Stephen Leather - The Long shot

He rubbed his back again and went through to his sitting room where he opened up a large floor-mounted globe which looked antique but which contained several bottles of malt whisky and crystal tumblers. He poured himself a large measure of an Islay malt and savoured it, breathing in its rich, peaty bouquet as he walked over to a table by the side of the fireplace where a chess game was laid out, a problem he’d been working on for several days. He looked down at the wooden pieces, his brow furrowed. The game was the ninth of a series Bobby Fischer had played against Boris Spassky in the summer of 1992. Fischer had opened with the ancient ‘Spanish Game’, but using the Exchange Variation. Spassky had resigned black’s position after only twenty-one moves but to the Colonel it was clear that he’d really lost the game on his seventeenth move when he’d moved his king. The Colonel had decided that Spassky should have taken one of white’s knights with his bishop instead, but he hadn’t yet decided where the game would have gone from there. It was an intriguing strategical problem and one that he relished.

The telephone on his hall table rang and he went over and picked it up. The light on his answer machine was flickering, indicating that he’d received several messages while he was out. The rich, almost plummy, voice on the line didn’t identify itself, but there was no need. The Colonel knew who it was, and that what he had to say must be important for him to call him at home.

“The operation has been discontinued,” the man said. “One of my operatives has been eliminated, one is missing, presumed inactive.”

“Damn,” said the Colonel quietly. “What happened?”

“Your man liquidated one at the house, for what reason I have yet to determine. The other operative followed the objective, but has since disappeared. The house was destroyed in a fire, your man is now in the Shock-trauma Unit of the University of Maryland Hospital in Baltimore and I am at a loss how to proceed further.”

“So we’ve no idea where the objective is?” asked the Colonel.

“That’s the position, yes.”

“What is my man’s status?”

“Injured, but not seriously. A request for information on his cover name has come through from New York, along with a set of fingerprints. It appears that he is sticking to his cover, but there is no way of knowing how long that will last. There is, of course, the question of what we do with him now. I do have other operatives in the area; they could tidy up the loose ends for us.”

The Colonel smiled grimly. If Joker had discovered how he’d been used, he would be bent on retaliation, and an angry SAS sergeant, albeit one who was out of condition, was not a threat to be taken lightly. Joker’s ire would be aimed not just at Mary Hennessy. “Does he know how he was being used?”

“I have no way of knowing, but if he has discovered that Five is involved there is a reasonable chance he will draw that conclusion.”

The Colonel nodded. He looked out through a leaded window across rolling countryside, not unlike the hills of the Brecon Beacons where the SAS trained its men and honed their killing edge. “I will handle him,” he said quietly.

“Are you sure?” asked the voice, though it contained little real concern; it was more a matter of ensuring that there was no misunderstanding, in case there should be ramifications at a later date.

“I’m sure,” said the Colonel. “Thank you for informing me so promptly. I’ll call you from the office tomorrow to clear up the paperwork. And I am deeply sorry about your operatives.”

“They knew the risks,” said the voice. “We’ll talk again.”

The line went dead and the Colonel replaced the receiver. It was true, the MI5 agents did know the risks, it was Joker who’d gone in blind, not knowing that he was being used as bait. The Colonel had gone through a lot of soul-searching before deciding to send his former sergeant to the United States, but in the end had decided that the ends did justify the means, and that Joker was expendable if the end result was the capture or elimination of Mary Hennessy. He doubted whether Joker would see it that way, though.

Carlos parked at the far end of the car park, facing the entrance to the huge Toys R Us warehouse, and switched off the engine. He settled back in his seat and looked at his wristwatch. When he looked up again it was to stare down the barrel of an M16 rifle. The pudgy finger on the trigger tightened and the weapon crackled and then the little boy holding it giggled. He put the rifle back to his shoulder again and aimed at Carlos’ head. The gun was almost as big as he was. Carlos smiled thinly as the boy pressed the trigger a second time. The boy’s father came up behind the boy and cuffed him around the ear.

“Don’t point your gun at strangers, son,” he chided. He apologised to Carlos and hauled the young would-be assassin off to a blue pick-up truck. Only in America, thought Carlos. They gave replica guns to four-year-old boys and wondered why they had the highest murder rate in the world. Carlos felt nothing but disgust for a society which treated guns as playthings. A gun had only one function — to kill, and it deserved always to be treated with respect.

Carlos watched the white Volkswagen turn into the car park and head in his direction. The driver parked, climbed out, and walked over to Carlos’ car. Carlos leaned over and opened the passenger door for Khatami. Khatami eased himself into the seat. He made no move to shake hands; it had been clear from the start that their relationship operated purely on a business level, but he acknowledged Carlos with a curt nod of the head. Khatami looked much the same as when the two men had first met in the First Class cabin of a jet parked on the tarmac of a Middle Eastern airport: a small, nervous man with a pointed chin and an adolescent’s moustache.

“Things are not going well,” said Khatami. It was a statement, not a question.

“Not as planned, but we shall not fail,” said Carlos.

The pick-up truck drove away, the barrel of the toy gun sticking out of the passenger window.

“The death of Rashid is a major problem,” said Khatami.

“But certainly not insurmountable,” said Carlos. “I’ve fired her weapon before, and I will do so this time. The operation can go ahead exactly as planned.”

“I’m afraid not,” said Khatami. “We had other plans for Rashid.”

Carlos narrowed his eyes. “What do you mean?” he said softly.

“We have invested a great deal of time and money in this endeavour,” said Khatami. “Do you think we would have committed so many resources simply to help the IRA?”

Carlos said nothing. It was a thought that had occurred to him, but he’d assumed that his paymasters were vindictive enough to want to help anyone who acted against their enemies.

“We had our own agenda,” Khatami continued. “That is why we were so insistent that you use Rashid as one of the snipers. She was working for us. She had her own target.”

Carlos closed his eyes and sighed as he realised how he’d been manipulated all along. “The President,” he said.

“Indeed,” said Khatami. “We knew that the IRA would have nothing to do with an assassination of an American president. They depend on American goodwill for money and support. But we needed their expertise.”

Carlos reached up to grip the steering wheel. Mary Hennessy and Matthew Bailey were being set up to take the blame for the assassination of the President. And he, unwittingly, had been the one doing the setting up. He had betrayed them. And Dina Rashid had betrayed him. Was there no-one in the world who could be trusted any more? The answer hit him immediately. Of course there wasn’t. Loyalty counted for nothing in the world of the 1990s. It was every man for himself. That had been proved to him once and for all when he’d been betrayed by the Sudanese in 1994, delivered to a French ministerial jet drugged and trussed up like a chicken. “Why didn’t you tell me what you had planned?” he asked.