The Assassin

by Andrew Britton

  Soon after they crossed the swollen, frigid waters of the Dordogne River, an eighteen-century stone farmhouse appeared on the left, set several hundred feet back from the pitted road. It was a familiar landmark, and Vanderveen slowed the vehicle, turning onto an asphalt track lined on either side by towering maple and poplar trees. The track had obviously been cleared earlier, and was bordered by piles of icy slush and sodden brown leaves. After another few hundred feet, he pulled over and brought the Mercedes to a stop next to a worn wooden fence.

  As they climbed out of the vehicle, Raseen looked around doubtfully. “Are you sure it’s secluded enough?”

  Vanderveen had opened the cargo door and was retrieving the case. “It should be,” he replied. “I’ve used this place before, and I didn’t have any trouble.”

  Shouldering the second bag, a small backpack, he climbed the fence and trekked into the woods, Raseen trailing awkwardly in the hiking boots she had purchased earlier that day. A hard rain the previous night, combined with the unusually low temperatures, had whipped the ground into a lake of mud. After getting her foot stuck for the third time in a row, she looked up and saw that he was watching her with a small smile of amusement.

  “I’m not used to this,” she said self-consciously. It was a trivial, unavoidable shortcoming, but she was embarrassed nonetheless.

  “We’re almost there,” he assured her. “Just another few minutes.”

  They kept walking. The trees began to thin out a little, giving way to a flat field on the left. A small copse of pines provided some natural protection from the weather, the leaf cover less pronounced, patches of brown soil visible in places. Vanderveen stopped and looked around. Raseen had folded her arms tightly across her chest and was shivering visibly.

  He dropped the pack from his shoulders and tossed it to her. She unfolded her arms in time to catch one of the straps.

  “There are some gloves, a jacket, and a thermos of coffee inside,” he said. “Try to keep warm. This will take a little while.”

  She nodded and opened the pack, hurriedly pulling on the nylon jacket, then the black knit gloves. Turning his attention back to the case, Vanderveen flipped the latches and began removing the components of a FAMAS G2 assault rifle.

  First developed in 1967 by GIAT Industries, an unprofitable corporation owned by the French government, the FAMAS F1 was designed to replace the aging MAT-49 submachine gun, which had been in use in the military and police forces for nearly sixty years. Like its predecessor, the G2 featured a bullpup design. The magazine well was located behind the grip and trigger guard, and its design allowed for ambidextrous use. Over the years it had proved a most reliable weapon, easy to maintain and highly accurate out to 500 yards. For this reason, the FAMAS G2 was still in use with most of the French law-enforcement community, including the CRS, the general reserve of the national police. Not coincidentally, it was this last group that was tasked with the protection of Dr. Nasir Tabrizi in Paris.

  The weapon that Vanderveen was putting together now, however, was slightly different from that used by the CRS in that it had been converted for use by police snipers. The barrel was 25.5 inches in length, a little more than 5 inches longer than a standard G2, and the carrying handle had been replaced by an integrated telescopic mount. The barrel modification extended the rifle’s range to about 650 yards, but also made the weapon more accurate at shorter distances.

  Earlier in the day, he had used a range finder to check the distance over which he would actually be firing. It came out to 230 yards, a relatively easy shot by most standards, a walk in the park for a graduate of the U.S. Army’s Sniper School. Nevertheless, a number of factors played into that range; for one thing, Vanderveen would be shooting from the backseat of a car. That meant cramped quarters, which would lead to muscular strain and irregular breathing, both of which could throw off his aim. Second, he would be firing through glass, an iffy proposition in most cases, but especially when using a rifle chambered for anything less powerful than .308 match-grade ammunition. If that wasn’t enough, he would only have about five seconds of confusion for cover, and it was imperative that his targets did not survive the initial engagement. There was a strong possibility that the French security officers on the scene would incapacitate at least one of the assassins, but he couldn’t count on that to transpire. So in the space of a few seconds, he would have to watch, decide, and act accordingly.

  Yasmin Raseen was leaning against a moss-covered tree, watching with obvious interest as he finished putting the rifle together. He had to admit that it was an intimidating weapon, despite its rather ugly design. The standard flash suppressor had been removed, the barrel threaded externally in two places to accommodate a sound suppressor. As he turned the cylindrical can into place, Vanderveen was pleased to see that the machinist had used left-hand threads. It was rare, but meant that the suppressor would not loosen, but rather tighten with each successive shot. The two-point mount would also help ensure the suppressor’s stability.

  Finally, he attached the telescopic sight, a Leupold Mark 4, which locked easily onto the standard NATO mount. Walking over to Raseen, he handed her the weapon and, unzipping the pack once more, pulled out a heavy-duty stapler and a single paper target. The bull’seye design was conventional in size and form, with a 1-inch background grid for easy elevation changes. Leaving the G2 with Raseen, he used his Leica range finder to pick a tree 25 yards away from his shooting position. Walking out, he stapled the target to the tree, the trunk of which was wide enough to accommodate the full scale of the target, then came back and retrieved his weapon.

  A thin shooting mat was rolled up inside the backpack. Vanderveen pulled it out and unrolled it before placing the pack on the end. Lying down on the mat, he propped his left forearm over the pack and settled in behind the makeshift support, tucking the butt of the rifle into his right shoulder. Peering through the scope, he found the paper target immediately. After centering the crosshairs, he released the air from his lungs and squeezed the trigger.

  Pierre Besson brought his tractor to a rumbling halt and stared down at the vehicle on the rutted road. He’d just finished his work for the afternoon and was looking forward to a hot meal and a leisurely nap in his converted farmhouse 2 kilometers up the road. It wasn’t much of a respite, but Besson took great pleasure in minor comforts, as befitting the humble existence of a dairy farmer in rural France. Besson had inherited the family business the previous spring, and the ensuing months had changed the way he defined work. So far he had found it to be a lonely, secluded existence, and it definitely wasn’t where he had seen his life going one year earlier. It was then that he’d completed the agricultural program at the Institute Supérieur d’Agriculture in Lille. He had been leaning toward research in the months leading up to graduation, dreaming of someplace sunny, but the natural course of events had brought him back to the life he had always known.

  He had to admit that it wasn’t all bad; according to his solicitor, the property was worth upwards of 1.3 million Euros. If he ever grew tired of the lifestyle, he knew he could sell it all and live out his days in idle luxury. It was a tempting proposition for the twenty-six-yearold Besson, but his name was too attached to the land for him to seriously consider that option. Despite his youth, his roots were grounded in tradition. More than 200 acres of the French countryside had been in his family for nearly seventy-five years, including this narrow lane, where the offending vehicle was parked.

  Setting the brake, Besson climbed down from his tractor and walked up to the SUV. The late-model Mercedes was obviously empty, its owner nowhere in sight. The hood wasn’t up; there was nothing to indicate engine trouble. And yet, why would anyone stop here? It was a long walk to the river, so it couldn’t be fishermen. Besides, what kind of fisherman would drive a vehicle such as this? It didn’t make sense at all.

  There were tracks, he suddenly noticed. Tracks in the mud, twin trails moving away from the vehicle, leading up to the fence and beyond.


  Besson gazed into the woods for a moment, deciding. He didn’t really feel like walking out there, and if it was just locals, it probably wasn’t a problem. He’d made it clear that they were free to hike or even hunt on his land, assuming they had his verbal permission in the latter case. On the other hand, poaching was common in this part of the country, and it was something that Besson had been forced to deal with on several occasions. Like most serious hunters, he despised poachers. It sickened him to see the way they perverted a noble sport, and he certainly didn’t want them anywhere near his land.

  Walking back to his tractor, Besson dug behind the seat and retrieved a shotgun, an old double-barreled Winchester, as well as a handful of shells. Sliding two into the breech, he pocketed the rest, retrieved his keys, and walked backed to the fence. Climbing over, he cautiously followed the twin trails into the trees.

  Holding the rifle in the crook of his arm, Vanderveen crossed the last 20 yards and examined his target, pleased by what he saw. After shooting half-inch groups from the initial distance, he’d moved it out to 100 yards. The Federal 69-grain rounds he was loading would allow for better penetration when the time came, but they also prevented the suppressor from realizing its full potential, the heavier rounds producing an audible “crack” as they passed through the air. Unfortunately, it was a trade-off he was obliged to make; 5.56mm subsonic ammunition was notoriously unreliable, and he had to make every round count.

  He’d noted the position of his elevation and windage turrets, having made only minor changes to achieve his zero. To finish up, he’d fired an eight-shot group at 200 yards. As he looked at the paper, he could see that his efforts had been rewarded with a single ragged hole in the black, in what looked like a 1-inch group.

  Satisfied, he pulled down the target and began walking back to his original position. He’d crossed about 100 yards when he saw something that caused him to freeze in his tracks.

  A man had emerged from the woods. His face was contorted in confusion, or anger maybe; it was difficult to tell at that distance. Either way, the shotgun he was holding was clearly pointed toward Yasmin Raseen. Vanderveen was tempted to raise the rifle, to get a clear view through the scope, but that would only complicate matters. Instead, he quickly unscrewed the suppressor and slipped it into his pocket, then walked forward at a rapid but casual pace, an easy smile spreading over his face.

  “What are you doing here?” Besson demanded. It was something of a rhetorical question; he could see the spent brass to the right of the shooting mat, and he’d already caught sight of the man in the near distance.

  “I’m awfully sorry,” the woman babbled in fluent French. She looked frightened, her eyes repeatedly darting down to the shotgun. “We didn’t know this was private land. My boyfriend just came out to test his new hunting rifle, and, well…”

  The boyfriend was rapidly crossing the ground between them, but that was no hunting rifle. Besson had been visiting his aunt in Paris in October 2005, when riots broke out. He’d seen groups of black-clad gendarmes mobiles patrolling the streets, as well as the regular riot police. Their presence was such that he couldn’t help but notice the weapons they carried, and what this man was holding looked vaguely familiar. He was slightly relieved when the approaching figure slung the weapon over his back, but Besson refused to drop his guard. Instead, he tightened his grip on the Winchester and took a few cautious steps to the rear. It suddenly occurred to him that he had not heard any shots during his hike into the woods.

  “Hello,” the man said, stepping into the clearing. “I’m an American. Uh, parlez… parlez-vous Anglais?”

  The man’s French was atrocious, but it wasn’t a barrier. Besson had studied with a number of American exchange students in Lille, and they had been just as ignorant. “Yes,” he replied warily. “I speak English. What are you doing here?”

  “Just sighting in. Is this your land?”

  Besson straightened and looked around, as though deciding. “Yes, it is. And I don’t recall giving you…” He stumbled on the word permission. “I don’t remember letting you use it.”

  The man cracked an apologetic smile. He didn’t seem to be aware of the shotgun, the muzzle of which was now hovering over his chest. “Sorry about that. I didn’t know where to ask. I’m Scott, by the way, Scott Kessler, from Houston, and this is Marie. We’re traveling with my gun club. We had a meet set up for this afternoon, but the damned range in Vercors was shut down on account of the rain… Listen, what’s your name?”

  The American moved closer and held out a hand, the dumb smile plastered over his face. Besson’s good manners took over. Relaxing slightly, he instinctively transferred the shotgun to his weak hand and reached out with his right.

  A blur of movement followed, and Besson felt two things happen at once. His left arm was swiftly knocked away from his body as something hard drove into his upper abdomen, crushing his solar plexus with one brutal blow. His forefinger tightened on the trigger reflexively, the Winchester booming once as the air rushed out of his lungs. He collapsed to the ground and curled into a protective ball, gasping for air.

  Vanderveen took a step forward and picked up the shotgun, breaking the action. One round remained, the first having sprayed harmlessly into the woods, peppering a number of trees along the way. Satisfied, he closed the action and handed the weapon to Raseen, whose icy composure had settled back into place.

  Vanderveen kicked the man in the side. “Get up.”

  Besson rose to his feet unsteadily, using his hands to protect his bruised ribs. “What do you want?” he blurted in French. “Please, just leave. I won’t tell anyone what you were doing here—”

  “How did you get here?” Vanderveen asked. He adopted the man’s language once more, but now his French was remarkably fluent. “You have a car? Who’s with you?”

  “Nobody,” Besson sputtered, overwhelmed by the sudden turn of events. “I… I have a tractor parked on the road. Nobody else is out here. It’s just me. I followed your tracks….”

  Vanderveen stared at him for a long beat before nodding thoughtfully. “I believe you.” After another moment of feigned deliberation, he gestured toward the field and said, “Go on, get out of here. Run.”

  “You’re letting him go?” Raseen was astonished.

  Besson looked at the field in confusion, then back to his assailant. The rifle was still slung over his back.

  “Run,” Vanderveen repeated. “Right now.”

  Besson took a few uncertain steps, then turned and broke into a brisk trot. After twenty paces, he opened his stride and began to sprint for the opposite tree line, red winter wheat whipping around his flailing legs.

  “You have to stop him!” Raseen cried in Arabic, forgetting herself. “He saw the car! He saw us!” She began to lift the shotgun, but Vanderveen grabbed the barrel before she could level the weapon.

  “Relax. I’m not letting him go. Besides, you’ll never hit him at this range.” Moving calmly but quickly, Vanderveen lifted the rifle over his head and detached the sling from the rear. Fashioning the loose end into a noose, he looped it over his left arm, then tightened the sling around his bicep. When he brought the rifle up to his right shoulder, the loose material pulled taut, producing a stabilizing effect. In its entirety, the process took twelve seconds.

  Dropping into a crouch, he propped his supporting elbow forward of his left knee and peered through the scope. Once in position, he began running through a familiar mental checklist. He was virtually level with the field, negating the need for up/down compensation. From there, he moved to the target lead charts he’d memorized twelve years earlier, cutting the values in half because the Frenchman was running east at an oblique angle — he knew that based on the position of the man’s opposite arm. It was hooked up and partially visible, moving back and forth in a natural runner’s stride.

  “He’s almost there,” Raseen said urgently. “It’s his land; he knows where he’s going. Shoot him.”

  Va
nderveen did not respond, still working through the formulas. Standing next to him, the Frenchman had been about an inch taller, which put him at exactly 72 inches. Through the scope, the man now measured 8 mils, which placed him at a distance of… 250 yards.

  He hesitated. Movement changed everything, but at that distance, a flat-out run made a first-round hit all but impossible. Vanderveen’s right thumb hovered over the selector switch, but in the end, he left it unchanged on single shot.

  A light rain was beginning to fall, the fine drops drifting east on a 2 mph wind. Giving the Frenchman a 5 mil lead to start — five marks on the horizontal wire in his scope — Vanderveen took a deep breath, then exhaled slowly, settling into his stance as the air was completely expelled from his lungs. The distant figure had just moved into the trap at 3½ mils when he fully depressed the trigger.

  Besson’s own lungs were burning, his legs like rubber as he stumbled into a drainage ditch on the far side of the field, feet sliding in the mud as he sought to regain his footing. He looked back, and his heart nearly stopped. The American was there on one knee, the rifle up at his shoulder. Besson knew exactly what was going to happen. Something in the back of his mind told him that he had to move faster, but his body refused to cooperate with his brain’s urgent commands, his energy sapped by a dangerous combination of fear and adrenaline.

  He somehow managed to emerge on the other side of the ditch and kept running hard, his arms clawing the air in a desperate attempt to pull his body forward. He was close now, the trees less than 15 yards in front of him.

  Relief poured into his veins. The trees were too close, and there was still plenty of foliage; at this distance, there was no way the shooter could—

  He never heard the sound of the shot. Nor did he feel the impact. Instead, his thoughts simply stopped with the flick of a switch, the lights going out once and for all.