The Long Shot (Stephen Leather Thrillers) Page 30

  Otterman couldn’t believe his luck. “Can you give me her details,” he asked. “Registration card, credit card details, list of phone calls she made, the works?”

  “No problem,” said Linder. “What has she done?”

  “That’s classified, I’m afraid,” said Otterman, who was loath to admit that he didn’t know. Like the rest of the agents scouring the city gathering guest lists to compare with the watch list stored in the Secret Service computer, he had been told only that identifying the men and woman was to be accorded the highest priority.

  Matthew Bailey and Patrick Farrell stood in front of the Farrell Aviation building for almost half an hour, talking animatedly as Joker watched through the binoculars. At one point Farrell gave something to Bailey but Joker couldn’t make out what it was. Eventually Bailey handed his headset to Farrell and the two men said goodbye.

  Joker got to his feet and rushed back to his car. He climbed in and wound down the windows so that he could hear when Bailey drove down away from the airport. He heard Bailey drive away and he followed him. The Irishman was driving a dark blue sedan which was totally inconspicuous in the mid-morning traffic so Joker had to stay closer then he’d have preferred. Bailey drove up towards Baltimore and then headed east, towards Chesapeake Bay. Joker kept him in sight all the way, constantly changing lanes and the distance from his quarry in the hope that he’d be harder to spot. His heart was racing and his hands were sweating on the wheel. He wanted a slug of whisky but knew that it wouldn’t be a good idea to drink from the bottle while driving along at 55 mph. You never knew when the next vehicle might be an unmarked police car.

  Mary parked her rental car next to a red Jeep and switched off the engine. As it cooled she massaged her temples and studied the motel. It was a Best Western, close to Highway 40: quiet, anonymous, and the perfect place for a trap. She trusted the man who’d telephoned her, trusted him with her life, but she was still apprehensive. She studied the cars in the parking lot, looking for anything that might be driven by an undercover agent, and checking for any signs of surveillance. She knew she was whistling in the dark. If this was a trap they would be well hidden and the first she’d know of it would be the thud of a bullet followed by the crack of the shot. Her heart began to race and her hands were damp on the steering wheel. She steadied herself. “It’s okay,” she whispered. “It’s okay.”

  She wanted to restart the car and drive away, but if there was any chance that her operation had been compromised, she had to know. Her contact in New York had said that the meeting was vital to the success of her operation, and that was enough for Mary. Her handbag was lying on the passenger seat and she opened it just enough to reassure herself that the gun was there and that the safety was off. She felt like a mouse sniffing at a cheese-baited trap, knowing the risks but wanting the cheese nevertheless. Her mouth was dry and she swallowed. She looked around the car park again, hoping that she’d see something that would give her a reason to leave. There was nothing. She picked up the bag. If they were going to kill her they’d wait until she was out of the car so that there would be no doubt that they had the right person. If it was the Americans, they’d be using a SWAT team with telescopic sights, if it was the SAS they’d have handguns and they’d get in close. Either way the end result would be the same – blood on the concrete. Her blood. She shivered and reached for the door handle. The door swung open and she stepped out. A noise to the right made her flinch, but it was a child bouncing a ball against a red truck. The child’s mother called him from the door to a room and he picked up the ball and ran to her, giggling.

  Mary sighed and slammed the door shut. The sound echoed around the car park like a scaffold’s trapdoor. The mother smacked the back of the child’s legs and pulled him into the motel room. Mary took a deep breath and began to walk across the concrete to the two-storey block of bedrooms. Room number 27, her contact had said. It was on the ground floor, and the curtains were drawn. A maid was pushing a trolley full of towels and cleaning equipment along the upper level, its wheels squealing as if in pain. Mary stood in front of the door. She looked left and right, then opened her bag and slipped her hand inside. The cold metal was comforting. She knocked on the door, and realised that it was open. She pushed it with the flat of her hand. “Hello?” she said. There was no reply but she could hear the sound of running water. She reached her hand inside, feeling for a light switch. She found it, but when she flicked it up nothing happened. Either the bulb was broken or it had been removed.

  She peered into the gloom. Her hand tightened around the gun and she stepped inside. The bathroom door was closed but she could see a strip of light at the bottom and the shower was on full blast. Mary moved into the room and carefully closed the door behind her.

  “Take your hand out of the bag,” said a woman’s voice. “And if it comes out with a gun, I’ll shoot.”

  The voice was calm and assured, and Mary slowly obeyed, raising her hands above her head.

  “Turn around and put your hands against the wall,” said the voice. Mary did as she was told, mentally cursing herself for her stupidity. She shouldn’t have come alone, she shouldn’t have entered the darkened room, she shouldn’t have fallen for the oldest trick in the book. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath as a hand patted her down expertly, running down her sides and the small of her back. She felt the hand slide into her bag and pull out the gun and then heard it being thrown onto the bed. The hand went back into the bag and Mary shifted her weight off her arms. Before she could move, the barrel of a gun pressed into the small of her back.

  “Don’t even think about it,” said the voice calmly.

  Mary opened her eyes and looked down. She saw a hand with red-painted fingernails take her wallet out of the bag and then the barrel was removed from her back. The woman stepped away and Mary realised she was going through the credit cards and identification.

  “These are good,” said the woman. “Very good.”

  Mary felt her mouth go dry and she swallowed. “You’re Kelly Armstrong?” she said.

  “Uh-huh,” said Kelly. “And despite what these say, you’re Mary Hennessy. I’ve been looking for you for some time.”

  Mary frowned. If she’d been caught in some sort of FBI sting the room should have been full of armed agents by now, and if it was an SAS trap then she’d be dead on the floor. It didn’t make any sense. She heard the woman walk away to the other side of the room. Mary turned her head quickly and saw Kelly peering through a gap in the curtains. She had the striking looks of a television anchorwoman, with backswept hair and a sharp profile. She was wearing a black jacket and a skirt which showed off her long, tanned legs and she held a large automatic in her right hand. In her left she held Mary’s wallet. Mary’s frown deepened. Kelly turned to look at her and Mary faced the wall again.

  “You came alone?” Kelly asked.

  “That’s what you wanted,” replied Mary, her eyes on the wall.

  “You can turn around now,” said Kelly. She put Mary’s wallet on a bedside table and clicked on a small lamp.

  Mary pushed herself away from the wall and turned to face the younger woman. “What’s this all about?” she asked. “I was told you wanted to see me, that you had information for me. Why all this cloak and dagger charade?”

  Kelly smiled. “You’re a very dangerous woman, Mary. I had to make sure that you didn’t come in with guns blazing.”

  “What is it you want? Have you come to take me in, is that it?”

  Kelly laughed softly. She reached into her jacket pocket and took out a small leather wallet. She threw it onto the bed, close to the gun. Mary reached out her hand, and for a brief second considered grabbing the gun. She looked up and saw that Kelly was watching her closely. Mary picked up the wallet and opened it. Her heart sank as she saw the FBI credentials. “I know about the assassination,” said Kelly quietly.

  Mary’s mouth dropped. She looked at the door, expecting it to burst open to admit a dozen gun-to
ting FBI agents, but it remained firmly closed. “I don’t know what game it is you’re playing, but let’s cut to the chase, shall we? I thought you wanted to talk.”

  Kelly placed her gun on the bedside table. “Oh I do, Mary,” she said softly. “And I want to help.” She walked over to an easy-chair and sat down, crossing her long legs like a secretary preparing to take dictation.

  Mary looked at the gun on the bed, and then back at Kelly. “Who are you?” she asked.

  Kelly raised an eyebrow archly. “Kelly Armstrong, special agent with the Federal Bureau of Investigation.”

  “And?” said Mary, sensing that there was more to come.

  “And Colm O’Malley was my father.”

  The revelation hit Mary like a blow to the stomach. “Colm O’Malley?” she repeated.

  “Didn’t they tell you? Didn’t they tell you that Fergus is my uncle?”

  Mary shook her head. “No, they didn’t.” She sat down on the edge of the bed. “But you’re American,” she said.

  “I am now,” she said. “My parents divorced when I was a kid.” Mary looked up sharply. “I know, I know, Catholics don’t get divorced,” she said. “My mother was American, she went back to the States and divorced him there. I hardly saw him when I was growing up, but later, when I was in my teens, I used to go to stay with him. Things were never right between him and my mother, she wouldn’t even let him come to my wedding.” She grimaced as if in pain. “She couldn’t stop me going to his funeral, though.” She reached up as if to casually slip a strand of her blonde hair behind her ear but she brushed her cheek with the back of her hand and Mary could see that she was close to tears.

  “My husband died, too,” said Mary quietly.

  Kelly looked at her fiercely. “I know,” she said. “You think if I didn’t know I’d be sitting here talking to you like this?” Her anger subsided as quickly as it had flared. “I’m sorry,” she said.

  Mary said nothing and the two women sat in silence for a while, united by unspoken memories.

  “How could they do it?” Kelly asked eventually. “How could they murder them like that?”

  “The SAS have a saying,” said Mary. “‘Big Boys’ Games, Big Boys’ Rules’.”

  “That doesn’t excuse what they did,” said Kelly. “It doesn’t even explain it. They gunned my father down like an animal.”

  “I know,” said Mary.

  “Like an animal,” Kelly repeated. She looked up sharply. “I want to help, Mary.” There was a new brittle -ness in her voice, like splintered glass.

  “You don’t know what you’re saying,” said Mary. “You don’t know what we’re planning.”

  Kelly snorted softly. “You’d be surprised,” she said. “I know you’re planning an assassination using three snipers, and that one of the snipers will be more than a mile from the target. I know that two of the snipers are former Navy SEALs, Rich Lovell and Lou Schoelen, and that you organised a full rehearsal in Arizona to calibrate your weapons. And I know that the assassination is set for sometime within the next two weeks.” Mary sat in stunned silence as Kelly ticked off the points on her fingers. Kelly smiled smugly. “The only thing I don’t know is who you’re planning to kill.”

  “My God,” whispered Mary.

  “So?” asked Kelly.

  “My God,” repeated Mary. “Does the FBI know all this, too?”

  Kelly shrugged. “Some of it. They know that Lovell and Schoelen are the snipers, but so far they’re not aware that there’s an IRA connection.”

  “Do they know who else is involved?”

  Kelly shook her head. “Just the SEALs.”

  “How did you find out that I was part of it?” asked Mary.

  “Someone with an Irish accent hired one of the cars you used in the desert. That set bells ringing in my mind and I took the photographs to my uncle. He recognised you.”

  “But the FBI doesn’t know I’m involved?”

  “Not yet, no. But they’re using computers to enhance the photographs so I would guess it’s only a matter of time. So who’s the target?”

  Mary shook her head as if trying to clear it. “Photographs?” she said. Realisation dawned. “The plane,” she mumbled. “It must have been the plane.”

  “There was a video-recorder on board,” said Kelly, “the whole thing was filmed.”

  Mary looked at her watch, and then at the FBI agent. “And you want to help?” she said. “Knowing what that entails, you want to help?”

  “If the target is who I think it is, yes, I’ll help. I want to hurt the British the way they hurt me.” She stared at Mary with an intensity that bordered on fanaticism.

  Mary nodded slowly. “The Prime Minister,” she said.

  Kelly let out a deep breath with the sound of a deflating tyre. “I knew it,” she said. She stood up and walked to stand in front of Mary. “I’m with you,” she said. “I’ve been waiting for a chance like this for a long time.”

  Rich Lovell sat on the side of his bed, a sheet of polythene spread over the quilt so that it wouldn’t be stained by his disassembled Barrett rifle. The former Navy SEAL stripped, cleaned and lubricated his weapon every day, whether or not it had been fired. Slowly and methodically, he checked that the chamber was empty and broke the rifle down into its three major components: the upper receiver group, containing the barrel and telescopic sight; the bolt carrier group; and the lower carrier group, including the trigger components. He picked up the upper receiver group and checked that the barrel springs weren’t overstretched and that the impact bumper was in good condition. The muzzle brake was tight, as were the scope mountings which had been set during the Arizona rehearsal. He carefully put the upper receiver group back on the polythene and picked up the bolt carrier group. He looked to see that the ejector and extractor were under spring pressure and weren’t chipped or worn. As his hands performed the functions they’d done thousands of times before, his mind emptied. Cleaning his rifle was a form of mantra for Lovell, bringing an inner peace that he rarely felt at other times. He de-cocked the firing mechanism, then depressed the bolt latch and worked the bolt in and out, feeling for any signs of roughness. There were none. There had been none the previous day, there would be none the following day, but every day he checked. He held the bolt down and peered at the firing-pin, confirmed that it wasn’t broken or chipped, and then examined the firing-pin hole for signs of erosion. There were none.

  He inspected the bolt latch and the cocking lever, then replaced the components on the polythene sheet.

  The last group to be checked was the lower receiver. He pulled the bolt carrier back and checked that the mainspring moved freely and that the trigger mechanism was in good condition.

  When he was satisfied that everything was as it should be, he inserted his bronze-bristle bore brush through the chamber end of the barrel and made six passes with rifle-bore cleaner. He unwrapped a pack of small cloth patches and he pushed them through the bore one at a time with the brush until they came out completely clean. The dirty ones he screwed up and threw into his wastepaper bin. He used another piece of cloth to dry off any parts of the upper receiver group which had come into contact with the cleaner. He took a small bottle of CLP – cleaner, lubricant and preservative – and soaked a square of material with it before passing it through the barrel. He held the end of the barrel to his eye and squinted down it to check that it had a thin coating of CLP. Satisfied, he poured CLP on another cloth and generously lubricated the bolt, the bolt carrier and the receiver, and then lightly rubbed it over all the metal surfaces.

  When all the individual components were glistening with the CLP he assembled the rifle with crisp, economic movements. He stood up and went over to the window where he put the rifle to his right shoulder and put his eye close up to the telescopic sight. The reticle graduations came into focus, superimposed on the green lawn. He aimed the rifle at the base of a small bush and tightened his finger on the trigger. The image in the scope was rock steady de
spite the weight of the rifle. Lovell knew better than to pull the trigger without a bullet in the chamber: to do so could damage the firing-pin. He swung the rifle slowly across the lawn, breathing softly and slowly. Marksmanship was to a large extent a function of breathing and it was something he practised almost as much as actually firing the weapon. The road filled the scope and he followed it back towards the highway. The view turned blue and then Lovell was looking at the face of Matthew Bailey. Lovell smiled and smoothly followed Bailey with the rifle, keeping the man’s forehead dead in the centre of the scope. Instinctively his finger pressed harder on the trigger, shallow breathing to keep his chest movement to a minimum. He became totally focused on Bailey, then when he was sure he had the shot made he held his breath and mentally the trigger was pressed and the bullet leapt from the barrel at more than three thousand feet per second. “Bang,” he said, softly.

  He took the rifle from his shoulder. Through the window he saw Bailey drive up and park at the side of the house. A flash of colour at the periphery of his vision caught his attention and he narrowed his eyes. It was a car, moving slowly at the far end of the driveway. Lovell put the rifle to his shoulder once more and closed his left eye. Through the open eye he saw the windshield of the car centred on the reticle and he edged the rifle over to the right, centring it on the face of the driver. He was looking at a pair of deep set, watery eyes above cheeks which were threaded with broken veins as if the man had a drinking problem. His thin lips were moving together as if he was chewing and he had a deep frown. The man was clearly watching Bailey as he walked to the front door.

  Lovell placed the rifle on the plastic sheeting and went downstairs. Carlos and Dina were sitting at a long pine table in the kitchen. Dina was pouring tea from a brown earthenware teapot and she looked up as Lovell opened the door.