Stephen Leather - The Long shot

“Yes, Andy?”

“Okay, this is a rough calculation, but I reckon that so far as the buildings nearest the ballpark are concerned, that’s the Marriott Hotel and the Holiday Inn and the offices nearby, you’d be looking at two floors lower if they were aiming at the pitcher’s mound. For the buildings a mile or so away you’d drop about four floors. Is that any help?”

“Yeah, thanks Andy. One more thing — does dropping the target to the mound mean you get a match for the long shot?”

“Afraid not, Cole, There’s still nothing anywhere near that position.”

“Okay, thanks. I’ve got to go, I’ll call you later.”

Howard switched the phone off and went back to the sky box. Sanger was standing by the door. He nodded at Howard.

“Everything okay?” Sanger asked. “I see you’ve let the Brit off his leash. You know he’s drinking?”

“You’ve got men in all the buildings overlooking the ballpark, right?” said Howard, ignoring the dig at Cramer.

“Sure, we did full searches and now they’re on the floors that Kim recommended.” Sanger’s brow wrinkled. “Is there a problem?”

“It’s not a problem, more a hunch. What if it’s the Prime Minister who’s the target and not the President?”

“We sent the details to Kim,” said Sanger. “They’re together all the time, so it wouldn’t. .” Realisation dawned. “Except for when he’s on the mound.”

Howard nodded. “Kim says he didn’t know the Prime Minister would be there — he was assuming they were together all the time they were in the stadium. The difference is equivalent to two floors in the buildings within a half mile or so, four floors if they’re a mile away. .”

Sanger held up his hand to silence Howard and put his radio to his mouth. He began to call up his agents, speaking quickly and urgently.

Joker put down his binoculars and wiped his forehead with the arm of his jacket. Sweat was pouring off his face and his upper body was soaking wet under the vest. He desperately wanted another beer.

“Parliament is in the tunnel,” said a voice in his ear and he instinctively looked towards the entrance where British bodyguards were standing at attention. A gust of wind lifted the jacket of one and Joker saw an MP5K Heckler amp; Koch hanging from a sling in the small of his back. Joker looked at the gun. It was a shorter barrelled version of the submachine gun he’d used during his time with the SAS. The wind dropped and the jacket fell back into place, concealing the gun once more. He wiped his forehead again and put the binoculars back to his eyes and scanned the stands. He saw parents with children, young couples, old men and teenagers, almost everyone wearing shirts or caps with the Oriole bird logo. Most were eating or drinking, and vendors ran up and down the aisles selling beer, popcorn, burgers and soft drinks.

The stadium was all seating and was better organised than any sports event he’d ever seen in Britain. He remembered the Old Firm soccer matches he’d gone to in Glasgow, Celtic versus Rangers, where the aggression on the pitch unfailingly spilled over to violence on the terraces. The animosity among the spectators was compounded by the fact that Roman Catholics supported Celtic and the Protestants backed Rangers, and the taunts that were yelled back and forth had as much to do with religion as they did with soccer. Compared with that, the ballpark was a night at the opera.

A female usher flashed through Joker’s field of vision and then was gone, but something made the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end and he panned the binoculars back, searching for her. He found her. She had red hair and glasses and was wearing what looked like an official uniform, but it was Mary Hennessy, he was sure of it. She was leaning against a metal barrier and staring down at the baseball diamond, a faraway smile on her face. Joker reached for his two-way radio and pressed the transmit button.

Mary stood at the front of the middle aisle on the second-level stand looking down on third base. She turned around, making sure that there were no other ushers nearby. So long as she didn’t get too close, no one would realise she wasn’t a regular member of the ballpark staff. According to the map Kelly Armstrong had given her, there were no undercover FBI agents nearby. At the top of the aisle she saw Kelly but she deliberately avoided eye contact. Mary wasn’t sure exactly what Kelly thought she would achieve by being present, but she’d said that she wanted to be close by, to watch and, if necessary, to help.

Mary turned and saw the Prime Minister walk to the centre of the mound, holding the game ball as if not sure what to do with it. His security men were standing to the side, scanning the faces of the spectators, alert for any threatening signs, and beyond them were the agents of the Secret Service. The First Lady stood at the side of the mound, some twenty feet or so from the Prime Minister. Mary smiled. She wished there were some way she could tell the Prime Minister what was going to happen, so that she could see the fear in his face. In a fantasy that made her head spin she imagined shouting to him just before the bullets struck, telling him that he was going to die and cursing him as his chest exploded.

She bent her neck and put her chin down close to the microphone. The transceiver was clipped to the belt of her trousers in plain view. Many of the genuine ushers carried radios and it added rather than detracted from her authenticity.

“Check One,” she said, pressing the earpiece into her ear to cut out some of the crowd noise.

“Check One,” she heard. It was Lovell’s voice.

“Check Two,” said Mary.

“Check Two,” said Schoelen.

“Check Three,” said Mary.

“Check Three,” said Carlos.

“Check Wind,” she said.

There was a pause then she heard Farrell’s voice. “One Nine Seven at Three,” he said. Mary’s heart lifted. The wind was negligible.

“One Nine Seven at Three,” repeated Lovell.

“One Nine Seven at Three,” said Schoelen.

“One Nine Seven at Three,” said Carlos.

“With you, One,” said Mary. Now it was up to Lovell. Mary leant against the metal barrier and watched the Prime Minister prepare to throw the ball. She frowned as she saw a man in a plaid jacket and jeans who was looking in her direction through binoculars. He didn’t look like the rest of the Secret Service agents or the members of the British security contingent and Mary squinted, trying to get a better look at the stranger.

Rich Lovell centred the cross-hairs of his telescopic sight over the centre of the Prime Minister’s chest. Lovell exhaled slowly, as he focused his entire being on the shot. In Lovell’s mind the Prime Minister was no longer a man. He was a target, nothing more.

The Prime Minister took a step to the side and Lovell moved the rifle to keep him centred. Four seconds was a long time and Lovell had to be totally certain that the target wouldn’t move while the bullet was in flight. The fact that there would be two more chances, two more snipers, didn’t affect Lovell’s judgment. He wanted his bullet to be the one that did the damage. He inhaled tidally, taking in just enough air for his body’s needs. There had to be no excessive movement. He had long ago tuned out the vibration and noise of the two engines at the rear of the airship. Even though Bailey was crouched only feet behind him, in Lovell’s mind he no longer existed. The heat and humidity were no longer factors. All that mattered was the target and the four seconds between it and the barrel of the Barrett 82A1.

“Do you see her?” asked the spotter. He had his binoculars fixed on Mary Hennessy, across the stadium.

“Got her,” said the sniper. He was kneeling down with his Sauer Model 200 hunting rifle resting against the parapet around the roof of the office building adjacent to the ballpark. It was an expensive weapon, and the sniper had bought it from a sergeant who had retired from the Baltimore SWAT unit. It was a.308 Winchester calibre and with hand-loaded factory ammunition it could easily achieve 1/2 MOA. The woman was about three hundred yards away.