Stephen Leather - The Long shot

“My God,” whispered Mary.

“So?” asked Kelly.

“My God,” repeated Mary. “Does the FBI know all this, too?”

Kelly shrugged. “Some of it. They know that Lovell and Schoelen are the snipers, but so far they’re not aware that there’s an IRA connection.”

“Do they know who else is involved?”

Kelly shook her head. “Just the SEALs.”

“How did you find out that I was part of it?” asked Mary.

“Someone with an Irish accent hired one of the cars you used in the desert. That set bells ringing in my mind and I took the photographs to my uncle. He recognised you.”

“But the FBI doesn’t know I’m involved?”

“Not yet, no. But they’re using computers to enhance the photographs so I would guess it’s only a matter of time. So who’s the target?”

Mary shook her head as if trying to clear it. “Photographs?” she said. Realisation dawned. “The plane,” she mumbled. “It must have been the plane.”

“There was a video-recorder on board,” said Kelly, “the whole thing was filmed.”

Mary looked at her watch, and then at the FBI agent. “And you want to help?” she said. “Knowing what that entails, you want to help?”

“If the target is who I think it is, yes, I’ll help. I want to hurt the British the way they hurt me.” She stared at Mary with an intensity that bordered on fanaticism.

Mary nodded slowly. “The Prime Minister,” she said.

Kelly let out a deep breath with the sound of a deflating tyre. “I knew it,” she said. She stood up and walked to stand in front of Mary. “I’m with you,” she said. “I’ve been waiting for a chance like this for a long time.”

Rich Lovell sat on the side of his bed, a sheet of polythene spread over the quilt so that it wouldn’t be stained by his disassembled Barrett rifle. The former Navy SEAL stripped, cleaned and lubricated his weapon every day, whether or not it had been fired. Slowly and methodically, he checked that the chamber was empty and broke the rifle down into its three major components: the upper receiver group, containing the barrel and telescopic sight; the bolt carrier group; and the lower carrier group, including the trigger components. He picked up the upper receiver group and checked that the barrel springs weren’t overstretched and that the impact bumper was in good condition. The muzzle brake was tight, as were the scope mountings which had been set during the Arizona rehearsal. He carefully put the upper receiver group back on the polythene and picked up the bolt carrier group. He looked to see that the ejector and extractor were under spring pressure and weren’t chipped or worn. As his hands performed the functions they’d done thousands of times before, his mind emptied. Cleaning his rifle was a form of mantra for Lovell, bringing an inner peace that he rarely felt at other times. He de-cocked the firing mechanism, then depressed the bolt latch and worked the bolt in and out, feeling for any signs of roughness. There were none. There had been none the previous day, there would be none the following day, but every day he checked. He held the bolt down and peered at the firing-pin, confirmed that it wasn’t broken or chipped, and then examined the firing-pin hole for signs of erosion. There were none.

He inspected the bolt latch and the cocking lever, then replaced the components on the polythene sheet.

The last group to be checked was the lower receiver. He pulled the bolt carrier back and checked that the mainspring moved freely and that the trigger mechanism was in good condition.

When he was satisfied that everything was as it should be, he inserted his bronze-bristle bore brush through the chamber end of the barrel and made six passes with rifle-bore cleaner. He unwrapped a pack of small cloth patches and he pushed them through the bore one at a time with the brush until they came out completely clean. The dirty ones he screwed up and threw into his wastepaper bin. He used another piece of cloth to dry off any parts of the upper receiver group which had come into contact with the cleaner. He took a small bottle of CLP — cleaner, lubricant and preservative — and soaked a square of material with it before passing it through the barrel. He held the end of the barrel to his eye and squinted down it to check that it had a thin coating of CLP. Satisfied, he poured CLP on another cloth and generously lubricated the bolt, the bolt carrier and the receiver, and then lightly rubbed it over all the metal surfaces.

When all the individual components were glistening with the CLP he assembled the rifle with crisp, economic movements. He stood up and went over to the window where he put the rifle to his right shoulder and put his eye close up to the telescopic sight. The reticle graduations came into focus, superimposed on the green lawn. He aimed the rifle at the base of a small bush and tightened his finger on the trigger. The image in the scope was rock steady despite the weight of the rifle. Lovell knew better than to pull the trigger without a bullet in the chamber: to do so could damage the firing-pin. He swung the rifle slowly across the lawn, breathing softly and slowly. Marksmanship was to a large extent a function of breathing and it was something he practised almost as much as actually firing the weapon. The road filled the scope and he followed it back towards the highway. The view turned blue and then Lovell was looking at the face of Matthew Bailey. Lovell smiled and smoothly followed Bailey with the rifle, keeping the man’s forehead dead in the centre of the scope. Instinctively his finger pressed harder on the trigger, shallow breathing to keep his chest movement to a minimum. He became totally focused on Bailey, then when he was sure he had the shot made he held his breath and mentally the trigger was pressed and the bullet leapt from the barrel at more than three thousand feet per second. “Bang,” he said, softly.

He took the rifle from his shoulder. Through the window he saw Bailey drive up and park at the side of the house. A flash of colour at the periphery of his vision caught his attention and he narrowed his eyes. It was a car, moving slowly at the far end of the driveway. Lovell put the rifle to his shoulder once more and closed his left eye. Through the open eye he saw the windshield of the car centred on the reticle and he edged the rifle over to the right, centring it on the face of the driver. He was looking at a pair of deep set, watery eyes above cheeks which were threaded with broken veins as if the man had a drinking problem. His thin lips were moving together as if he was chewing and he had a deep frown. The man was clearly watching Bailey as he walked to the front door.

Lovell placed the rifle on the plastic sheeting and went downstairs. Carlos and Dina were sitting at a long pine table in the kitchen. Dina was pouring tea from a brown earthenware teapot and she looked up as Lovell opened the door.

“Would you like a cup of tea?” she asked. She smiled evilly at Lovell and licked her lips, her eyes boring into his. She took great pleasure in making him nervous.

“Bailey’s just arrived, and there’s someone following him,” he said.

“Who?” asked Carlos.

“One guy, looks like a rental car. He’s not the cops, that’s for sure. And he doesn’t look like any FBI agent I’ve ever seen.”

Carlos stood up. Dina’s hand froze, the teapot suspended in mid-air. “Where’s Schoelen?” Carlos asked.

“The den,” said Dina.

Carlos looked at Lovell. “Get him. Where is this guy?”

“End of the drive.”

“The two of you work your way behind him.” He opened a drawer in a tall pine dresser and took out a heavy automatic which he handed to Lovell.

The kitchen door opened and Bailey walked in, a blue nylon duffel bag over his shoulder. He immediately saw the looks of surprise on their faces. “What?” he said. “What’s happened?”