Стивен Хантер - Game of Snipers

“Got it,” she said.

The first stop, then, was the National Firearm Registry, a listing of all stolen guns. Wouldn’t it be nice if someone had made off with the weapon of choice and that could lead right to the heart of the matter? But no such luck. A Barrett .50 caliber was the closest thing, but a quick call to the jurisdiction revealed that it had been recovered.

That possibility exhausted, they moved on to the sales records of the three companies.

First pass of all three sales records over the past five months — an arbitrary period, to be sure, but they’d go back further only as a desperation measure — yielded nothing of much interest. Filtering, courtesy of one of Neill’s programs, for “Accuracy International .338 Lapua Magnum,” they indeed encountered a cult based upon the worship of that rifle and that caliber. But all the purchases seemed to be more along the line of adding geegaws to the system — like dedicated cleaning kits, AI optical mounts, transit cases, wrench sets, a mirage band to stretch down the barrel and thus kill any reflection from its metallic surface, headspace gauges, bolt-cap-removal tools — all the little bitty Tinkertoys that so many in the culture told themselves they absolutely had to have.

“They’re like little girls collecting Pretty Ponies,” Chandler said.

None of the purchases was particularly big-ticket, none of them was absolutely mandatory to the shot, except for the scope, but Bob assumed that most of the shooters already had scopes, and, furthermore, granted the assumption that somehow Juba’s rifle was initially stolen in America, it would have been scoped as well. None suggested someone trying to get into the AI .338 Lapua Magnum in a big way all at once. It was all about adding a little of this, a little of that.

“Any feeling or buzz?” asked Swagger.

“You’re the rustic genius. I’m just the little grind who went to State U and got straight A’s. I’m as creative as a block of wood.”

“Let’s filter for ‘L.E. Wilson dies, .338 Lapua Magnum.’”

“What the hell is that?”

“If you want to reload for superaccuracy, it all turns on the accuracy of machining in the dies. Everyone in the game knows that Wilsons are the best. These guys will get every angle perfect to a hundredth of an inch. They’re that good. Plus, Wilsons, not being screwed into a big, sloppy press, can be loaded at the rifle range on an arbor press — that’s a hand-portable device — which makes it easier. It’s not for high volume, but it’s the one most of the benchrest guys use. It’s very accurate, no wobble or slop in the construction, the parts fit like a Mercedes engine. More, I saw one in Juba’s shop — bright yellow box, very compact — in the second before the guy lit it, and himself, off.”

She typed it in, pushed Return, and in a few seconds the computer scanned, filtered, sorted, and presented nine purchases in the past five months of Wilson die sets — neck size and bullet seater — in the .338 Lapua Magnum size, plus specific neck-sizer bushings for the first die, three at .366, two at .367, and one more at .368. From this they got nine names, which they ran against several data fields already in place, being the membership in the North American Long Range Shooting Association, which was the governing body of most of the matches, as well as entry in long-range shooting schools all across the west, part of the training craze in all the esoteric gun skills of Special Forces operators that currently gripped the shooting world. Of the nine customers, eight were in one or the other, the ninth being a wealthy South Carolina gun collector who was on the Board of Trustees of the NRA.

“Too bad it ain’t him,” said Bob, a little sourly. “The newspapers would go crazy.”

“He’s not the type?”

“I met him once. Rich guy, big in the NRA. He owns a batch of auto dealerships, and Subaru millionaires don’t turn into jihadi terrorists.”

“Good point,” she said.

Eighteen hours in, and they had nothing.

“How much time left?”

“Six hours.”

“We’re not getting anywhere.”

“Maybe we’ve proved there’s nowhere to get. Maybe we’ve excluded a possible avenue of investigation. That’s worth something.”

“I suppose,” he said, yawning, checking his watch. “Let’s take a break.”

“Sure.”

They exited security and went back to their own floor. As it was night and rather late, the Counterterrorism Division was pretty much empty except for the operations sector, which always burned lights day or night. But they passed it, went to the lounge, meaning only to sit on sofas and mosey off into a private anywhere that had no Accuracy International mail orders in it.

“Mr. Gold!” said Bob, seeing the portly Israeli at the table, going through paperwork.

“Yes, hello.”

“You’re still here?”

“I thought I might be of some assistance.”

“I wish you could be.”

“You have had no luck?”

Chandler narrated their adventures, rearranging it efficiently so it seemed less random.

“Seems to be very thorough,” said Gold.

“I thought we might have something on the neck-sizer bushings. But, no. All of them checked out. And that would be the one thing anyone running a .338 Lapua Mag program would definitely need to have.”

“Yes, I see,” said Gold.

“Any suggestions?” said Chandler. “We’ve got some time left before the FISA mandate runs out.”

“Nothing of a practical measure. However, there remains a possibility.”

“Yes?”

“Your subconscious has figured it out. It is trying to get you to pay attention. But your brain is clotted with meaningless things.”

“Sounds like you’re suggesting a drink. Only problem is, if I have one, I end up three weeks later in Calgary during the rodeo season, married to a calf roper with four kids.”

It was a familiar line of his. Usually, somebody laughed. Not this time.

Chandler leaned back against the cushion of her seat and closed her eyes, as if to relax.

“All I see is my sisters’ husbands trying to cop feels over a long, long holiday weekend.”

“Any of ’em jihadi snipers?” Swagger asked.

“No, just doctors, lawyers, and one would-be poet who sells real estate. He’s the worst. The poets always are.”

So she got the laugh.

“All right,” she finally said. “I am getting something on numbers. Three of them: 8-7-1.”

“Are you of numeric imagination?” asked Gold.

“I’m of no imagination. I’m just good at math.”

“What that means is that in the presence of numbers you are relaxed. Thus, there is less to oppose the flow between conscious and subconscious.”

“Maybe. But I just see 8, 7, and 1, from somewhere, sometime — recently, I think. Don’t know why, can’t connect it with anything. Where would there be an 8-7-1? Swagger, do you recall that in our hunt?”

“Lots of numbers. Phone number, zip codes, catalogue numbers, calibers, trigger-pull weights.”

She pulled out her iPhone, went to Safari, ran the number 8-7-1.

“It’s not an area code,” she said.

“Try a zip code. The first three numbers of a zip code.”

She did.

“Okay, it’s Albuquerque, New Mexico — 87102 through 87123 — twenty of ’em.”

They let that lie for a second. Then Gold said, “Contiguous zones. So that would mean that no matter if the town or suburb were different, the physical sites could be quite close to each other.”

“Yes, and what are the odds of so many different .338 guys living so close to one another? Probably, in the west, lower than elsewhere, but still pretty remote.”

“Okay,” she said. “Let’s go back into Cyber Division and see what our 8-7-1 gets us.”