Stephen Leather - The Long shot

Andy shook his head, then flicked his hair out of his eyes. “Nothing fits, Cole,” he said despondently. “Take a look at this.” Howard looked over his shoulder. “This is Oriole Park in Baltimore — the President’s due to be there tomorrow evening with the Prime Minister. This is one of the most obvious possibilities. He was going to be driven to the ball park but Sanger has cut out ground transportation wherever he can and now he’ll be arriving by Marine One, the helicopter. He’s vulnerable leaving the helicopter, but only for a few seconds, and he’s safe walking to his box because then he’s inside. Obviously he presents the best target while in the box watching the game. But I can only fit two of the snipers into office blocks or hotels which overlook the ball park. There’s nowhere for the third sniper, the one who is furthest away.”

“So you know it’s not going to be at the ball park?” said Howard.

“But Cole, it’s like that for every venue we try. We can find space for one sniper, occasionally two, but often it’s the third one that screws us up.” He tapped the screen. “It’s so high up, there aren’t many buildings that tall. In the desert, he was on the butte, remember?”

“I remember,” said Howard. “So he could be on a hill maybe?”

Andy nodded. “I ran the topography through the computer as well as the buildings. If he was on a hill we’d spot it. Camp David, for instance, where he is today with the Prime Minister. We ran the surrounding woods through the program, but no match.” He turned to look at the FBI agent, his eyes reddened from not enough sleep. “That third sniper is a real problem,” he said.

“Could it be something other than a building?” Howard asked. “A plane, maybe?”

Andy shook his head. “Planes move too fast for a sniper, and they’re too unstable.”

Howard frowned. “A helicopter?”

“Too much vibration.”

Howard shrugged. “Let me give it some thought, Andy,” he said. “In the meantime, why don’t you try ignoring the long shot? — concentrate on the two closest. That would give the Secret Service boys something to work on. I mean, better safe than sorry. They can check out all the venues where two out of three match, couldn’t they?”

Andy nodded. “That’s a good idea.”

“There’s something else that’s been worrying me,” said Howard. “The two men and the woman, the ones on the ground close to the target.”

Andy frowned. “What’s wrong?” He ran his hand through his hair, brushing it away from his eyes.

“We’ve been assuming that they’re organising the hit, right?”

“Right,” agreed Andy.

“Well, what if they’re not? What if they’re actually part of the hit? What if they’re carrying guns?”

“And if the snipers fail, they’ll finish the job?” said Andy, his eyes sparkling.

Howard nodded. They had all been assuming that Carlos, Hennessy and Bailey were helping the snipers calibrate their sights. But it was perfectly possible that they could actually be part of the assassination. “I’m going to speak to Bob Sanger about it,” he said.

“So even if we find the snipers, the President might still be at risk?”

“That’s what I’m frightened of,” said Howard. He saw that Andy had a direct line on his desk and he noted down the number. He looked around the office and saw a dozen programmers, including Rick Palmer, hard at work, but no sign of Bonnie.

“Bonnie’s at home, I told her to get some sleep,” said Andy, as if reading his mind.

Howard squeezed his shoulder. “That’s where you should be,” he said.

“There’ll be plenty of time for sleep when all this is over,” said Andy, turning back to the screen.

Howard patted Andy on the back and returned to his office. His desk faced the one being used by Don Clutesi, who was lounging back in his chair, his phone lodged between his chin and his shoulder. He winked at Howard as he sat down. Howard picked up his own phone and called home. He’d been ringing all day but no-one had answered and he’d assumed that Lisa had been out playing golf. This time she answered and she appeared no less lukewarm than the last time they’d spoken.

“Do you have any idea yet when you’ll be coming back?” she asked.

“Hopefully we’ll make some progress tonight. I’ll call you tomorrow, I should have a better idea then. How are the children?”

“Asleep,” she said. Howard wondered if she’d played golf with her father that day. The seconds ticked off with neither of them speaking. Lisa broke the silence. “Cole, why do you have Trivial Pursuit cards in your suit pockets?” she asked.

“Excuse me?” said Howard, bewildered by the change of subject.

“I was taking out some of your suits for cleaning and I found them in an inside pocket.”

“Ah,” said Howard.

“So what gives?”

“I was practising,” he said.

“You mean you were cheating,” she said.

Howard groaned inwardly. “Honey, I wasn’t cheating. I was just going over a few cards before we had dinner with your father, that’s all.”

“Cole, to me that sounds like cheating. I think it’s despicable. Are you so insecure that you have to resort to cheating to beat my father at a board game?”

Howard sighed. Sometimes there was no arguing with her. “Maybe we could talk about this when I get back,” he said.

He could picture her shaking her head, a look of contempt on her face. “The subject is closed,” she said. “But I just want you to know I think you’ve behaved really badly. Beating my father shouldn’t mean that much to you.”

“Can I say goodnight to the kids?” Howard asked.

“I already told you, they’re asleep,” she replied. Howard had the impression that she wasn’t telling the truth and that she was depriving him of the children as a punishment.

“Well, tell them I called, will you? Please.”

“Sure,” she said curtly and Howard knew that the message wouldn’t be passed on. “Goodbye.”

Howard was left with the buzzing of a disconnected line in his ear. As he replaced the receiver, Don Clutesi did the same. “Any luck?” Clutesi asked.

Howard smiled thinly. “Very little,” he said. “You?”

“According to Frank, the credit card Hennessy was using was applied for in New York two years ago. The driving licence is a valid New York State one and was taken out eighteen months ago.”

“That suggests that this has been a long time in the planning,” said Howard.

Clutesi shook his head. “Not necessarily. The Irish are always setting up fake identities and paperwork so that they have a steady supply. They probably wouldn’t know that Hennessy was going to use it.”

“What about the photograph on the driving licence?”

“Probably just a close match. Blonde woman in her late forties; who’s going to look any closer than that? No-one looks at the photograph anyway. Passports are a different matter, but the IRA have plenty of contacts within INS; they can get a genuine one within a few days.”

“What about getting records of her credit card?” Howard asked. “That way we can find out where she’s been.”

Clutesi mopped his brow with the back of his sleeve. “Already in hand,” he said. He looked at his wristwatch and nodded over at a large-screen television which Helen had positioned at the far end of the office. “Not long before the show starts,” he said.

Mary Hennessy wiped her hands with a white towel, leaving crimson streaks on the material. She threw it onto the workbench and studied the man hanging from the overhead pipe. Two rivers of dried blood ran down his chest like stigmata — one from the hole where his right nipple used to be, the other from a strip of flesh some six inches long which hung down over his stomach like some demonic tongue, red and glistening under the fluorescent lights.