them.”

  Bonnie Kim was waiting for Howard in the reception area of the FBI’s Washington research centre and she took him along to her laboratory where her husband was hard at work on one of her computers.

  “Cole, good to see you again,” said Andy, pumping the FBI agent’s arm in a hearty handshake.

  “I didn’t realise you were working here,” said Howard, sitting down on one of the stools in front of the workbench.

  “We thought it best,” explained Bonnie. “In view of what the video shows, we felt it should stay on FBI property.”

  “My professor said he was quite happy for me to work here for a while,” added Andy.

  “Did you tell him what you were working on?” asked Howard.

  “Only that the FBI had an application for my computer modelling. I told him that it was classified at the moment but that I should be able to get a paper out of it in the not-too-distant future.”

  “Good,” said Howard. “How’s it going?”

  Andy pushed his spectacles up his nose. “I’ve almost finished the sniping model,” he said. Bonnie stood behind him and put a hand on his shoulder.