“Did he say anything?” asked Carlos. His hand was buried in a bag of chocolate chip cookies and he put one in his mouth, whole.
Mary smiled thinly. “He’s talking,” she said, popping the tab on the can. She sipped it. Bailey was looking at her with horror in his eyes and she realised there was blood on the front of her shirt, a thin dribble of red that ran down her left breast. “He’s unconscious now. I’ll leave him for a while. It’s always more effective if they have a chance to think about their options.”
She pulled out a chair and sat down at the pine table. “He says he followed you from the airfield, Matthew. And he says he heard about the airfield in New York.”
Bailey nodded, his hands tight around a white mug. “That’s what Pat Farrell said,” agreed Bailey. “Did he admit to killing the two guys?”
“We haven’t got to that yet,” said Mary.
“Who sent him here?” asked Carlos, tossing another cookie into his mouth. He chewed noisily and with relish.
“He says the SAS, and I believe him,” answered Mary. “His ID looks genuine, which means that it’s Government sanctioned.”
The two men nodded. “Where’s everyone else?” asked Mary.
Carlos gestured upwards. “Stripping their rifles,” he said.
“Do you think we should stay here?” Bailey said.
Mary shrugged. “I don’t see why not. He seems to be acting alone.”
Carlos frowned. “You think the British Government would send one man?”
“It’s possible,” replied Mary. “And this man is unusual. He left the SAS some time ago, and I think a large part of that is because of what I did to him in Ireland three years ago. I killed a friend of his, and I nearly killed him.”
Carlos nodded. “So you think it’s a personal vendetta?”
“I think there’s a strong possibility,” she answered.
“I think we should m-m-move,” stammered Bailey. “Now.”
“I think you’re over-reacting,” said Mary. “Let me have another few hours with him. I should know everything when I’ve finished.”
“But if he’s not alone, we c-c-could have the SAS swarming all over the house by then,” said Bailey. His stutter had returned, Mary noticed.
“Matthew, if the SAS were here, we wouldn’t be having this conversation,” she said. He nodded, but Mary could see that he wasn’t convinced. “Look, first things first. He saw you out at the airfield, so I think we should move the plane. Could you fly it over to Bay Bridge airfield?”
“Now? Sure, no p-p-problem,” replied Bailey. He was clearly still worried.
“It’s going to be all right,” Mary said reassuringly. “It’ll all be over soon. We’ll be in Florida and then Cuba and we’ll have done something they’ll talk about in Ireland for ever more. We’ll be heroes, you and I.”
Bailey sighed and ran a hand through his red hair. “I’m f-f-frightened that it’s all going to f-f-fall apart,” he admitted.
Mary narrowed her eyes. It wasn’t the operation that was in danger of falling apart, she realised. It was him.
“He’s just one man,” she said. “And soon he won’t even be much of a man.” She reached up behind her hair and set it loose, shaking it from side to side. She’d undone the top three buttons of her shirt because of the stifling heat down in the basement and she could feel Bailey’s eyes on her breasts. “I’m going to take a shower,” she said. “Then I’ll get back to work on Cramer.”
She went out of the kitchen, and was halfway up the stairs when she realised that Carlos had followed her into the hall. He obviously had something on his mind. “What is it?” she asked.
“This Armstrong woman. Are you sure we can trust her?”
Mary sat down on the stairs and looked down at Carlos. “Her father was Irish,” she said.
“But she’s an FBI agent,” said Carlos. “How do we know she’s not setting you up?”
Mary smiled. “In the first place, there’s no need. It’s not as if the FBI need to gather evidence against either of us, is it?” She brushed a strand of blonde hair from her face and eased it behind her ear.
“But why are you so willing to trust her?” pressed Carlos.
“Her father was in the IRA,” she said quietly.
Carlos was stunned. “Oh come on,” he said. “Are you telling me that the FBI recruited a woman whose father was a terrorist? Even the Americans aren’t that stupid.”
“Colm O’Malley was her natural father. Her mother was American and they divorced when Kelly was only a few years old. The woman moved back to the States and remarried. As far as the FBI are concerned, Kelly Armstrong is the original all-American girl.”
“And this O’Malley, this Colm O’Malley, what happened to him?”
Mary studied Carlos thoughtfully. “He was killed,” she said quietly. Carlos said nothing, waiting for her to continue. Mary took a deep breath, as if preparing herself. “Colm was a good friend of my husband’s and a member of the IRA High Command. His brother, Fergus, still lives in Phoenix. He has a business there and he’s a fund-raiser for NORAID. The O’Malleys were good people, and committed to the Cause.” She fell silent as her mind was flooded with images from the past. “Colm was a victim of the British Government’s shoot-to-kill policy,” she continued. “The police blamed Protestant extremists, but it was an SAS operation.”
“The same operation that ended in the death of your husband?”
Mary nodded. Her eyes were damp. “And others,” she said.
“How much does she know about what we plan to do?”
“Most of it. She’s going to talk to her office in Phoenix and then get herself transferred to the main investigation in Washington.”
“And you’re sure she doesn’t know of my involvement?”
“I didn’t tell her, and she didn’t mention it.”
“But you said the FBI know that Lovell and Schoelen are involved?”
Mary nodded. “They’ve identified them from computer-enhanced photographs.”
“Then it’s only a matter of time before they identify me.”
“That’s probably true, Ilich,” Mary admitted.
“Does the FBI know that you’re involved?”
“According to Kelly, the last time she spoke to her boss they’d identified only the Americans. That could have changed by now, of course. If the photographs are as good as she says and if they run them through Interpol . . .” She left the sentence unfinished.
“And despite that, despite the fact they’re on to us, and despite the nature of the target, she still wants to help?”
“She hates the British, Carlos. Hates them with a vengeance.” Her eyes blazed. “She hates them as much as I do.” She turned her back on him and went upstairs. The door to Schoelen’s room was closed. She knocked and pushed it open. The sniper was sitting on the edge of his bed, polishing the barrel of his rifle.
“Hiya, Mary. What’s up?” he said.
Mary closed the door behind her and leant against it. Schoelen saw from the look on her face that something was wrong. He put down the weapon, frowning. “You phoned home,” she said flatly. “You put the whole operation at risk because of a bloody dog.”
Schoelen was stunned. “How . . .”
“It doesn’t matter how I know, I just know,” she said quietly. “You’re a lucky man, Schoelen. If we had more time I’d kill you now, myself. But we don’t, so I need you. But you put one foot wrong again and it’s all over. I’ll put a bullet in your skull myself. Do I make myself clear?”
Schoelen closed his mouth and nodded slowly. His eyes were on the trickle of blood on her shirt.
Mary smiled. “Good.”
“Does Carlos . . .”
“No,” interrupted Mary. “He doesn’t. And if I were you I’d pray that he doesn’t find out.”
She left the room, leaving Schoelen holding his head in his hands.
Ed Mulholland’s television producer friend had agreed to run the story
on Mary Hennessy and Matthew Bailey at the end of the regular programme. He had also agreed to issue a separate 1-800 number so that calls would be routed directly to the FBI’s temporary office in the White House. Mulholland called a meeting of the FBI agents after lunch, and they sat and listened as the anti-terrorist chief briefed them on how they were to handle the calls. He leant against his desk, his legs crossed at the ankles and his large forearms folded as if he was hugging his barrel chest. Helen sat to one side, taking notes and occasionally looking at him like an adoring wife.
“The programme starts at eight o’clock, and our segment will be broadcast at eight-fifty,” he said. “Their photographs will be on screen, and the announcer will say that we’re looking for them in connection with a drug-smuggling ring in Florida. The reason we’re saying Florida is because we have no evidence that they’ve actually been there, which means any calls from that part of the country can be ignored, at least at this stage. Millions of people will be watching, and most of them are really keen to get involved, some of them too keen. We’ll get malicious hoax calls, we’ll get well-meaning citizens who have just made a mistake, and we’ll have the crazies who’ll say they’ve seen Elvis if they think it’ll get them on prime-time television. For every genuine sighting we’ll have a hundred red herrings.”
Cole Howard looked around the room, which was crammed with desks and filing cabinets. Two dozen FBI agents had been assigned from the main Washington office to work with the New York team, and the air-conditioning was finding it difficult to cope. Helen had arranged for several free-standing fans to be brought in and most of the agents tried to stand where they could feel some sort of breeze. Don Clutesi was standing next to Howard, sweat trickling down his face. He grinned at Howard and made a wafting motion with his hand. “Hot,” he mouthed, and Howard nodded in sympathy. The one person missing was Kelly Armstrong. Howard had suggested that she compile a list of alternative targets; the IRA involvement opened up the possibility of British targets and Howard had shown her the list of visiting VIPs which he’d obtained from the State Department, including British Members of Parliament and chief executives of leading UK companies. Two names which had immediately set alarm bells ringing were the British Prime Minister, who was visiting the East Coast, and the Prince of Wales, who was due in New York in the summer. Howard had asked Kelly to speak to the Secret Service and the State Department to come up with a more comprehensive list of potential targets and venues which could then be cross-checked with Andy Kim’s computer simulation. Kelly had been surprisingly enthusiastic about the task and had been out of the office all afternoon. Howard was pleased at her absence. He had high hopes for the television broadcast, and wanted Kelly as far away as possible. He hadn’t even told her what Mulholland had planned, and took a sly pleasure in having manoeuvred her away from the action.
“Calls will initially be routed through Helen,” Mulholland continued. Helen beamed and raised her pencil in acknowledgment. “Calls from the Baltimore-Washington area will be put through to either me, Cole, Don or Hank. If we’re lucky enough to get a flood of calls, we’ll switch some of you guys over. We’ll have a separate desk to handle calls from the Arizona area, because we know that they were there originally. But all other calls will be put through to you on a rotating basis, depending who’s free. Helen will be issuing you with questionnaires to fill in for each call.” He held one up to show them. “Basically, all we want is the name and number of the caller, who they saw and where, and any information they have which might be pertinent: description of their vehicle, names they were using, and so on.” He held up another sheet. “You’ll have this information in front of you, detailing the aliases we know they have used, car registration plates and details of credit cards. If you get a match, inform us on the Baltimore-Washington desk, otherwise file them according to the state they were seen in. Helen has a filing system rigged up over there.” He pointed to a set of filing cabinets. “Any questions?” He was faced with a wall of shaking heads. He clapped his hands. “Okay, let’s do it,” he said. The agents went back to their desks. Cole Howard decided to visit Andy Kim and the programmers. He found Andy crouched over his computer, a worried frown on his face. “What’s up, Andy?” Howard asked, putting his hand on the man’s shoulder. On the screen was a complex line-drawing of what appeared to be a baseball stadium surrounded by urban sprawl.
Andy shook his head, then flicked his hair out of his eyes. “Nothing fits, Cole,” he said despondently. “Take a look at this.” Howard looked over his shoulder. “This is Oriole Park in Baltimore – the President’s due to be there tomorrow evening with the Prime Minister. This is one of the most obvious possibilities. He was going to be driven to the ball park but Sanger has cut out ground transportation wherever he can and now he’ll be arriving by Marine One, the helicopter. He’s vulnerable leaving the helicopter, but only for a few seconds, and he’s safe walking to his box because then he’s inside. Obviously he presents the best target while in the box watching the game. But I can only fit two of the snipers into office blocks or hotels which overlook the ball park. There’s nowhere for the third sniper, the one who is furthest away.”
“So you know it’s not going to be at the ball park?” said Howard.
“But Cole, it’s like that for every venue we try. We can find space for one sniper, occasionally two, but often it’s the third one that screws us up.” He tapped the screen. “It’s so high up, there aren’t many buildings that tall. In the desert, he was on the butte, remember?”
“I remember,” said Howard. “So he could be on a hill maybe?”
Andy nodded. “I ran the topography through the computer as well as the buildings. If he was on a hill we’d spot it. Camp David, for instance, where he is today with the Prime Minister. We ran the surrounding woods through the program, but no match.” He turned to look at the FBI agent, his eyes reddened from not enough sleep. “That third sniper is a real problem,” he said.
“Could it be something other than a building?” Howard asked. “A plane, maybe?”
Andy shook his head. “Planes move too fast for a sniper, and they’re too unstable.”
Howard frowned. “A helicopter?”
“Too much vibration.”
Howard shrugged. “Let me give it some thought, Andy,” he said. “In the meantime, why don’t you try ignoring the long shot? – concentrate on the two closest. That would give the Secret Service boys something to work on. I mean, better safe than sorry. They can check out all the venues where two out of three match, couldn’t they?”
Andy nodded. “That’s a good idea.”
“There’s something else that’s been worrying me,” said Howard. “The two men and the woman, the ones on the ground close to the target.”
Andy frowned. “What’s wrong?” He ran his hand through his hair, brushing it away from his eyes.
“We’ve been assuming that they’re organising the hit, right?”
“Right,” agreed Andy.
“Well, what if they’re not? What if they’re actually part of the hit? What if they’re carrying guns?”
“And if the snipers fail, they’ll finish the job?” said Andy, his eyes sparkling.
Howard nodded. They had all been assuming that Carlos, Hennessy and Bailey were helping the snipers calibrate their sights. But it was perfectly possible that they could actually be part of the assassination. “I’m going to speak to Bob Sanger about it,” he said.
“So even if we find the snipers, the President might still be at risk?”
“That’s what I’m frightened of,” said Howard. He saw that Andy had a direct line on his desk and he noted down the number. He looked around the office and saw a dozen programmers, including Rick Palmer, hard at work, but no sign of Bonnie.
“Bonnie’s at home, I told her to get some sleep,” said Andy, as if reading his mind.
Howard squeezed his shoulder. “That’s where you should be,” he said.
“There’ll be plen
ty of time for sleep when all this is over,” said Andy, turning back to the screen.
Howard patted Andy on the back and returned to his office. His desk faced the one being used by Don Clutesi, who was lounging back in his chair, his phone lodged between his chin and his shoulder. He winked at Howard as he sat down. Howard picked up his own phone and called home. He’d been ringing all day but no-one had answered and he’d assumed that Lisa had been out playing golf. This time she answered and she appeared no less lukewarm than the last time they’d spoken.
“Do you have any idea yet when you’ll be coming back?” she asked.
“Hopefully we’ll make some progress tonight. I’ll call you tomorrow, I should have a better idea then. How are the children?”
“Asleep,” she said. Howard wondered if she’d played golf with her father that day. The seconds ticked off with neither of them speaking. Lisa broke the silence. “Cole, why do you have Trivial Pursuit cards in your suit pockets?” she asked.
“Excuse me?” said Howard, bewildered by the change of subject.
“I was taking out some of your suits for cleaning and I found them in an inside pocket.”
“Ah,” said Howard.
“So what gives?”
“I was practising,” he said.
“You mean you were cheating,” she said.
Howard groaned inwardly. “Honey, I wasn’t cheating. I was just going over a few cards before we had dinner with your father, that’s all.”
“Cole, to me that sounds like cheating. I think it’s despicable. Are you so insecure that you have to resort to cheating to beat my father at a board game?”
Howard sighed. Sometimes there was no arguing with her. “Maybe we could talk about this when I get back,” he said.
He could picture her shaking her head, a look of contempt on her face. “The subject is closed,” she said. “But I just want you to know I think you’ve behaved really badly. Beating my father shouldn’t mean that much to you.”
“Can I say goodnight to the kids?” Howard asked.
The Long Shot (Stephen Leather Thrillers) Page 33