Nick Oldham - Dead Heat

Henry laughed shortly. Donaldson had described his informant in Mendoza’s organization as being quite high up but of limited value, if Henry’s memory served him correctly. From the information Donaldson had just passed, that was nowhere near true. The source had his finger on the pulse of Mendoza’s organization if he could come up with stuff like that, and also if he had the authority to order hits on people. That meant he was very high up in the pecking order, one of the players.

Henry had a sudden, very dark thought. Could this informant, so high up in Mendoza’s firm, have also ordered the hit on Verner? Or did he at least know who had carried it out? Presumably he knew where and when Verner intended to waste John Lloyd Wickson.

‘Your source is very good,’ Henry commented. ‘Better than you let on.’

‘And getting better. He might put the big man on a plate for us yet.’

‘Maybe he could nail the guy who disposed of our friend?’

Donaldson went quiet. ‘No, I believe not. I’ve asked him and he says he doesn’t know. Can’t say it’s something I’m going to push. Our pal was a guy who needed to be dealt with. Justice was done. He’s dead and won’t be killing any more of our people.’

‘I’ll lay odds he knows, though,’ Henry commented, but didn’t press further. Just for his information he asked if the informant had a code name.

‘Yes, he does. I call him Stingray.’

‘I won’t ask why,’ said Henry. ‘He wouldn’t be called Lopez, by any chance, would he?’

Donaldson chose not to reply to that.

Donaldson hung up his phone at the end of the conversation with Henry, feeling as though he had been rumbled. Henry was a suspicious son of a bitch and made the American feel just a teeny bit nervous.

He stood up, crossed to the window and stared blankly down at Grosvenor Square, wondering if he could ever confide in his friend. He knew he could not. Apart from the fact that Henry was far too straight-down-the-line to allow anyone to get away with anything, no matter what their crime, he would also have some very disparaging things to say about Donaldson’s marksmanship. It was very, very rusty. He sniffed a laugh and returned to his desk. He logged on to his computer for the first time that day. It was 7.30 a.m., British time. That meant just after midnight on the eastern seaboard of the US. He knew that the Director of the FBI would still be at his desk. He never left until 1 a.m. at the earliest, always arrived no later than 6.30 a.m. Donaldson brought up his e-mail facility and typed a short note to the Director.

It read: ‘Carried out instruction as requested.’

He sent it direct and encrypted for the Director’s eyes only, a man Donaldson trusted with his life.

He looked at the blank screen for a moment before going into his ‘Sent Items’ folder and deleting the message, then going into ‘Deleted Items’ and finally and irrevocably scrubbing the message. Then he locked his workstation.

On the floor next to him was the padded case which contained the Accuracy International Police Sniper Rifle. He reached down, picked it up and carried the 6.2kg weapon down to the post room. He handed it over, together with the letter of authorization which would ensure it was sent in that day’s diplomatic bag back to the armoury at Quantico. Donaldson was given a receipt and watched the weapon disappear. Once it got to the other end of its journey, the weapon would be destroyed.

All he could think of was how out of practice he was.

In days gone by he could have picked off somebody from almost any distance, through almost any weather conditions, with one shot. In fact, he had once done so. The fact that it took him so many shots to bring down Verner annoyed him, niggled constantly. I need to get more practice, he thought. I’m getting very rusty indeed.