Stephen Leather - The Long shot

“Well done,” he said, sitting back in his chair. “Do they still have them?”

“The blue one is out with another customer, the white one is still available. And it hasn’t been cleaned yet! I’ve told them to hold it for us.”

Howard stood up. “That’s the best news I’ve heard today,” he said. “How did you find the companies?”

“Like you said, I contacted all the home addresses of the drivers who’d rented the cars. Two used fake addresses — one of the streets didn’t even exist, and both were recently issued licences.”

“And the credit cards?”

“Same addresses as the licences. Both cards were recent and are tied to bank accounts here in Phoenix. I’m applying to have access to the account records. With your say-so, of course.”

“Of course,” said Howard. “Go for it.” He handed her copies of the photographs which Clayton had given him. “Then go out and talk to both rental firms. Show them these photographs, see if they recognise anyone.”

Kelly scrutinised the pictures. “These are from the video?” she asked.

“They’ve been computer enhanced,” said Howard. “I’m expecting to get improved pictures later this week.” As he and Lisa had left Clayton’s house, the industrialist had slapped Howard on the back, congratulated him on his unexpected victory at Trivial Pursuit and whispered that his researchers had been working on the tape over the weekend and had made considerable progress. They’d be in touch before the week was out, Clayton had promised.

“Where are the rental companies?” Howard asked Kelly.

“Both here in Phoenix,” she said. “There’s something else. One of the men wasn’t American, the woman who rented out the blue Imperial said she thought he had an accent: Scottish or Australian.”

“Interesting,” said Howard. He sat down again. “Good work, Kelly. I’ll make sure Jake Sheldon gets to hear what a help you’ve been on this.”

Her green eyes widened and a red glow spread across her cheeks and Howard knew without asking that she’d already spoken to Sheldon. Howard’s smile tightened and he picked up his coffee. “Thanks, Kelly,” he said. He watched her buttocks twitch under her skirt as she left his office and he imagined burying a long, sharp knife between her elegant shoulder blades.

Cole Howard knew that he needed a briefing from someone with sniping experience, someone who could give him an idea of what sort of men he was up against. His office at 201 East Indianola Street was on the fourth floor and immediately below was the Treasury Department of Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms. Howard knew one of the agents in the department, a fifteen-year veteran called Bradley Caine. Howard rang Caine’s extension but got the engaged tone, so rather than wait he took the stairs down and stood at the agent’s door until he’d finished his call. The two men shook hands and Howard dropped down into the chair opposite Caine’s desk. Caine was a former soldier and he still wore his hair military-style. He was forever suffering from migraine headaches and swallowed aspirin like M amp; Ms. Without going into details, Howard explained that he needed information on snipers and their weaponry. Caine unscrewed the top of his bottle of aspirin and tossed two into his mouth, swallowing them dry.

“There’s a guy in the Phoenix SWAT team, Joe Bocconelli, let me give him a call,” said Caine. He held out the aspirin bottle to Howard, who shook his head.

“A bit early for me, Brad,” said Howard, with a smile.

Caine shrugged and dialled Bocconelli’s number. He put the call on the speaker-phone so that they could both hear him.

Bocconelli’s first thought was that Howard needed someone with a military background and Caine nodded in agreement. Bocconelli said that only a very, very special sniper could have shot down a plane with a rifle and he suggested that Howard check with the Marines, or the Navy SEALs. According to the sergeant, there were only about a dozen men in this country who could make a two thousand yard shot and that most of them would be in the military. Bocconelli recommended a sniper who lived in Virginia, not far from the Quantico Marine Corps Air Station where the Marines trained their snipers. Bocconelli had explained that the man, Bud Kratzer, was a former Marine Captain who had retired in 1979 after twenty years’ service, most of it as a sniper. He now worked as an independent consultant, selling his military skills to police SWAT teams around the country, and was a frequent visitor to Quantico where he was treated with a respect which bordered on reverence. Bocconelli also said he was on retainer from several counter-terrorist organisations but that details were understandably sketchy. Howard knew Quantico well. The FBI’s Academy was there, and so too was its Behavioral Science Unit, the office responsible for psychological profiling of hunted criminals, especially serial killers. Howard scribbled a reminder to himself on a notepad that if all else failed the BSU might give him a clue as to the sort of men who might be involved in the assassination.

Back in his own office, Howard telephoned Kratzer who said he’d be in Washington the following day and that he’d be more than happy to chat with him. Howard had hoped that the former Marine would fly to Phoenix but he said it was out of the question, much as he’d wanted to help. He was going straight from Washington to Germany for a two-week training session with the Kampfschwimmerkompanie, the German equivalent of the Navy SEALs.

Howard caught the redeye flight and he washed and shaved in the men’s room at Dulles Airport. Kratzer had suggested they meet at the FBI’s headquarters and Howard had readily agreed because visiting Washington would give him a chance to see Andy Kim and find out how he was getting on with his computer simulations. Howard had phoned ahead and arranged for an interview room to be available and given Kratzer’s details to reception so that his clearances would be ready.

Kratzer was on time and Howard went down to the reception area to meet him and escort him up to the interview room on the third floor. He was a big man, not what Howard had expected at all. He’d assumed that snipers were lean, anxious-looking men, the sort who could sit silently for hours in one position before pulling the trigger. Kratzer looked as if he’d be more at home with a pint of beer in one hand and a pizza in the other. He was about six feet six inches tall, and had the physique of a linebacker who’d spent too much time on the bench. There was something amiss with his hair and it took Howard a few minutes to realise that he was wearing some sort of toupee or hair weave and that it was a slightly different colour from Kratzer’s own hair. His hair was grey at the sides and back and black on top and Howard had to fight from staring at it.

Kratzer had huge fingers, as massive as bananas: they looked too big to squeeze into a trigger guard. His hands were clenching and unclenching as if he were exercising. “Joe Bocconelli gave you my name, you said?” he asked as they rode up in the elevator.

“Yeah, he’s a member of the Phoenix SWAT team. He said he’d been in one of your training programmes a couple of years back.”

“Can’t say I remember,” said Kratzer. “But it was good of him to put you on to me.”

The elevator doors hissed open and the two men walked along the corridor to the interview room. “Good of him? Why do you say that?” asked Howard.

“Well, the FBI is going to pay me for this, isn’t it? A consulting fee?”

“Well. .” said Howard, who hadn’t expected to be asked for money.

“Because I’ll tell you right now, Bud Kratzer doesn’t do anything for free. I put in twenty hard years with the Marine Corps for shit money, and now it’s payback time. My skills are my pension, and I have to squeeze it for every cent I can. Capish?”