Stephen Leather - The Long shot

Carlos pulled the maid down onto the bed like a cowboy wrestling a steer to the ground as Mary closed the door. The maid’s legs were flailing around and Carlos was trying to get his left arm around the woman’s throat, but he was finding it difficult. The maid’s breath was coming in short gasps and her eyes were wide with fright, but she wasn’t losing consciousness.

Mary grinned. “Come on Ilich, finish her off.”

The maid thrashed her head from side to side as Carlos struggled to get his arm around her neck.

Mary shook her head in amusement and reached into her bag. Her hand reappeared with the P228 and its silencer and she aimed, almost casually, at the maid’s chest, manoeuvring the weapon so that there was no chance of hitting Carlos. The gun coughed once and the maid’s legs both kicked out together and a red stain appeared on her apron. Mary fired once more, to make certain, and Carlos released his grip on the woman’s mouth.

“Get rid of the trolley,” he said as he began wrapping the body in the bedcover.

Mary went out into the corridor and pushed in the laden trolley. Carlos swung the body of the maid over his shoulder and dumped her in the bathtub, then put the trolley into the bathroom and closed the door. He walked over to the window and looked out. Less than half a mile away was the baseball park, and he had a perfect view of the pitcher’s mound and the spectator stands behind it.

“Help me with the table, please,” he asked, and he and Mary moved the dressing table until it was in front of the window.

Mary looked at her wristwatch. “I’ll have to be going, Ilich,” she said. She wasn’t sure how to say goodbye. She knew that he wouldn’t want her to wish him luck, and it seemed trite to just say that she’d see him later at the airfield. What they were about to do was of such enormity that it merited some words to mark the occasion, but nothing came to mind. She realised that he was looking at her with an amused smile on his face and for the first time she was flustered in his presence.

Carlos stepped forward and wrapped his arms around her in a fierce embrace, more like a wrestler’s bear hug than a friendly squeeze. He kissed her on both cheeks, then pushed her away, his big hands on her shoulders. “We will succeed,” he said. “We will both get what we want. What we need.” His dark eyes bored into hers and she tilted her head down, feeling like a small child in the grip of her father. He put a finger under her chin and lifted her head up. “Go,” he commanded softly. “And take care.”

As she left the room, Carlos opened his briefcase and began assembling Dina’s rifle. In the car park below, youngsters with bright orange flags were guiding drivers into parking spaces, while the sidewalks were thronged with baseball fans, chattering and laughing as they headed towards the ballpark.

Patrick Farrell switched on the Global Positioning System and read his position on the display as Matthew Bailey turned the airship to the north, over the Chesapeake Bay. At an altitude of only five hundred feet they could clearly see the waves curling on the water below. Bailey watched a yacht carve through the sea, an elderly man in a white crew-neck sweater holding the wheel with one arm and drinking a can of beer with the other.

Farrell had spoken to Baltimore Approach and had received permission to enter the Terminal Control Area around the main international airport. “Fly a heading of Three Five Five,” Farrell told Bailey, “that’ll take us over the city. You’ll have to climb, take us up to about nine hundred feet to make sure we’re well clear of any obstructions.”

Bailey nodded and made the course correction and began to gain altitude. Down to his left, several miles away, he could see the burnt hulk of the house they’d stayed at, reduced to blackened timbers and fallen masonry, the grass around it rutted by the wheels of the fire engines and emergency vehicles which had long since departed. To his right were the twin spans of the Bay Bridge, ferrying traffic across the bay.

Bailey took a quick look over his shoulder. The cameraman and his assistant were preparing their equipment. The assistant had lifted a hatch in the floor of the gondola in which there was a mounting for the camera which would allow it to film directly downwards.

“We’re right on schedule,” said Farrell. “According to ATIS, the wind is below five knots.”

“Perfect,” said Bailey. Ahead he saw the tower blocks of the city centre, sparkling in the light of the late afternoon sun as it headed inexorably for the horizon.

Cole Howard found Bob Sanger on the second level of the main stand, checking security arrangements at the entrance to the sky boxes, where corporations paid huge amounts of money for the privilege of entertaining their executives and clients. Because the President and an entourage of VIPs were to be in one of the main boxes, the corporations had been required to submit a list of their guests in advance, and each visitor had to show the requisite pass and be checked off against a list held by the Secret Service agents. The managing director of a leading oil company and a woman who was not his wife had been turned away for not having the correct pass, and the oil company’s public relations executive was trying to persuade Sanger to be more flexible. Sanger refused to budge. He explained patiently that the security arrangements could not be altered under any circumstances, and that if the PR man continued to make a scene he would be removed from the ballpark and would spend the next twenty-four hours in a cell.

Howard watched with great amusement as the man stormed off, threatening to take the matter up with Sanger’s boss.

“What an asshole,” said Sanger, as he walked over to Howard, Joker and Clutesi. “I don’t think he realises that my boss is the President of the United States. What does he think? That I’d put his catering arrangements before the President’s security?” He was wearing the regulation dark glasses, and Howard realised it was the first time he’d seen the Secret Service man without his pince-nez spectacles. The dark glasses made him look slightly sinister until he smiled. “So, how are the vests?” Sanger asked.

“The vests are just great,” said Howard. “What time does the President arrive?”

Sanger looked at his wristwatch. “Ten minutes,” he said. “Marine One will land in the ballpark, over there.” He pointed and Howard saw that he had an earpiece in his right ear. “Our men will escort him and the First Lady directly into the stand. He’ll greet the Prime Minister inside the sky box. After the anthem the Prime Minister will go down to the mound and throw the first pitch, then he’ll be escorted back to the sky box. His own security team will be with him, and we’ll have our own agents around them.”

Howard frowned and reached into his pocket for the sheets of paper Kelly had given him. He flicked to the itinerary for the visit to the ballpark. There was no mention of the Prime Minister throwing the first pitch. It was a bad slip.

Sanger turned to look at the three men. “You’ve got your radios on, right?” All three nodded. “Okay, we use code-names over the air so that there’s no mix-up. You’ll hear the President referred to as Pied Piper.”

“Pied Piper?” said Joker. “You’re not serious?”

Sanger smiled. “That’s his code-name. We started using it during the election and I guess no-one saw fit to change it.”

“The President knows, right?” said Howard.

“Sure,” said Sanger. “He’s got a sense of humour. You know what George and Barbara Bush were? Timber Wolf and Tranquillity. Bit pretentious, huh?”

“I guess so,” said Howard.

“Yeah, well, you’ll hear the Prime Minister referred to as Parliament. The Fantasy Factory must have been working through ‘p’ code-names.” He grinned ruefully at the jargon. “That’s what the guys call the Service’s Intelligence Division,” he explained. “The top agent here will be Dave Steadman, he’ll be arriving on Marine One with the presidential team. Once the helicopter lands, Steadman will be in charge and it’ll be his voice you’ll hear directing operations. Where do you guys plan to be?”