“Let me know how you get on,” said Sheldon. He brought the meeting to a close. Howard and Kelly went down in the elevator together in silence. When the doors hissed open, Howard asked her if she’d go along to his office. He waited until the door was closed before speaking again.
“What is your problem, Kelly?” he said quietly as he went behind his desk and sat down.
He didn’t ask her to sit, but she did anyway, demurely crossing her legs. She seemed totally unfazed by his question, almost as if she’d expected it. “I don’t know what you mean, Cole,” she said, one eyebrow arched.
“I’m heading this investigation,” said Howard.
“Have I implied that you weren’t?” she said.
“You appear to be taking liberties with the line of command,” he said. “I report to Jake Sheldon, you report to me.”
“I understand that,” she said smoothly, her voice like a cat’s purr.
“So can you explain why every time I leave the office, you rush up to see Sheldon?”
She folded her hands primly in her lap and studied Howard with her pale green eyes. “First, Cole, I hardly think that three visits to Sheldon’s office in one month could be seen as a threat to your authority. And secondly, on two of those occasions it was Jake who called me up. His secretary had tried to contact you, but you were out of the office. The call was passed onto me, and I was asked to go up and brief him on developments. There was never any question of my trying to usurp your authority. I have the greatest respect for your abilities as an agent.”
Howard took a deep breath. The supercilious look on her face left him in no doubt that she was lying on all counts, but he knew there was nothing he could do. Kelly looked at her gold Cartier watch. “If there’s nothing else, I do have work to do.”
Howard shook his head and waved her away. Kelly stood up, smoothed down her skirt, and left the office, her head held high.
They arrived within an hour of each other, following the instructions Carlos had given them, driving behind the house and parking on an area of tarmac which had been used as a basketball court. The view from the rear of the house was spectacular, overlooking the Chesapeake Bay, and each of the arrivals had walked down to the water and looked over the waves to the twin spans of the Bay Bridge which loomed out of the mist to the left, before heading back to the house where they were greeted by Carlos.
Mary Hennessy hadn’t selected the house from the dozen or so she’d visited because of its view, breathtaking as it was, but because of the privacy it offered — the nearest neighbour was a mile away and shielded by trees. There were only two ways to reach the house — by driving down a long, winding single track road, or by water. The house was built of wood, with towering gables and sash windows, and it had been freshly painted the colour of clotted cream. It had seven bedrooms and three bathrooms, and was surrounded by three acres of well-tended lawn, green and lush despite the salt air.
Carlos had parked his car in the garage and was waiting in the kitchen, drinking a cup of black, sweet coffee, when Rich Lovell arrived. He opened the back door and stood on the porch and watched as Lovell stood at the end of the lawn, his hands on his hips, and took in the view. The former Navy SEAL went back to his red Ford Mustang, opened the trunk, and took out two cases: one a nylon bag containing his clothes, the other clearly containing a rifle. He saw Carlos as he slammed the trunk shut and he waved. Carlos raised his coffee mug in salute.
“Am I the first?” shouted Lovell as he shouldered the rifle case.
“You are, so you get the choice of bedrooms,” replied Carlos. “You’ll find a linen cupboard upstairs, I’m afraid there’s no maid service.”
“Anything’ll be better than the Holiday Inn,” said Lovell with a smile. He stepped onto the porch and Carlos opened the door for him. Carlos sat down at the kitchen table and opened that day’s Washington Post as Lovell climbed the stairs and made himself comfortable in one of the bedrooms. Carlos flicked through the foreign pages but there was little to interest him. The American press was parochial in the extreme and foreign affairs were low down their list of editorial priorities. The business section contained a gloomy survey of the country’s manufacturing industry, and a forecast that there was worse to come. The dollar was falling against most major currencies, and the property market was in the doldrums. Carlos smiled. The world had rejoiced when Russia and Eastern Europe had been forced to admit that Communism couldn’t work. He wondered how long it would be before nations realised that pure capitalism was equally ineffective. America, which prided itself on being the richest and most successful country in the world, also had one of the highest infant mortality rates, more men in prison than any totalitarian country, and an average life expectancy worse than many Third World nations. The system was starting to break down already, and no-one would take more pleasure in the demise of the USA than Ilich Ramirez Sanchez.
Outside, he heard a car drive down the track and he went back to the porch. It was Dina Rashid. She parked her white Ford Escort next to Lovell’s Mustang and, like Lovell, went to stand next to the water for a few minutes, her long, curly black hair blowing in the wind. She was so thin, thought Carlos; almost anorexic, her figure that of a teenage boy rather than the thirty-year-old woman she was. As usual, she wore black — jeans and a polo-neck sweater, with black motorcycle boots. She turned as if aware that she was being watched and she waved. “This is wonderful!” she yelled. She ran across the lawn to the porch and hugged Carlos, hard enough to drive the air from his lungs. “Everything is well?” she asked.
“Everything is perfect,” he said. “Lovell is upstairs already.”
“Bastard!” she said, and spat noisily to the side. “If he tries to get inside my pants again, I’ll have his balls off.”
Carlos grinned and slapped her on the backside. Many years ago, Carlos and Rashid had been lovers, but no longer. Their lovemaking had bonded them together, though, and they trusted each other completely. “Just so long as he can shoot, Dina, that’s all that I care about.”
She tightened her arms around his neck and kissed him on one cheek. “Don’t worry, Ilich. I have something special in mind for Mr Lovell if he tries to touch me again.” She pulled away from Carlos, and laughed throatily. Her face was tanned, the skin pulled tight across her high cheekbones, and her brown eyes flashed as she laughed. Her hair spilled over her shoulders — it was virtually the only feminine thing about her. She even walked like a man. As she went back to her car the final sniper arrived: Lou Schoelen. Rashid greeted him and they carried their suitcases and rifle bags together into the house. Carlos shook hands with Schoelen, and then showed the two of them where the bedrooms were.
Later, Carlos went out to the bottom of the garden and stood looking at the bridge in the distance. Mary Hennessy was right — the weather was improving.
Joker put the last glass up on the shelf and scratched his chin. “That’s the lot, Shorty,” he shouted.
“Good man,” Shorty called back. He was in the basement, changing a keg which had run dry. “I’ll lock up; see you tomorrow.”
“Is it okay if I take that carton of milk in the fridge?” asked Joker.
Shorty laughed. “You and that cat,” he said. “Sure, take it.”
Joker opened the small refrigerator under the bar and took out the pint of milk. He put on his pea jacket and pulled his wool hat down over his head and let himself out, pulling the door shut behind him. It was two o’clock in the morning but the city streets were still busy. A taxi cruised by with its light on and the driver sounded his horn, letting Joker know he was for hire. Joker shook his head, he didn’t have far to walk. He decided to visit the automated teller machine on the way back to his room and he shoved the milk carton into his pocket. As he approached the bank machine he looked left and right to check that there were no suspicious characters lurking in the shadows. New York was never a safe place to be, no matter what the hour. He slid the Visa card into the machine, tapped out his PIN number, and waited while it processed his request. Two large men in raincoats, their collars up against the wind, walked on the opposite side of the road, laughing uproariously. The machine made a clunking sound and Joker reached for his cash. As he slid the notes into his back pocket he realised he wasn’t alone — the two men had crossed silently and were standing either side of him. Both men were as tall as Joker but much wider, as if they spent a lot of time lifting weights.
Any hopes that they were just there to use the bank machine were dashed when one of them put a restraining hand on Joker’s shoulder. “You seem to be using this machine a hell of a lot,” the man said. He had a wide forehead and one thick eyebrow which went across both eyes, giving him a perpetual frown. His accent was pure Belfast.
“Aye, for a barman paid in cash, yez make a lot of withdrawals,” said the other. His accent was also Irish, but softer, from Derry maybe, Joker thought. He had small, piggy eyes and fleshy jowls, but his body looked rock hard under the thin raincoat.
“So who are you guys, the bank police?” Joker asked. He turned to walk on, but the grip tightened on his shoulder.
“We’d like a wee chat, Mr O’Brien, if that’s your name,” said Piggy Eyes.
“Damien O’Brien it is,” said Joker. “Who would you be?”
“There’s no need for introductions,” said The Frowner. “We’ve just a few questions fur yer, that’s all.” His hand was deep in his raincoat like a cheap hoodlum in a gangster movie, but when he pushed it forward into Joker’s kidney he could feel the hard outline of an automatic, a big one. “We’ll be going back to yez room with yer, okay?”
“Sure,” said Joker, wishing that he’d procured himself a weapon. He’d decided against it because he hadn’t wanted to attract attention to himself, but with the heavyweights either side of him he could have done with a decent gun. “Can I go on ahead and make the place presentable?”
“Very funny, O’Brien,” said Piggy Eyes. “Just walk.”
The three men walked through the dark streets, his two escorts laughing loudly again as if they were just friends on their way home after a night’s drinking. The main entrance to the hotel was locked as it always was after midnight, but the night manager had given Joker a key because he was often getting back in the small hours. Joker unlocked the door and the three men walked up the stairs, the gun never more than a couple of feet from Joker’s back. They said nothing while he unlocked the door to his room and went inside. Piggy Eyes switched on the light, then closed and bolted the door. The Frowner took the gun out of his coat pocket. It was a matt black SIG-Sauer P228, a 9mm autoloader with a double action trigger, and the safety was off. It wasn’t an especially large gun, and it seemed even smaller in the big man’s hands, but without a silencer it would still make one hell of a bang. As if reading his thoughts, The Frowner took a bulbous silencer from his pocket and screwed it into the barrel.
Joker took off his hat and dropped it onto his dressing table. “Okay if I take off my coat?” he asked. Piggy Eyes nodded and Joker slipped off the jacket. He placed the carton of milk on the window sill and hung the jacket on the hook on the back of the door. The Frowner kept the gun aimed at his gut and Joker knew there was no chance of making a run for it. “Can I offer you gentlemen a dram while we talk?” he said.
“Sit down,” said The Frowner, gesturing at the wing chair in the corner facing the window.
Joker did as he was told. As he walked across the room his eyes searched for something, anything, he could use as a weapon. His half-empty bottle of Famous Grouse was the nearest possibility, next to the television. He could reach it in two steps, but The Frowner would have more than enough time to plant a slug in his chest. The automatic would make a hole the size of an orange in a body. He waited for the questions to start.
Piggy Eyes went over to the window and pulled down the blinds. “Yez been asking around about Matthew Bailey,” he said, his back to Joker. “We were wondering why.” He turned round and stared at Joker, his eyebrows raised.
“He’s an old friend, he’s in the States and I just wanted to say hello.”
“How long have you known him?”
Joker shrugged. “Seven, eight years maybe.”
“So how come yez don’t know how to get hold of him yerself?”
“I lost touch with him.”
“So how did yez know he was in the States?”
“Someone told me.”
“Who?”