“Headache?” asked Clutesi.
Howard shook his head. “They’re for Cramer.”
Clutesi went through his pockets and came up with a small foil packet of four tablets. He tossed them down on the table. “Is he going to be up to it?” he asked.
“I’ll be fine,” said Joker, opening his eyes. He grunted as he leaned forward and took the packet of painkillers. He broke open the foil pouch, swallowed a couple of the white tablets, and washed them down with the coffee, a look of disgust on his face.
Howard picked up one of the two-way radios and showed Joker how it worked. “This will be operating on the Secret Service frequency, so don’t use it unless you have something urgent to say,” explained Howard. “You’ll be able to listen in to what they’re saying, too.”
Joker nodded. He put the earpiece in his ear and slotted in its jackplug. “I’ve used similar equipment,” he said.
Howard slipped off his jacket. He was wearing a leather holster which he’d clipped to the back of his belt and he removed it, placing it on the table.
“Colt 45?” said Joker. “I thought you guys were switching over to Glocks or Berettas.”
Howard took off his tie and unbuttoned his shirt. “I prefer the Colt. It’s reliable, it does the job.”
“It’s heavy to carry around all day, though,” said Joker. He gestured at the gun. “Do you mind?”
Howard looked at Clutesi and then back to Joker. “Go ahead,” he said. He dropped his shirt on the table and picked up one of the vests. Clutesi helped him fit it while Joker took the magazine out of the gun and checked the mechanism. Joker looked down the sights and weighed the gun in his hands as Howard put his shirt back on and retied his necktie. It was a good fit, and once he’d put his jacket on the vest was barely visible.
“Have you used it?” asked Joker.
“Oh sure, we have regular training with firearms,” said Howard.
Joker shook his head. “No, I meant have you really used it?”
“Sure.”
“Fired it? At someone?”
“Well, yes, I’ve fired it, but only warning shots. If you use a weapon properly, you don’t have to fire it. The threat should be enough.”
Joker laughed bitterly. “Is that what they teach you at the Academy? For fuck’s sake, Cole, a gun has one purpose and one purpose only. To kill people. Anything else is bullshit.”
“So how many people have you killed, Cramer?” asked Clutesi scornfully.
Joker turned around slowly until he was facing Clutesi. The Colt was still in Joker’s hand, and though Clutesi could see that the clip was out, he still paled. Joker looked at the FBI agent, his deep-set eyes like impenetrable black holes either side of his nose. “A few,” said Joker coldly. “Quite a few.” For a moment it appeared that Joker was going to say something else but then he shook his head, put the Colt back in the holster and handed it to Howard. Joker adjusted his jacket and scowled at Clutesi. “Are you sure this is the only jacket you can get?” he asked.
“I’m afraid so,” said Clutesi, smiling brightly. Howard had the feeling that his fellow FBI agent was getting his revenge for the urine-filled bottle. “It’s not so bad. It goes well with the jeans.”
“How’s your shoulder?” Howard asked.
“It’s painful, but I’ll be okay,” said Joker.
“The vest fits okay?”
“Sure, it’ll be fine so long as they don’t go for a head shot,” Joker replied, pocketing his two-way radio.
“Okay, let’s get down to the ballpark,” said Howard.
“What’s the chance of us stopping for a drink on the way?” asked Joker. He saw the look of distaste on Howard’s face. “For medicinal reasons,” he added.
Lou Schoelen stepped out of the elevator on the fourth floor of the office building and looked up and down the corridor. The office he was looking for was three doors down on the left. A sign on the wall next to the dark blue door read ‘Quality Goods Import-Export Inc’. Schoelen took out the key Mary Hennessy had given him and unlocked the door.
The office interior was neat and bland: cream painted walls, cheap wooden furniture and metal filing cabinets, an IBM clone computer sitting on a desk. According to Mary, the office had been leased some six months earlier by one of her contacts in New York. The man made regular trips down to Baltimore, keeping up the appearance that the office was used, paying the utility bills and collecting any junk mail that arrived. The office had been selected on the basis of two main criteria: it overlooked the ballpark and had a window which could be opened. In the days of central air-conditioning, the latter had proven remarkably difficult to find.
Schoelen put his sports bag on one of the desks. He looked around the dummy office. It was impressive, and any casual observer would assume that it was a functioning business, with faxes and telexes in two wire baskets, a wall planner covered with marks and scribbled notes, and various well-thumbed directories in an old bookcase. He went over to the window and looked down at the traffic below. The car parks surrounding the stadium were empty: there was more than an hour before the game was due to begin. The stadium was in the shape of a horseshoe, the open end facing towards Schoelen and the tower blocks of the city centre. Through the gap he could see the bright green playing surface, and the sandy mound and diamond. At one side of the horseshoe was an advertisement for Coca-Cola, depicting a bottle of the soft drink which was several storeys high. Schoelen unlatched the window and slid it to the right. Immediately the throb of traffic and a distant ambulance siren flooded into the office, along with a wave of hot, moist air. He pushed open the window as far as it would go and checked the view of the pitcher’s mound in the distance. Perfect. He closed the window, sat down at the desk and unzipped the sports bag, whistling softly to himself.
Rich Lovell drove the rental car to the airfield, while Matthew Bailey sat in the passenger seat, the peak of his orange and black baseball cap pulled low over his face. Bailey had a map of the area spread out over his lap. The airfield where he was due to meet Patrick Farrell wasn’t the one where Farrell Aviation was based; it was a smaller, less accessible field to the north-east of the city, across the Bay Bridge, where the company owned a large hangar and a helicopter training centre. “So tell me, Matthew, how much are you getting for this job?” asked Lovell.
Bailey looked up from the map, his upper lip curled back in a sneer. “Money?” he said. “I’m not getting paid for this.”
Lovell raised his eyebrows. “Not a cent?”
“Nothing,” said Bailey. “I’m not a hired hand. I’m doing this because I believe in it. Because what we do will make a difference.”
“A difference to what?” asked Lovell.
Bailey frowned. “You want the next turn-off,” he said.
“You didn’t answer the question,” said Lovell. “How does killing this man make a difference? He’ll just be replaced, right?”
“It shows that we’re serious,” said Bailey. “It shows the whole world that there isn’t anyone we can’t reach. The Brits will have to listen to us. They’ll have to give us our country back.” He looked over at the American. “How much are you getting?”
Lovell laughed. “A lot,” he said. “Enough to never have to do it again. Enough to never have to do anything again.”
“Early retirement?”
“Sort of,” said Lovell. “But I won’t retire.”
“Why not?”
Lovell glanced at Bailey. “Because I enjoy it. I enjoy the anticipation, the planning, the pulling of the trigger. It’s what I do, and I do it well.”
“That’s the road,” said Bailey, pointing ahead. “Six miles down there and then we hang a left.”
Lovell nodded. “What about Mary? What drives her?”
“The Brits murdered her husband, and the Protestants killed her brother. And she believes in a united Ireland. That’s something you’ll never understand. You don’t know what it’s like to be a second-class citizen in your own country. Being a Catholic in Northern Ireland is like being. .” He struggled for an analogy. “I don’t know, I guess the closest comparison would be to being black in the South, with the whites always putting you down and pushing you around.”
“And killing this one man will change all that?” He beat a drum tattoo on the steering wheel.
“Maybe,” said Bailey.
“I don’t think so,” said Lovell. “I don’t think it’ll make any difference at all.” He grinned. “But what the hell, I get paid anyway, right?”