“Yes ma’am. Did you get the info I requested on this fellow Anto Grogan?”
“Yes, we did. He seems straightforward, nothing to indicate tendencies.”
“That’s good to know. Seems like a nice fellow.”
“Here’s the dope. Born Killarney, Ireland, 1964, down there in the south far away from all the crap in Belfast. His dad and his dad’s dad were British Army in their time, and he was drawn to it from the start. Highly decorated service record, lots of deployments in famous actions and not-so-famous actions. He was one of their best guys.”
“Royal Commando?”
“No. He’s Twenty-two all the way.”
“What’s that?”
“That’s Twenty-second Regiment SAS, kind of their Delta Force. He was a colour sergeant, I guess that’s staff sergeant, in Blue Troop, which is what they designate their sniper element. He was a longtime Sabre Squadron guy, which is what they call their operators as opposed to their staff people, as I understand it. He was in what they called the Counter Revolutionary Warfare wing. He deployed in ninety-one to the Gulf with SAS, had a long stay in Afghanistan in oh-two to oh-three, where I’m told he racked up quite a score. He then spent some time back in Credenhill, where SAS is headquartered, where he bugged so many people he got himself sent to Basra in oh-five, where he ran sniper elements again. He seems to have had some trouble there. You would know more about this than I would, Mr. Swagger, but our military liaison picked this up from his contact with the British military liaison; apparently Anto Grogan was rather too enthusiastic in getting his kills. He evidently got a lot of them in Basra, ran his own intelligence-gathering operation, took a lot of people down, and the British Army was a little, um, embarrassed, I guess. That’s why he left and went to work for Graywolf, where he also ran intelligence, organized security on caravans and dignitary visits. Did you know that Graywolf owns iSniper? So he’s still working for them.”
“Hmm,” said Bob. “You better fill me in on Graywolf.”
“Oh, you know. Famous, big security firm, put together by some ex-SEALs. Teaches shooting and survival skills, manufactures products and clothes for the security sector, puts people in the field on contract. There were some problems in Baghdad when these contractor guys got a little trigger-happy and blew away anything that moved; you might remember the fuss in the papers.”
“Now I do. Give a guy an M4 and a pair of cool sunglasses and a ball cap, and he’s Mr. Murder Inc. in no time.”
“He’s a very experienced man, sir. A great soldier, a great sniper, now working for a big international contractor’s firm that is mixed up in a lot of shaky stuff.”
Bob felt a little indecent having requested the dope on Anto. The problem was, he liked Anto Grogan, as did all the boys, and surely Graywolf realized how personable he was, which is why it took him out of the field and made him the public face of the iSniper division. Now Bob had to use him to get a list of names of the men he’d trained, so each could be vetted by the Bureau and checked against any connection to the four sniper killings.
“How’s Nick holding up?” he asked.
“Oh, it seems the pressure is building on us to issue that report. He gets called into the director’s office three times a day and yelled at by Tom Constable’s people. He ran into one of Constable’s brownnosers last night at dinner and was even offered a little friendly career advice. Mr. Swagger, can I talk frankly with you?”
“Sure.”
“He’s way out on a limb, and what’s got him out there is his belief in you. Sir, if you don’t get anything, pull the plug fast. A lot of us around here don’t want to see the great Nick cut off at the knees by this monster Constable because he wouldn’t play ball for believing in you and you didn’t turn anything up.”
He realized: the girl is in love with Nick.
“I hear you. It’d be a crime if Nick got his career wrecked for old goat Swagger, and it turned out old goat Swagger was just blowing smoke on some dream business. Okay, point taken.”
“This can be a tough town.”
“I get you and I will hurry this thing along, so Nick isn’t out there much longer. But do you mind if I say one thing?”
“Go ahead.”
“I ain’t telling you your business, but to me one of the things you investigators ought to be doing is checking to see if there’s any contact between Graywolf and Tom Constable. Are they players in this thing? Or are they just like everyone else, guys who got sucked up by the sniper killings?”
“I’ll run it by Nick.”
“You do that. Out here.”
“What?”
“Out here.”
“What does that mean?”
“Oh, sorry, that’s the way we talk in the field. Sounds all gung ho movie bullshit to you, I guess. Maybe it is. ‘Out here’ means I’m out of stuff to say, goodbye, and so long.”
“Ah. Sorry to be so dumb. It’s a girl thing, I guess. Good luck, Mr. Swagger.”
The problem was, there wasn’t a place to penetrate or break into. There was no school, not really. The iSniper tutorial was simply the four-man cadre—Anto, Jimmy, and two other fellows, Ginger and Raymond, who seemed decent enough; they had their teaching props, their charts, their own weapons, crates of ammo, and a world’s worth of know-how, but that was it. There was no there there, like an administrative center, just the four iSniper Irishmen, Bob, and the six young elite-corps snipers whose units had purchased the gizmo and thereby qualified them to attend the week’s schooling. Maybe back at Graywolf corporate headquarters in North Carolina, at the big training center, there was an administrative center, and maybe that’s where you’d have to go to get the dope on iSniper’s schoolees, but that was no one-man job; rather the Justice Department would have to descend, full-strength, on Graywolf, and Graywolf wouldn’t like that, since a lot of its work was classified, as was its client list, and it clearly had big connections in Defense and wouldn’t be prone to giving up its secrets without a fight.
So it came down to one little absurd thing: Anto’s book.
How am I going to get ahold of Anto’s book?
There was no answer. He went to bed depressed.
The next day at the range, as usual Bob stood aside and let Anto and his cadre work mostly with the young snipers, who’d learned the mechanics of the thing really quickly, being both motivated and highly intelligent, as well as highly dextrous. They could spot an object at unknown distance and take it down very fast, letting the microchip inside 911’s housing do the brainwork, themselves just making sure to master the method of taking the readout info and applying it to the scopeful of aiming points.
Swagger, though, shot enough with it to see its superiority, and a part of him wished he’d had the thing in ’Nam all those years ago. He, Carl, and Chuck McKenzie with iSniper911 on their rifles, what a unit that would have been; we would have won the goddamn thing instead of …
The last night, late, a knock sounded.
“Who is it?”
“Mr. Swagger, sir, me, Anto, here. Can I come in?”
Bob opened up.
“Hope you don’t mind if I’m after bending your ear a bit, do you? Wish you’d let me buy you a drink.”
“Anto, you know I can’t drink. If I do, I’m waking up in Kathmandu on Tuesday with a new wife, four new kids, and some very odd tattoos.” It was an old joke he’d told many times before.
“How about this: if it’s not to be whiskey, let Anto buy you an ice cream. Can’t be thinking of no better place for mankillers of our ranking to have a chat than that ice cream shop across the pathway. They mix a high and mighty bowl of flavor. I always overeat when I come to the teaching, I do.”
So Bob and Anto walked across the highway—more dangerous than anything Swagger had done since Bristol—where indeed the ice cream shop was still open, and the two snipers went in, waited among sluggish teenagers with needles in their noses and fathers with squawking babies and a lone truck driver, all travelers consumed
with late-night ice cream blue munchies, and got themselves a cone each. Who wouldn’t have cracked a smile if they’d known that these two were professional dealers in death, and now they sat like old fools nibbling at mint chocolate and raspberry and chocolate-chip cones?
“Bob, may I call you Bob?”
“Wish you would, Colour Sergeant.”
“And I’d be Anto. So let’s proceed on to business. Am I asking too much to ask where we stand? The toy, I mean.”
“My report to Energy security will be very positive. I’m extremely impressed by iSniper; the mechanism is first-class; the training is superb. The guys you run through here go to their units five times more effective. That translates to more boys on the planes home, and I like that a lot.”
“Is there anything—”
“Not in my report.”
“But you know we’re owned by Graywolf, and Graywolf isn’t as beloved under this president as it was under the last one, and we’ve got a lot of pressies peeved at us.”
“I know. I can’t account for which way the winds blow in Washington. You may field the best piece of equipment and still lose out, just because that’s the way it is in that town. I’m not a Washington guy.”
“You are not. You’ve nothing of the headquarters rat to you. Them I hated. Always sniffing about HQ on the lookout for the next appointment.”
“You and I share more than a skill set. I hate them mealy climbers too. Not many in the Corps, but a few. I hate the stink of headquarters. Always corrupt, that’s the rule.”
“It is. Well now, here’s where I am. I know we have the best stuff, because I’ve tested the other rigs too, like you. I know we can save lives; it’s not just a matter of business. So I’ve thought long and hard: what can I do, me, just Anto, what can Anto do to help Mr. Swagger make the right decision? And I’ve come up with something.” He licked his ice cream cone.
“Sure.”
“I’ll give you our records. Every man or team we’ve sold a unit too, his record in the tutorial—and we keep very close records even if it appears we don’t—his subsequent actions, how successfully he’s used 911 or before it iSniper 411, his most recent address and number. With the full expectation that you’ll contact some or all of these folks, and you’ll get a view of 911 in the sand or the mountains or wherever, of what it does, of how it stood up, of whether they stayed with it or went to something else. All of that, I will give you. You use it as you see fit, no strings attached, except that I trust you, sniper to sniper, to burn-bag or shred when you’re finished. That’s how much I believe in 911, sir. It’s quite an offer.”
It was. How could anyone refuse it?
16
I don’t know how he did it,” Nick said, “but somehow he talked the head boy at iSniper into turning over their entire distribution and disposition record on a disk.”
The director said, “Tell me you ran this by Justice.”
“I did. Their ruling is that since Swagger didn’t ask for or put pressure on the iSniper rep for the disk, and the iSniper rep specifically enjoined Swagger to use at his own discretion, without consequence, any info on the disk is legally ours to use.”
“But he did turn it over under subterfuge. He thought Bob repped the Energy security people.”
“True. But Swagger did rep the Energy security people, we have the paperwork to prove it, and I had Swagger dictate a report which was duly forwarded to them. What their security people do with it—probably nothing—isn’t the point; the point is that it was all done by the book. Moreover, Bob was given total freedom to dispose of it as he saw fit.”
“Okay,” said the director, leaning back in his chair. “Maybe it’ll come up, maybe it won’t. It’s always best to dot the t’s and cross the i’s before you move on.”
“I agree, sir.”
Outside, in late-fall Washington, a pewter sky encased a pewter Capitol dome; a view like that was what the Seventh Floor got you, plus terrible anxieties that you could be taken down at any time. But today the director seemed in a good mood, well pleased that the Swagger ploy had brought some new energy to Task Force Sniper and that he’d have something to tell the people who were on him.
“So what’s the haul, where does it lead us, what’s the time frame, what are we doing now? Oh, and what’s Swagger’s final read on the iSniper device?”
Nick checked his notes.
“It turns out 346 people had gone through the iSniper tutorial, and another 78 had purchased units without attending the tutorial, some private citizens with big bucks, hunters, wealthy gun people, that sort of thing. It’s not a Class III weapon, after all, just a scope with a computer chip. But mostly it’s government or military people, snipers or members of the professional sniper community. Of that total, 424, we had already vetted 209 by other means, encountering them in the initial canvass of, you know, shooting schools, high-power rifle competitors, firearms manufacturers or reps, custom rifle shops that specialize in tactical work, that sort of thing. I have two people rechecking them, of course, to see if anything was missed the first time.”
“So that gives you—”
“One hundred fifteen new guys. Many are military, and we were quickly able to eliminate twenty-three of them as having been out of the country and in deployment during the event. So that leaves—”
“Are you going to quiz me on my arithmetic?”
“No, sir, I took the liberty of using a calculator. That leaves us with ninety-two new players. That is, ninety-two men with access to and training on iSniper, unexamined in our first canvass of the field. I’ve got teams working them hard now, and we’re going at it twenty-four/seven to see if we can come up with anything. Oh, and put in the four iSniper cadre guys, Anthony ‘Anto’ Grogan, and three guys named Jimmy South, Roger ‘Ginger’ Speed, and Raymond Richardson-Brown, British nationals, who may have been in-country at the time. And then I’ve also got a team probing iSniper and its ownership, Graywolf Global Security, but I will tell you, those guys are barricaded behind some powerful legal talent.”
“What’s Swagger say?”
“He says Hitchcock’s rifle with Hitchcock’s ammo and an iSniper was indeed capable of making those four shots, and that’s all. Other than that, he’s not saying a thing.”
“Where is he?”
“In a motel room in Arlington. I wanted to get your idea on what to do.”
“Send our two best assassins,”—he waited for the shock to register on Nick’s face—“no, no, Nick, a joke! No, I think it’s best to pay him his money and thank him for his brilliance and make him happy and send him home. He has rogue tendencies, and you don’t want him mucking things up, especially since we’re under so much time pressure.”
“He wants to stay with it, I’d bet.”
“He did a hell of a job, I have to say. Pointing our lab to the baked paint debris from the iSniper on the Hitchcock rifle. That’s genius-level stuff. You said he was smart and you were right. But he’s too hard to control. He did his sniper versus sniper undercover op and it worked brilliantly. We’ll get him a bonus and a commendation. But that’s it. He’s got to be farmed out now.”
“Yes sir.”
“Meanwhile, back in the real world, do you need more investigators? Is that where this is going?”
“I’m afraid so. We lost our loaner investigators from Chicago and the other towns, and getting dumped with ninety-two—ninety-six with the Irishmen—new persons of interest is taxing. The more experienced bodies I have, the faster we’ll get through this, the faster we’ll come to a conclusion, and the sooner we can all start keeping regular hours again.”
“Okay, you’ve got ’em. Don’t know where I’m getting them from, but I’m going to give ’em to you somehow. Nick, get me something I can go to the papers on, will you? We are getting chewed to pieces on the old ‘inaction’ meme. Sluggish bureaucracy, gutless lifers, daily naptimes when we’re not screwing our secretaries. They think we’re up here twiddling our thumbs. I�
��ve got Chicago and Cleveland PDs beefing that we haven’t called it yet, and they’re being leaned on by their politicos because everybody wants the highest crime solution rate possible by end of year.”
“Yes sir. Constable, is he still on you?”
“His fine, dead hand may be involved in this, yes, wouldn’t surprise me a bit. Run into your new buddy Bill Fedders recently?”
“No sir, but if he shows up in the men’s room, I won’t be surprised.”
“Okay, Nick, good job, tough case, now bust it for me or put it to sleep, okay?”
“My best, sir.”
“Oh, and Nick, I’m told you owe Phil Price in PIO a callback.”
“Just been busy, sir.”
“Well, make an old fool like me happy and call him, will you?”
17
Now what?
Now nothing.
Now the rest of your life.
You did everything for Carl Hitchcock, for the United States Marine Corps and its medieval notions of honor and duty, despite what you said to Chuck McKenzie. If you owed him and that ever-smaller membership of the generation of men who’d put scopes on things and killed them in the Land of Bad Things, you’ve paid that debt. You turned up significant new information, new leads, turned it over, and now the professionals will run it to ground. If it turned out Tom Constable had hired Anto Grogan of Graywolf to kill his wife because she’d slept with Johnny Carson or Warren Whateverthatguy’s name was, then that would come out. Or maybe Mitzi Reilly had hired Anto Grogan to kill her husband and Anto got carried away. Or maybe someone in South America hired Graywolf to kill Mitch Greene because they didn’t like his young adult books. Or maybe—
Or maybe whatever.
Swagger sat way out in the weird, isolated departure terminal at Dulles. It was a strange, glassed-in island of mall commerce in the middle of an airfield. Great aircraft rolled by out the windows, but in here was nothing but TGIFs and Benettons and Starbucks as far as the eye could see. His flight to Boise was in another hour, but he always got to these places early because the metal ball-and-socket joint meant rigamarole in security as often as not. Here it had not. So he sat at the gate area on a terrible plastic chair, waiting for the flight to be called, watching the place fill up, ignoring the persistent pain in the hip where the ball-and-socket construction had taken a full-power cut a few years back and the flesh never healed quite right, tried not to look too enviously at a bar down the way, with its rows and rows of ever-beckoning bottles, then ordered himself not to imagine the pleasure it offered, and waited for time to pass so that the old man could get back to his rocking chair and watch the weather chemistry manufacture clouds the size of castles and more complicated structures over the blue-green meadow that fell back for miles until it broke apart on a sawtooth snarl of mountains.
A Bob Lee Swagger eBook Boxed Set: I, Sniper, Night of Thunder, 47th Samurai Page 75