Stephen Leather - The Long shot

As Mary Hennessy and Carlos stepped into the kitchen, the telephone began to ring. Mary picked it up while Carlos opened the refrigerator in search of breakfast. Carlos took out a slice of cold pizza and chewed on a huge chunk as he watched Mary’s frown deepen. She agreed to whatever it was the caller was saying, and motioned with her hand for Carlos to pass her a pen. He picked a blue ballpoint and handed it to her. She scribbled an address on the margin of the front page of the Baltimore Sun and replaced the receiver.

“Trouble?” asked Carlos, his mouth full of dough and tomato sauce.

“I’m not sure,” she replied, tearing off the corner of the paper. “Someone wants to meet me. Now.”

“I’ll come with you,” said Carlos.

“No,” said Mary. “I have to go alone.”

Ronald Hartman’s secretary buzzed through on his intercom and told him that there was a Secret Service agent in the outer office asking to see him. The secretary was new to the job and was clearly in awe of the visitor, but Hartman was well used to dealing with the men responsible for the President’s safety. He had worked in hotels in Los Angeles, Chicago, Detroit and Boston before moving to Baltimore and the routine was always the same. He’d read in the Baltimore Sun about the President’s forthcoming visit to the city, and he knew that beforehand the Secret Service would be around for the list of guests and employees. He told his secretary to send the visitor in.

The man was in his early twenties with the regulation athletic build, close-cropped hair and dark suit. He smiled, showing perfect white teeth and pink gums, and flashed his Secret Service credentials. His name was Todd Otterman and when he sat down he carefully aligned the creases on his trouser legs. He began to explain about the President’s trip to Baltimore but Hartman held up his hand to silence him.

“I’ve been through the routine before, Agent Otterman,” he said. “You want the guest list to compare with your watch list, correct?”

Otterman nodded, grateful that the hotel manager knew the ropes.

“Three days before the visit, one day after?” asked Hartman.

“Perfect,” said Otterman. As Hartman leant forward and spoke to his secretary through the intercom, Otterman took an envelope from the inside jacket of his pocket.

Hartman finished briefing his secretary. “You can pick up the records at the reception desk, there’ll be a printout and a floppy disc waiting for you.”

“I wish every hotel was as efficient as yours, Mr Hartman,” said the agent. He slid six colour photographs out of the envelope and handed them to the manager. “One more thing, could you tell me if you recognise any of these people?”

Hartman flipped through the photographs. He had a good memory for names and faces, an essential attribute for anyone wanting to do well in the hotel industry. The top picture was of a pretty blonde woman and another of the same woman but with dark hair, followed by three younger men, a middle-aged man with a receding hairline and a moustache, and a sharp-faced young woman with long, dark curly hair. Hartman needed only a few seconds for each photograph to be sure. He’d never seen any of them before. He shook his head and gave them back to the agent. “I’m sorry, no,” he said.

“You’re sure?” said Otterman.

“Quite sure,” said Hartman, frostily. Much as he wanted to help, he didn’t take kindly to his professional abilities being questioned.

Otterman stood up and shook hands with the manager, thanked him for his help, then went back out to reception where a teenage girl with gleaming braces on her teeth and a black name badge with ‘Sheena’ on it smiled and gave him a manila envelope. Otterman looked inside and saw a computer disc and a roll of computer printout. He thanked her and showed her the photographs. “So, Sheena, have you seen any of these people?” he said.

“Guests, you mean?” Her braces glinted under the fluorescent strip lights overhead.

“Guests, in the restaurants, walking outside, anything,” he said.

She screwed up her eyes as she went through the pictures and Otterman wondered if the girl needed glasses. She held up the picture of the woman, Mary Hennessy. The picture of her as a blonde. “I sort of remember her,” she said, her voice uncertain. “Let me ask Art.”

She went to a tubby young man in a black suit and they both stood looking at the two photographs of the woman. The man came over and introduced himself as Art Linder, an assistant manager. “I think this is Mrs Simmons. From London. She stayed with us last week for a couple of days.” He held up the photograph in which she was a blonde. “She was a blonde, but you could see the roots growing through. She was a looker. . for her age.”

Otterman couldn’t believe his luck. “Can you give me her details,” he asked. “Registration card, credit card details, list of phone calls she made, the works?”

“No problem,” said Linder. “What has she done?”

“That’s classified, I’m afraid,” said Otterman, who was loath to admit that he didn’t know. Like the rest of the agents scouring the city gathering guest lists to compare with the watch list stored in the Secret Service computer, he had been told only that identifying the men and woman was to be accorded the highest priority.

Matthew Bailey and Patrick Farrell stood in front of the Farrell Aviation building for almost half an hour, talking animatedly as Joker watched through the binoculars. At one point Farrell gave something to Bailey but Joker couldn’t make out what it was. Eventually Bailey handed his headset to Farrell and the two men said goodbye.

Joker got to his feet and rushed back to his car. He climbed in and wound down the windows so that he could hear when Bailey drove down away from the airport. He heard Bailey drive away and he followed him. The Irishman was driving a dark blue sedan which was totally inconspicuous in the mid-morning traffic so Joker had to stay closer then he’d have preferred. Bailey drove up towards Baltimore and then headed east, towards Chesapeake Bay. Joker kept him in sight all the way, constantly changing lanes and the distance from his quarry in the hope that he’d be harder to spot. His heart was racing and his hands were sweating on the wheel. He wanted a slug of whisky but knew that it wouldn’t be a good idea to drink from the bottle while driving along at 55 mph. You never knew when the next vehicle might be an unmarked police car.

Mary parked her rental car next to a red Jeep and switched off the engine. As it cooled she massaged her temples and studied the motel. It was a Best Western, close to Highway 40: quiet, anonymous, and the perfect place for a trap. She trusted the man who’d telephoned her, trusted him with her life, but she was still apprehensive. She studied the cars in the parking lot, looking for anything that might be driven by an undercover agent, and checking for any signs of surveillance. She knew she was whistling in the dark. If this was a trap they would be well hidden and the first she’d know of it would be the thud of a bullet followed by the crack of the shot. Her heart began to race and her hands were damp on the steering wheel. She steadied herself. “It’s okay,” she whispered. “It’s okay.”

She wanted to restart the car and drive away, but if there was any chance that her operation had been compromised, she had to know. Her contact in New York had said that the meeting was vital to the success of her operation, and that was enough for Mary. Her handbag was lying on the passenger seat and she opened it just enough to reassure herself that the gun was there and that the safety was off. She felt like a mouse sniffing at a cheese-baited trap, knowing the risks but wanting the cheese nevertheless. Her mouth was dry and she swallowed. She looked around the car park again, hoping that she’d see something that would give her a reason to leave. There was nothing. She picked up the bag. If they were going to kill her they’d wait until she was out of the car so that there would be no doubt that they had the right person. If it was the Americans, they’d be using a SWAT team with telescopic sights, if it was the SAS they’d have handguns and they’d get in close. Either way the end result would be the same — blood on the concrete. Her blood. She shivered and reached for the door handle. The door swung open and she stepped out. A noise to the right made her flinch, but it was a child bouncing a ball against a red truck. The child’s mother called him from the door to a room and he picked up the ball and ran to her, giggling.