The Long shot mc-1

by Stephen Leather

  “We’ve planned for every eventuality,” said Mary. “Don’t worry.”

  Carlos swallowed. “You’re a cool one, Mary Hennessy. Where were you during the Seventies? I could have used you then.”

  “The Seventies?” said Mary wistfully. “I was happily married then. I was a housewife and mother. I had a husband and I had a brother.” Carlos nodded and noisily sipped his Cola through a straw. Mary looked around the ball park. Every seat was full. The Baltimore Orioles were having a good season and the city had rallied to support them. Beyond the stands were the towering office blocks of the city centre. Mary shielded her eyes from the sun with her hand as she scrutinised the tall buildings. When she turned back to Carlos, his seat was empty.

  Cole Howard left it until 10 a.m. before ringing Jake Sheldon’s secretary and asking if he could see the director. He wanted to be sure that Sheldon had seen the new computer-enhanced photographs and the written request for a wire tap. The secretary told him that Sheldon was at a meeting until noon but that she’d pencil him in for twenty minutes after that.

  Howard picked up a set of the Clayton photographs and went along the corridor to the office Kelly shared with five other agents. She was on the phone and Howard read through the departmental notices on the wall while he waited for her to finish. “Good morning, Cole,” she said brightly as she replaced the receiver. He put the pictures on her desk and watched her as she scrutinised them. She brushed her blonde hair behind her ears, her eyes wide. He saw the glint of a wedding band. She looked up at Howard and then back at the photographs. “This is amazing,” she said. She was wearing a pale blue dress with short sleeves and gold buttons. It reminded him of one of his wife’s expensive Chanel outfits and he wondered who Kelly’s husband was and if he had money. “Are these from Clayton Electronics?” she asked.

  Howard nodded. “That’s right,” he said. “Can you run them by the people in the car rental office? Also, I’d like you to see if you can get a match from our files. Try Interpol, too. Let’s see if we can get a match now that we’ve improved the resolution.”

  “Sure,” she said eagerly. “This is incredible. How on earth did you get these?”

  “High-powered computers and a couple of space cadets,” said Howard.

  Kelly looked at the pictures of the snipers. “Pity that the snipers have got their scopes up against their faces.”

  “Yeah,” agreed Howard. “I’ll send them to Lovell and Schoelen’s Navy SEAL unit and see if they can ID the third sniper. Did you have any luck chasing down their bank accounts?”

  Kelly shook her head. “Both accounts were closed three months ago,” she said.

  “Yeah, I thought they would be,” said Howard. “What about the credit cards?”

  “The Justin Davies American Express card has turned up in Los Angeles,” she replied. “A couple of homeboys were trying to buy a boom box with it. The local police found their apartment full of stuff they’d been buying. It was like Wheel of Fortune.”

  “How did they get the card?”

  “They say they found the wallet in the street. One of the agents from our LA office is seeing them this afternoon, but they stuck to the same story all day yesterday. If they did lift it, we’ll get a description eventually. The other card is still loose.”

  Howard nodded. “Okay. Look, I’m going up to see Sheldon at noon. I’d like you there.” She nodded and went back to studying the photographs.

  “There’s nothing that warms my heart more than to see a good Catholic boy on his knees,” laughed Shorty.

  “Why don’t you join me, and while you’re here you can plant a big wet one on my arse,” replied Joker. He was kneeling in front of the low-level shelves where the bottled beer and soft drinks were stored, restocking and making sure that all the labels were facing outwards, like soldiers on parade.

  “I’d love to, but I’ve arranged to meet a young lady over in Queens, and if I’m not there in an hour she’ll as likely start without me.” The small man took off his apron and retrieved his jacket from a hook on the wall. “You’ll be okay minding the shop on your own?”

  “Sure, Shorty, no sweat. You enjoy yourself.”

  Shorty winked as he walked by the bar, heading for the door and the sunshine. “I surely intend to, Damien.”

  “And give her one for me!” Joker shouted after him, standing up and stretching. He carried the empty crates into a storage room, then went back to the bar and began slicing lemons and limes. There were only three customers: two old men in tweed jackets and caps sitting at a round table playing cribbage and a long-haired young man in torn jeans who was nursing a half-pint of Guinness. He was one of the two teenagers who’d been collecting for the IRA when Joker had first visited Filbin’s on St Patrick’s Day, the one who’d held out the bucket. His name was Dominic Maguire, though everyone called him Beaky because of his large nose, and he was a regular visitor to the bar, both as a fund-raiser and as a customer.

  “So how’s it going today, Damien?” asked Beaky.

  “Slow,” said Joker, scraping the fruit slices into a bowl. He washed the knife in the small sink under the bar. “Where’s John today? John Keenan was Beaky’s friend and the two were practically inseparable.

  “Over in the Bronx, seeing a lawyer. He’s hoping for a shot at the next Green Card lottery.”

  “Good luck to him,” said Joker. “You want another?”

  Beaky shrugged. “I’m a bit short, to be honest, Damien.”

  “That’s okay,” said Joker, taking his almost empty glass and refilling it. “You can have this on me.”

  Beaky grinned. “Yer a saint, thanks a lot.”

  Joker poured himself a double measure of Famous Grouse and added a splash of water. He raised the glass to Beaky. “Cheers,” he said. He savoured the whisky as Beaky returned the salute. “I hope John gets his Green Card,” he added.

  “Don’t see it makes any difference,” said Beaky.

  “There’s plenty of guys can get you a counterfeit one if yez needs it. Me, I wouldn’t even bother.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “Once they get their claws into you, they never let go,” said Beaky. “The IRS get onto you, immigration keep checking on you, it’s too much hassle. I get paid in cash, no tax, no fingerprints on file, no nothing. I’ve been here three years with never a problem.”

  “But what if you want to leave?”

  “No sweat, I can get a fake I-94 and a stamp in my passport, that’s all you need. When you leave, the airline looks at the 1-94 and they take it off you and send it to INS. They don’t know shit. They’re not trying to stop people leaving, they just don’t want to let you in.” He took a mouthful of the dark stout and wiped the foam off his upper lip.

  “It’s as easy as that?” asked Joker.

  “Depends who you know,” said Beaky. “Why, you want something doing?”

  Joker shook his head. “Nah, I’m okay so far. But I’ll let you know.” He finished his whisky and helped himself to another. “Say, a friend of mine was in New York some time ago, said he was trying to get a Green Card, maybe you know him. Matthew Bailey.”

  Beaky put his head on one side like a parrot listening to a sound it hadn’t heard before. “Bailey? Yeah, a carrot top, right?”

  Joker nodded. “Hair like a fox, that’s him.”

  “Where was it I saw him? Yeah, I know, O’Ryan’s Bar. Sometime last year. He was planning to go to Washington, I think.”

  At the mention of Washington, Joker’s stomach lurched. That was where Pete Many on’s body had been found.

  “Do you know where I can get hold of him?” asked Joker.

  “Yeah, he was going to see a guy called Patrick Farrell, a pilot who runs some sort of aircraft leasing company between Washington and Baltimore.”

  “You don’t know the name of it, do you?” asked Joker. “I’d really like to get in touch with Matthew if it’s possible.”

  “No, but I’ll ask around,” said Beaky. />
  The last thing Joker wanted was for Beaky to go around asking questions about Bailey, but he knew that to refuse the man’s offer would only raise suspicion. He took Beaky’s glass, refilled it and then turned the subject to a robbery which had taken place just three streets away, leaving a husband and wife and their young daughter dead from knife wounds. As they talked, Joker’s mind was racing. It shouldn’t be too hard to track down a pilot called Patrick Farrell.

  Howard looked at his watch. It was five minutes before noon. On his way to the elevator he looked into Kelly’s office. She’d gone and he wasn’t surprised to find her already sitting opposite Sheldon’s desk. “Cole, come in, sit down,” said Sheldon, waving him to the seat next to Kelly. “Kelly’s just been updating me on your progress.”

  “That’s decent of her,” said Howard, unable to keep the bitterness out of his voice.

  “These new photographs are really quite something,” continued Sheldon, as if he hadn’t heard Howard. “I’m quite hopeful that we’ll strike gold with these.”

  “They’re certainly a big improvement,” agreed Howard. “Did Kelly tell you about the bank accounts of Lovell and Schoelen?”

  “She did, and I’ve already approved the subpoena of the telephone records, our legal boys are doing the paperwork now. Same goes for the phone tap.”

  Howard nodded. Sheldon toyed with a pencil thoughtfully. “The Justin Davies credit card turned up in Los Angeles, I gather. What are your feelings on that?”

  “I think it’s a set-up,” said Howard quietly. “I think they dumped the card, hoping that it’d be picked up and be used.”

  “So where should we be looking for these snipers?”

  Howard was about to speak, but Kelly got in first. “I’ve already spoken to the two rifle manufacturers — Barrett and Horstkamp. They’re going through their sales records now. They sell mainly through dealers, so it’ll be a question of approaching them for names and addresses.”

  Howard’s mouth dropped. It had been his idea to track down the rifles, but she’d made it sound as if the brainwave was hers. “That’s good,” said Sheldon.

  “That and the telephone tap are just about our only leads on the snipers,” said Howard. “Unless the telephone records show up anything. Incidentally, I’d like more manpower, it’s going to take some legwork.”

  “How many were you thinking of?” asked Sheldon, tapping his pencil on his blotter.

  “Two should be enough at this stage.”

  Sheldon nodded. “Consider it done. Let me have a look at the rosters and I’ll give you names this afternoon. Now, how are the computer experts getting on with their sniping program?”

  “They should be in the White House as we speak,” said Howard. “I was planning to speak to Andy Kim today.”

  “Let me know how you get on,” said Sheldon. He brought the meeting to a close. Howard and Kelly went down in the elevator together in silence. When the doors hissed open, Howard asked her if she’d go along to his office. He waited until the door was closed before speaking again.

  “What is your problem, Kelly?” he said quietly as he went behind his desk and sat down.

  He didn’t ask her to sit, but she did anyway, demurely crossing her legs. She seemed totally unfazed by his question, almost as if she’d expected it. “I don’t know what you mean, Cole,” she said, one eyebrow arched.

  “I’m heading this investigation,” said Howard.

  “Have I implied that you weren’t?” she said.

  “You appear to be taking liberties with the line of command,” he said. “I report to Jake Sheldon, you report to me.”

  “I understand that,” she said smoothly, her voice like a cat’s purr.

  “So can you explain why every time I leave the office, you rush up to see Sheldon?”

  She folded her hands primly in her lap and studied Howard with her pale green eyes. “First, Cole, I hardly think that three visits to Sheldon’s office in one month could be seen as a threat to your authority. And secondly, on two of those occasions it was Jake who called me up. His secretary had tried to contact you, but you were out of the office. The call was passed onto me, and I was asked to go up and brief him on developments. There was never any question of my trying to usurp your authority. I have the greatest respect for your abilities as an agent.”

  Howard took a deep breath. The supercilious look on her face left him in no doubt that she was lying on all counts, but he knew there was nothing he could do. Kelly looked at her gold Cartier watch. “If there’s nothing else, I do have work to do.”

  Howard shook his head and waved her away. Kelly stood up, smoothed down her skirt, and left the office, her head held high.

  They arrived within an hour of each other, following the instructions Carlos had given them, driving behind the house and parking on an area of tarmac which had been used as a basketball court. The view from the rear of the house was spectacular, overlooking the Chesapeake Bay, and each of the arrivals had walked down to the water and looked over the waves to the twin spans of the Bay Bridge which loomed out of the mist to the left, before heading back to the house where they were greeted by Carlos.

  Mary Hennessy hadn’t selected the house from the dozen or so she’d visited because of its view, breathtaking as it was, but because of the privacy it offered — the nearest neighbour was a mile away and shielded by trees. There were only two ways to reach the house — by driving down a long, winding single track road, or by water. The house was built of wood, with towering gables and sash windows, and it had been freshly painted the colour of clotted cream. It had seven bedrooms and three bathrooms, and was surrounded by three acres of well-tended lawn, green and lush despite the salt air.

  Carlos had parked his car in the garage and was waiting in the kitchen, drinking a cup of black, sweet coffee, when Rich Lovell arrived. He opened the back door and stood on the porch and watched as Lovell stood at the end of the lawn, his hands on his hips, and took in the view. The former Navy SEAL went back to his red Ford Mustang, opened the trunk, and took out two cases: one a nylon bag containing his clothes, the other clearly containing a rifle. He saw Carlos as he slammed the trunk shut and he waved. Carlos raised his coffee mug in salute.

  “Am I the first?” shouted Lovell as he shouldered the rifle case.

  “You are, so you get the choice of bedrooms,” replied Carlos. “You’ll find a linen cupboard upstairs, I’m afraid there’s no maid service.”

  “Anything’ll be better than the Holiday Inn,” said Lovell with a smile. He stepped onto the porch and Carlos opened the door for him. Carlos sat down at the kitchen table and opened that day’s Washington Post as Lovell climbed the stairs and made himself comfortable in one of the bedrooms. Carlos flicked through the foreign pages but there was little to interest him. The American press was parochial in the extreme and foreign affairs were low down their list of editorial priorities. The business section contained a gloomy survey of the country’s manufacturing industry, and a forecast that there was worse to come. The dollar was falling against most major currencies, and the property market was in the doldrums. Carlos smiled. The world had rejoiced when Russia and Eastern Europe had been forced to admit that Communism couldn’t work. He wondered how long it would be before nations realised that pure capitalism was equally ineffective. America, which prided itself on being the richest and most successful country in the world, also had one of the highest infant mortality rates, more men in prison than any totalitarian country, and an average life expectancy worse than many Third World nations. The system was starting to break down already, and no-one would take more pleasure in the demise of the USA than Ilich Ramirez Sanchez.

  Outside, he heard a car drive down the track and he went back to the porch. It was Dina Rashid. She parked her white Ford Escort next to Lovell’s Mustang and, like Lovell, went to stand next to the water for a few minutes, her long, curly black hair blowing in the wind. She was so thin, thought Carlos; almost anorexic, her figure t
hat of a teenage boy rather than the thirty-year-old woman she was. As usual, she wore black — jeans and a polo-neck sweater, with black motorcycle boots. She turned as if aware that she was being watched and she waved. “This is wonderful!” she yelled. She ran across the lawn to the porch and hugged Carlos, hard enough to drive the air from his lungs. “Everything is well?” she asked.

  “Everything is perfect,” he said. “Lovell is upstairs already.”

  “Bastard!” she said, and spat noisily to the side. “If he tries to get inside my pants again, I’ll have his balls off.”

  Carlos grinned and slapped her on the backside. Many years ago, Carlos and Rashid had been lovers, but no longer. Their lovemaking had bonded them together, though, and they trusted each other completely. “Just so long as he can shoot, Dina, that’s all that I care about.”

  She tightened her arms around his neck and kissed him on one cheek. “Don’t worry, Ilich. I have something special in mind for Mr Lovell if he tries to touch me again.” She pulled away from Carlos, and laughed throatily. Her face was tanned, the skin pulled tight across her high cheekbones, and her brown eyes flashed as she laughed. Her hair spilled over her shoulders — it was virtually the only feminine thing about her. She even walked like a man. As she went back to her car the final sniper arrived: Lou Schoelen. Rashid greeted him and they carried their suitcases and rifle bags together into the house. Carlos shook hands with Schoelen, and then showed the two of them where the bedrooms were.

  Later, Carlos went out to the bottom of the garden and stood looking at the bridge in the distance. Mary Hennessy was right — the weather was improving.

  Joker put the last glass up on the shelf and scratched his chin. “That’s the lot, Shorty,” he shouted.

  “Good man,” Shorty called back. He was in the basement, changing a keg which had run dry. “I’ll lock up; see you tomorrow.”

  “Is it okay if I take that carton of milk in the fridge?” asked Joker.

  Shorty laughed. “You and that cat,” he said. “Sure, take it.”

  Joker opened the small refrigerator under the bar and took out the pint of milk. He put on his pea jacket and pulled his wool hat down over his head and let himself out, pulling the door shut behind him. It was two o’clock in the morning but the city streets were still busy. A taxi cruised by with its light on and the driver sounded his horn, letting Joker know he was for hire. Joker shook his head, he didn’t have far to walk. He decided to visit the automated teller machine on the way back to his room and he shoved the milk carton into his pocket. As he approached the bank machine he looked left and right to check that there were no suspicious characters lurking in the shadows. New York was never a safe place to be, no matter what the hour. He slid the Visa card into the machine, tapped out his PIN number, and waited while it processed his request. Two large men in raincoats, their collars up against the wind, walked on the opposite side of the road, laughing uproariously. The machine made a clunking sound and Joker reached for his cash. As he slid the notes into his back pocket he realised he wasn’t alone — the two men had crossed silently and were standing either side of him. Both men were as tall as Joker but much wider, as if they spent a lot of time lifting weights.