The Long shot mc-1

by Stephen Leather

  Bailey was also shaking, his eyes darting around like a trapped rat looking for a way out. He peered down at the waters of the inner harbour. “How far could we jump?” he asked.

  “Not this far, that’s for sure,” replied Farrell.

  “What if we go lower? They’re above us, they might not see us jump.”

  “Matthew, we’re five hundred feet up.”

  “So like I said, go lower.”

  “If we go lower they’ll go lower. They’ll be radioing to the cops right now.”

  Bailey looked over at Farrell. “Have you got a better idea?”

  “Tell them we give up. We haven’t done anything, it was Lovell who fired the shots. He brought the chopper down.”

  “Fuck you, Farrell. You think they’ll let us go just because our fingers weren’t on the trigger?”

  Before Farrell could reply one of the Hueys began to descend in a slow hover, about six hundred yards to their right. In the open cargo doorway they saw a SWAT sniper, his rifle at the ready.

  “Take us down,” hissed Bailey, then he removed his headset and hung it up. He twisted out of his seat and looked around for Lovell’s rifle. It was still in the dead man’s grasp and the sniper had fallen on top of it. Farrell rotated the wheel forward and the airship dipped down. The bodies shifted as if they were still alive and a river of thick, treacly blood flowed across the floor towards Bailey’s knee.

  Some sixth sense made Bailey turn around. His mouth dropped. A man was rushing towards him through the air, his knees up and his feet forward, a submachine gun in his hands. Bailey began to scream. He saw Lovell’s handgun lying in the bag on the floor and he grabbed for it, bringing it up with both hands. He pulled the trigger, screaming all the while.

  The pilot of the Huey flared the rotor blades, bringing the helicopter to almost a dead stop in the air and swinging Cole Howard forward on the end of the wire. Howard braced himself for the impact as he surged forward towards the door of the gondola. He saw another man with a handgun and Howard pulled the trigger of the Uzi, sending a stream of bullets blasting across the gondola. As the Uzi kicked in his hands he felt a lancing pain in his shoulder. What little glass there was remaining was shattered and the door was peppered with holes. The man with the gun disappeared and Howard let the Uzi hang on its sling so that his hands were free.

  He slammed into the door so hard that the breath was driven from his body. The impact drove his knees against his chest and he clawed at the window frame for support. The nerves in his shoulder shrieked with pain, leaving him in no doubt that he’d been hit. The pilot of the Huey descended a few yards to take the strain off the wire. Howard managed to get his good arm through the shattered door window and he groped around for the door handle. In the seat opposite sat a pilot in a white short-sleeved shirt, a look of panic in his eyes.

  Howard pulled open the door and hauled himself inside. He could feel warm blood dribbling down his arm under the flightsuit. There were four bodies to the rear of the gondola and he recognised one as Matthew Bailey. Bailey was on his back, his red hair matted with the darker crimson of fresh blood. One of the Uzi bullets had blown away a good-sized chunk of the side of his head. Howard kicked him with the toe of his shoe, but there was no doubt that he was dead.

  “Take this thing down!” Howard screamed at the pilot. He slipped the orange harness over his arms, switching the Uzi from hand to hand, and then he threw the harness out so that the Huey pilot would know he was okay. The harness disappeared upwards as it was winched in. Howard moved to the front of the gondola and eased himself into the co-pilot’s seat. He looked around for something to stem the flow of blood from his injured shoulder but couldn’t see anything. “And hurry,” he said.

  “It wasn’t my fault,” whined the pilot. “They made me do it.”

  Howard pointed the muzzle of the Uzi at the pilot’s groin. “Just get me on the ground,” he said through clenched teeth.

  Carlos walked quickly around the small plane, untying the ropes which were holding down its wings and the tail, and checking that the flaps and ailerons were functioning. He didn’t bother visually checking the fuel tanks, but as soon as he was settled in the pilot’s seat and had put his briefcase on the front passenger seat, he turned on the electrics and looked at the fuel gauges. Matthew Bailey had been as good as his word — both tanks were full. Not that Carlos required full tanks.

  He started the engine and the propeller was soon a whirling blur. The airfield was deserted, but there was still enough light to see by. He looked at the wind-sock and taxied to the end of the runway which would allow him to take off into the wind.

  The plane almost leapt into the air as if making light of its single passenger. Carlos kept the plane in a steep climb, flying it parallel to the Bay Bridge. In the far distance he could see the tower blocks of Baltimore city centre. When he was about halfway along the bridge he made a slow turn to the left, and continued to climb.

  As he handled the controls, Carlos tried to work out where they had gone wrong and why the operation had fallen apart. It wasn’t that he wanted to apportion blame, it was that he rarely failed and when he did it was always because someone else had let him down. He went over and over the steps in his mind, looking for the weak point. Not Mary Hennessy, of that he was sure. And Matthew Bailey had done everything that was asked of him. The snipers too.

  Maybe it was just bad luck, plain and simple. Maybe the gods had just decided that Ilich Ramirez Sanchez would not be allowed to retire, to rest on his laurels and spend his old age with his wife and family. His luck had clearly run out the day he’d escaped from France. He was like a cat which had used up all of its nine lives. The displays on the radios in the control panel were blank. There was no one that Carlos wanted, or needed, to speak to.

  He flew south, down the centre of the Chesapeake Bay.

  Carlos thought about his wife and children. He wondered how they were, and if Magdalena had found the time to get the stereo repaired. They had a nice house, a house he could relax in, with several acres of well-tended garden behind a high stone wall.

  He turned the plane to the left until the heading indicator showed that he was flying east. He remembered how his children had cried when he’d told them that he’d be leaving them for a while, and how they’d nodded seriously when he’d made them promise to take care of their mother. His own mother had cried, too, and she’d held him tightly as if knowing that she would never see him again. He remembered, too, how urgent Magdalena’s love-making had been on his final night in the house, his suitcase packed and locked on the floor at the end of the bed.

  There was no going back, Carlos knew. That had been the deal. If he had succeeded he would have had a sanctuary for the rest of his life, no matter what the international pressure. But if he failed, there was to be no link to his paymasters. In return for his silence, his family would be allowed to stay in their home. Carlos had made sure that whatever happened there was enough money in their overseas bank accounts to ensure that Magdalena and their children would never want for anything. Ahead of him he saw the blue vastness of the Atlantic Ocean, the sky above it beginning to darken as the sun dipped down below the horizon.

  Carlos relaxed as he flew over the water. He’d given it his best shot. He had done nothing to be ashamed of. He looked down at the white tips of the waves some four thousand feet below him. A man could hide for a long time under the water, he thought. Maybe for ever. He opened the briefcase and took out the P228. He unscrewed the silencer and tossed it into the rear of the plane. There would be nobody around to hear the shot. He took his left hand off the control yolk and pressed the barrel of the gun to his right temple.

  “Magdalena, I love you,” he whispered.

  The doctor put the finishing touches to the dressings and stepped back to admire his handiwork. “You’re a very lucky man, Special Agent Howard,” he said.

  “I don’t feel particularly lucky, Doc,” Howard replied.

  The doctor
removed his rubber gloves and tossed them into a trash bag. “If the bullet hadn’t glanced off your shoulder blade, and if it had exited downwards and not upwards, you wouldn’t be sitting here now.”

  Howard was sitting on the edge of a hospital cot, stripped to the waist. He tried to stand but the doctor shook his head and held up his hand, Indian-greeting style, and told him to stay put. “You’re not going anywhere,” he said. “You’ve lost a lot of blood. You need at least a day in bed.”

  “I want to go home,” said Howard.

  “I gather home is in Phoenix, and you’re in no fit state to be flying. You stay put, and that’s an order.”

  “But my wife. .” Howard began,

  “. . is waiting outside,” finished the doctor. He nodded to a nurse who left the room and came back a few minutes later with Lisa.

  Lisa Howard rushed over to the cot, went to hug her husband, then held herself back as she saw the dressings. “I won’t break,” Howard said quietly and she grinned and reached for him. There were tears in her eyes. “What are you doing here?” he asked in amazement.

  “Jake called me and said I should get here. Daddy arranged a jet.” She looked suddenly uncomfortable at the mention of her father, and Howard couldn’t help but laugh.

  “That’s great,” he said. “Honey, that’s just great.” He stood up and hugged her hard, squeezing her against him even though it hurt like hell.

  “Honey, I’m so sorry,” Lisa whispered into his ear. “About the golf clubs. About everything. When can you come home?”

  “Tonight,” said Howard.

  “When he’s stronger,” insisted the doctor.

  The door opened again and Bob Sanger appeared with Don Clutesi close behind. Clutesi was smiling. “Cole, how are you?” asked Sanger.

  “Fine,” said Howard.

  The doctor sighed in exasperation. “Agent Howard, try to remember that I’m the one with the medical degree, will you?”

  Howard grinned at Sanger. “Really, Bob, I’ll be okay.”

  “Are you up for a visitor?” Sanger asked.

  “This is my wife, Lisa. She’s the only visitor I need right now.” He kept a tight hold on his wife’s hand as if afraid that she’d leave him.

  “Oh, I think you might want to make an exception in this case,” said Sanger, opening the door wide.

  Two more Secret Service agents entered, checked out the room, then went to stand in opposite corners like trained attack dogs. Three more men appeared, and Howard sat up straighter as he recognised the one in the centre. It was the President, flanked by agents. Howard thought he seemed surprisingly calm, considering what he’d been through.

  “Special Agent Howard, I just wanted to thank you for your actions today. I will be forever in your debt.” There was no doubting the sincerity in the President’s voice nor the concern in his voice. “Are you okay?”

  Before Howard could reply, the doctor stepped forward. “A few days’ rest and he’ll be fine,” he said.

  The President nodded. “Good, I’m real glad to hear that. Real glad. If there’s anything I can do, don’t hesitate to call my office.”

  “Yes, sir. I will. But Mike Cramer is the one who you should thank,” said Howard. “He’s the one who saved the Prime Minister.”

  “I wish I could, Agent Howard,” said the President. “If it wasn’t for him I’d have a hell of a lot of explaining to do to the British Government. Unfortunately he seems to have disappeared.”

  Howard looked across at Sanger in surprise. “What happened?”

  It was the doctor who answered. “We don’t know,” he said. “We were treating him here in Shock-trauma, the nurse left him alone for a few minutes, when she got back he was gone.”

  “Is he okay?”

  “He has a bruise the size of a dinner plate on his chest and he won’t be doing any hang-gliding for a while, but he’s in no serious danger. The body armour wasn’t even pierced.” He smiled. “I think the manufacturers could use him to advertise their product.”

  “Is what I hear true, that the sniper was more than one mile away?” asked the President, his head cocked to the right.

  “Two thousand yards,” said Howard.

  “If it had been much closer, the slug would have gone right through the vest, and him,” said the doctor. “As it was, the bullet had slowed down considerably, but it was still travelling at several hundred feet per second when it hit him.”

  “That’s absolutely unbelievable,” said the President, shaking his head in amazement. “It almost defies comprehension. What Cramer did is just as unbelievable, diving in the path of the bullet the way he did.”

  Howard wondered what it was that had inspired Cramer to throw himself in front of the bullet. Then it came to him in a flash — Cramer hadn’t been concerned about saving the Prime Minister so much as he had been about thwarting Mary Hennessy. It was hatred which had driven Cramer, not respect for the politician. Howard realised that the President was looking at him, waiting for him to say something.

  “I’m glad you’re all right, sir,” Howard said.

  The President flashed his trademark grin. “Agent Howard, you’re not alone in that.” He turned and smiled at Bob Sanger. “Maybe you should get this man on our team, Bob.”

  “Sounds good to me, sir,” replied Sanger.

  The President turned back to Howard. “Well, I suppose I must be going. I’m supposed to be taking the PM to the aquarium, but I don’t think he’s in the mood for looking at fish.” He smiled and held out his hand. “I owe you one, Agent Howard.”

  Howard shook the President’s hand. The flesh was warm and the grip was firm.

  Lisa stepped forward as the President and his entourage left the hospital room. She looked as if she was going to say something but then changed her mind. Instead, she kissed her husband on the mouth, hard and with feeling. It was Howard who broke away first. Clutesi was grinning.

  “Any news of Carlos?” Howard asked.

  “Not yet, but he won’t get far,” Clutesi answered. “Kelly Armstrong was just asking me the same question.”

  “She’s here?”

  “Downstairs. They were treating her for shock but she was checking herself out when I saw her. She was with Hennessy when she was killed. She was covered in her blood.”

  “How come?”

  Clutesi shrugged. “She was up in the stands when the SWAT sniper took Hennessy out.” Clutesi stood by the window. He slanted the blinds so that he could look down at the road below.

  “That seems like a hell of a coincidence,” said Sanger.

  Clutesi saw Kelly Armstrong leave the main entrance and walk purposefully down the road, her blonde hair swinging gently in the breeze. She was a real stunner, thought Clutesi, and from the way she swung her hips she knew it. There was something familiar about her, something that made the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. He’d seen her before at the same angle, looking down at her from a window. Clutesi clasped a hand to the back of his neck. A bar. She’d been going into a bar and he’d been on surveillance. It came to him in a rush and he slapped his hand against his leg. “Now I remember!” he shouted.

  The Colonel came wide awake, all his senses alert. He turned his head to look at the bedside clock. It was three o’clock in the morning. He lay back and listened, allowing his mind to roam among the rooms of his cottage, trying to find the source of the noise which had woken him. The Colonel was a light sleeper, but he was never disturbed by the sounds of the countryside: barking foxes, hunting owls or sheep kicking over rocks. It must have been something else.

  His nearest neighbours were a mile away, a working farm owned by a former Merchant Navy captain, and it wasn’t unusual to hear tractors starting up at first light. But it was still dark outside, and if it had been a tractor or any other sort of vehicle, he’d have heard the sound for some time.

  The Colonel sat up slowly. He slept naked and the sheets whispered as they slid down his chest. The road which led to hi
s cottage was dotted with potholes and it was impossible for anyone to drive down without the vehicle rattling and banging. And for twenty feet around his cottage there was a layer of gravel chippings, several inches deep. It was impossible to approach the dwelling silently.

  The house seemed silent. On the Colonel’s right was an electronic panel linked to a security system which covered every door and window in the house, and which was connected to pressure sensors embedded in the road and at various key points in the garden. All the lights on the display glowed red, none was flashing. If any of the alarms were triggered, the system would automatically call his local police station and the police would arrive within eight minutes. Under normal circumstances the Colonel would have put it down to an unremembered nightmare, but something felt wrong. His insides were tight as if his body knew something that his mind didn’t, and over the years he’d learned to trust his instincts. He twisted to the left and opened a drawer in his bedside table, where he kept a loaded Browning Hi-Power 9 mm automatic.

  He slid out of the bed, switched off the gun’s safety, and took a blue silk dressing gown from a hook on the back of the door. He pressed his ear to the door jamb and listened. Nothing. He eased the door open and slipped into the corridor, his nerves on edge. He kept close to the wall and tip-toed to the top of the stairs, keeping his left hand flat against the plaster, feeling his way.

  He peered down the stairs into the gloom at the bottom of the hall, moving his head slowly from side to side to utilise peripheral vision as much as possible. With infinite patience he made his way down the stairs, keeping close to the wall and taking one step at a time so that the wood wouldn’t betray him by squeaking. It had been more than fifteen minutes since he had woken up but still he had heard nothing other than his own footsteps.

  Five doors led off the hallway at the bottom: to his study, the sitting room, a closet, the kitchen, and the main front door. The only one which was ajar was the door to the sitting room. He padded past the hall table and stood by the open door. If there was an intruder behind it, he would be at his most vulnerable when he stepped across the threshold. He listened intently, his head slightly down, focusing every fibre of his being on the room beyond the door. He heard a noise, a knocking sound like a foot brushing wood, from the far side of the study, close to the window. He raised the Browning, pushed open the door, and moved quickly inside, taking aim at the corner where he’d heard the noise.