by Alex Shaw
The PD cruiser retraced Tate’s journey of the day before but in reverse. They pulled up in front of the columns. Donoghue opened up, let Tate in and then locked the main door again. Without waiting he strode to his office and took a seat behind his desk. He nodded at the coffee station. ‘Help yourself.’
‘Thanks.’ Tate took a mug and poured a full cup of tepid coffee. Black was OK but he preferred his with a dollop of cream.
‘Here.’ Donoghue pushed a letter-sized manila folder across his desk.
Tate sat, took the folder and opened it. There were two sets of 10x8 prints, each set collated with a paperclip. The first were of the retired general. They showed the position of his body from several different angles. Tate didn’t know what religious denomination the general had been but it was going to be a closed-casket affair. ‘Single gunshot, to the head. A heavy round, the bullet exited and took his face with it. He never heard it or felt it.’ Tate looked up. ‘Have the local PD found the shooter’s LUP – where the shot was taken?’
‘Nope. But obviously it’s somewhere in the woods on the property. I’m sure they’ll find it.’
‘All they’ll find will be a few flattened twigs and broken leaves.’
‘Because?’
‘He’s good, elite in fact; he took the shot undetected and then exfilled.’
‘Which takes us to those.’ Donoghue nodded at the second set of prints.
Tate put the shots of retired general Richard Leavesley to one side and spread out the rest. Four more victims, two with large holes in them, and two without heads. ‘So these three were hit with a large-calibre round – from the same rifle I imagine – and this one by a smaller round, probably a 9mm but several times.’
‘That much we know. But the why – is what I need to know.’
Tate nodded. ‘The rifle we think he’s using, the Blaser, has a five-round clip. That’s one round for the general and four more. Now our shooter encounters four new, unexpected targets—’
‘Whoa. How do you know they were unexpected? These guys had bags of money at the ready, could have been to pay the shooter. Again, too much of a coincidence otherwise.’
‘Did he take the cash?’
‘Not sure yet. Five sports bags stuffed with hundred-dollar bills in Federal Reserve $10,000 straps were recovered at the scene.’
‘That’s an awful lot of paper money for one guy to move, physically and financially. Cash is no longer king.’ Tate shrugged. ‘I don’t know why these four victims were there, but it wasn’t for him. So he surprises them and he’s got four rounds for four targets. Now that’s tight, even for our guy and especially with a straight-pull rifle. He missed one of them.’
‘So he switched to a backup weapon?’
Tate nodded. ‘If he’d known there were more targets, he’d have had at least a second clip. And we know the Blaser was supressed.’
‘There was a phone call made to the Northport PD. Reporting gunshots.’
‘The backup weapon.’
Donoghue retrieved a map from his drawer, laid it on the table and pointed with a thick index finger. ‘That’s Atlantic Highway running between Northport and Belfast. The general’s house was here, and here – roughly a mile away – is where the shootout took place.’ Tate leaned forward, studied the map, as the police chief continued, ‘So our shooter sets up here, takes the shot, somehow exfils without alerting the general’s wife then walks a mile along a highway back to his vehicle? That is nonsensical. No one walks the highway especially without being seen.’
Tate ran his finger along the map between the two locations. ‘He went through the trees, a straight line. Bang – he takes the first kill shot here and then exfils to his vehicle here.’
‘Directly through a neighbouring property?’
‘That’s what I would have done, if I had done it.’
Now Donoghue nodded. His desk phone rang. He held up his hand, made a quieting motion to Tate and then sat and answered it. Tate took the hint, picked up his mug, wandered away from the desk and drank his coffee. It was cold and bitter but he could taste the caffeine. Donoghue listened, didn’t ask questions, thanked the caller and then ended the call. ‘That was my counterpart at Northport. They’ve found what looks like three .338 rounds, one they dug out of a wall and five 9mm rounds.’
‘That was quick.’
‘The chief in Northport has more funding than me.’ He laced his heavy hands across his stomach and sat back wearily. ‘So it appears our shooter fired just three rifle rounds at the second location.’
Tate looked at the photographs again of the four men dressed in dark clothing, and the images showing their relative positions. The scene had been illuminated by arc lights so he could make out the detail well. He tried to visualise in which order the men fell. He closed his eyes. The house was on the left and to the right of that a red pick-up was parked but in between the pair was a vehicle-sized space. And that was odd. Why park further away from the house than they had to? No that was where the Tahoe had been.
‘Tate, it’s me who’s been up all night and you’re sleeping?’
His eyes snapped open, a connection made. ‘I don’t think he fired only four rounds in total. He emptied his clip – he wanted it to stay quiet but then he had no choice.’
‘Because he missed? In that case we’ll find the fifth round.’
‘He took them out one at a time. The last one had time to move, to shield himself.’
‘Where?’
‘Behind the shooter’s SUV. Think about it. This assassin, a guy who comes and goes like a ghost, discovers a larger force blocking his escape. What does he do?’
‘He takes them out and gets the hell out of there, just like he did.’
‘And risks things going noisy? No. He waits for them to leave, but then they force him to act.’
‘How, they see him?’
‘No, they’re thieves. They try to take his ride.’
‘So he risked, like you said, being compromised over an SUV?’
‘Exactly. He could have got another vehicle, but there had to be something about that vehicle or something inside it that he couldn’t afford to lose.’
‘Yeah, OK. The fact is that our shooter murdered five citizens last night – four of them over a damn car? This is one cold-blooded perp. What matters to me is finding him, stopping him from killing again. He’s attached to his Tahoe? Good, that’s why we have a BOLO out for a black Tahoe.’
‘Not just any Tahoe, an armour-plated one.’
‘Wait, what?’
‘A Tahoe fitted with ballistic plates.’
‘I know what one is I just wanted to know why you would say that.’
‘There are three black Tahoes at my hotel.’
‘Those I am aware of. Two are driven by the Russians guests – the hotel’s CCTV footage shows that they were parked, in plain sight, when each of the previous shootings took place. That’s why we eliminated them from our inquiries and why we questioned you.’
‘And those same two Tahoes at the hotel, driven by the Russians, are armour-plated.’
‘You know this how?’
‘I checked out their suspension – compared it to my own. It’s beefed up, enhanced, reinforced.’
‘You know about cars?’
‘Enough to get by.’ In the SAS Tate had been in mobility group, therefore trained in motor mechanics, but he didn’t feel the need to mention this.
‘Why do you think all this is linked, the Russians’ Tahoes and the shooter’s?’
‘Because I don’t think the shooter missed the last guy in black. I think the guy was hiding behind an armour-plated Tahoe and the .338 round couldn’t get to him.’
‘So now we’re looking for a Tahoe with what a bullet hole in it?’
‘Yes.’
Donoghue raised his hands to his face and rubbed it with both palms. ‘Right.’
‘Right?’
‘Right, let’s follow your hunch.’ Donoghue stood. ‘We
’re going back to the hotel and we’re talking to those Russians.’
They drove in silence back to the inn. Donoghue seemed too tired to waste his energy on extraneous conversation and if humming along to music wasn’t an option, Tate preferred to travel in silence. They pulled slowly into the car park, coming to a halt level with reception but blocking the exit for any vehicles to the road.
‘They’ve gone,’ Tate stated.
Donoghue nodded. He took a moment to collect his thoughts then said, ‘I’ll check the CCTV. At least then we’ll see exactly when they left.’ Donoghue pressed the gas pedal and steered the Crown Victoria over to a parking spot immediately outside reception. ‘Thank you for your time this morning, Mr Tate.’
Tate took this as his cue that he was no longer needed and got out of the car. His stomach rumbled again, but now that it was after seven he knew that the inn would be open. He entered via the reception door to see the place deserted save for Sara who was behind the bar making notes on a piece of paper.
‘Good morning.’
‘Hi. One for breakfast?’
‘Unless you want to join me?’
She shook her head. ‘I’m doing intermittent fasting. I don’t eat till eleven.’
Tate had been told by his first girlfriend never to mention a woman’s weight, this included comments about any diet she may or may not be on. So he didn’t. ‘The chief is outside. He wants to see your CCTV footage.’
‘Chief Donoghue?’
‘I didn’t mean a leader of the Panawahpskek Indians.’
‘Someone’s swallowed a guidebook. And they’re called “Native Americans”, not Indians.’ She nodded to a pot of coffee. ‘If I can trust you to be left alone for five minutes, help yourself to a coffee and a paper.’
Tate poured himself his second coffee of the day – this time there was cream – then took a seat at the bar. The coffee was much better than Donoghue’s. As Tate drank he reflected on the events of the past two days. It certainly had not been the sleepy, relaxing holiday he’d expected. There was a stack of newspapers at the end of the bar. He pulled over one that claimed to be national and browsed the front page. Nothing of much interest: worries about a potential storm somewhere over the Gulf of Mexico, the US president’s views on a new hybrid car plant in Detroit and at the bottom, almost as an afterthought, a report on the death of retired senator Clifford Piper.
He read the paragraph under the headline and turned to page four where the report carried on but now focused on the senator’s record, the loss of his wife and what he had meant for the country. It was a “puff piece” and he learned nothing new. Although it listed his death as a murder, the word “assassination” had not been used. Tate wondered what the paper would say tomorrow after the third kill had hit the news.
He drank the rest of his coffee as he flicked through the broadsheet until he came to the business section. There was a brief report on a contract signed with the US Department of Defense for next-generation body armour. Even when he’d been in the Regiment, soldiers were always complaining about their kit. Tate sighed. Trust the Americans to get the good stuff first. He closed the paper and put it back on the top of the pile and then remembered the phone call he was going to make. He pulled his encrypted iPhone from his jeans pocket but before he could dial, Sara returned.
‘What’s this all about?’
‘What?’ He played dumb.
She folded her arms. ‘Why is Chief Donoghue so interested in my Russian guests?’
‘He didn’t tell you?’ Tate didn’t want to lie, especially if it put Sara or anyone else in danger.
‘Would I be asking you if he had?’
‘There was another shooting last night.’
Sara gasped. ‘Where?’
‘Northport. Eyewitnesses saw a black SUV hightailing it away.’
‘And Donoghue wants to eliminate the two that were parked on my property?’
‘Three – remember I have one too. But yes.’
‘I see.’ She shuddered. ‘So what will you have to eat?’
‘You haven’t given me a menu.’
Chapter 7
College Park Airport, Washington, DC
College Park Airport was the world’s oldest continuously operated airport, opened for Wilbur Wright by the United States Army Signal Corps in 1909 as a training ground to instruct military officers and others how to fly in the US government’s first airplane. The significance of the airport was not lost on Maksim Oleniuk, but he didn’t know if he could say the same for his men.
The former GRU intelligence officer stood in the centre of the hangar as his contracted assassin walked down the airstairs carrying two bulky black bags. Even from this distance Oleniuk could see the strength the man possessed although he was no more than six foot tall. The assassin did not seem at all fazed, Oleniuk noted, to see him. The assassin headed directly for his paymaster and laid down his bags. The one on the right made a metallic clunk whilst the other thudded. Oleniuk had no reason to care what the man had carried with him. The assassin was a professional, a former member of the classified, elite Russian GRU Spetsnaz group known only as “The Werewolves”. A unit that officially had never existed. He had been their most proficient sniper and what he had in his bags would be exactly what he needed to remain so.
‘Akulov, I trust you have no issues to report regarding your work in Maine?’
‘No, sir,’ Akulov replied. He was not standing at attention but nevertheless was respectful to the man who currently paid him.
‘That is as I thought. Two tasks in one day is not an issue for a Werewolf. And you were the best. You still are.’
Akulov nodded.
Oleniuk thrust his right hand into his inside jacket pocket, a move that would cause many to flinch, but he saw that Akulov retained eye contact with him and seemed relaxed. Oleniuk himself felt a little unnerved by the man. His hand held out a sheet of paper, not a pistol. ‘Here are your new orders.’
Akulov took the sheet, unfolded it and read. ‘This has to be undertaken by when?’
‘The first this afternoon. The others tomorrow. An OP has been set up for you for the first, there is nothing further you need plan for.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘And if there is any collateral damage, do not let it concern you. They are expendable.’
‘Expendable?’
Oleniuk noticed the assassin’s eyes narrow and a hint of a frown appear on his brow. ‘They are of no consequence. This is war.’
‘I see.’
‘But you must liquidate all targets.’
‘I understand.’
‘You may store your bags in the locker in the corner and retrieve more ordinance if required. Contact me when my orders are complete. That is all.’ Oleniuk turned and walked back to his office in the corner of the hangar. Unseen by the assassin a wide grin split his face. His plan and his revenge were one step closer to completion.
Camden, Maine
Tate walked the twenty minutes down Elm Street towards central Camden, which on the tourist maps was referred to as the “High Street Historic District”. Verdant trees lined Elm peppered every few feet by large, wooden-clad houses in varying shades of blues and whites. It was almost as though he were in an impressionistic painting. As he neared the town centre the trees became larger and the buildings became red brick. The first of these was a squat structure that housed the municipal offices and the Camden Opera House. Tate paused. He enjoyed music but had never understood opera. Perhaps he was a philistine but the thought of sitting for three hours whilst a fat Italian man tried to serenade a fat Italian woman wasn’t his cup of tea.
He smirked remembering the time he’d gone to the Kyiv Opera House with his brother to meet an asset, a Russian agent who’d refused to rendezvous in any other place they’d suggested as it was too dangerous for him. Dressed in tuxedos the three stood at the bar during the intermission, sipping Ukrainian Koblevo cognac. Tate had found it hard to keep a straight fac
e as he remembered innumerable clichéd spy films, but the meeting had been successful; the asset had informed them of plans for a Russian military column to enter the occupied Luhansk oblast.
Tate wandered away from the opera house and crossed the street into Camden Village Green. He sat on a spare bench, retrieved his iPhone and this time he did place his call. The day desk at GCHQ – the British Government Communications Headquarters – answered on the second ring. He was asked for his agent identity code before being put through to the duty officer. Tate recited from memory the registration numbers of the Russian SUVs and asked for the details to be sent to him. He ended the call and kept his iPhone in his hand, his finger hovering over the keypad as he contemplated whether to ring his brother or not.
Despite the warmth of the sun and the smiling faces of those he had encountered on his walk, a sense of melancholy had started to engulf him. And although he had not addressed it, he knew why. It was late August. Almost three years before in late August his foster parents had been murdered. It had hit him hard but by no means as hard as it had struck Simon Hunter, their son by birth. Tate had been overseas, himself on a clandestine mission, at the time of the terrorist attack that had claimed their lives. Out of contact, he’d returned to the news that an IED, hidden in a panel van, had exploded in Camden Market. Two men had been seen leaving the van moments before, one of these a nineteen-year-old Chechen, was wearing a suicide vest. He ran into the centre of the market’s crowded street before detonating it.
Tate’s parents, who had taken to routinely visiting the market twice a month, had been instantly killed by the blast from the van, as had eleven other pedestrians. Eighteen more died and an equal number were injured, by the suicide bomber. Amongst the dead was an off-duty fireman manning a collection table for a local charity. A radical Islamic Chechen group had claimed responsibility for the attack, although why specifically Camden Market had been targeted was not explained.