The Long Shot (Stephen Leather Thrillers) Read online

  He dried himself and put on a pair of blue Levi jeans and a black polo shirt and wrapped the gun in his pea jacket. He carried it out to his car and shoved it behind the driver’s seat, then went to reception and paid his motel bill, using his Visa card. The roads were clear and Joker drove quickly to the address in Laurel where Patrick Farrell lived. The house was a two-storey detached Colonial standing in several acres of lawn with a Stars and Stripes flapping from a pristine white flagpole. The number of the house was on the mailbox which stood at the end of the gravelled drive. Joker slowed but didn’t stop. Standing in front of a basketball hoop was the Lincoln Continental which Joker had seen outside Farrell Aviation. Satisfied that the man he had seen closing up the office was Patrick Farrell, he drove back to the airfield.

  Matthew Bailey was already waiting outside the Farrell Aviation building when Patrick Farrell arrived. Bailey looked at his watch and sneered. Fifteen minutes late. He climbed out of his car and stood by the main entrance to the building.

  Farrell waved. “Hi, Matthew; sorry, my alarm didn’t go off.”

  Bailey sneered again. More likely the old sod had been pulled back into the bed for a quick one by whichever rump-rustler he was hanging around with these days. Farrell had never been especially choosy about the company he kept, in bed or out of it, but he was a first-class pilot and essential to Mary Hennessy’s plan, so Bailey just smiled and waited for him to open the double-glass doors.

  “You want a coffee first?” Farrell asked.

  Bailey declined, saying that he wanted to take the plane up right away. Farrell got the message and opened a metal cabinet behind the reception desk. Inside were more than a dozen sets of keys hanging on hooks, each with a metal tag denoting the call sign of the plane. He took out a set of keys, closed the cabinet and picked up a sectional chart from a table.

  “Headsets?” asked Bailey.

  “In the plane,” said Farrell. The two men walked together towards the line of small planes which faced the grass strip. “You had no problem getting the licence?” Farrell asked.

  “Nah, the school you recommended were ace. They arranged the written for me, gave me about half a dozen lessons and then fixed me up with an FAA examiner. Piece of cake.” Bailey had been taught to fly by pilots from the Libyan Army, and could pilot a variety of single- and multiengined planes. During a six-month stay, courtesy of Colonel Gaddafi, the Libyans had given him a full grounding in instrument flight, and taught him how to fly the French-made Alouette 111 helicopter. Flying in the States on a Libyan licence was obviously out of the question, so Farrell had faked up a logbook showing some fifty hours of flying lessons and Bailey had gone out to New Mexico to get a new FAA licence under an assumed name. The licence was only good for single-engine fixed-wing aircraft, but that was all Bailey intended to fly.

  “You’ve flown a Centurion before?” Farrell asked.

  “Sure,” said Bailey. “What year is it?”

  “It’s an ’86, one of the last that Cessna built. But it’s not a straightforward 210, it’s an Atlantic Aero 550 Centurion upgrade, done by a company down in North Carolina. They upgraded the power plant and the propeller, now she’s got a top speed of 180 knots, range of 850 miles, takeoff ground roll of twelve-fifty feet. Here she is.”

  The plane was white with green stripes down the side and the company’s green propeller and hawk logo on the two doors. Farrell pulled out the cowling covers and untied the ropes which kept the wings and tail tethered to the ground while Bailey walked around, checking the flaps, tail assembly and landing gear. He stood and watched as Farrell took fuel samples from the drain valves to check that there was no condensation or contaminants in the tanks. It was a beautiful day for flying, blue skies as far as he could see with the merest hint of clouds at twenty thousand feet or so. The wind-sock pointed to the south-west but it was hanging almost vertically.

  Farrell threw his last fuel sample on the ground, checked the oil level and nodded to Bailey. “Okay. Let’s go,” he said. The two men climbed into the cockpit and strapped themselves in. “Controls handle pretty much the same as the 210,” said Farrell. “Stall speed with the flaps down is 56 knots, with flaps up it’s 65 knots. After take-off bring the flaps up at 80 knots, best rate of climb is 97 knots which should give you about thirteen-hundred feet per minute.” He unfolded the sectional chart in his lap and pointed to the airstrip. “We’re within the Baltimore-Washington International Terminal Control Area once we get above twenty-five hundred feet and on up to ten thousand feet. If you keep below twenty-five hundred you’ve no problem, but if you go through that ceiling you have to have the transponder on and be in radio contact with Baltimore Approach. We’re going to stay below two thousand until we’re out over Chesapeake Bay, but when we go up I’ll call them anyway, just so they know who we are. The airspace is real busy around here because you’ve got BWI, Andrews Air Force Base and Washington Dulles International, and their air space overlaps. Which way are you going to be heading on the day?”

  Bailey smiled. “Best you don’t know, Pat, old son,” he said.

  “Sure, whatever,” said Farrell. “Just keep an eye on the sectional and keep below the TCA and you won’t have any problems.”

  Bailey nodded. The two men put on their headsets and tested them. Farrell asked him to pick up the plastic laminated checklist and together they ran through it before starting the engine. Bailey ran his eyes across the four by three array of flight gauges and the stack of avionics and radios. The plane was impressively equipped with a Bendix/King KMA 24 audio panel and beacon, dual KX 155 nav-coms and KR 87 ADF and a Cessna 400-series DME. There was also a Phoenix F4 loran receiver which would pinpoint the plane’s position, a WX-10 Stormscope to spot thunderstorm cells and an autopilot.

  “You wanna take her up?” Farrell asked, his voice sounding tinny through the headset.

  “Sure,” said Bailey.

  “Okay, just bear in mind you’ll need every inch of the runway to get airborne. Treat it as a short-field take-off and you won’t go far wrong.”

  Bailey ran through the Centurion’s checklist: cowl flaps open, wing flaps set to ten per cent, elevator and rudder trimmed for take-off, autopilot disconnected and controls free. He increased the throttle to 1700 rpm, feeling the plane judder as the engine growled, then checked the gauges, the magneto and the propeller, before taxiing to the end of the grass runway. He kept his feet on the brakes until the engine was running at full power, then released them, allowing the plane to lurch forward. It accelerated smoothly and Bailey soon had the plane in the air, his hands light on the controls. He retracted the gear as they passed over the edge of the field and he levelled off at two thousand feet. “Sweet,” he said. He trimmed the plane for level flight, reset his heading indicator, and then headed east, towards the Chesapeake Bay, while Farrell called up Baltimore Approach.

  Joker stopped at a filling station and filled the tank of his rental car. He paid for his fuel and bought a couple of packs of chocolate cookies and a six-pack of Coke. They didn’t sell liquor but he had a half-bottle of Famous Grouse in his glove compartment, so he wasn’t too distressed.

  He hid the car in the same spot he’d used the previous afternoon and made his way to the chestnut tree, carrying his whisky and provisions. The gun he left under the passenger seat, wrapped in a newspaper. The grass was damp from the early morning dew so he dropped his pea jacket down and sat on top of it. He checked out the Farrell Aviation building with his binoculars. There were two cars parked outside, but neither was Farrell’s Lincoln Continental. He settled down with his back to the tree and opened the whisky bottle, toasted the building, and drank deeply.

  There was a clock radio by the bed and Cole Howard set it for 8 a.m. so that he could telephone his wife first thing in the morning. Bob Sanger had arranged for cars to pick up the FBI agents at eight-thirty prompt. When the alarm went off Howard rolled over, switched it off and groped for the phone. He misdialled the first time and woke up an old man w
ho by the sound of it didn’t have his teeth in. Howard redialled and Lisa answered on the fourth or fifth ring.

  “Hiya, honey,” he said.

  “Cole?”

  Yeah, right, thought Howard. How many early morning phone calls did she get from guys calling her ‘honey’? She was obviously still unhappy. “Yeah, it’s me. How are the kids?”

  “They’re fine.”

  That was all. No questions, no concern, just the children are fine, why the hell are you bothering me so early in the morning? “You up already?”

  “Golf,” she said.

  The monosyllabic treatment. Always a bad sign. “Yeah? Who are you playing?”

  “Daddy.”

  A two-syllable word, but not one that Howard wanted to hear. “Honey, I’m sorry,” he said, the words spilling out before he could stop them. He didn’t feel in the least bit responsible for the argument but he wanted it to end, and if the only way of achieving that was by apologising, then so be it.

  “There’s nothing to be sorry about,” she said, which meant that there was.

  “Okay, well, I just wanted to let you know that I got here safely, that’s all.”

  “Okay,” she said, as if his safety was the very last thing on her mind. “Well, look, I’m supposed to be teeing off at eight and I’ve a lot to do. Do you know when you’ll be back?”

  “Two weeks at the most,” he said. She didn’t complain, she didn’t gasp in horror, she just said okay and ended the call. Ouch, thought Howard, was he in trouble.

  He shaved and showered and went down to the reception area, where O’Donnell and Clutesi were already waiting. “Ed says we should go on ahead and he’ll take the second car,” said O’Donnell.

  The three men made small-talk during the drive to the White House, not knowing how secure the driver was. They had to show their FBI credentials to gain admittance and the guard checked their names off against a list on his clipboard.

  Bob Sanger was already at his desk, working his way through a stack of computer printouts. He greeted them but didn’t ask about Mulholland, so Howard guessed the FBI chief had already called in. Sanger took them along to an office which he’d had made ready for the FBI team, and introduced them to an overweight, middle-aged secretary by the name of Helen who was to be assigned to them for the extent of their stay. She was cheerful and eager to please and had already arranged for their White House passes, which they clipped to the breast pockets of their jackets.

  Howard looked around the office, and realised immediately that there wouldn’t be anywhere near enough telephone extensions or desks. He turned back to Helen but before he could speak she told him that she’d already been onto the relevant White House departments and that equipment and supplies would be arriving later in the morning. Howard asked her to show him where Andy Kim and Rick Palmer were working and she smiled brightly and took him down to the ground floor and along a corridor to a mahogany door. “It used to be a secretarial pool,” she said. “I once spent eighteen months behind that door. We called it The Tomb.”

  Howard smiled. “I know exactly what you mean,” he said. “I spent a few months in a place called The Tomb, myself.”

  She left him at the door and Howard watched her large thighs rub together as she waddled rather than walked down the corridor. He could hear the sound of nylon hissing against nylon long after she’d turned the corner.

  Howard knocked on the door and went in. Andy Kim was there, sitting in front of a large colour VDU, with Bonnie standing behind him, her hair tied back in a long ponytail. They both looked dog-tired and Howard realised that neither of them had slept the previous night. There were a dozen desks crammed into the office, a large white board on which computer language and several complex equations had been written in red and black ink. To the left were two small camp beds. The Kims were engrossed in the computer terminal and it was only when Howard went to stand behind them that they realised he was in the room.

  “Cole!” said Bonnie. “Hi! Andy said you’d be here for a while.” There were dark bags under her eyes and her hair was less shiny than he remembered. Her husband was clearly tired, too, more so than when he’d seen him the previous night.

  Andy Kim stood up and shook hands with Howard, but avoided his eyes. Howard sensed that he was embarrassed and that things weren’t going well. “You two look like you could do with a good night’s sleep,” said Howard.

  Bonnie squeezed her husband’s shoulders. “He hasn’t slept for three days,” she said.

  “I must be doing something wrong,” Andy hissed, his eyes on the screen. “I must be missing something.”

  Howard wasn’t sure what to say. The news that the snipers were planning to make their move within the next two weeks had clearly shaken Andy, but Howard didn’t want to appear condescending by telling him not to worry.

  “We’re going back to square one,” Bonnie explained. “We’re checking all the angles and distances in the model first, then we’re going to check all the venues from today onwards.”

  “But I’m sure we did it right the first time,” said Andy.

  “Andy, you’ve got to remember that it might not be the President who’s the target. You could be doing everything right and still not get a match. Have you tried any of the other possibilities? The Prince of Wales, for instance, or the British Prime Minister?”

  Andy looked up. “They didn’t match either, but I’m sure it’s the President they’re after,” he said. “I can feel it. And if they succeed, it’ll be my fault. I couldn’t live with that, Cole. I really couldn’t.”

  Bonnie smiled nervously at Howard as if apologising for his touchiness. “What will you be doing, Cole?” she asked.

  “We’ve a lead on the snipers and the people who are helping them,” he said. “The Bureau and the Secret Service are working together to try to find them.”

  “What are your chances?” asked Andy sharply.

  Howard shrugged. “I’m hopeful,” he said.

  “What sort of odds?” Andy pressed.

  Howard smiled tightly. “I dunno, Andy. You can’t treat an investigation like an equation. There’re so many influences, not the least being luck. We could literally stumble over them, they could get pulled in for speeding or one of our men could walk right by them. I can’t give you odds.”

  A computer printout was lying by the side of the visual display unit and Howard picked it up. “It’s a list of the President’s appointments for the next two weeks,” Bonnie explained.

  Howard flicked through it. Most were on the East Coast, though there was a two-day trip to Los Angeles and visits to Dallas and Chicago. “Dallas,” he mused, loud enough for the Kims to hear.

  “I thought we were concentrating on the East Coast?” said Bonnie.

  “Sorry, I was just thinking out loud,” said Howard. “It’s hard not to think of Dallas when you think of a presidential assassination. But the evidence we have points to it being on the East Coast.” He continued to read through the printout. The President was a busy man, no doubt about it, with up to twenty visits a day: breakfast meetings, lunchtime speeches, opening ceremonies, tours of factories, fund-raising activities, sports events. Howard wondered when the man actually found time to run the country. “I hadn’t realised he moved around so much,” he said. “I guess we always think of the President as sitting in the Oval Office.”

  “Yeah, I wish that was true,” said Andy Kim. “But it’s worse than that printout suggests.” He ran his hand through his mop of black hair. “It’s not just one program per visit. Say he’s being shown around a factory. He could visit a dozen different sites, plus travelling to and from it, and we have to rerun the program for each of them. Say he walks a hundred feet from a car to the entrance of a hotel. We have to pick points every ten feet and run them through the program. That’s ten operations for one walk. Every time he gets into or out of a limo we have to put that through the model. You wouldn’t believe how complex it is.”

  “But it’
s going to be okay,” said Bonnie, sympathetically.

  “I hope so,” said Andy Kim.

  The office door opened and a man in running gear stepped inside. He was wearing grey shorts, scuffed training shoes and a white sweatshirt which was damp with sweat, and he was breathing heavily. Andy Kim looked around at the visitor, then turned back to his computer. The jogging gear was so unexpected that it took Howard several seconds to recognise the face of the President of the United States.

  “Hi, you guys, I thought I’d just stop by and see how you’re getting on with this computer model thing,” he said. The mid-Western drawl was instantly recognisable from thousands of sound-bites on television news, and Andy’s head whirled around in an astonished double-take. His mouth dropped and his hands slid off the computer keyboard. Bonnie was equally stunned.

  The President closed the door and walked over to the Kims. A small towel was hanging around his neck and he used it to wipe his forehead. “Bob Sanger expects great things from this,” he said. He stuck out his hand and Andy Kim stared at it as if it was a loaded gun. It was only when Bonnie pushed his shoulders that he stood up and shook the President’s hand. “I’m Andy Kim,” he said, his voice trembling. Bonnie nudged his shoulder again. “Oh, and this is my wife, Bonnie.”