Стивен Хантер - Game of Snipers

“Nobody’s going to win a Pulitzer Prize writing about vanished homeless, that’s for sure,” said Neill.

“You see the rest of it,” said Gold. “If we do locate an area of usual activity, we can program a satellite to search for the attributes in that area that might show up from outer space. We winnow further by drone. We can put the tiny whirlybirds over the most promising areas and, in that way, find the location of such an installation literally right down to the bench on the ground in front of it. And, as in Israel, we raid. Six helicopters dropping off forty of Orwell’s rough men — or Gadi Motter’s — at oh-dark-thirty, and your problem is solved.”

“So let’s get on this right away,” said Nick. “We want to circularize all police entities for reports of such a spike in disappearances. Maybe they have undercover sources in these communities. Maybe it’s right in front of them, they just have never had any impetus to look. So they assign a clerk for an afternoon to go through the records. Maybe there’s one town where, for some reason, the number had jumped.”

“Boss,” said Chandler, “I’d also do charity agencies, social work departments, and university sociology departments. The homeless interest researchers, and we’ve got to tap into that.”

“Good, Chandler.”

“Also, I’d be sure to get the info request read at the daily preduty briefing to beat cops. It’s the sort of thing a beat cop might hear and discount or ignore, but suddenly when it’s put before him and been validated by the process, he gets involved.”

“You might try places where illegals congregate to find work,” said Swagger. “Lots of men could go missing from Home Depots all over America, and nobody know.”

“Good, good, I like what I’m hearing. Any other suggestions?”

“Anyplace stoop labor is hired,” said Neill. “Harvesttime, lots of migrants come in to work the fields. Some — too many, no doubt — end up in those fields.”

“Non-union construction,” said Bob.

“Should we prioritize by area?” asked Chandler. “I mean, we have sort of assumed that wherever Juba is training, that would be the west. Lots and lots of land out there. Lots of land where he could have a mile-long shooting range and nobody would know.”

“That makes sense,” said Nick. “I think it’s a good assumption. This is going to be a hell of a workload any way you cut it, so any help is worth it.

“Neill, you and Swagger get that software to guide the birds setup. Okay, let’s get— Oh, wait. Let me say it formally: Mr. Gold, you are the best. Don’t know where we’d be without Mossad.”

“I only want one thing in return,” said Mr. Gold. “A long chat with Juba. I want to hear his thousand and one tales.”

The ranch, shipping out

Alast man was sacrificed on the altar of accuracy, and Juba was pleased to see that the shooting instrument he had so painstakingly built and tuned over the previous months maintained its efficiency after having been laid down for the other rifle. It killed totally on the first shot at the range required. After putting the target down, he cleaned the rifle exhaustively, and, after that, all its surfaces pristine, he fired one more shot, because cold bore shots, by tradition and experience, were always better out of a fouled bore.

He prepared the rifle for its trip. He shellacked all the knobs on the Schmidt & Bender scope so that they would not vibrate in transit to a new position. To make doubly certain, he marked the settings with stripes of fingernail polish on both turret and turret housing so that the joining of the two stripes in one continuous line would signify that the turret or housing had not been turned. The bolt was removed and taped to the stock. The whole receiver-scope nexus — the heart of it, really — was triple-swathed in Bubble Wrap so that it was suspended midair to avoid being jostled or subject to vibration. Each screw, tightened and shellacked, was also marked so that a quick glance could tell if it had been loosened.

The rifle was the sum of its tensions. It was a mesh of screws tightened to an exact position and no other. Ambiguity, drift, the random and forlorn could not be accepted. So perfectly tightened, it became a matrix of stress. In this respect, it was a musical instrument, all stops set perfectly, all reeds and spit valves dialed to the precise position. It stayed reliable to the degree it retained exact registry. Rifles — all systems — fall apart when individual components go unmonitored and unadjust themselves. Juba could have none of that.

Then he put together a case with all the necessary logistical components: the iPhone 8, with its precious ballistics program; various wrenches; LensPens; a glazier’s key; a set of screwdrivers; and the ten most perfect rounds of ammunition that he had assembled. This too was wrapped and taped to the stock.

Finally, when the whole package was encased in foam and tape — it looked a bit like a mummy — it was secured in the false bottom of a high-end bookcase, invisible to the eye, which was itself skillfully packed in a shipping crate, secured tightly, made inviolate to all but the most violent accidental intrusions. It would survive a crash landing, in other words, but not a crash.

A day later, Juba watched as this object, under the rubric of a well-known custom furniture boutique, was delivered to UPS for delivery to its next destination. It would thereby enter two systems: UPS’s, but also Iran’s Ministry of Intelligence, whose supple and proficient professionals would be responsible for its transport from several different destinations via several different shipping agencies. At a certain point, it would become affiliated with a credit card registered, through Iranian subterfuge, to Brian Waters, of Albuquerque, New Mexico, and in that way join the train of evidence that was slowly accumulating against the dead man, on whom all blame was to be placed.

The intelligence people would discreetly monitor its progress, taking possession of it intermittently, inspecting it, then shipping it onward. It would reach its destination — only one senior executive knew the final address — at a leisurely pace but still in plenty of time. Juba wanted to be there, in the room with the rifle, facing the target, for a good while before he had to pull the trigger — one day, at least, a full week if possible. The whole enterprise disintegrated if it were rushed or improvised.

Finally, it was done.

He sat in the Land Rover, with Alberto, as they drove back to the ranch. The two Mexican Special Forces troopers, who had handled the transaction at the shipping agency, sat in front, indifferent to the Syrian-accented Arabic being spoken behind them.

“This step is finished,” said Alberto. “It must be a relief. Now, only the journey.”

“That part has been well planned. It will proceed routinely. No one will intercept me.”

“The picture they have put out is quite amusing.”

“It makes me look like a cartoon. It degrades me.”

“Everybody’s a critic. More important, it makes you look like me — like Gamal Abdel Nasser, Harvey Weinstein, John Garfield, Omar Sharif — like any other Semitic with strong features. The dark hair helps. It’s all the same DNA, intermingled by crossfucking over the centuries. That is why there is so much hatred. We’re all family.”

“I do not share your theory of mongrel politics,” said Juba.

“No matter. In the end, the drawing is so stereotypical, it looks like everyone and no one. It can be of no help.”

“As you say. In my journey, in any event, I will remain obscure.”

The Syrian laughed.

Juba showed him a finger on which he had written in Arabic, in ballpoint: “Meet me outside in swamp at 0430.”