The Long shot mc-1

by Stephen Leather

  Hank O’Donnell coughed quietly. “I think we might be able to cast some light on the third sniper,” he said, and handed his file to Howard. “Dina Rashid, Lebanese, one of the Christian militia’s best snipers.”

  Howard opened the file. A colour photograph of a thin-faced girl with long brown hair, dark skin and black eyes was clipped to the inside cover. Howard remembered that the third sniper in the video had long hair.

  “According to our Middle East Division, Rashid has been missing from Beirut for the past five months, and there’s a general request out for information on her whereabouts,” O’Donnell continued. “We’ve no record of her entering the US, but then we had no record of Hennessy, Bailey or Carlos passing through Immigration, either. You’ll see from the file that she and Carlos are not exactly strangers.” He coughed, almost apologetically. “In fact, for a time they were lovers.”

  Howard nodded, and put the file on top of the rest. “We all know that Carlos was one of a number of terrorists summoned to Iraq by Saddam Hussein, and it’s generally assumed that they were briefed on a terrorist campaign aimed at the States and the United Kingdom.”

  Mulholland leant forward, linking his fingers. “It’s more than an assumption, Cole. The IRA were among those who attended the meetings in Baghdad and only weeks afterwards they launched a mortar attack on Downing Street.”

  Sullivan nodded. “There were several known IRA terrorists reported in Iraq over Christmas 1990, and the mortar attack was on February 7, 1991. The British Prime Minister, John Major, was in the Cabinet Room with his War Cabinet, and they were damn lucky not to have been killed. One of the mortars landed in the garden of Number 10 Downing Street and cracked the windows. Margaret Thatcher had installed blast-proof net curtains some years previously — that’s what saved them.”

  “There’s no suggestion that Hennessy or Bailey were involved, is there?” Howard asked.

  Sullivan shook his head. “Special Branch have their theories, but neither Hennessy nor Bailey was mentioned. Bailey was in the States at the time, anyway.”

  “I remember the bombing, but I didn’t realise that Iraq was behind it,” said Howard.

  “That’s the way Saddam wants it,” said O’Donnell, quietly. “It’s revenge he wants, not publicity.”

  “Which brings us to the target,” said Mulholland. “Bob Sanger has already put the Secret Service’s Intelligence Division on full alert. But are we sure that the President is the target?”

  Howard sat back, his hands on his knees. “I don’t know, Ed. I just don’t know. I haven’t had time to put together a comprehensive list, but the British Prime Minister is over here in a few days, the Prince of Wales is here on a Royal visit next month. A number of British politicians and business leaders are coming, and many of them could be a target. Most of the visiting politicians are from the Conservative Party, and several of the businessmen are in defence industries.”

  Mulholland nodded. “Tell me about these computer experts you have over at the White House,” he said.

  Howard explained about Andy Kim’s work on the computer model of the assassination.

  “Have you thought about inputting different targets into the program?” asked Mulholland. “Could we do all the British VIPs?”

  “We’ve thought about it, but there are time constraints, and who do we put forward as targets if it isn’t the President? We don’t have the resources to run the model for every visiting dignitary, even if we restrict ourselves to the Brits. And what about other American possibilities? We could consider every member of Congress as a potential target. There are just too many names. And who says it’s a politician? There are plenty of likely targets in the military who Saddam would like to see blown away.”

  Mulholland nodded. “What are the time constraints you mentioned?”

  Howard explained about the telephone tap and that Lou Schoelen had told his mother everything would be over within two weeks. When he told the group about identifying the television station from the Star Trek episode, they laughed.

  “Outstanding,” said Mulholland.

  “Inspired,” added O’Donnell, slapping his own leg.

  “So, we know the hit is going down on the East Coast, and that it’s going to go ahead within the next two weeks. What are our options?” asked Mulholland.

  “We could cancel all the President’s public appearances for the next two weeks,” said Howard.

  “He’d never agree to that,” said Mulholland.

  “In view of the circumstances. .”

  Mulholland shook his head. “I’ve already run the idea by Bob Sanger — his view is that Presidential security is already one hundred per cent, there is nothing more that can be done short of putting him in a nuclear shelter.”

  “We could put out a press release saying he had a medical problem,” suggested Howard.

  “That’s certainly been done before, but the view from the White House is that the President can’t run for cover every time we uncover a conspiracy,” said Mulholland. “If we did that, he’d never leave the White House. I gather there’s an element of pride, too. If Saddam Hussein is behind this, the President doesn’t want to give him the satisfaction of showing that he’s afraid.”

  “What about putting them on the Ten Most Wanted List?” asked O’Donnell, his voice low as if frightened of intruding.

  “Who? The snipers or the terrorists?” asked Mulholland.

  “I thought the snipers,” said O’Donnell. “If they know we’re on to them, they might get cold feet.”

  “In which case they might try again some other time,” said Howard.

  “Cole’s right,” said Mulholland. “Plus, it’s Carlos who’s planning this, I’m sure, and if the snipers back out he’ll get others. This Rashid woman sounds like she’s got personal reasons for being involved, so she’s unlikely to be scared off. But we could put Bailey and Hennessy on the list. Carlos, too. They’re wanted terrorists.”

  “And what would we put on the wanted poster?” asked Howard. “We don’t have fingerprints, and they haven’t committed a crime in the US.”

  “There was Bailey’s attempt to buy the missile in LA,” said Sullivan. “There are legitimate reasons for the FBI being interested in Bailey and Hennessy.”

  “Hardly justifies putting them on the Ten Most Wanted, though, does it?” asked Howard. “You’re going to get a lot of questions from the media, too, especially if we let it be known we’re searching for Carlos. I assume we’re not going public on why we want these people.”

  “That’s for sure,” said Mulholland. “But we could just push the terrorist angle. Cracking down on the IRA as part of a joint operation with the British.”

  “It’d be a first,” said Howard. “The media would be sure to start asking questions. And I doubt if it would get results quickly enough. You have to remember the two-week deadline.”

  “What about the British?” asked O’Donnell. “Are we bringing them in on this?”

  “What are your feelings, Hank?” said Mulholland.

  O’Donnell shrugged. “Relations aren’t exactly cordial between the Bureau and MI5 at the moment,” he said. “Too many cooks, you know?”

  “But we’re keeping them informed, right?”

  “There are information memos in the system, but not red-tagged,” said O’Donnell. “We’ve told them that Bailey and Hennessy have been seen, but we haven’t told them about Carlos yet. I hadn’t thought it necessary at this stage.”

  “Do you have any thoughts as to why the IRA have teamed up with Carlos?” asked Mulholland. O’Donnell chewed the inside of his lip thoughtfully and Mulholland smiled. “Just shooting the breeze, Hank. Nothing written in stone.”

  O’Donnell nodded. “At this stage of the investigation, anything has to be conjecture,” he said slowly. “If you were to press me, I’d say that the IRA is smoothing the way for Carlos, that he’s in charge and they’re arranging passports, driving licences, hotels, the infrastructure that would
be required by an operation of this nature. Carlos hasn’t operated in the United States before. As far as we’re aware, this is his first time in the country. The IRA, however, has a long tradition of involvement in the US. Much of their fund-raising is done here, and the US is often used as a safe haven when things get too hot for them in Ireland. The Irish community also networks better than almost any other minority group. There are legal networks offering jobs, advice and support, but there are underground networks too, supplying weapons and counterfeit papers. Carlos wouldn’t be able to plug into those networks, but Hennessy and Bailey would.”

  O’Donnell’s views were greeted by a succession of nodding heads. Mulholland cracked his knuckles, the small explosions echoing around the office. “It goes without saying that the capture of Carlos would be a major coup for the Bureau. However, I agree with Cole that we can’t launch a manhunt for Carlos without facing some pretty awkward questions from the media. And as he pointed out, going after the snipers won’t get us anywhere. Lovell and Schoelen appear to be nothing more than hired guns. Bearing in mind the time constraints, I think we should go all out to find Bailey and Hennessy, on the assumption that they are with Carlos. But Carlos is our prime target. And I mean target, gentlemen. Whether we apprehend him dead or alive isn’t the issue.”

  Mulholland looked over at Sullivan. “Frank, you’re going to have to put pressure on your informers — find out where Hennessy and Bailey are, what ID they’re using, who they spoke to, the works. Put the squeeze on anyone who’s overstayed their visa or who’s working here illegally. Anyone who doesn’t co-operate gets put on the next Aer Lingus flight back to Ireland. And I want you to contact all our offices in those cities with large Irish communities and get them to put feelers out. Don is going to be coming with us to Washington, but I’ll assign you all the manpower you need.” Mulholland saw that Howard wanted to speak. “You have something in mind, Cole?” he asked.

  “Just a thought,” said Howard. “I don’t think putting Hennessy and Bailey on the Most Wanted List will produce results in time. Why don’t we go public instead? Run their photographs on one of the TV shows — America’s Most Wanted or Unsolved Mysteries — the shows that get viewers to solve crimes.”

  “I don’t think going public on an assassination conspiracy is the way to go,” said Mulholland, frowning.

  Howard shook his head. “We fake it,” he said. “We run their photographs and descriptions, but we say we’re hunting them for armed robbery or drug smuggling. Get the viewers to call in if they’ve seen them. Some of those shows have really high success rates.”

  “That’s an idea,” said Mulholland. “They do owe us favours, that’s for sure. It’d be a rush job, though. Let me speak to a producer I know; if it can be done in time we’ll go for it.” He slapped his knees with his big hands. “Okay, let’s get to it. Hank, grab Don when he gets here, we’ll meet downstairs in forty-five minutes. Make sure that everyone knows that for the next few days we’ll be based at the White House. Katie will have the numbers. Frank, thanks for sitting in on this. We’ll be depending on you to get some sort of handle on Carlos.”

  O’Donnell and Sullivan left the office, but when Howard made a move to follow them, Mulholland grabbed his shoulder and pulled him back. “Wait a moment, will you, Cole, I’d like a word?” He closed the door behind the departing agents and then stood leaning against his desk, his legs crossed at the ankles and his huge forearms folded across his chest. “First, I just want to repeat that I think you’ve done a first-class job on this investigation so far. I’m not the sort of director who takes credit for his operatives’ hard work, I want you to know that. When this is all over, credit will go where it’s due, I promise you.” He smiled, showing chunky white teeth that were so close together they seemed to be a seamless strip across his mouth. “Nail your colours to my mast, and I’ll back you all the way.”

  Howard nodded, unsure whether or not the director was being totally honest. He’d been in the FBI long enough to know that it was action that counted, not words. “I sure appreciate that,” he said.

  “Secondly, I wanted to talk to you now about our meeting with Bob Sanger. I gather you two have met?”

  “Once, to brief him on Andy Kim’s computer model.”

  “What did you think?”

  Howard watched Mulholland’s eyes, sensing a trap. For all he knew, Mulholland and Sanger could be bosom brothers. He shrugged casually. “He seemed very professional. He was keen to move the Kims into the White House to give them access to Secret Service data. But as you said, he seems to think that Presidential security is above reproach. I think he was humouring me.”

  “Yeah, that’s Bob’s way,” said Mulholland, grinning. “You’ve got to remember that Bob Sanger has only one function in life — to protect the President. He’s not interested in arrests, in solving crimes, in tracking down fugitives. All he cares about is getting the man through his term of office in one piece. Bob is like most of the top echelons of the service, he came up through the ranks. They start with the quarterlies and the watch lists, clearing the way in advance of a presidential visit, then they move up to actual bodyguarding, running interference in crowds, standing around the motorcade, escorting him wherever he goes. They spend their entire time waiting for some maniac to take a pot-shot at the President, and they know that when that happens, they have to throw themselves in the path of the bullet. That’s what the Service is there for — to take the bullet meant for the President. Something happens to the men who take on that job. You get to see it in their eyes, it’s the same thousand-yard stare you see with Vietnam veterans. But something changes behind the eyes, too. Their perspective alters, after a while they start to think of themselves as above the rest of the law enforcement agencies. They think they’re an elite, and that there’s nothing they can learn from anyone else. They forget that we have a quarter of a billion people to protect, with millions of offenders. I’m not saying Bob Sanger’s gone that way, but I’m not surprised that you thought he was humouring you. When we meet with him I want you to remember that his interest, his only interest, is to protect the President. It’s the Bureau that wants to capture Carlos, Hennessy and Bailey. We’ll be working with the Secret Service, but their objectives are different. They’ll be just as happy for Carlos to leave the country as they would be if we captured him. Bob is more likely to prefer to put Carlos on the Ten Most Wanted list than to try a softly-softly approach. If he tries to suggest that, let me handle it, okay?”

  “That’s fine by me,” agreed Howard.

  “Good man,” said Mulholland. He pushed himself up off the desk and slapped Howard on the back. “Okay, Cole, let me phone my producer friend and then we’ll get that chopper to Washington.”

  The ringing phone jolted Patrick Farrell awake, but it took several seconds for him to clear his head. He was a deep sleeper and it took a lot to rouse him. He reached over for the receiver and grunted.

  “You asleep, Pat?” an Irish voice asked. Farrell recognised Matthew Bailey’s Gaelic tones.

  “Shit, Matthew, what time is it?” Farrell sat up and scratched his chest. The digits on his clock radio glowed redly. It was one-thirty.

  “You alone?” asked Bailey.

  Farrell looked down at the sleeping body next to him. “Sort of,” he said. “Where are you?”

  “Not too far away, Pat, old son. Everything on schedule?”

  “No problems here,” replied Farrell.

  “I’ll be dropping by tomorrow morning, I want to put the Centurion through its paces, okay?”

  “Fine, I’ll have a few bottles of Guinness ready,” laughed Farrell.

  “Eight hours between bottle and throttle, remember,” said Bailey.

  “Yeah,” said Farrell, “right.” The sleeping figure next to him began to stir. Farrell reached down and ruffled the mane of black hair on the pillow. He lowered his voice. “Matthew, everything’s cosy here, but you might have a problem in New York. Do you know a g
uy by the name of O’Brien? Damien O’Brien?”

  There was silence at the other end of the line for a while. “I know a Seamus O’Brien, but I can’t think of a Damien,” said Bailey. “There is a Damien J. O’Brien, lives in Dublin, one of the old school, but he must be in his seventies now and I never met him. What’s up?”

  “There was a Damien O’Brien asking questions about you in New York a few days ago. Said he was a friend of yours.” An arm snaked through the sheets and Farrell felt a hand crawl across his thighs. He opened his legs and smiled.

  “Seamus is getting on eighty years old and he’s in an old folks’ home in Derry, far as I know,” said Bailey.

  “Thing of it is, Matthew, is that a couple of the boys went round to have a word with this O’Brien, to see what his game was. Police found them tied up in O’Brien’s room, both of them shot dead.”

  “Bloody hell,” whispered Bailey, his voice so faint that Farrell could barely hear him. The inquisitive hand found its target and began to squeeze. Farrell stifled a groan. “What about this O’Brien?” asked Bailey. “Where is he now?”

  “Your guess is as good as mine, Matthew. He did a runner.”

  “Sass-man, you think?”

  “Dunno, he seemed okay from what I was told. Shorty gave him a job in Filbin’s, and you know that Shorty can smell SAS a mile off. O’Brien was a boozer, damn near an alcoholic.”