Stephen Leather - The Long shot

“Does that mean they think the hit is going to be there?”

Kelly shook her head. “No, that’s going to be standard procedure at all the presidential venues for the next few weeks.”

Mary picked up the sheets of paper and looked through them. “They’re mostly British, I see. The targets.”

“They’re assuming it’s either the President or an IRA target,” said Kelly.

“Do they know where?”

Kelly shook her head. “That computer program I told you about hasn’t come up with anything yet. Something about them not being able to identify the long shot.”

Mary smiled tightly. “Or when?” Another shake. “Good,” said Mary. “Then we can still go ahead.”

Cole Howard knelt down by the side of Joker’s hospital bed and unlocked the padlock which secured the chain. He tugged the chain and it rattled through the steel rails at either side of the bed. Joker slid the chain from around his waist and dropped it on the floor with a rattle like a ship weighing anchor.

“Better?” asked Howard.

“Much,” said Joker. “Thanks.”

The two men were alone in the room. The television set flickered silently in the corner, its sound muted. Howard had told the uniformed cop that the FBI would be responsible for custody of the patient and he’d taken his newspaper and left. Don Clutesi had gone to the FBI’s field office in Baltimore to collect some clothing for Joker. Mary Hennessy had destroyed his shirt, and the rest of his clothes had gone up in flames when his car had exploded in the fire. Joker swung his legs off the bed and placed his bare feet on the floor. He tested them gingerly, shifting his weight gradually until he was standing upright.

“You okay?” asked Howard.

Joker nodded grimly. “A bit weak, but I’ll be fine.” He took a few unsteady steps towards the window. He walked like an old man, slightly stooped and with a discernible pause between each step.

“If it’s going to be too much, you can get back in bed and we’ll forget the whole thing,” offered Howard.

Joker turned around and glared at the FBI agent, “I’ll be fine,” he said tightly.

Howard’s cellular phone bleeped and he pressed it to his ear. It was Ed Mulholland. “Bob Sanger’s given you the go ahead,” said Mulholland.

“That’s great, Ed. Thanks. I know you must have pushed for it,” said Howard.

“Yeah, I’ve got to admit that he took some persuading,” said Mulholland. “But I told him that you were prepared to accept responsibility for him at all times, and he agreed. But he’s most definitely not to be armed, Cole, I can’t emphasise that enough. He’s to be there as a passive observer, nothing else.”

“That’s understood,” said Howard.

“So what’s your plan now?” asked Mulholland.

“Don’s having a word with the Secret Service people in Baltimore. They’re handling the on-the-ground searches and I think we should leave it up to them.”

“I agree,” said Mulholland. “Bob Sanger’s sending more of his people to Baltimore right now. There’s no point in the FBI duplicating their work.”

“Yeah, though we’re going to stick close to the President at all venues in the Baltimore-Washington area where the computer projection suggests he’s vulnerable. I’m going to talk to Andy Kim right now for a list. Then we’re off to the ball game, the President’s due there at six-thirty.”

“Okay, Cole, keep in touch.”

The line went dead and Howard called up Andy Kim’s private line in the White House computer room. Kim answered on the third ring and sounded tired and harassed. Howard asked if he had put together a list of the appointments on the President’s agenda where two out of the three snipers matched. A flustered Kim asked him to hang on and Howard tapped the phone against his cheek as he waited. The door to the hospital room was thrown open and the doctor who had treated Joker stormed in, his white coat flapping behind him.

“What do you think you’re doing?” he asked. “Get back in bed right now.”

Joker looked at Howard for support, and the FBI agent was about to speak when Kim came back on the line. Howard turned his back on the doctor while he wrote down a list of venues. When he’d finished he had seven locations, including the ballpark and the National Aquarium, the two places where the President was going to be that evening. “The Secret Service already has this list, Andy?” asked Howard.

“That’s right, and we’re working on others now,” said Kim. He sounded as if someone was listening at his shoulder.

“Are you okay?” Howard asked.

“I’m fine, Cole, there’s just quite a bit of pressure here at the moment, that’s all.”

“How’s Bonnie?”

“Dog tired,” said Kim. “Look, Cole, I have to go, we’re running a new program and I have to give it my full attention.”

“Sure, Andy, sorry,” said Howard. He switched off his phone and turned to face the doctor, who was if anything even angrier than when he’d entered the room.

“What the hell’s going on?” the doctor asked Howard.

“We need Mr Cramer’s assistance in a security matter, doctor,” said Howard, slipping the phone back into his pocket.

“He needs bed rest,” said the doctor, “he shouldn’t be on his feet.”

“I feel better,” said Joker, sitting down on the edge of the bed.

“You’re in shock, and your body still hasn’t made up for the blood you lost.”

Joker shrugged. “I’m not planning on running a marathon,” he said.

“Any sort of movement is going to open up those wounds,” warned the doctor.

“Doctor, this is important,” insisted Howard; “if it wasn’t, I wouldn’t be taking Mr Cramer out of your care.”

The doctor clicked his tongue in annoyance. He put his stethoscope against Joker’s chest and listened. “Your heart seems steady enough,” he admitted grudgingly. He pulled a sphygmomanometer from his coat pocket and took Joker’s blood pressure. “Your blood pressure is on the way up, too.” He looked at Howard severely. “I’d like to give him a vitamin shot, and what he really needs is a couple of days’ bed rest, but I don’t suppose I can stop you, can I?”

“No, doctor, I’m afraid you can’t.”

The door opened again and Don Clutesi came in, carrying a large brown parcel which he dropped on the bed. “There’s a shirt and a sports jacket, and underwear. There’s a pair of trousers, but I’m not sure that they’ll fit. And I had to buy the shoes.”

“Keep the receipt,” said Howard, knowing how difficult it was to get anything past the eagle eyes of the FBI’s accountants.

“I’ll get the vitamin shot,” said the doctor. “And I’d like to change his dressings before he leaves.”

Howard looked at his wristwatch. “No problem,” he said. “We’ve got plenty of time.”

The Colonel parked his dark green Range Rover in the garage and pressed the remote control device which closed the overhead door. His back ached, the lingering soreness the result of several High Altitude Low Opening freefall parachute jumps he’d made over Salisbury Plain a week earlier. He rubbed the small of his back with his knuckles. Leading from the front was all well and good, he thought, but he was getting too old for jumping out of planes.

He took his keys and opened the two high security locks on the door which led from the garage to the kitchen of the four-bedroom stone cottage. The door looked like painted wood but in fact it had a steel core and was impenetrable by any means short of a bazooka. Immediately he opened the second lock he pushed open the door and stepped into the kitchen, closing it behind him. He crossed the tiled floor quickly, opened a closet door and stuck another key into a white metal box on which a red light was flashing, neutralising the silent burglar alarm which was connected to his local police station and which would have a carload of armed police on his doorstep if it wasn’t switched off within thirty seconds.