Mack thanked her and carried his toolbox and bag up the stairs. He crashed onto the bed for an hour, weary after the long drive. When he awakened he called and asked if someone could bring him some coffee, which arrived after about twenty minutes. His room had a small balcony on the side rather than directly overlooking the harbor, and he leaned on the rail and sipped quietly.
Out on the northern edge of the port there was obviously some heavy construction in progress, because looming over the jetties on that side was a very high crane, maybe 150 feet. Mack stared up at it, went back into the bedroom, and began to assemble his sniper rifle, fixing all the components together except for the aluminum stock, which was the easiest piece of all to screw into place.
He loaded the rifle with six of his practice bullets, then packed both sections into his leather bag, pulling out a stack of British pounds for himself. At this point he prepared to go out for the evening and walked downstairs, still in his Jeffery Simpson disguise.
There was no one at the reception desk, and Mack walked straight out and around to the parking lot. He dumped his bag into the trunk and slammed it shut, knowing it could not be opened except with a key. Then he sat in the front seat and very carefully turned himself into Mr. Gunther Marc Roche, a Swiss national residing at 18 rue de Basle, Geneva.
He removed the blond wig, thin mustache, and rimless spectacles. He placed the long, curly black wig on his head. Then he affixed the bushy black beard to his face, combed it all into reasonable shape, and stepped out of the car, carefully locking it behind him.
In the soft summer light he glanced at himself in the wing mirror and was astounded by the transformation. No one could possibly have recognized him. He took a stroll down to the harbor, which took him about twenty minutes, and inspected the trawlers moored on the jetties.
This was a historic fishing fleet. It was the fishermen of Brixham who invented trawling for their catch, dragging the nets along the floor of the English Channel, way back in the eighteenth century. So far as Mack could see, they were still doing it. He counted fourteen draggers moored in the harbor, and he spent more than an hour observing both the boats and their masters.
There was not much activity, but it looked to Mack as if at least three of them were going out tonight. He assessed this from the boats parked on what Americans call the gas dock, where an attendant was loading them with diesel.
Mack walked past, stopping just once to practice his Swiss accent. “Nice night to go fishing,” he said to one of the skippers. “Calm sea and a good forecast.” In truth the accent was closer to Trinidad than Geneva, but the man turned around and grinned.
“I hope so,” he replied. “’Aven’t had that much luck this week. I’ll need to catch a ton just to pay for the bloody fuel.”
Mack smiled. “What time do you go?”
“There’s about three of us leave around ten o’clock in the summer. It’s about an hour out there to the best places. Old Charlie thought there were plenty of haddock around. So we’re just ’oping.”
“Good luck to you anyway,” said Mack, and walked slowly back down the jetty, trying to look casual. He hung around for another half hour, just watching the boats, watching the harbor master’s office, and noting the general quietude of the famous old port.
At around eight thirty he walked back up to the town, stopping to look at All Saints parish church in Lower Brixham, where Henry Francis Lyte had been the first vicar in the late eighteenth century. A well-kept notice board informed tourists that the Reverend Lyte had been the poet who wrote the bittersweet hymn “Abide with Me.”
Since Mack had only ever heard the hymn played at funerals, he was not 100 percent certain this was a particularly good omen. He hurried back up the long hill and went into a local pub, which was quite busy and served grilled steak, chicken, and fish. He ordered a tall glass of sparkling water and a medium-rare fillet of Angus steak. He positioned himself at a table close to the center of the beamed dining room, in full view of as many people as possible.
The steak was delicious, and Tommy would definitely have approved of the fries. Mack ordered another pint of water, and then a soft French cheese and crackers to complete his dinner. He was deeply tempted to have a large glass of port with the cheese, as Harry Remson almost always did. But he remembered his mantra—Not one drop of alcohol, until Henri Foche lays dead.
He sat for a while, until he could see through the window that it was dark outside, then he paid his bill, and tipped the waitress generously. “Thank you very much, sir,” she said. “Come in again. Goodnight, Mr. . . . er . . . ”
“Roche,” said Mack. “Gunther Roche. I’m from Geneva, but I’ll be back.”
The waitress, a dark-haired young girl, obviously a local student, replied, “Before September—that’s when I go back to university. I’m Diana.”
It was such a short exchange, but both parties had established something important. The girl had demonstrated that she was not just a waitress but an intelligent academic doing a summer job. Mack Bedford had established in the village a very definite identity for the tall, bearded Swiss visitor.
He walked through the crowd and out into the street, making his way another two hundred yards up the hill to his hotel. But he did not go in. Instead, he walked around to the parking lot, unlocked the door, and fired up the Ford Fiesta.
He drove quickly out onto the street and turned right, climbing high above the little town on a lonely road all the way to the cliff top. From there he headed farther to the right, for almost a mile, until he was directly above the harbor. Way out to sea he could see the lights of a ship steaming east up the English Channel.
But those were not the lights he was interested in. The ones he had come for were high atop that crane that loomed over the jetties. He had guessed it would have a couple of warning lights, but in fact it had three, two directly above the driver’s cabin, one more out at the end of the rig. From where Mack stood, the high point of the crane was pretty much at eye level, about six hundred yards distant.
The road was deserted, and he pulled over onto the grass shoulder and drove forward maybe fifteen yards on a slight hill. He switched off the lights and opened the trunk. He unzipped the bag and retrieved the rifle that lay in two pieces. Carefully, he screwed the stock into place and checked that the weapon was tight. Then he leaned forward onto the roof of the car and drew a steady bead on the red light at the end of the crane’s forward rig.
With the light right in the middle of the crosshairs, he fired. Instantly, the crane had only two red lights instead of three. Mack lined up and fired again. And the small glowing red bulb high on the rig above the cabin was obliterated, showering glass onto the driver’s roof. Mack lined up his final target, the remaining red light set on a metal strut around ten feet above the cabin, the highest point of the crane. And once more he fired, shattering the bulb. It was a superb exhibition of marksmanship, Olympic-grade shooting, but standard procedure for a U.S. Navy SEAL sniper. Especially one who had finished Honor Man at Sniper School, out there on the rough desert ground of Camp Pendleton, the 125,000-acre U.S. Marine Corps Base, south of Los Angeles.
What truly pleased Mack was the quietness. The silencer fitted to the barrel with such immense precision by Prenjit Kumar was the best Mack had ever used.
“Tell you what,” he murmured, as he put the bag back in the trunk. “Sonofabitch knows how to make a rifle.”
CHAPTER 9
Mack sat in the car for a few minutes, mostly getting rid of Mr. Gunther Marc Roche. He removed the wig and beard and replaced them with the lighter, much more comfortable Jeffery Simpson disguise. Then he drove back down to the town and parked behind the hotel.
There was a different receptionist on duty, and Mack, who was carrying his leather bag, smiled and said, “Room 12, please.”
She handed over the key, glanced at the register, and said, “There you are. Thank you, Mr. O’Grady.”
Mack climbed the stairs to his room and wen
t to bed. As he switched off the bedside light, his last thoughts were, If I can just get a clear shot, I can’t miss, not with this rifle.
He slept soundly but only until six. He awakened and immediately climbed out of bed, showered, shaved, and dressed. He wore a clean black T-shirt, the same jacket, and pants. And once more he fitted his Gunther Roche disguise, the black curly hair and beard.
His plan was to escape the hotel without being seen, and the place was deathly quiet as he opened the bedroom door. With the toolbox in one hand and the bag in the other, he slipped along the corridor and down the stairs. There was no one on duty yet, and the kitchen staff was making no sound. He actually had to unlock the front door to make his exit.
Once outside, he walked quickly to the parking lot, stowed his gear in the trunk, and drove down to the harbor. In this fabled fishing port, Patrick O’Grady was history, Jeffery Simpson had been seen but not recorded at the hotel, but Gunther was marching around large as life, the way Mack wanted it.
He drove down to the harbor and found a small town parking lot. It was positioned right next to the jetties, separated by a three-foot-high wall. There was no gate, but there was a charge for remaining there up to two hours. At least there would have been, had the attendant been on duty, but he was not scheduled to show up until eight o’clock.
Mack parked in the corner, locked the car, and took a walk around the harbor. There was some activity, trawlers unloading, boxes of fresh fish packed on ice. He could see a couple of guys with clipboards, talking to the fishermen, making notes, signaling for a couple of truck drivers to start loading. Buying agents for the big supermarkets. They’d been here since midnight, since the fleet began to arrive back from its nightly labors out there in the Channel.
Mack could see the old skipper he’d spoken to earlier, and he looked busy, talking to the agents, pointing back at his boat. Mack hoped his luck had turned. He walked past the harbor master’s office, nodded a greeting, and then strolled to the end of the harbor wall.
He made notes of the boats he thought had come in during the small hours, about seven of them. For the moment he was assuming they went out to the fishing grounds most nights. Four of them were far too big for his purposes; two of them were still busy with at least four men working. But one of them had unloaded, and the crew, probably just two men, had gone home.
Their boat was a sixty-five-foot trawler, with a dark-red hull in need of a coat of paint. The name Eagle was painted in faded black lettering on her bow. She was already being gassed up, which Mack took as a sure sign she’d be going out tonight. With diesel at its current prices, no one filled up until they needed to.
He walked back past the harbor master, who was standing outside his office. “Good morning,” said Mack, trying to sound Swiss, but doing a fair imitation of Papa Doc, the president of Haiti.
“Hello, sir,” replied the harbor master, not knowing whether he was speaking to the owner of a one-hundred-foot oceangoing yacht. “Nice morning.”
“Did they have much luck last night?”
“Some of ’em did. That big trawler there ran over a shoal of cod about twenty miles offshore. And cod’s fetching a lot of money just now. We’ll be busy tonight.”
“How about that boat there, Eagle? I met the owners a couple of nights ago. Did they do okay?”
“They found the cod as well, but they’re usually first out in the summer. Old Fred Carter don’t miss much. He’s fourth generation out of Brixham.”
“I see they’re fueled and ready to go again.”
“They’ll clear the harbor wall by ten o’clock tonight. You see if they don’t. Rest of the boats aim for eleven.”
Mack wandered off up to the street that runs along the harbor. He found a small café that opened at eight o’clock, five minutes from now, and then he walked farther to find a newspaper shop. That was open, and he picked up a London Daily Telegraph plus a copy of Monday’s Le Monde.
Armed with his reading, he went back to the café and ordered breakfast from the menu—poached eggs, Devonshire smoked ham, and buttered brown toast. Mack liked it here; he liked the people, and he definitely liked the breakfast.
He noticed that within twenty minutes the café was quite full, which was good. He ordered more coffee and sat reading until around nine thirty. He paid his bill and walked up to the town’s main street, where he spent his time looking at the shops.
Once he was absolutely stunned at his bearded appearance, which, with his tweed jacket, made him look like a vacationing college professor. He actually thought it was someone else and turned around to check who might be looking over his shoulder. As disguises go, this one was sensational.
By eleven o’clock the sun was climbing high to the southeast. The sky was very blue, and so was the sea. Mack could see what they meant by the Devon Riviera. He found an empty bench overlooking the water, took off his jacket, and decided to tackle Le Monde, brushing up on his French as he went.
On page 5 there was another major article on Henri Foche, with a picture. He translated the headline to mean:GAULLIST LEADER APPALLED AT
NEW DIAMONDHEAD MISSILE ATROCITY
DESCRIBES LATEST HITS ON AMERICAN TROOPS AS “OUTRAGEOUS”
“You little bastard,” muttered Mack under his breath. Though it was difficult for him to translate word for word, he got the drift of the story—that Foche had no idea how these illicit missiles were finding their way to Iraq. And he fervently hoped the illegal manufacture of the “inhuman” Diamondhead would swiftly be stopped.
His United Nations Security Council partners, the USA, had all of his sympathy. They could count on him, as president of France, to remove the suspicion that any factory in his country would ever stoop to such criminally dishonest behavior.
“Jesus Christ,” said Mack to a passing fish truck. “Is this guy something or what?”
He tossed Le Monde into a trash bin and walked on to find a small local supermarket, and there he bought a high-squirting, medium-sized plastic carton of Great Britain’s most powerful window cleaning fluid. He had once been told that if you want something really cleaned spotless, this was the stuff. It had the same name in America, so he knew what he was looking for. He also purchased a packet of soft dusters.
At this point just before midday, he returned to the parking lot to find the attendant about to issue him an official town fine. Mack did not wish that to happen, and he walked swiftly over to the man and told him, in a foreign accent that no nation in the world could possibly have recognized, how sorry he was, but his wife had been taken ill at the hotel.
The attendant was sympathetic, and Mack told him he would have to go back and forth to the hotel all day, and would these two 50-pound notes pay for the day’s parking? This was, without question, the biggest cash payment, or quasi tip, the Brixham parking lot chief had ever seen. He stared at the banknotes for a few seconds and allowed thoughts to cascade through his mind before he said, “Why yes, sir. I think that will take care of it very nicely.” He then asked the question that separated an honest council employee from a dishonest one: “Will you be requiring change, sir?”
“Certainly not. I’d like you to give special attention to the safety of this car. I’ll probably be around for the next couple of days. Same payment tomorrow be okay?”
“Oh, very much, sir. That would be very much in order.”
Once more Mack wandered away, but he watched the parking lot, and at 12:45 he saw the man walk across the street to a pub, probably for a beer and a sandwich.
Mack moved quickly back into the parking lot, unlocked the car, and went to work with the high-squirting window cleaning liquid. He shot it everywhere, especially on the steering wheel, gear stick, hand brake, door handles, window buttons, and leather(ish) driver’s seat. He hit the center console and the windshield. He hit the driver’s side windows and the armrests. He power-squirted it all over the backseat, and on all the dashboard controls, radio, and air vents. Men cleaning New York skyscrapers h
ave used less window fluid.
And then he rubbed and polished, destroying every semblance of a trace that he had ever been inside that car. By the time he finished, if there had somehow been a tiny smudged suggestion of a fingerprint, it would have died of loneliness. But Mack knew there was nothing, not one single clue that he had ever driven the McArdle-guaranteed Ford Fiesta.
He would leave the outside work until later, and now he shoved open the passenger door with his elbow, made his exit, and pushed it shut with his knee, locking it with the remote-control key. The attendant was not yet back, and Mack walked up to the main street and found a “menswear” store that sold thin leather driving gloves. He purchased a pair of these, and also a top-of-the-line pair of Reebok trainers. Then he crossed the street to a hardware store and purchased a screwdriver.
It was a very warm day now, and he strolled back down to the harborside bench, which was still unoccupied. He decided to skip lunch but to have an early dinner, because he was uncertain when he would have an opportunity to eat again.
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