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.
“It was enough that Rashid knew of our intentions. The fewer people who knew, the better. Your role in this did not depend on the nature of the target.”
Carlos nodded. He understood. He had himself sent terrorists on missions without putting them in the complete picture. Sometimes they hadn’t come back, but it was a price that had to be paid. It was results which counted, not the sensibilities of those involved. He understood what Khatami had done, but he still resented being used.
“You will be firing Rashid’s rifle,” said Khatami quietly. “Are you prepared to shoot at her target?”
Carlos felt his insides tighten. Khatami was asking him if he was prepared to assassinate the President of the United States. The enormity of what was being asked of him made him almost light-headed. But he knew that he could not refuse. Khatami was his only hope for a safe haven. Without his support Carlos would be thrown to the wolves. He quickly ran through the technicalities of the shot. The President would be in the sky box, which meant there would have to be two shots: the first to smash the glass, the second to hit the target. His marksmanship was up to it. Just.
“It would be an honour,” said Carlos.
Patrick Farrell, Sr, was sitting at his desk going over the service records of a Cessna 172, which his company used to broadcast traffic information to several radio and television stations in the area, when his secretary told him that he had visitors. She showed in two men wearing almost identical black suits and sunglasses. They looked and acted almost like robots, sweeping the room with their shielded eyes, their lips together in neither smiles nor frowns.
“Can I help you, gentlemen?” Farrell asked, getting to his feet.
“Patrick Farrell?” asked one of the men, his impassive face impossible to read. Farrell nodded. The two men flashed their credentials and identified themselves as Secret Service agents. “We’d like you to come with us, Mr Farrell,” said one.
“What’s wrong?” asked Farrell.
“We’d just like you to come with us,” said the second agent.
“And if I refuse?”
“We’d still like you to come with us,” said the first agent.
“Can I call my lawyer?”
“There’ll be time for that later, Mr Farrell,” said the first agent.
“Am I under arrest?”
“No, sir,” said the second agent. He held out his hand as if to guide Farrell out of the office.
Farrell looked over the man’s shoulder at his secretary who was nervously biting her lip. “Get hold of my son and tell him what’s happened,” said Farrell.
The two agents looked at each other as if communicating telepathically. The first agent looked at the secretary. “I think you’d better come with us, too, miss.”
Don Clutesi drove the blue Dodge to the Secret Service’s Baltimore field office in West Lombard Street, about a mile from the Shock-trauma Unit. Cole Howard briefed Joker in the back of the car. The jacket Clutesi had supplied fitted Joker around the shoulders but was slightly short in the arms and was a garish plaid. Clutesi had explained that he’d borrowed it from the Baltimore police’s Vice Squad and that it was the best he could do in the time. Joker wondered if Clutesi had deliberately chosen the most noticeable outfit so that he’d be a better target. The only thing easier for a sniper to hit would be a bullseye on the back.
Joker had continued to express surprise at the notion that one of the former Navy SEALs would go for a two thousand yard shot with the bullet taking a full four seconds to reach its target. He’d worked with military snipers before, both in Northern Ireland and the Falkland Islands, but never over that distance. It almost defied belief.
Clutesi stopped the car outside the Federal Building and dropped off Howard and Joker. He drove away in search of a parking place while the two men went inside and up to the Secret Service’s office. There Howard introduced Joker to Bob Sanger who the FBI agent explained was in charge of security arrangements for the President’s visit. Sanger looked curiously at Joker’s strange sports jacket over the top of his pince-nez spectacles. Joker felt that he ought to say something to explain his attire, but before he had the chance Sanger was shaking hands and ushering them to chairs.
Sanger handed a stack of faxes to Howard. “This is the latest from the Kims,” he said.
Howard skimmed them. They contained lists of places where the snipers might be located. He showed them to Joker. “It’s a big list,” said Joker.
“Not really,” said Sanger. “We’d be pretty much covering all those places anyway in advance of a presidential visit. We normally go through every building with a view of the President within a half-mile radius. All this does is extend our search area.”
“They seem quite specific,” said Joker. “He says the sixth and seventh floors of the Holiday Inn, but not below. That should make it easier.”
“Yeah, that would be a help, but it doesn’t mean we won’t be searching all the floors which overlook the ballpark. We can’t assume he’s right, we have to look everywhere. I mean, we wouldn’t stop searching the sewers for bombs just because we think a sniper is going to try to kill the President. We still send the Technical Security Division into the sewers, looking for time bombs, taking away trash cans and sealing manhole covers shut. We’re talking about a hundred advance agents, and since we’ve put them all on red alert we’re all working overtime.”
Howard nodded and handed back the faxes. “It’s still okay for Mr Cramer and I to be as close as possible to the presidential party for the next few days?”
“I’m still not overjoyed about the idea, but I can’t think of a good reason to deny your request,” said Sanger. “I’ve photographs of Hennessy, Bailey and Sanchez here. They’ve been handed out to all our men.” He pulled open a drawer and handed over three Secret Service identification badges, with metal chains so that they could be hung around necks. “Wear these at all times,” he said. “If one of my men or the agents who come with the President from Washington see you trying to get close without one of these, at best you’ll get your arm twisted.” He frowned. “I thought there were three of you?”
“Don Clutesi will be here shortly. He’s parking the car.” He picked up the three badges and handed one to Joker.
Sanger stood up and went over to a closet. He took out three ballistic-protective vests, gave one to Joker and the other two to Howard. “I’d be happier if you all wear these,” he said, almost apologetically. “Just in case. I wouldn’t want you guys getting hurt.”
Joker weighed his vest in his hands. It felt lighter than the body armour he’d worn in the SAS, and seemed more flexible.
“It’s made of a special woven fabric, the trade name is Spectra,” said Sanger. “They’re supposed to be ten times stronger than steel but with a fraction of the weight. We get them from a company run by Ollie North. These are certified to stop a 9 mm 124 grain full metal jacket bullet at fourteen hundred feet per second.”
Joker raised an eyebrow. “Impressive,” he said.