by Robin Flett
The other man leaned forward with professional interest. 'Well now, what's this fancy thing?'
Hollis smiled at the description. 'Basically, it's a single-shot weapon, controlled remotely,' he moved his finger around the diagram, highlighting.
'Single shot?' His companion glanced up at him.
'There won't be any chance at all of a second go. Out of the question.'
'Better not miss, then.' The Armourer wasn't being facetious, this was business. He simply stated a fact.
Hollis shrugged. 'If it works at all it will be a head shot, from close range.'
'Excuse me a moment.' The Armourer went down the hallway and Hollis heard another door open. Shortly the man returned carrying several stainless steel draughting instruments. He spent a few minutes carefully checking measurements, pausing every now and then with a faraway look in his eyes. Hollis kept quiet and drank his coffee. Letting his friend trawl the depths of his mind. The mysterious processes of that complex and badly understood organic computer known as the human brain were in full flood. Best he stay out of the way and give it a clear run.
'This remote control thing. What are we talking about? A wire, radio or what?'
'Have to be radio. Wires or anything else attached would blow the whole thing.'
'Hm. I'm not sure about your head shot. How are you going to aim this thing? Why not just use a long gun?'
'Access mainly, I can't be certain of the exact circumstances this far ahead. But I'm pretty sure there won't be the opportunity for a distance shot. A hand gun at close quarters isn't on either: I'd like to go on living afterwards!'
'Quite. But this is a difficult thing you're asking of me. Technically. You understand?'
'Of course. That's why I came to you. I don't know of anyone else who could do this and make it work.'
'Flattery!'
'Truth.'
The Armourer drained his mug of coffee and dropped it into a plastic basin in the sink. 'Well, we'd better give it a try I suppose. It's in the car?'
'Yes.'
'Right, let's take it into the workshop and have a look at it.'
Hollis fetched an anonymous blue holdall from the Range Rover and followed his friend into the barn adjacent to the house. Inside it was warm and dry. The entire barn had been converted into a modern machine shop. The Armourer spread the diagram on an angled draughting table and unzipped the holdall on an adjacent bench.
'Very nice,’ he grunted. ‘Made by anyone I know?' He turned it end over end examining it minutely.
Hollis smiled when he saw his friend squint down the hollow tube. 'No,' he said. 'You wouldn't know him.'
'Hm.’ The Armourer placed it carefully on the bench. ‘You'd better explain to me exactly what you expect this damned thing to do.'
Hollis picked up his creation. 'I said close range because the subject will, to a certain extent, kill himself. He’s expected to pick this device up––there's not any real doubt about that––and examine it for a few moments. As you can imagine, I need a firing mechanism built in to this box affair at the base.' The box produced a hollow rapping sound under his knuckle. 'Single shot, smooth bore, bullet as large as you can fit in within the weight limits. As I said, it will be a head shot: but one only, so we have to be sure.'
'Smooth bore? I'd prefer to rifle it if possible.'
'Can't be done, the inside of the tube must appear normal.' Hollis passed the device back across the bench.
'Oh.’ There was a pause. ‘Well, that's not too bad,' The bald man peered down the protruding tube once again. 'I can rifle it two thirds of its length and nothing will be visible from the open end. Better than nothing.'
'Okay, that sounds fine.' Hollis was more than ever convinced he had come to the right place. 'The thing is, will there be room in there for a radio control unit as well? And remember the weight limit. The finished item has to weigh exactly what is says on here.' Hollis tapped the sheet of paper for emphasis.
'Aye, as you say, that's the thing.' Calipers were produced and several measurements compared to the diagram. 'This drawing isn't to scale!' the older man accused, peering over the top of his spectacles.
'Sorry!'
'Hmph. Well, I’m sure you realize that it's going to be complex getting everything in here. Fortunately electronics come pretty small these days. Couldn't have done this at all a few years ago.' He looked up. 'How far away are you going to be at the time?'
Hollis thought about that. The trouble was he didn’t really have much idea. 'Possibly just a few metres,' he said. 'Forty or fifty at most I would think.'
'That's fine. The transmitter will be very small, and therefore not very powerful, but that will be all right. Getting the receiver inside here is the important thing.' A few more minutes of silence ensued, and a lot more measuring and figuring. At one point the Armourer opened a metal cabinet and brought out a revolver of second world war vintage and held it against Hollis' device for comparison. 'Hm,' he muttered again. A few minutes later he said: 'What did you mean about the subject shooting himself?'
Hollis smiled. 'Well, not quite.' He explained what he had observed at the trade exhibition in Glasgow. Without naming the place or location. 'You may not recall, but you did exactly the same when you examined it a few minutes ago: you turned it back and forth, and then you looked––'
'––down the barrel!' The Armourer finished. His face opened in a grin. 'My friend, that’s bloody ingenious! And when he peers inside … '
'Bang.'
12
14 – 20 July, 2013
She was searching for the second stocking when the phone beside the bed warbled quietly, causing her to look up in surprise. The small clock/radio stated it to be barely 7.30 am. A bit early for phone calls.
Mike Hollis rolled over and picked it up on the third ring. 'Hello'. The dangling suspenders bounced erotically against her bare legs as the redhead leaned over to pick up her slip from the floor. She had given up on the stocking. The chambermaid would find it no doubt, give her something to gossip about.
'Right,' said Hollis into the phone. 'That's great. I'll pick them up this afternoon if that's all right.'
The dress was a bit crumpled of course but that was all right, she was only going down the hall. She smiled to see Hollis watching her. Reaching back over her shoulder, she pulled the zip up and smoothed the dress down as best she could.
'Yes, all right. Thanks a lot, I'll see you later.' Hollis said into the phone and then replaced it on the wall bracket. He climbed out from under the duvet and headed for the shower.
'I'd better get back to my room and freshen up.' The woman was in her late thirties and her voice betrayed her Louisiana origins. She had lived in London for many years, and came across to Ireland at least once every year to research family connections. Her great Grandfather had lived here on the Inveragh Peninsula in County Kerry before emigrating to the New World with so many of his countrymen. He had never returned. Chance had taken Mike Hollis to the same hotel in Waterville five days ago, while he waited for the Armourer to complete his work. 'See you for breakfast about eight?'
'Fine.' Hollis stopped to kiss her in passing, feeling a cool hand on his bare shoulder. 'I’m afraid that was the call I've been expecting. My golf clubs are ready for collection, so I'll have to be on my way again after breakfast.' He had given her a story about a golfing tour of Ireland with some companions, and a mishap to his prized set of clubs. The hand slid down his back, coming to rest on his left buttock.
'Oh.' She sounded disappointed, and then smiled mischievously. The hand moved round to the front. 'Well in that case, maybe we'd better skip breakfast and say goodbye––'
Around the ninth or tenth century, an unknown group of Vikings discovered a sheltered harbour on the south-east coast of Ireland which had convenient access to the trading and raiding routes. It wasn't ideal, being muddy and prone to silting up, but it had its uses. The settlement they built up over the years came to be called Waesfjord, meaning B
ay of the Mud Flats. In later times the name became Anglicized into Wexford. The town lies on the south bank of the river Slaney and the mud flats which gave the town its name are now a wildfowl reserve, known locally as slobs. They give refuge to a wide variety of geese, swans and ducks, among other species.
As predicted, the Customs officials had been politeness itself. A brief inspection of the vessel had been made just after 11.30 that morning and the paperwork checked over: no trouble at all. Some lunch was the next order of the day. The previous day's fare had consisted entirely of sandwiches and lukewarm coffee from flasks. They were more than ready for something more substantial.
Klaus, Helga and Uwe turned right on to Main Street, having made their way up from the quay. Main Street is a narrow, old fashioned thoroughfare, although it is the major shopping street in Wexford. It houses the usual mix of shops, some aimed specifically at the tourist industry, pubs and restaurants. They found a cafe towards the northern end of the street and occupied a table by the bay window.
While they ate they discussed whether to spend good money hiring a car for a few days, or to risk stealing one. They knew nothing of the efficiency of the local police forces, the Garda. In fact none of them particularly wanted to spend their break looking over their shoulders so they voted for the legal course of action.
Later in the afternoon they refuelled the boat for the trip back across to Wales and then went in search of a car hire company. Klaus found his expensively-forged Euro driving license was accepted without question. After a brief tour of the adjacent countryside they paid a leisurely visit to the local supermarket. Returning to the boat with several bags of groceries, beer and other essentials. It would save them time on the other side, where they were about to make a violent political statement of the sort even the British Government would listen to.
Back on shore, they sat lounging in the metallic green Ford Escort in a convenient spot close to the harbour. Klaus was in the rear seat, leafing through a guidebook obtained from the local Tourist Office. Helga and Uwe were in the front, with Uwe in the drivers seat. They had been sitting there perhaps twenty minutes when Uwe stopped in the middle of a ribald joke and stared. His sister's face had drained of blood and she seemed to be almost shocked.
Aware of the sudden silence, Klaus looked up from his reading. Following Uwe's eyes, he lowered the book and said: 'Helga? Are you all right?'
'Yes. It's just––'. She shook her head uncertainly. 'I saw––' She half-raised a hand to point before dropping it self-consciously back onto her lap.
'What?' Klaus looked out at the passing traffic. 'Where are you going?'
Helga was out the door before he could finish and practically running down the street. 'Stay here, Uwe!' Klaus followed her out and caught up with her a short way along when the traffic bunched up and stopped. She was staring at a Range Rover containing a single occupant who sat tapping the steering wheel idly with a finger.
'What is it, Helga?'
She ignored him, glaring angrily now across the road. The traffic started up again, bringing here out of here reverie. 'Quickly, the car!' She took off again, with Klaus in helpless pursuit.
Helga slammed into the passenger seat, shaking the car on its springs. Klaus followed only slightly slower.
'Come on, Uwe, go!'
'What?'
'For fuck's sake, go!'
Uwe turned the key and pulled out into the now reduced traffic flow. Klaus Ditmar held his tongue. Something was happening here that he didn't understand, but questions could come later. Helga didn't act like this without good reason. Later.
'Turn here! Here! Come on, Uwe, move!'
The Escort tilted under the violent manoeuvre and shot into the side street. Two pedestrians jumped back onto the pavement out of the way, gesticulating angrily.
'Jesus!’ Uwe muttered, knowing that luck more than his judgement had kept those two people out of hospital. ‘What the hell are we doing, Helga?' He kept the car in third gear, hearing the engine note rising rapidly.
'The Range Rover!' Helga jabbed a finger at the windscreen. 'Don't lose it!' Ahead of them the vehicle in question turned onto North Main Street.
Uwe stood on the brakes at the junction. This was a busy thoroughfare, there was no way he could power straight out into that traffic without killing them all. Helga was spluttering incoherently by the time a gap appeared that was big enough to use. Uwe kicked the hire car across in front of a delivery van, hearing a long blast of a horn behind him and ignoring it as he pressed the gas pedal almost to the floor. There was a limited amount he could do: this was a busy town centre, not a race track.
Fifteen seconds later Helga began to swear fluently and terribly in three languages. They could see a long way ahead now and although the street was still busy with traffic, none of the vehicles in sight was a Range Rover.
‘Shit!' Helga shouted in fury. 'We've lost him!'
Wexford was unfamiliar to Mike Hollis, which was why he had driven round the town twice looking for a place to have dinner. He planned to drive all the way to back to Larne, find a hotel for the night, then catch the first ferry over to Stranraer tomorrow morning. However, right now he wanted something to eat––and Wexford was a convenient place to stop.
He had spent an hour with the Armourer, while the bald man explained how he had completed the weapon. There was of course nothing to be seen externally––that was the whole point.
'Naturally,' said the Armourer, 'there is no means of loading this thing. A 5.56mm Armalite round is built in to the housing, ready to be fired. A smallish bullet, but more than enough for a head shot at close range.'
Hollis nodded. A single shot had always been inevitable.
'I test fired the thing several times before it was finally sealed up, and everything was fine. The calibrated muzzle velocity is a little less than I expected but given the short distance involved that won't be a problem.' His voice held traces of pride in his work. And rightly so.
'You've done a beautiful job,' said Hollis, and meant it. He had examined the device minutely, looking for tell-tale traces of tampering. There was nothing at all to hint that it was now a lethal weapon. Hollis noted that it was significantly heavier than the shell had been before, when allowance had been made for the internal modifications. To all outward appearance the thing was now quite identical to the original filter unit. Thank God it was an industrial device, made for functionality and not aesthetic appearance.
The bald man saw Hollis hefting the thing experimentally in his hands. 'Don't worry,’ said the Armourer, ‘I checked the weight at each stage of the construction, in the end it came out light.' He grinned at Hollis’ expression. ‘Just as well in fact, because it occurred to me that you may have a problem.’
‘Oh?’ Hollis frowned. What had he forgotten?
‘You’re expecting the target to pick this thing up and look down the tube––the barrel of the weapon.’
‘Yeah.’
‘What if he doesn’t?’
Hollis nodded, this had always been the only risk. He had been thinking of carrying a handgun as backup, but the chances of getting clear afterwards were precisely nil.
‘What if he doesn’t even pick it up?’
‘Then I’m screwed,’ Hollis said honestly.
‘Not any more.’ The Armourer leaned forward and tapped the flattened end of the device. ‘As I said, just as well it came out light after I had installed the firing mechanism. There was enough leeway to include a small block of explosive, imbedded with ballbearings.’
Mike Hollis flopped back in his chair. ‘Fuck’s sake! I never thought of that!’
‘Just as well I did, then.’ The Armourer smiled at his friends reaction. Astonishment, relief––and irritation at his own shortcomings. ‘The charge is small, but between the ballbearings and the metal case itself, the shrapnel should be devastating at close range. If you have to use it, try and get something solid between you and the blast!’
‘Damn ri
ght!’
This was good news. It removed the last uncertainty about his convoluted plan. Was, indeed, a damned good idea, although the inevitable effects on innocent bystanders offended his professional pride. A last resort. Yes, very much so.
‘You’re a bloody genius.’ Hollis picked up a small rectangular plastic box from the table. ‘What’s this?’
‘It used to belong to a portable TV set I no longer have.’ The Armourer lifted the small device. ‘To outward appearances, it’s a perfectly standard remote controller, but the inner circuit board and other parts have been replaced by a short-range UHF radio transmitter.’ He handed it to Hollis.
‘Neat.’
‘Press the On/Off and teletext buttons together to switch it on. Note there’s no battery in it just now––I suggest you only put it in shortly before the event in case of accidents. Then one press on the numeral five will fire the weapon. It’ll work at forty metres, but don’t push your luck beyond that. Press both one and zero together for the bang.’
Hollis had thanked the man profusely, loaded everything securely in the Range Rover and made his way back into town. Time for some food and some serious thought.
Having picked out a suitable-looking establishment, Hollis sought somewhere quiet to leave the car. This was most definitely not the time to have it stolen or raided by thieves. He left it in a side-street, outside a car showroom, just a short walk from the town centre.
The green Escort was parked in School Street, just off St. Peter's Square. Klaus leaned forward from the rear seat and put a hand on Helga's shoulder. 'Helga, just what the fuck is this all about?'
Helga was still fuming at the delay but she knew she had to take the time to explain properly. They had to find that Range Rover and it might take the three of them to do it. She swallowed hard, making a deliberate effort to calm down. After taking a deep breath, she said: 'The man driving that Range Rover. I know him.'