The Long shot

Kratzer looked at the photographs for some time, chewing the inside of his lip. Eventually he passed over one of them. “Well, I’ll be honest, I’m not as sure as I am about the Barrett, but that could be a Horstkamp. It’s a much more traditional shape so it’s hard to tell. It’s used by some SWAT teams, and it’s reckoned to get one MOA accuracy beyond one thousand yards.”

Howard nodded. “It’s German, right?”

Kratzer shook his head. “They’re made in Wisconsin, designed and built by a guy called Klaus Horstkamp. They’re sort of made-to-measure, so if it turns out to be a Horstkamp it shouldn’t be too hard to get a list of owners.” He reached over and took the photograph back. “Wait a minute,” he said. “See the slots on the muzzle break?” He showed the picture to Howard and pointed at the barrel. “The basic Horstkamp has holes here, not slots. The slots are only on the company’s sniper version.”

“And the third rifle?”

“No way of telling. Standard profile, it could be any one of a dozen makes.”

“Okay, two out of three is better than I expected,” said Howard. “Earlier you said that ammunition is important?”

Kratzer nodded. “Factory ammunition isn’t consistent enough for really long-distance sniping requirements, so the men you’re after probably reload their own. That gives them a much greater degree of control. Both the Barrett and the Horstkamp use.50 calibre ammunition, the sort that’s used by the Browning machine gun. It’s readily available and I doubt you’ll be able to track them down that way.”

Howard settled back in his chair and put his notebook back in his pocket.

“Have I been of help?” Kratzer asked.

“A big help,” said Howard.

“Do you have a card?”

“Sure,” said Howard. He took out his wallet and pulled out one of his business cards. As he handed it to Kratzer a Trivial Pursuit card fell onto the desk.

“You into game-playing, Agent Howard?”

Howard flushed and picked it up. “I hate the game,” he said, “with a passion.”

Kratzer waved the business card. “Okay if I send my invoice through you?” he asked.

“I guess so,” said Howard. “Can you give me an idea of how much it’ll be?”

Kratzer sighed. “I usually charge by the full day,” he said. “Twelve hundred.”

“Twelve hundred dollars a day!” said Howard.

“Plus expenses,” said Kratzer.

“Jesus Christ,” said Howard. He could only imagine what Jake Sheldon would say when he saw Kratzer’s invoice.

Kratzer looked at his watch. “Look, we’ve only been talking for half an hour, and I’m going to be claiming expenses from the Germans for most of today. I’ll invoice you for two hundred dollars, okay?”

“Sounds like a bargain,” said Howard, thankfully.

Joker slotted his Visa card into the automated teller machine and keyed in his PIN number. He took out $300, looking quickly over his shoulder to check that he wasn’t about to be mugged, and slipped the cash into his wallet. If ever he needed to begin a life of crime, Joker decided he’d start out by hanging around automated bank tellers with a knife. They were a mugger’s paradise. The machine spat out a receipt and Joker pocketed it. He had yet to be convinced of the value of the daily withdrawals from a security point of view. He could see how it would allow the Colonel to know where he was, but it wouldn’t help if he got into trouble. He wondered how long it had taken the SAS to realise that Manyon was missing. He wondered, too, what Mary Hennessy was doing to him as the men in Hereford scrutinised the bank records.

He walked to Filbin’s, his head down in thought. A black woman with a small child stood in front of him and held her hand out for money. Her eyes were blank and lifeless and the baby was snuffling and coughing. The woman looked as if she was in shock and was making small, rocking movements on the balls of her feet. Joker averted his eyes and stepped around her but was suddenly hit by guilt and he went back. He took ten dollars of the Colonel’s money and handed it to her. A skeletally thin hand took it and she mumbled thanks, but didn’t look at him. Joker had never in all his life seen so many street people or been asked for money so frequently. It seemed that he could barely walk a hundred yards down any New York street without being asked if he had any spare change. There were men with handwritten signs saying they were homeless, or dying of AIDS, women with sickly children, beggars with dogs, others just lying in doorways with hands extended, palms upward, like heart-attack victims. Joker shuddered.

Filbin’s was almost empty, midway between the lunchtime rush and the early evening clientele, and Shorty was the only barman on duty.

“How’s it going, Damien?” the barman asked. “Usual?” he added, before Joker could reply. Joker nodded and Shorty placed a double Grouse in front of him. “Any joy?”

Joker shook his head. “Couple of places said they might have something next week, but nothing definite. Cheers.” He raised the glass, saluted the barman, and drank half the whisky. He’d told Shorty that he was looking for work and the barman had taken a sympathetic interest in his search. He leaned across the bar conspiratorially, even though there were only two other customers present. “Look, Damien, I might be able to put a little work your way.”

“That’d be great, Shorty.”

The barman raised a hand. “I’m not promising, you understand, but we’re short-handed at the moment and one of our lads is going back to Ireland. I’ll have a word with the boss, if you like.”

“Would I?” said Joker. “Shorty, you’re a lifesaver. You know I haven’t got a social security number?”

“Don’t let that worry yez,” said Shorty with a Puckish grin. “Half the lads who drink in here are in the States illegally. You’ll be paid in cash, under the table. No names, no pack drill, know what I mean?”

Joker nodded and finished his whisky. He pushed the empty glass across the bar and Shorty refilled it. “There is one thing, though, Damien. You’re going to have to cut back on your intake while yer working, okay?”

Joker grinned and raised his glass to the diminutive barman. “Sure, Shorty. Whatever you say.”

Kelly Armstrong flashed her FBI credentials at the young woman behind the reception desk. The name on the badge pinned above the woman’s right breast said Tracey.

“Are you Tracey Harrison?” asked Kelly.

“Yes, miss,” said Tracey eagerly. “You’re the lady from the FBI I spoke to yesterday?”

“That’s right. Is there somewhere we can talk?”

“Sure. Just let me get someone to cover for me.” She disappeared through a door and returned a few moments later with a middle-aged man whom Kelly took an instant dislike to. He looked her up and down with an expression she’d seen a thousand times before and knew that he was wondering how someone with her looks could be working for the FBI.

“You’re a Fed?” he asked, his gaze hovering around her breasts.

“Special Agent Armstrong,” she said, holding out the ID.

“Never seen a Fed like you before,” he said, looking at her legs.

“I’m sure,” she said, tartly. “I’d like a few moments with Miss Harrison, please.”

“It’s nothing I can help with?” he said. “I’m her superior.”

Kelly wanted to laugh in his face because superior was the last description that came to mind: he had a flabby body, pale, flaccid skin and greasy, slicked-back hair and he reminded her of the Italian baker who was always trying to pat her on the butt when she was six years old. Before she could reply, Tracey spoke up. “It’s about the cars I rented, Wally.”

Wally could barely conceal his disappointment. “Maybe I should sit in on it,” he said.

“That won’t be necessary,” said Kelly. “Can we speak in private, Miss Harrison?”

As Kelly followed Tracey out of the reception area she had to walk by Wally and for an awful moment she flashed back to the sweet aroma of freshly-baked loaves and cakes and the floury smell of the Italian’s thick forearms as he twiddled the ends of his moustache and waited for her mother to look the other way before trying to touch her. Kelly looked at Wally, her eyes blazing, and he took an involuntary half-step backwards. Kelly smiled. “Thank you, Wally,” she said. “We won’t be long.”

The office was light and airy with a window which overlooked the car park. The two women sat down and Kelly opened her briefcase and took out a notebook. “The forensic people were here this morning?” she asked.

“That’s right,” said Tracey. “They’ve left it a mess, too. Will they come back and clean it? Everything is covered in that white powder they use for fingerprints.”

“I think you should leave it as it is for a while,” said Kelly, “we might need it for evidence.”

“Yeah, that’s what the men said, but they couldn’t tell me how long it would be.”

“I’m sorry,” said Kelly. “But I can tell you that we really appreciate your help.” She took out a big white envelope and slid out the computer-enhanced photographs which Cole Howard had given her. “Can you look at these for me, see if you recognise anyone?”

Tracey went through the pictures one at a time. She looked up, frowning. “They seem a little out of focus,” she said. “Can’t you make them any clearer?”

Kelly laughed. “Tracey, you wouldn’t believe how much time and trouble we’ve gone to in order to get to this stage,” she said. “I’m afraid that’s the best we can do.”

Tracey handed back the pictures of the woman. “It certainly wasn’t her, it was two guys I saw.” Then she passed over the photographs of the bigger man. “He’s too big, they were normal build, and younger.” She studied the three photographs left which were all of the man who had been standing next to the woman. “Yeah, this could be one of them. His hair was more red than this, though.”

“That could be because of the enhancement process,” said Kelly. “What about the shape of his face, his build?”

“I think so, yes,” said Tracey. “I mean, I can’t say for certain, but I’m reasonably sure.”

“Was this the one with the accent?”

“That’s right. Justin Davies.”

“Scottish, you said. Or Australian.”

“Well, I’ve been thinking about that since you called. I’m really not sure what sort of accent it was, you know? They all sound the same.”

Kelly nodded. “I know exactly what you mean,” she said. “You know the accent is different, but you’re not sure how.”

“That’s right, absolutely,” agreed Tracey.

“I thought of a way that might help,” said Kelly, taking a tape-recorder out of her briefcase. “I’ve brought along some recordings of different accents, and I’d like you to listen to them.”

Bonnie Kim was waiting for Howard in the reception area of the FBI’s Washington research centre and she took him along to her laboratory where her husband was hard at work on one of her computers.

“Cole, good to see you again,” said Andy, pumping the FBI agent’s arm in a hearty handshake.

“I didn’t realise you were working here,” said Howard, sitting down on one of the stools in front of the workbench.

“We thought it best,” explained Bonnie. “In view of what the video shows, we felt it should stay on FBI property.”

“My professor said he was quite happy for me to work here for a while,” added Andy.

“Did you tell him what you were working on?” asked Howard.

“Only that the FBI had an application for my computer modelling. I told him that it was classified at the moment but that I should be able to get a paper out of it in the not-too-distant future.”

“Good,” said Howard. “How’s it going?”

Andy pushed his spectacles up his nose. “I’ve almost finished the sniping model,” he said. Bonnie stood behind him and put a hand on his shoulder.

“He hasn’t left the lab in two days,” she said.

Andy smiled and shrugged. “The hardest part was the measurements,” he said. “That laser measuring device you got from the Highways Department was a godsend.” His hands moved across the keyboard. For the first time Howard noticed how small and delicate they were. The computer monitor cleared and three yellow dots appeared, each about the size of a dime. “These are the snipers,” Andy explained. “To get the complete image on the screen I’m using a scale of about three hundred feet per inch.” He punched more keys and four blue circles appeared in a row on the far right of the screen. “These are the targets,” he said. “For the purposes of the model I’m assuming it’s the figure second from the right which is the assigned target. They’re so close together that over the distances we’re looking at it won’t make much difference which of them it is. Okay?”

“Sounds fine to me, Andy.” Howard watched as thin white lines joined the yellow circles to the blue circles. “Again, I’m making another assumption here and that’s that the bullets go straight from the rifles to the target. You probably know that that’s not actually the case and that they follow a parabolic path, but for what we’re doing that doesn’t make any difference. There you have it.” Andy sat back from the screen while Howard looked at the geometrical shape formed by the seven circles and three lines. Andy smiled and flicked his unkempt hair from his eyes. “It doesn’t look much different from what I did for you on my micro at home, does it?” he said.

“That’s just what I was thinking,” said Howard.

“You’ve got to remember that it’s not the shapes and colours that are important — it’s the distances and the angles. What you’re seeing here is an accurate representation of what went down in the desert.”

It sounded to Howard as if the mathematician was trying to justify all the hard work he’d put into the project, so he smiled reassuringly. “I understand, Andy. So where do we go from here?”

“Now we have to input the locations where you think the target might be, using the same scale. Actually, that’s not so important because we can change the scale pretty easily once it’s in the computer’s memory. For an example I’ve done the White House and the area around it.” He took a floppy disc and slotted it into one of the disc drives. The computer made a growling noise as the information was transferred to the main hard disc. “Okay, so this is my representation of the White House,” said Andy, his fingers stabbing at the keys. A small line-drawing of the President’s home appeared on the screen, surrounded by lawns. “Now, I’ll reduce that to the same scale as we used for the snipers, and bring in the roads and buildings within a two thousand yard range.” The image changed and as it shrank in size it seemed more realistic. It looked like an architect’s drawing, and Howard appreciated how much work had gone into it. He understood why Andy hadn’t gone home in two days.

“Okay, now I’ll superimpose the model of the snipers on the White House,” said Andy. “I’ll put the four figures in the Oval Office, but I can tell you now it doesn’t make any difference. You’ll see why in a minute.”

He hit more keys and the circles and lines appeared over the line-drawings. Andy turned away from the screen. “See, no matter how we rotate the snipers around the White House, at no point do all of them coincide with buildings in the vicinity. I can say for a fact that they weren’t practising to shoot the President in the White House.”

Howard watched the circles and lines slowly pivot around the building. Only once per revolution did one of the small yellow dots intersect with a building, and when it did the two others were suspended in space. “Andy, this is terrific,” said Howard. “Really terrific.” He leant forward and studied the screen. It would work, he realised. It would actually work. “How long did it take you to input the buildings?”

Andy took off his spectacles and rubbed his eyes while Bonnie stood behind him and gently massaged his shoulders. “That’s the sticking point,” he said. “It took me twenty-four hours of solid programming.” He saw Howard’s face fall and held up his hands. “I know, I know, we don’t have the time. I’m working on a way to speed it up, using a scanner, so that the computer can take in the maps and floor plans itself and reduce them to scale.”

“What about getting them directly from the city’s Zoning and Planning Department? Won’t they have their own records computerised?”

Andy slapped his forehead. “Of course!” he said. “Why didn’t I think of that?” He looked at his watch. “I’ll get onto it right now.”

“Use my name, and if there are any problems tell them to check with Jake Sheldon’s office in Phoenix,” said Howard.

“Wait a minute,” said Bonnie, “which cities do we concentrate on?”

“Good point,” said Howard. “Washington is obviously the place to start. I’ll get in touch with the Secret Service and see if I can get some sort of itinerary.”

Bonnie stroked the back of Andy’s neck. “But first you must go home and sleep,” she said.

He shook her off. “No, this is too important. I’ve got work to do. I’ll sleep tonight, once I’ve spoken to City Hall.”

Matthew Bailey put his feet up on the chair opposite his own and sipped at his Budweiser as he watched a boat disgorge a group of scuba divers onto the quay. The divers were a mixed group: half a dozen young men with military haircuts, a handful of Oriental tourists with underwater video cameras, a middle-aged couple with matching wetsuits, two pot-bellied balding guys who seemed to be instructors, and a stunning blonde girl who wore a bikini several sizes too small and who was not exactly oblivious to the lustful looks she was attracting.

“Prick-teaser,” he whispered to himself, though his thoughts were on Mary Hennessy and not the blonde on the boat. He put his glass down on the white circular table and ran his finger slowly around the rim. On the quay below, the divers were washing their gear in a large black plastic tank of water. As the blonde bent over, her breasts almost sprang free of her bikini top. “Bitch,” murmured Bailey. He ran the back of his arm over his forehead and wiped the sweat from his brow. It was in the low nineties and his white skin didn’t take kindly to the sun. He hadn’t wanted to leave Mary Hennessy but she had been insistent and Bailey found it difficult to oppose her in anything. He’d done as she’d said and headed for Orlando, even visited Disneyworld, but had soon grown bored.

He’d hired a car using another of the licences supplied through the IRA’s New York contacts and headed south, driving through Miami to the Florida Keys, the line of tiny islands hanging from the tip of Florida like a string of pearls. He’d booked into the Marina del Mar Hotel in Key Largo, the largest of the islands and the one closest to the mainland, and spent his days at Gilligan’s Bar, drinking and brooding. There had been something different about Mary when they’d met at the airport, something in the way she’d smiled at him and touched his hand. Bailey had lusted after her for months, but she’d always kept the relationship on a purely business level. However, in the cafeteria he’d felt for the first time that there was the possibility of something sexual between them. Bailey felt himself grow harder under the table and he closed his eyes and squeezed his thighs together as he remembered the way she’d swung her hips as she’d left his table. God, she had the greatest figure: long, shapely legs, tight buttocks, a trim waist and breasts that he ached to touch. He opened his eyes again and saw the blonde leaning over to pick up a weight belt and dip it into the water tank. Her breasts swayed forward and from his vantage point on the balcony Bailey could see her nipples. The girl looked up suddenly and saw Bailey watching her. She smiled, and leant forward further to give him an even better view. Bailey grinned and raised his glass to her. “Prick-teaser,” he mouthed, knowing that she wouldn’t be able to read his lips from down on the quay. She averted her eyes, pulled the weight belt clear of the water and began to pick up the rest of her gear. One of the instructors rushed to help her.

The blonde must have been about half Mary’s age, but she didn’t come close to her in desirability, Bailey realised. All the girl had in her favour was a young body whereas Mary had experience, confidence, and a natural sexuality that turned heads wherever she went. The instructor placed a proprietary hand on the blonde’s shoulder and her laughter wafted up to the balcony. Bailey drained his glass and a waitress in white shorts and halter top appeared at his shoulder and asked if he wanted another. Bailey shook his head. Three of the weak American beers were more than enough.

Bailey walked back to his room, feeling rivulets of sweat trickle down his back under his cotton shirt. When he opened the door to his room, cold air billowed out and chilled his perspiration. He’d left the air-conditioner switched on, knowing that if he didn’t it would be like returning to an oven. He closed the door behind him and drew the blinds. He put his sunglasses on top of the television set and stood at the end of the double bed, closing his eyes as he breathed in the chilled air. Images of Mary Hennessy filled his head: her soft brown eyes which glistened when she laughed, her tanned, muscular legs, her fine, shining hair, now dyed blonde, her pert nose and perfect white teeth. And her firm, inviting breasts. Bailey arched his back and ran his hands down the front of his shorts. He could feel how hard he’d become and he gripped himself. He shuddered and dropped down onto the bed, pulling down his zipper as he whispered Mary’s name to himself, over and over again.

Cole Howard read the book Kratzer had given him on the flight back to Phoenix. The lack of emotion when the sniper described the kills was chilling. Howard had never had to draw his FBI weapon in anger, and despite all his training he knew that when the time came for him to fire his gun his mind would be in turmoil. He’d seen the damage bullets could do to human flesh, and the emotional problems suffered by agents who’d had to pull the trigger. Howard knew that he didn’t have what it took to be a sniper, he cared about people too much. A sniper had to be cold and mechanical. A killing machine.

The cab dropped Howard in front of the nondescript brick building which housed the FBI’s offices. There was no indication from the outside that the building housed the bureau and other federal agencies. Howard paid the fare and got out of the cab. He looked up at the tinted-glass windows. Reflections of clouds scudded across the dark glass. An unshaven man in a stained T-shirt was sitting on the porch of one of the ramshackle wooden houses opposite. He scratched his expanding stomach and drank beer from a bottle before wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. Howard’s throat was dry and he massaged his neck.

When he got back to his office there was a message on his desk asking him to go up and see Jake Sheldon. He found Kelly Armstrong already in with the director, her legs neatly crossed showing shapely calves and expensive high heels. She flashed him a condescending smile and then turned back to Sheldon.

“Take a seat,” said Sheldon, waving Howard to the chair next to Kelly. Kelly moved her chair sideways as Howard sat down as if distancing herself from him. “Kelly was just filling me in on your progress,” Sheldon continued. Howard smiled tightly. The computer-enhanced pictures were spread out across Sheldon’s desk.

“The young one, the one without the radio, used the name Justin Davies on a credit card and driving licence when he booked a rental car,” said Kelly. “His prints were in the car and on the rental agreement he signed. We’re running the prints through our files now. The other credit card and licence were in the name of Peter Arnold but there were no prints on his rental agreement, or his car. His was the car that had been cleaned.”

“And we can definitely place those cars at the scene?” Howard asked.

Kelly nodded. “Forensics had made casts of the tyre tracks they found close to what was left of the towers and we have a match with the rental cars.”

Howard nodded thoughtfully, barely managing to conceal his annoyance. Kelly should have reported to him before briefing Sheldon. “Were the car hire people able to identify any of the photographs?” he asked.

“No, the pictures from the video were too blurred to be of any real help,” Kelly said.

Sheldon turned to Howard. “Did you have any luck with your sniping expert?”

Howard nodded. “It looks as if we’re dealing with military-trained snipers. And I’ve a possible identification of two rifles involved.”

“How will that help?” asked Sheldon.

“Snipers have favourite weapons, it seems,” said Howard. “And one of the rifles, a Barrett it’s called, is quite unusual. I’ve got the name of a SEAL sniper who is an expert with that weapon. I’m planning to approach all the armed forces for any snipers not accounted for.”

“It’s a pity we can’t do more with the photographs,” said Sheldon. “From what Kelly tells me, even the improved ones your father-in-law has supplied aren’t clear enough to make a positive identification.”

“He tells me his researchers should have something more for me sometime this week,” said Howard. “We’re also tracking down the credit cards used to hire the car, right, Kelly?”

“Already in hand,” said Kelly. “The Justin Davies credit card was used to buy a one-way ticket to Los Angeles on US Air and for a number of purchases since. We’re concentrating the search in California.”

Howard gave them a rundown on his meeting with Andy Kim and Sheldon agreed to contact the Washington office and request that as many computer programmers as possible be seconded to the laboratory. “We’re going to need more manpower here in Phoenix, too,” he added. “I’m going to get McGrath to help Kelly out on the credit card side,” Sheldon said to Howard. “Do you need any help?”

Howard thought for a moment, then shook his head. “I can handle it,” he said. “Though I’d like to make contact myself with the Secret Service’s White House office.”

Sheldon agreed. “Let me speak to them first,” he said. “The Secret Service is always a bit touchy where protocol is concerned. I’ll get someone to call you.” He leant back in his chair. “Right, let’s get to it.” He smiled warmly at the two agents, though Howard had the distinct impression that it was meant more for Kelly than for him.

Joker pulled the metal tab on a can of Guinness and sipped the dark brew as he watched the game. Gaelic football took the most aggressive aspects of soccer, rugby and all-in wrestling and was played as much for the physical contact as for the score. The lunchtime matches in the park in the Bronx were a magnet for New York’s Irish community, and for those native New Yorkers who appreciated the finer points of grown men knocking the shit out of each other. It was a warm day and Joker had unbuttoned his pea jacket. Birds were singing in the tree branches overhead and he’d actually seen people smiling in the street as if they realised that summer wasn’t too far away. Joker walked over to a wooden bench and sat down next to a man in a blue anorak who was reading a newspaper. The man looked up as if defending his territory and Joker smiled and raised his can. “Do yer mind if I sit here?” he asked. The man shook his head and went back to his paper. Joker concentrated on the game. Most of the shouts he heard, from the players and from the spectators, were Irish, and he saw several bottles of Irish whiskey being handed around.

Joker wasn’t due behind the bar at Filbin’s until three o’clock and so he’d decided to leave Manhattan and cross to the Bronx. It was a pleasant enough borough in places and in some ways it reminded him of Glasgow, struggling to outgrow an image of deprivation and poverty which it no longer deserved. He’d spent most of his teenage years in Glasgow, and learnt to love it despite its rough edges, but it seemed that whenever he talked about the city to those who had never been there, the talk always turned to the Gorbals and the razor gangs. Joker had grown tired of explaining that the decaying tenement blocks of the Gorbals had long been torn down and that the bad guys in Glasgow now carried automatic weapons like bad guys everywhere.

Joker took a mouthful of Guinness and swallowed slowly, enjoying the taste and feel of the thick, malty brew. Joker had read that pregnant mothers used to be given a half pint of the Irish stout when they were in British hospitals, it was so full of vitamins and goodness. As he drank he looked over at the paper his neighbour was reading. It was the Belfast Telegraph. Joker began reading the headlines and the man looked up, an angry frown on his face. Joker looked away. He stood up and walked around the pitch, scanning faces and listening to accents, trying to pick up any information which would give him a lead to Matthew Bailey’s whereabouts. He recognised two men from Filbin’s; he didn’t know their names but the tall one with a black, bushy beard and thick eyebrows drank vodka and tonic, the other, red-faced with a paunch that drooped over his belt, preferred Guinness with an occasional malt whisky. One of them waved him over and he joined them. They both knew him by name and they chatted like old drinking buddies. Joker had another can of Guinness in his coat pocket and he offered it to them. The Guinness drinker accepted with a mock bow while the other bemoaned Joker for not carrying vodka and tonic with him. “What sort of fockin’ barman are yez anyway?” he laughed.

Joker confessed that he’d forgotten their names and they introduced themselves: the Guinness drinker was Tom, the other was Billy. As it always did when strangers from Belfast met, the conversation soon turned to the basics: where you went to school, where you lived, and who your family were. The answers to the three questions identified your religion, your politics, and your social standing, and woe betide the Protestant who supplied the wrong answers to a gathering of Catholics, and vice versa. Joker’s cover story was as ingrained as his real childhood, and he had no trouble convincing the two men that he was a working-class Catholic who’d left Belfast for Glasgow while still a teenager.

“What brings you to New York?” Billy asked.

“I was being paid under the table for the past couple of years, and the taxman got on my case,” said Joker, watching the teams run back onto the pitch. “Thought I’d lie low for a while.”

“Aye, it’s in a terrible state, the British economy,” said Tom, wiping white froth from his lips with the back of his hand. “Mind you, it’s not so great here. Yer wuz lucky getting the job at the bar, right enough.”

“Yeah, that was a break,” Joker agreed. “Friend of mine called me some time back, saying it was a good pub to hang out in.” He took a long pull at his Guinness and kept his eyes on the pitch as the game restarted. “Maybe you know him. Matthew Bailey.”

Both men shook their heads. “Can’t say the name rings a bell,” said Tom.

Billy leant forward conspiratorially. “Was he one of the boys?” he asked. He moved back and held up a hand. “Not that I’m prying, yez understand. It’s just that sometimes we have visitors who are a mite flexible about their names and origins, if yez get my drift.”

“Aye, I know what yer mean,” said Joker. “Better forget I asked. The telephone number he gave me has been disconnected, so I guess he’s moved on.” He stayed drinking and chatting with the two men until two-thirty, then wished them well and headed back to Manhattan. On the way to Filbin’s he used his Visa card in an automatic teller machine, withdrawing another $300 and slipping it into his wallet.

Cole Howard’s phone rang. “Agent Howard?” asked a crisp authoritative voice.

“Speaking,” said Howard. He had the photographs of the snipers spread out on his desk in front of him.

“My name’s Bob Sanger, I’m head of the Secret Service’s Intelligence Division. I’ve just been speaking to your boss; he said we should make contact.”

“Sounds good to me,” said Howard. “Where are you?”

Howard heard Sanger snort as if suppressing a laugh. “At the moment I’m about thirty thousand feet above San Bernardino en route to Andrews Air Force Base,” he said. Howard was surprised. The line was perfectly clear as if the call had been placed from the next room. “Can you get to the airport by ten-thirty?”

“Andrews?” said Howard, confused. He heard the snort again.

“No, Sky Harbour International,” he said, referring to the main international airport in Phoenix.

Howard looked at his wristwatch. It was just after 10 a.m. “Sure,” he said. He’d been assuming that he’d have to fly out to Washington to meet with the Secret Service representative. The opportunity of seeing him in Phoenix was a bonus.

“Come along to the General Aviation terminal, ask for me there,” said Sanger.

“Which plane will you be on?” Howard asked, reaching for a pen.

Sanger made the soft snorting sound again. “Don’t worry, Agent Howard,” he said. “You’ll have no trouble finding us.”

The line went dead, leaving Howard wondering what the Secret Service man had meant. He collected his car from the office parking lot and drove quickly to the airport, parking in front of the General Aviation terminal. As the electronic doors hissed open to allow him into the terminal building, he saw a line of airport workers and passengers standing in front of the large picture window which overlooked the tarmac. As he walked up to them he realised with a jolt what they were looking at. Standing alone was a majestic Jumbo Jet, resplendent in a blue and white livery with the gold and black presidential seal on its belly. Air Force One. The spectators stood in silence, awed by the glistening symbol of Presidential authority. The plane was in pristine condition as if it had just rolled off the Boeing assembly line. Howard stood behind two baggage handlers and watched as a team of overalled workers busied themselves refuelling the jet. They were being supervised by two men in dark suits wearing sunglasses and carrying walkie-talkies.

Howard frowned as he studied the plane. The President had no official visit scheduled for Phoenix that he knew of, and the FBI would have been informed as a matter of course. He headed for the doors which led to the tarmac. His way was barred by two more Secret Service agents, wearing matching sunglasses and black suits. Howard identified himself before reaching slowly into his jacket to pull out his ID. Both agents tensed and the one on the right, the younger of the two, began to move his hand towards his waist. Howard smiled and slowed his movements, opening the wallet and showing his FBI credentials.

The older agent carefully checked the ID. “Are you carrying, sir?” he asked. Howard shook his head. The agents relaxed and stepped to the side. The younger pushed open the door for Howard, his face unsmiling.

“Bob Sanger’s waiting for you on board, sir,” said the older agent. “Have a nice day.”

As Howard walked across the tarmac to the gleaming jet, he heard the younger agent talking into his walkie-talkie. There were half a dozen agents standing at various points around the plane and several looked at Howard as if they were checking him out. They had earpieces from which wires disappeared into the collars of their jackets. A gust of wind blew the back of one agent’s jacket up around his waist and Howard caught a glimpse of a machine pistol in a nylon holster in the small of his back. Even Howard, an eight-year veteran of the FBI, felt nervous under the scrutiny of the stone-faced men in dark suits.

The giant plane epitomised the power and the glory of the United States of America, both in its sheer size and its technological superiority, and it pulled at his insides the way the National Anthem and the raising of the Stars and Stripes always did. It was more than patriotism, more than pride, it was an instinctive reaction that he couldn’t have controlled if he’d wanted to. He felt as if he should salute the plane, or bow his head in reverence.

A flight of stairs led up to the main hatch and another Secret Service man stood at the bottom, a walkie-talkie in his hand. He motioned for Howard to go up the steps. They seemed to go on for ever and Howard began to truly appreciate the immense size of the plane. Yet another agent waited at the top of the stairs and he led Howard down a corridor to a large meeting room with eight white leather seats surrounding a boat-shaped mahogany table. A man in his mid-forties was sitting in one of the high-backed chairs, a walkie-talkie and a computer printout on the table in front of him. Unlike the rest of the Secret Service agents, he wore a pair of delicate pince-nez eyeglasses and had hung his jacket over the back of his chair. As Howard entered the room the man looked over the top of his glasses like a college professor disturbed in the middle of correcting papers. He smiled and removed the spectacles. “Agent Howard?” he asked. Howard nodded and the man stood up and shook his hand, introducing himself as Bob Sanger. He waved Howard to one of the empty seats as the agent closed the door, leaving the two men alone.

“Is the President here?” Howard asked, his voice almost a whisper.

Sanger smiled and shook his head. “No, he’s on the back-up plane today. This is SAM 28000, it’s been in for repairs to one of the communication systems, so the President has been using SAM 29000 for the last few weeks. They’re identical, though. In fact, right now the President is probably sitting in the duplicate of my chair.”

Howard looked around the plush room. “I can’t believe I’m having a meeting on Air Force One.”

Sanger sat back in his chair. “Strictly speaking, it’s only Air Force One when the President is on board. At the moment this is just a Boeing 747-200B with a presidential paint job. The President is due to visit Los Angeles in a couple of weeks and we’ve been putting the security teams there through their paces. As you can imagine, we’re still nervous about LA, after what happened in 1992.”

Howard nodded. He looked out of one of the windows and saw the refuelling teams move away from the plane. One of the men in overalls waved goodbye to a Secret Service agent but he was ignored. Several of the agents walked up the stairs to the plane, talking into their radios.

“We’re dropping into Dallas for a threat assessment meeting with the head of security there, and then we’re onto Washington,” Sanger continued. He saw the look of alarm flash across Howard’s face. “Don’t worry, Agent Howard, you’re not coming with us. The pilot’s under instructions to hold until you leave the plane. Do you want a coffee?” Howard shook his head. “Okay,” continued Sanger, “let’s get down to business. Jake tells me you think there’s going to be an attack on the President.”

“He told you about the video?”

“He did. Do you have it with you?”

Howard took it out of his jacket pocket and held it out to Sanger. The Secret Service man pointed to a television console and VCR and Howard went over to it and slotted in the cassette. Sanger removed his glasses and the two men watched the video in silence. When it had finished Sanger began polishing his glasses with a white linen handkerchief. “Have you identified the snipers yet?”

“No, but we think they are military-trained. Navy SEALs, maybe.”

Sanger raised his eyebrows. “What makes you think that?”

“The types of weapons they’re using, and the distances involved.”

Sanger nodded. “Okay, I’ll run through our quarterlies for you, to see if we’ve any military snipers.”

“Quarterlies?” said Howard.

“We keep a close eye on anyone who has ever threatened the President; it’s our equivalent of your Most Wanted List, but it’s a lot longer. We’ve about five hundred names on it at the moment, and our agents visit them every three months. That’s why we call them quarterlies. We’ve a watch list too, with approaching ten thousand names on it, but they’re not visited on such a regular basis. What we do is cross-check the names on the lists with hotel registers and company payrolls in the areas where the President is due to visit. If we get a match, we interview them and if necessary remove them for the duration of the visit. We’ll check the watch list for your snipers, too, of course, but to be honest they’re generally all talk. It’s the quarterlies we worry about.”

“I doubt if the men we’re looking for would have written threatening letters,” said Howard. “They seemed too professional for that.”

“I agree,” said Sanger, “but until you give us a name or a photo to go on, there isn’t much else we can do.”

“We’re working on better pictures of the snipers,” continued Howard. “We’ve some computer experts trying to digitally enhance the video.” Howard leant forward. “There is another reason I wanted to make contact with you. We might have a way of identifying where the snipers plan to carry out their hit.” He briefly explained Andy Kim’s scheme as Sanger continued to polish his spectacles.

Sanger appeared impressed. “That’s one hell of an idea,” he said. “Our computer boys might want to take a look at his program.”

“I’m sure he’d be more than happy to show them,” said Howard. “He’s very keen to help. What he needs now is the President’s itinerary for the next few months. We already have his official functions, but we need a more detailed itinerary: every appointment, every route, even the private functions. If Andy can program them into his computer model, he can see if there are any scenarios which match the rehearsal.”

Sanger put his glasses back on and looked at Howard over the top of the lenses. “How secure is this Mr Kim?” he asked.

“He’s a mathematics PhD at Georgetown University. His wife works for us as a computer researcher. Andy Kim is okay.”

“He’d better be,” said Sanger. “We wouldn’t want the President’s itinerary getting into the wrong hands, would we?”

Howard smiled. “I’ll take the responsibility,” he said.

Sanger also smiled, but there was little warmth in it. “I’m glad to hear that, but responsibility isn’t the issue. The President’s safety is. Who else but Kim is involved?”

“His wife. And we’re seconding four or five of our programmers to work with him. The itinerary won’t leave our labs, all the work will be done there.”

“The lab is in Washington?” asked Sanger. Howard nodded. “I’ve a suggestion,” continued Sanger. “Why don’t Kim and the programmers move over to our offices in the White House? We’ve all the computing power they could need. I presume all his programs can be put on disc and brought over?”

“I suppose so,” said Howard. “That could work.”

“Good,” said Sanger. “That’s agreed, then. Anything else I can help you with?”

“I have a question,” said Howard.

“Shoot,” said Sanger. He grinned. “If you’ll forgive the pun.”

“Are you planning to beef up security?”

“Because of what happened in Arizona? The straight answer is no. Not because we don’t take the threat seriously, but because the President is already the most protected man on this planet. Every city he goes to is swept clear of potential trouble-makers before he even sets foot there, no-one gets near him without being checked by one of our agents. We have helicopters overhead, we have our men on the ground, and we have an intelligence network second to none.”

Howard listened to the Sanger lecture, but all he could think of was the attempted assassination of Ronald Reagan when he was President, shot by a boy for no other reason than to impress a Hollywood actress, despite being surrounded by the men in black sunglasses. He felt that Sanger was being too dismissive of the snipers, but knew that he still didn’t have enough information to press the panic button.

“You know how many death threats the President of the United States receives each month?” Sanger asked. Howard shook his head. “It never amounts to fewer than three figures,” said the Secret Service chief. “Some are written, some are phoned in, some actually walk into the White House and start shouting. We investigate them all, but we don’t pull the President out of the public eye each time there’s a threat. He’d never attend a public function if we did.”

“But this is different,” said Howard, “this is being planned like a military operation.”

“That’s true. But you can’t yet say when or where they’re going to strike. And from what Jake told me, you’re not even sure that the President is the target. Am I right?” Reluctantly, Howard agreed. Sanger sensed Howard’s reluctance and he leaned forward. “Only a madman would think it worth killing the President,” he said. “There is nothing to gain — the Vice-President’s policies wouldn’t differ one iota from the policies of the incumbent. This is not a JFK situation.”

“And a madman wouldn’t be able to plan an operation of this complexity; is that what you’re saying?”

“That’s it exactly. The sort of assassination attempts we’ve seen in recent years have all been the lone madman type, either attention-seekers or psychopaths. There have been no organised assassination attempts, no conspiracies. That’s the reason for my scepticism. Who would want to kill the President? The Russians are our allies now, even Castro is looking to build bridges. The Iraqis, the Iranians, all our old enemies are keen to start trading with us again. No, I believe a major hit is being planned, but I don’t think for one minute that the President is the target.” He held up his hands. “I’m not saying I won’t offer you every facility; I’d be a fool if I refused to help. But unless you give something harder, I won’t be cancelling any of his appearances.”

“That’s understood,” said Howard. He knew that the Secret Service man was right. Crying wolf wouldn’t help anyone’s long-term career prospects.

“Having said that, if your computer model does indeed match any of the Presidential venues, well, that’s a whole new ball game. Look, I’ll be in DC tonight, call my office tomorrow and we’ll arrange for Kim and your programmers to come over. The sooner we get started, the better.”

Sanger stood up and held out his hand. The two men shook. “Do you smoke?” Sanger asked. Howard said he didn’t but Sanger handed over two packets of cigarettes and a book of matches, each with a large Presidential seal on them. “Take these anyway,” he said, “souvenirs of Air Force One.”

As Howard stepped off the stairway and onto the tarmac the men in black suits were walking back from the terminal, looking at their watches and whispering into their walkie-talkies. The huge jet engines began to whine and by the time he was starting his car the 747 was rolling majestically down the taxiway.

The two men sat in the darkened room, watching the television monitor. The picture was black and white, though the image was being recorded in colour. On the table next to the video-recorder were two large reel-to-reel tape-recorders, the tapes hissing slightly as they passed over the recording heads. One of the men, tall and thin with sandy hair and a sallow complexion, was lounging in a deck chair and holding a pair of headphones in his lap, while the other, overweight with slicked-back black hair, stood behind the camcorder on its tripod and looked down its long lens, through the Venetian blinds at the street below.

Everything was automatic, all the men had to do was to replace the videotape every eight hours and to change the audio tapes every ninety minutes. Most of the time there was only one man in the room, but it was just before three o’clock in the afternoon, the time when they changed shifts, and Don Clutesi, the man at the window, had decided to stay on for a few minutes to chat with Frank Sullivan.

The camcorder was trained on the bar across the street from the apartment block they were in, and had been for the last three months. The electronic eavesdropping devices were a recent addition: one had been inserted into the telephone by the men’s room, the other was inside a power socket behind the bar. Both had been installed by FBI technicians after they’d engineered a power blackout of the whole block one Friday afternoon.

Sullivan took off the headphones. “That’s the new guy,” he said, looking at the monitor. Clutesi squinted at the figure walking along the sidewalk, his shoulders hunched and his hands thrust deep into the pockets of his sailor’s pea jacket. “His name’s O’Brien, Damien O’Brien.”

“Irish?” asked Clutesi.

“British passport, but born in Belfast. We’re running the details through our London liaison office.”

“Green card?”

“No, tourist. He came in through JFK on March 17 and INS gave him a six-month B2 visa. He shouldn’t be working.”

Clutesi chuckled. “Was he expected?”

“Apparently not. He visited the bar a few times as a customer and then Shorty hired him as a barman.”

“And we’ve nothing on him?”

“Not as Damien O’Brien, that’s for sure. And we haven’t got a match with any photographs yet. We’re trying to get a new face from the Academy to go in and get a glass for prints, but it’s taking time to arrange.”

Clutesi nodded. “Yeah, but those Paddies can smell a Fed a mile off. We need a youngster, someone fresh. We can’t rush it.” He watched as the man in the pea jacket pushed open the door and went inside, then turned round to face his colleague. “What do you think?”

Sullivan shrugged. “Could be on the lam from the Brits. We’ll know soon enough.” He slid the headphones back on and leaned back in the deck-chair.

“I’m going,” Clutesi mouthed, pointing at the door. “See you tomorrow.” Sullivan gave him a thumbs-up. He was listening to Shorty tell a particularly dirty story about two Protestant farmers and a sheep.

Andy Kim drove the red Cherokee Laredo up to the barrier and wound down his window. “I can’t believe this, I really can’t believe this,” he said to his wife.

“I know, I have to keep pinching myself,” Bonnie whispered. She giggled, but stopped abruptly when a guard appeared at Andy’s window, a clipboard in his hand.

“Andy Kim and Bonnie Kim,” said Andy, before the guard could speak. “We’re expected. We’re supposed to go to the West Wing.”

Bonnie leaned over and showed her FBI credentials to the unsmiling guard. He nodded and consulted his clipboard and then waved to a colleague to raise the barrier. “Park in bay 56, someone will meet you there,” he said brusquely and handed them both temporary visitor badges.

Andy nudged the vehicle down the driveway and wound up the window. “Friendly,” he said to Bonnie.

“They’re not paid to be friendly, I suppose,” she replied.

They both looked to the left as they headed slowly down the driveway. The White House gleamed in the afternoon sun as if it had been freshly painted. The grass surrounding the building seemed unnaturally green, like Astroturf, though the operating sprinklers suggested that it was the genuine article. “My parents brought me here as a kid, just after they got citizenship,” said Andy. “We queued for two hours in August, so they could see the house where the President lived. ‘Our President’ they kept saying, as if he was their personal representative. They were so proud that they could finally call themselves Americans.” He saw the bay where they were to park and he edged the car between a convertible white Saab and a black Lincoln. “We were herded through the public rooms like sheep, they barely gave us time to see anything because of the lines outside.” He switched off the engine and looked across at his wife. “They’d have been so proud of what we’re doing now. Actually working at the White House, helping the President.”

Bonnie wanted to take her husband in her arms and squeeze him. His parents had died in a car crash shortly before his seventeenth birthday and she knew that the thing he missed more than anything was not having them there to see how successful he was becoming and how all their financial sacrifices had paid off. He wanted so badly for them to be proud of him, but the drunken driver at the wheel of the overloaded truck had robbed him of that. “They’d have been proud,” she said, reaching over to hold his hand.

“I hope so,” he said. He held her gaze for a moment and then winked. “Come on, let’s get to it.”

They climbed out of the four-wheel drive vehicle and Andy began pulling the cardboard boxes off the back seat. They’d brought several hard disks, Bonnie’s CD and back-up copies of all the programs they’d been using. As Andy stacked the boxes on the asphalt, a thin young man with a military hair cut and pockmarked cheeks, wearing a blue blazer and grey slacks, walked up. He introduced himself as Rick Palmer, a former Army programmer on attachment to the White House, and he helped them carry the boxes. He’d spoken earlier to the Kims to ensure that there would be no equipment compatibility problems, but this was the first time they’d met. He took them through a side entrance, past a uniformed guard who scrutinised their badges. “I’ll have personal IDs fixed up for you by this evening,” Palmer promised as he took them to the sub-ground level of the West Wing. They walked by signs identifying the White House Communications Centre and the Situation Room. Palmer pushed open a door with his shoulder and led the Kims into a white-walled office. “This is home,” he said, placing the boxes he’d been carrying onto one of the four desks in the room. Each of the desks had an IBM computer and a telephone. “It was part of the secretarial pool but Bob Sanger had it requisitioned for you. Well, for us, actually, I’ll be working with you.”

“Great,” said Andy.

“We’ve another five programmers coming,” said Bonnie. “We’ll have to bring in more desks. And terminals.”

“Let me know what you need,” said Palmer. “These terminals are hooked into our mainframe, I’ll take you along to see it later. I think you’ll be impressed.” He rubbed his hands and nodded at the CD which Bonnie was unpacking. “Okay, let’s see what you’ve got.”

Cole Howard flew from Phoenix to San Diego and drove a rental car south to Coronado. It was warm and sunny and he had the windows down as he drove along Highway 75. The buildings which housed the Naval Amphibious Base were south of the town. Across from the base were more buildings and as Howard drew closer he could see an obstacle course made up of various log structures like half-finished mountain cabins, and beyond it a long ribbon-like stretch of beach. A group of men in white T-shirts and shorts were running along the beach with what appeared to be a telephone pole held above their heads.

The rating who checked Howard’s credentials at the gate looked to be about sixteen years old, tall and gawky with a bad case of acne. He cross-checked Howard’s name with a list of approved visitors and directed him to the visitors’ car park.

Rich Lovell’s former squad leader was a big man, well over six feet and built like a heavyweight boxer. When he shook hands with Howard, the FBI agent felt like a child being gripped by an adult. The features on his egg-shaped head all seemed larger than life: big blue eyes, a wide forehead and thick lips which covered gleaming, chunky teeth. His name was Sam Tucker and he spoke with a slow, Texas drawl. He was wearing immaculately pressed khakis and a dress blouse with his single bar ensign tabs on his collar. He took Howard through to a cramped office and waved him to a chair.

“I mentioned you were coming to my XO, and he said he’d like to be present, Agent Howard.”

“XO?” said Howard.

“Executive officer,” explained Tucker. “Lieutenant Walsh. I said I’d call him when you arrived.”

“Sure, that’s fine by me,” said Howard.

The ensign picked up the phone and called the lieutenant. After saying “Aye-aye, sir” crisply a few times he replaced the receiver and stood up. “XO said you might appreciate an orientation tour, and then he’d like to see us in his office.”

Howard nodded. He told Tucker that he knew little about the work of the Navy SEALs and he’d appreciate the background. They decided to use Howard’s car and they drove out of the base and across Highway 75 to a cluster of concrete buildings which Tucker said housed the SEAL training centre. They parked and Tucker led the FBI agent to the Phil. H. Bucklew Centre for Naval Special Warfare and into the main hall. Tucker waved at a collection of photographs on the walls. “These are all the classes that have graduated from Coronado,” he explained. “You’ve chosen a good time to visit. We’re halfway through Hell Week.”

“Hell Week?”

“Yeah, the first phase of SEAL training is a seven-week conditioning programme — mainly running and swimming. The fourth week is where we push them to their limits — we call it Hell Week. If they get through Hell Week, they’ve a good chance of making it. By the end of Hell Week, two out of three have dropped out.”

Howard’s jaw dropped. “That’s one hell of a cut,” he said.

“It’s worse than that,” said Tucker, grinning. “Only one in five actually graduates from the full twenty-six-week course. We only take the best of the best. You can easily spot the ones who have still to pass Hell Week — they’re wearing white T-shirts. Once they’re through Hell Week they wear green.”

The two men walked through to a central courtyard of asphalt. “We call this the Grinder,” said Tucker; “it’s where we do our drills.” He took Howard over to a brass bell which was fixed to a post. “All the men are volunteers,” he said. “Any time they want to drop out, all they have to do is ring this bell.”

“How tough is the training?” Howard asked.

“By the end of the first phase we’ve worked them up to running four miles in under thirty-two minutes, swimming a mile in the bay without fins in seventy minutes, a two-mile ocean swim with fins in ninety-five minutes, and they can swim fifty yards underwater. We keep them going twelve hours a day. The academic work is tough, too, we teach them first aid, reconnaissance and lifesaving.”

“I saw some men running with a telephone pole on the beach.”

“That’s right, we do a lot of log work. It builds team spirit. Same with the IBS, we make them take the IBS with them wherever they go.”

“IBS?”

“Inflatable boat, small,” said Tucker. “It weighs almost 300 pounds and is twelve feet long. The men have to carry it wherever they go and make sure it’s not damaged or deflated. Teamwork’s probably more important in the SEALs than any other branch of the services. Your life can often depend on the man next to you. One mistake when you’re a hundred feet underwater in a war zone and you’re dead.”

“Rich Lovell, was he a good team player?” Howard asked.

Tucker shaded his eyes with one of his big, square hands. “XO said we should wait until we get to his office before we discuss the reason for your visit, sir,” he said.

Howard nodded and realised it wasn’t worth pressing the ensign. “There’s another SEAL base in Virginia, right?”

“That’s right, at Little Creek. SEAL Teams One, Three and Five are here, Two, Four and Eight are at Little Creek.”

“With SEAL Team Six?”

“The Mob, you mean,” smiled Tucker. “They’re a law unto themselves. Even their manning levels are classified. They train separately, and they report directly to the Secretary of Defence and the White House.”

“Counter-terrorism, right?”

“That’s it, and other dirty work. They were originally taken from SEAL Two, but now it’s only their admin which is at Little Creek. They spend a lot of time playing with Delta Force. You interested in Six?”

Howard shrugged. “Just curious. You read about them occasionally, I just wondered what they were like.”

“Mad bastards, most of them,” said Tucker. “You wouldn’t want your sister to marry one.”

“I’ll remember that,” said Howard. “What’s the operational set-up here?”

The ensign headed towards the tallest building in the compound. “The basic unit is a platoon, twelve enlisted men and two officers. A platoon has two squads of six men each with an officer. I’m a squad leader. Each SEAL Team has fourteen platoons, plus a headquarters platoon.”

They reached the building and Tucker led Howard inside. “This is our dive tower, which allows us to train our divers down to a depth of fifty feet,” the ensign explained. They watched a group of SEALs practising swimming up from the bottom without their tanks. “Our motto is ‘The only easy day was yesterday’ and that’s the truth,” said Tucker. “It was the hardest six weeks of my life, believe me.” Tucker looked at his watch. “XO’ll be waiting. We’d better go.”

They drove back to the camp and Tucker led the way down a battleship-grey corridor to the executive officer’s office, which was several times larger than Tucker’s own, and considerably tidier. Walsh was in full naval uniform, with not a speck of lint on the dark blue material. He was a complete contrast to the squad leader, about five feet nine with swarthy skin, dark, hooded eyes and a clipped New York accent. He seemed eager to help, and sat back in his chair with his fingers steepled under his chin as Howard explained that he was trying to track down Rich Lovell. As he talked, Tucker stood with his back to the wall, almost at attention.

“Can you tell me what the FBI’s interest in Lovell is?” asked Walsh.

“At this stage we’re just making preliminary inquiries,” said Howard.

“Which is as polite a way of stonewalling as I’ve heard,” said Walsh, with a smile. “Anyway, as Ensign Tucker has already told you, Lovell left SEAL Team Three some eighteen months ago.”

“How long was he with the SEALs?”

“Twelve years.”

“On what basis did he leave?”

“I don’t follow you,” said Walsh.

“Honourable discharge?”

“Ah, I see what you mean,” said Walsh. “The decision to leave was his; can I put it that way?”

“Which is as polite a way of stonewalling as I’ve heard,” said Howard.

Walsh laughed, and Tucker smiled. “Touche,” said Walsh. He fingered a class ring as he studied the FBI agent. “Seaman Lovell left with an honourable discharge, but we didn’t try to dissuade him from leaving. You know that he was a sniper?” Howard nodded. “Lovell was trained in all aspects of SEAL work: underwater demolition, parachuting, reconnaissance, the works. But his speciality was sniping. He was the best sniper in the SEALs. He served with distinction in Operation Desert Storm, but he found it harder to function efficiently in peace-time.”

Howard nodded. “There wouldn’t be much use for his skills, I suppose,” he said.

“That’s the case with all our men,” said Walsh. “Ensign Tucker gave you the tour, right?”

Howard nodded.

“We give them the most testing training exercises you can imagine,” Walsh continued. “We keep them at the peak of their abilities, but we can’t give them the real thing. It’s not like the British SAS, they can keep their skills sharpened by taking on the IRA. The Germans have the Red Army Faction and what’s left of the Baader-Meinhof gang, the French have to deal with Basque terrorists, the Italians have the Red Brigade. We don’t have home-grown terrorists, during peace-time our men are like Formula One racing cars with the engine running and nowhere to go.”

“And Lovell couldn’t cope with it?”

“Ensign Tucker can brief you on that better than I,” said Walsh. “I’ve only been with SEAL Three for eighteen months.” Walsh looked over at the ensign, who nodded curtly.

“In my opinion, he was finding it progressively more difficult to cope,” said Tucker. “Snipers are a breed apart. It’s like no other form of warfare. Killing in the heat of battle isn’t difficult, Agent Howard. The body’s self-defence mechanism takes over and you kill without thinking. It’s kill or be killed. It’s easy to stab a man in the stomach if he’s coming at you with a knife. But a sniper kills from a distance, he’s usually in no danger himself, yet he gets to see the victim close up. The sniper looks through his scope and sees the eyes of his victim. You have to be a special sort of man to kill like that and to stay sane. Seaman Lovell, like all of our snipers, underwent regular psychiatric evaluation, and it became clear from them that he was no longer performing effectively. That’s not to say he wasn’t as accurate or as effective a sniper. He was. If anything, he was getting better.”

“So what was wrong?”

Tucker sucked air in through clenched teeth. “I think he missed it.”

“Combat?”

Tucker shook his head. “The killing. Combat we could offer, even if it was make-believe, but we couldn’t allow him to kill.”

“But how was that a problem?” asked Howard.

Tucker smiled tightly. “Shooting targets wasn’t enough for him any more,” said the ensign. “He’d developed a taste for hunting humans. He kept talking about it, describing kills he’d made, relishing the details.”

“War stories?”

“More than war stories, much more,” said Tucker. “He was becoming obsessive. Don’t take it from me, take a look at the psychiatric reports.”

Howard looked across at the lieutenant. “Can that be arranged?”

“I’ll have the BUPERS file sent to you,” said Walsh.

“BUPERS?” Howard felt that he was constantly having to ask the SEALs to explain their jargon. Like most groups, they used a verbal shorthand to exclude outsiders. He understood, and didn’t object, because that was exactly the way FBI agents and cops operated.

“Sorry, it stands for Bureau of Personnel. Their file should have everything you want.”

“What sort of operations was he involved in? You mentioned Desert Storm?”

Tucker took a step forward. “Lovell was in one of two platoons of East Coast SEALs who were sent into Kuwait prior to the invasion by the Allied Forces. He recorded twenty-eight confirmed hits, but much of the time he was working alone and so many went unrecorded. He claims to have killed more than fifty, most of them high-ranking Iraqi officers.”

“What weapon did he use?”

“Barrett Model 82,” said Tucker.

“Was it after Desert Storm that he began to have psychological problems?”

Tucker looked uneasy. “I think it would be safer to say that Desert Storm opened a door for him, and he didn’t want to close it. It was the first time he’d actually killed a man with his rifle.”

“And he enjoyed it?”

“I don’t think enjoy is the right word. It was a challenge, a way of testing himself. And after the Gulf War, he no longer felt his abilities were being tested to the full. On his return to California he made several requests to be transferred to Seal Team Six. He was refused. There isn’t much love lost between SEALs on the West Coast and those on the East Coast. That’s when the psychiatrists began to express concern about him continuing on active service.”

“Was he especially close to anyone in the SEAL unit? Someone I could talk to?”

“His dive buddy was Lou Schoelen, another sniper,” said Tucker.

“Can I see him?”

“He quit, about two months after Lovell left.”

Howard wrote the name down in his notebook. “Can I see his BUPERS file, too?” he asked Walsh.

“Of course,” said the Lieutenant. “There’s no indication that the two resignations were connected, though.”

“You said he was a sniper. Did he also use the Barrett?”

Walsh looked at Tucker, who shook his head. “No, Schoelen preferred a Horstkamp.”

Howard’s ears pricked up at the mention of the rifle type. “What sort of man is Schoelen?” he asked.

“A bit of a loose cannon,” said Tucker, “but a damn good SEAL. The only real blot on his record was his phone-hacking. He was originally trained in electronics by the Navy and he used his specialist knowledge to abuse the phone system. The phone company caught him selling little black boxes which let you dial around the world for the cost of a local call and they wanted to prosecute. We managed to persuade them to let us handle it internally.” He grinned. “He suffered on the Grinder, believe me.”

“Is there anyone else Lovell was close to?”

“Not really,” said Tucker. “They were both pretty much lone wolves. Like I told you earlier, normally we stress teamwork in the SEAL units, but snipers are always loners. It goes with the territory.”

“How good a sniper was Lovell?”

Tucker shrugged. “He was the best I’ve ever seen. He can consistently hit a target at two thousand yards with his Barrett. Probably further, it’s just that it’s harder to find ranges beyond that distance. He claimed to have taken out an Iraqi colonel at more than three thousand yards in the desert. There were no witnesses, though.”

“Three thousand yards?” said Walsh. “I never heard that. That’s damn near two miles. No sniper can make a two-mile shot.”

“That’s what he said, sir,” said Tucker. “And he rarely exaggerated.”

“Was Schoelen as good a sniper as Lovell?”

“Almost. I mean, he’s a world-class marksman, but Lovell is something else.”

Howard took the photograph of the sniper with the Barrett rifle from his pocket and handed it to Walsh. “I know the quality isn’t very good, but is this Lovell?”

Walsh held the picture at arm’s length and slowly brought it closer to his face. He squinted his eyes, frowned, and shrugged. “That could be anyone, Agent Howard,” he said.

“Yeah, I’m sorry, it was taken from a long distance away and we’ve had to blow it up.”

Walsh handed the picture to the ensign. “Is the face in shadow or is that a beard?” Tucker asked.

“We think it’s a beard,” said Howard.

“Lovell didn’t have a beard, not while he was here. We don’t allow facial hair, it gets in the way of the mask. But he could have grown it after he left, of course.” He narrowed his eyes as he scrutinised the photograph. “I can tell you one thing, that’s definitely a Barrett in his hands. There’s no mistaking its profile.”

“Yeah, that’s what put me on to him,” said Howard. “I showed it to another sniper who recognised it and said that it was Lovell’s favourite weapon.” Howard rubbed his chin. “This might sound a crazy question, but I don’t suppose he took his rifle with him, did he?”

The two SEALs laughed. “I hardly think so,” said Walsh.

“Out of the question,” agreed Tucker, “but you can buy them through most firearms dealers.”

“Do you have any idea what he’s doing now?” Both men shook their heads. “Do you think he might be selling his skills?”

“What, you mean as a mercenary?” asked Walsh.

“Yeah, that sort of thing.”

Walsh and Tucker looked at each other, then back to the FBI agent. “It’s possible,” said Walsh.

“Would he be concerned about the nature of the target?”

“I would say not,” said Walsh.

Howard looked at Tucker for confirmation. The ensign nodded in agreement. Howard paused, tapping his pen on his notebook. “This last question is hypothetical, and I wouldn’t want it repeated outside this room. But I have to know exactly what I’m up against, I have to know what Lovell is capable of.” Both men stared at Howard, waiting for him to finish. “If he was paid enough, would Rich Lovell shoot the President?”

“Jesus Christ,” whispered Tucker.

“Based on what I’ve read in his file, I would say it’s a possibility,” said the lieutenant.

“Oh yes,” said Tucker. “Definitely.”

Rich Lovell’s BUPERS file listed his last address as an apartment block on the outskirts of Coronado, a ten-minute drive from the SEALs training compound. Howard sat in his car, read through the file, and examined the photograph of Lovell. The former SEAL had an unnaturally thin face as if giant fingers had pinched his head at birth. He wasn’t surprised to find that Lovell no longer lived at the apartment. His knock on the door was answered by a teenage girl with dilated pupils and the spaced-out stare of an intravenous drug user. A Grateful Dead record was playing in the background. Realising that the girl would probably freeze if she knew that there was an FBI agent on her doorstep, Howard slipped his credentials back into his pocket and told her that he was an old friend of Lovell’s. In a slow, faraway voice she told him that Lovell had left a year ago, that she’d never met him and that mail had stopped arriving about six months earlier.

“Did he leave a forwarding address?” Howard asked. He heard a voice from within the apartment and a bearded man appeared at the girl’s shoulder. He also had blank eyes and smelled like he could do with a bath.

“Who are you?” he asked, sticking his head forward.

“He’s a friend of that guy who used to live here,” the girl explained.

“He looks like a cop,” said the man.

“A lot of people say that,” said Howard.

“Yeah, well he doesn’t live here any more,” the man said and moved to close the door.

Howard put his foot against the door and kept it wedged open. “Did he leave anything behind?”

“No,” said the girl.

“That’s a cop’s question,” said the man, pushing harder.

“If I was a cop, I’d be in there with a warrant,” said Howard, coldly. “And if you don’t stop behaving like an asshole I’ll make sure they do pay you a visit.” The man mumbled something incoherent and moved away. Howard smiled at the girl. “Who’s your landlord?”

“Why?” she asked, frowning.

“I just want to know if the landlord has a forwarding address, that’s all.”

The furrows on the girl’s brow deepened as if she was having trouble understanding him, then she nodded. She left the doorway and disappeared back into the apartment. Howard slowly pushed the door open with his foot. The apartment was a mess, with clothes strewn across the furniture and dirty plates and fast-food cartons piled high on a table. The bearded man was sprawled on a sofa, one arm across his face as if shielding his eyes from what little sunlight fought its way through the grimy windows. The girl returned with a piece of paper torn from a notebook on which she’d scrawled a number. She thrust it at him and closed the door.

According to the BUPERS file on Lou Schoelen, Lovell’s diving buddy lived with his parents in a section of Coronado best described as belonging to poor white trash. The house was a single-storey building which was badly in need of repainting. A rusting Ford pick-up was standing in the driveway, its tailgate held closed with string. The untidy lawn, which was parched and turning brown in places, was surrounded by a chain-link fence. On the fence was a large, handwritten sign warning ‘Beware of the Dog’. Howard slowed his car as he drove by and a large Rottweiler sitting on the grass stared at him. Howard decided not to go knocking on the door, instead he drove to a telephone booth and called the number in the BUPERS file. An old woman answered and Howard guessed it was Schoelen’s mother. Her accent was Germanic and she spoke slowly as if she had trouble forming sentences. Howard told her he was an old friend from the Navy and Lou had always insisted that he drop by if ever he passed through Coronado. The woman was apologetic and said that her son was working in California and that she wasn’t expecting him back for at least three months. Howard asked if she had a number for him but she said he was moving around. When she asked for his name, Howard pretended not to hear her and hung up. He had several more quarters so he called Lovell’s former landlord from the public phone. He wasn’t surprised to find that Lovell hadn’t given a forwarding address.

Before catching the plane back to Phoenix, Howard telephoned the office to tell Kelly about Lovell and Schoelen and to give her the names and account numbers of the banks into which the Navy had paid their monthly salary cheques. He doubted that the two men would have been foolish enough to continue using the accounts, but he couldn’t afford not to check. It was surprising how often it was the little things which ended up with a name being crossed off the bureau’s Ten Most Wanted list.

“Bad news about the Peter Arnold and Justin Davies credit cards,” she said.

“What’s the problem?” asked Howard.

“I asked for a breakdown of the purchases and they’ve just arrived. Gold jewellery, television sets, video-recorders, stereo equipment. Not the sort of things that a terrorist would buy.”

“But exactly the sort of shopping list a homeboy with a stolen card would have,” said Howard.

“Just what I was thinking,” she said. “Sheldon says we should just pull them in.”

“I agree,” said Howard. He told her when he’d be back in the office and hung up. He ran a hand through his hair, mentally cursing Kelly Armstrong. It seemed that every time he left the office she took the opportunity to go running to see Jake Sheldon. She was one hell of an ambitious woman and Howard had the feeling she didn’t care overmuch who she had to step over to get to the top.

He made one final call — to his wife. She wasn’t at home and so he left a message on the answering machine telling her which flight he’d be on and that she wasn’t to worry, his car was at the airport and he’d drive himself home.

Mr Oh handed the old woman a receipt and wished her a good day. As she carried the Nintendo game system out of the shop, Mr Oh saw the two black youths standing at the window, looking in. They were pointing at a portable CD player, the latest Panasonic. They were wearing brand new black leather jackets and expensive Reeboks and had lots of gold chains and bracelets. They looked too young to be pimps, thought Mr Oh. More likely they were drug dealers. He sighed and waited for them to decide if they were going to buy or not. Mr Oh didn’t like his customers much, even though he depended on them for his livelihood. He didn’t have enough capital to open a store in the more prosperous areas of Los Angeles so until he could amass enough savings he was restricted to the black areas to the east of the city. Premises were relatively cheap, though security was a problem. Mr Oh had been robbed at gunpoint twice, and now he kept a small automatic taped under the counter.

His wife sat behind another counter at the far side of the shop reading a Korean newspaper. She glanced up at the two teenagers as they walked into the shop and then she returned to her newspaper.

“How can I help you?” asked Mr Oh.

One of the teenagers nodded towards the window. “Yeah, we wanna see the boom box in the window, the one with the CD player.”

“It’s $649,” said Mr Oh.

The teenager thrust his chin forward. “We’ve got money,” he said. Mr Oh went to the window display. “These fucking Koreans, they’ve got a real attitude,” said one of the boys.

“Yeah, you don’t get no respect, that’s for sure,” said the other.

Mr Oh snorted. He wanted to tell them that respect was something that had to be earned, and that it was hard to respect people who did nothing more productive than hang around on street corners, sell drugs and shoot each other. Mr Oh hated East Los Angeles with a vengeance. His shop had been looted during the 1992 riots and he had given serious thought to moving to the East Coast, where race relations weren’t as heated as they were in LA. If his eldest daughter hadn’t been in her second year of law school the family would have probably moved. Eventually he had decided to stay put, to refurbish the shop and restock it, but he had never got over the bitterness and resentment. The people who came to his store had to be tolerated, that was all. He carried the CD player over to them and put it down in front of them. “This latest model, very good,” he said.

“Yeah, right,” said one of the teenagers.

“We’ll take it,” said the other, handing over an American Express card.

Mr Oh took the plastic card over to his cash register and swiped it through his card reader. As he waited for confirmation that the card was good he looked at a special bulletin of names and numbers by the side of the register. His eyes widened when he saw the name Justin Davies. He checked the number on the card and it matched. His palms began to sweat. He pressed the cancel button on the card reader and called his wife over. The teenagers looked across at him.

“There a problem, man?” one asked.

“No, no problem,” said Mr Oh. “Machine slow today, that’s all.” He spoke to his wife rapidly in Korean, asking her to handle the transaction while he phoned the police from the back office. Mrs Oh smiled at the men as she swiped the card a second time.

The Colonel’s private line buzzed and he picked it up, motioning to the bulky sergeant that he could go. He waited for the soldier to close the door behind him before speaking. The man on the end of the line didn’t identify himself, and neither did the Colonel.

“Our friends in the Big Apple have been asking questions about Damien O’Brien,” said the voice.

“Nothing worrying, I hope?” said the Colonel.

“Seems routine,” said the voice. “Surveillance pictures, passport details courtesy of INS, and a set of prints, taken off a Budweiser bottle of all things. General request for information with a copy to the RUC and a request that we cross-check with CRO.”

“It’s good to see them on the ball,” said the Colonel. “When will they get their reply?”

“Thought we’d sit on it for a day or two. Pressure of work, you know.”

“They’ll understand, they’ve had their own cutbacks to deal with.”

“Sign of the times,” said the voice. “Thought you’d appreciate the call, anyway.”

“Absolutely,” said the Colonel. “Hopefully that’ll be the end of their interest.”

“I would hope so,” agreed the voice. “I’ll keep in touch.”

The line went dead and the Colonel replaced his receiver, a tight smile on his face. So far, so good.

The phone on the bedside table rang, startling Cole Howard awake. He grabbed at the receiver but before he could reach it, Lisa answered it on one of the downstairs extensions. Howard squinted at the clock-radio. It was seven-thirty. He rubbed his eyes and groaned. Lisa had a golf game at eight o’clock and as usual she’d slipped silently out of bed without wakening him.

He heard her walk down the wooden-floored hallway and stop at the bottom of the stairs. “Cole!” she called. “It’s Daddy!”

Howard picked up the receiver. “Good morning, Ted,” he said.

“Still in bed?” asked Clayton. Theodore Clayton made it a point of principle to be at his desk before anyone else in his company. He claimed it was because he could get more work done in the early hours, but Howard suspected it was because it gave him the opportunity to go through his employees’ offices.

“Late night,” lied Howard. “What’s up?”

“My computer guys have something they’d like to show you. Seems they’ve made something of a breakthrough using one of their programs.”

Howard sat up and ran a hand through his messed hair. “Great. Where do I go?”

“Come to our labs. I’ll arrange for your clearance, just tell the gate you want to go to the Image Processing and Research Labs, they’ll tell you where to go. Ask for Jody Wyman.”

Howard repeated the name. “This morning?” he asked.

“If you can make it,” said Clayton. “Cole,” he said, his voice almost hesitant. “When you meet Wyman, don’t be put off by the way he looks, okay? You have to make allowances for his appearance and his attitude. He’s a creative type, right?”

“Right,” said Howard, intrigued. An hour later he was walking down a white-walled corridor which seemed to be pulsating from the sound of a Led Zeppelin track being played at full blast. Clipped to his breast pocket was a visitor’s pass which gave him access to the section where Wyman worked and nowhere else. Sensors embedded in each door detected a magnetic coding on the pass and it had been explained to him that all sorts of alarms would ring if he tried to pass through a door without it or if he entered an unauthorised area.

He found a door with a plastic plate with two names on it: Jody Wyman, PhD, and Bill McDowall, PhD. The pulsating beat was coming from behind the door, and Howard knocked hard. The door swung open and the music billowed out, along with the distinctive sweet smell of marijuana. Howard saw two men standing with their backs to him, rocking their heads backwards and forwards and strumming imaginary guitars. Their laboratory was almost a carbon copy of the one Bonnie Kim worked in, though it seemed to have more equipment. Like Bonnie Kim’s it had no windows.

Howard stepped into the laboratory and closed the door. The two men failed to notice him. Their whole bodies were rocking in time with the music. They began a synchronised side-step and then as one they turned round, eyes closed, fingers strumming, mouths open, hair flying. A joint was smouldering in a glass ashtray next to a laser printer. The track came to an end and the two men opened their eyes, looks of rapture on their faces. They appeared to be in their twenties but looked like refugees from the hippy era: sweatshirts, Levis which had faded at the knees, and leather sandals. Both had several days’ growth of beard.

Their eyes widened as they realised they weren’t alone in the lab. One of them began to speak but before he could say anything the next track began and Howard couldn’t hear him. The other man rushed over to a CD player and switched it off. “Sorry,” he mumbled. “We gotta have a Led Zep injection or we can’t get any work done.”

“It’s sort of like brain flossing,” said his colleague. He squinted at Howard. “Er, who are you?”

“Cole Howard,” said Howard. He waited a beat. “Of the FBI.”

The guy who’d switched off the CD player looked guiltily at the ashtray. The other man stepped forward, his hand extended. Howard noticed he was wearing a mood ring. He hadn’t seen one since the Sixties. It was green, but Howard couldn’t remember what that signified. “I’m Wyman,” the man said. “How’s it going?”

As they shook hands, Howard saw the other man frantically stub out the joint and toss it into a wastepaper bin. “This is Bill McDowall,” said Wyman. “He’s been helping me with the video.”

Howard shook hands with McDowall, whose hands were hot and sweaty. “It’s a pleasure,” said Howard, holding McDowall’s gaze just long enough so that he’d know that it wasn’t too bright an idea to be smoking pot when expecting a visit from the FBI.

“You want a Bud?” asked Wyman, opening the door to a refrigerator and taking out a can. When Howard refused, Wyman popped the can and took a sip.

“What about a coffee?” asked McDowall. “It’s from a machine, I’m afraid.”

“Coffee would be good. Cream, no sugar,” said Howard.

McDowall fumbled in his pocket then shrugged shamefacedly. “No change,” he said. Howard dug into his pockets and handed over some quarters. As McDowall wandered out into the corridor, Wyman pushed a chair in front of a computer terminal and motioned for him to sit.

“Clayton showed you the pictures we did already?” Wyman asked. Howard nodded. “I think you’re gonna be pleased with what we’ve done,” said Wyman. His fingers played across the keyboard. “We’ve left it all on the computer, it’ll only take us a minute to print out the pictures you want.” He switched on a large monitor and a picture flickered onto the screen. It was the middle-aged balding man who was holding the walkie-talkie. Howard’s face fell. The quality appeared no better than the photographs Clayton had given him.

“This was the stage we were at before the weekend,” said Wyman. Howard felt a wave of relief wash over him. “We went pretty much the same route as the guy you used.”

“Girl,” corrected Howard. “Bonnie Kim.”

“Okay. Well we did the neighbourhood averaging thing, but then we took it further by running a few pixel aggregation programs through the blurred areas. That gave us some more definition, but as you probably realised, the improvement was marginal at best.”

“Clayton said you’d compensated for the movement of the plane,” said Howard.

“Yeah, that was the main improvement; I’m surprised the Kim girl didn’t try it.”

“She was pushed for time,” said Howard. He felt a sudden urge to protect Bonnie Kim from the man’s snide comments. “You said you’d taken it further?”

Wyman brushed his hair behind his ears in a feminine gesture that was at odds with the facial hair and bitten nails. His fingers began pecking at keys. “We used a version of the Hough Transform, and the Fourier Transform. Did the Kim girl tell you about them? They detect relationships between pixels.”

“I’m not sure,” said Howard.

Wyman grinned. McDowall returned carrying a plastic cup of coffee. Howard took it. He noticed that it was black but didn’t say anything. McDowall leaned against a bench and watched Wyman stabbing at the keyboard.

The screen went blank and then the picture of the man with the walkie-talkie appeared, but this time it was as clear as if he’d been photographed from six feet away. Howard was stunned. “My God,” he breathed.

“Pretty good, huh?” said Wyman.

“How did you manage that?” whispered Howard, moving closer to the screen. The picture was as sharp as any he’d ever seen on a television. The man had black hair which was receding, and a thick, black moustache. If the FBI had the man on file, there would be no problems in obtaining a match and a positive identification.

“I told you he’d be impressed,” Wyman said to McDowall. He turned to look at the FBI agent. “I’m not surprised that your people didn’t know about this stuff — most of it is classified. We’ve been developing it for the military and it requires huge amounts of computing power. The program effectively analyses every single point on the picture and carries out several complicated calculations for it. We set it up on Friday and had it running over the weekend.”

“Don’t forget to tell him about the spatial-domain program,” said McDowall.

Wyman turned around in his seat, grinning. “You think he’d understand? Jeez, man, I barely understand it.” The two men sniggered like schoolchildren.

“We could explain about the spatial masks we generated from the frequency-domain specifications,” said McDowall. He giggled girlishly.

“Yeah, right,” laughed Wyman. Howard resented being the butt of their humour, but he knew he needed their specialist knowledge. “How many did you do?” asked Howard. He sipped his coffee and then pulled a face when he realised it had sugar in it.

“About a dozen,” said Wyman. “We picked out what we thought you’d want the most — the guys on the ground and the snipers. But if there’s anything else you want you can let us know and we’ll have it within a couple of days.” He pecked at more keys and the picture of the balding man was replaced by the young man with glasses. It was as sharp as the first image.

“Amazing,” said Howard, under his breath. Wyman went through the rest of the pictures he’d worked on: the woman, the snipers, the vehicles, the towers. All of them were perfectly in focus and the detail was phenomenal. He could clearly see a small, crescent-shaped scar on the cheek of one of the snipers. On the original video the sniper had been little more than a blur.

Wyman sat back in his chair, grinning proudly. “You should see some of the stuff we get,” he said. “They make your video look like a Hollywood movie.”

“Who else do you do this for?” Howard asked.

Wyman grinned. “Military, CIA, DEA, you name it, they all want what we’re developing,” he said. “They just don’t know it yet. We can pick a face out of a crowd at several thousand yards. We did some work for the LAPD after the riots. .”

“Yeah, but they wouldn’t let us near the Rodney King video,” interrupted McDowall, sniggering. “I never understood that.”

“Yeah, the video tape doesn’t lie,” sneered Wyman.

Howard frowned. The two computer experts were clearly on a different wavelength, possibly a different planet. “I don’t follow you,” he said.

The two men looked at each other as if deciding whether or not to let him in on a dirty secret. “What do you think, do you think he’d appreciate it?” asked Wyman.

McDowall shrugged. “He’s a Fed. He might tell.”

Wyman grinned. “We could delete the evidence. If a tree falls. .”

The two men laughed again. Eventually Wyman stopped giggling and waved Howard over to another terminal. “We shouldn’t be showing you this, but it might give you an idea of what video and computer imaging is capable of,” he said. “You’ll understand why you can’t believe the evidence of your own eyes any more. And why we think it’s so funny whenever anyone says that video can’t lie. Jesus, they go and watch The Terminator and accept that the special effects are computer-generated, then they see a news video and they automatically believe that it’s the truth. It’s yet to sink in that you can’t believe a photograph or video any more. They’re too easy to fake.”

“Yeah, what about the Caroline Perot pictures, remember them?” said McDowall. “Ross Perot pulled out of the presidential race in July 1992 after he heard that pictures of his daughter were being circulated. We were given them to analyse. They were fakes, but good. Really good work.” He grinned at Wyman. “So good that we had a pretty good idea where they came from.”

Wyman nodded. “Didn’t matter whether they were fake or not. Perot knew that the great unwashed just believe what they see, especially when it’s printed in the supermarket tabloids.” He pressed a few keys and a picture flickered onto the screen. There were two men on the screen, one in a dark blue suit, the other in a military uniform. The two men embraced and shook hands. It was George Bush and Saddam Hussein. Howard’s jaw dropped and he looked at Wyman.

“It gets better,” said Wyman.

Howard looked back to the screen. A woman in a dark blue shirt and jacket walked into the room and Howard immediately recognised Margaret Thatcher, the former British Prime Minister. She kissed the Iraqi dictator on the cheek, then all three stood facing the camera, smiling and nodding.

“It never happened,” said McDowall, walking up behind Howard and putting a hand on his shoulder. “But it sure looks like it did, doesn’t it?”

Howard shook his head thoughtfully. “That’s dangerous,” he said.

“In the wrong hands,” agreed Wyman.

“In any hands,” said Howard.

“It gets better,” said McDowall, nodding at the screen.

The scene changed from an office to a bedroom, and the three world figures were naked on a king-size bed. Howard grimaced and leaned over to switch off the visual display unit.

“So, Special Agent Howard, I guess you want prints of them all,” said Wyman. “The snipers, I mean. Unless you want a few prints of our little threesome. I could put you in there with them if you want.”

“The snipers and the people on the ground will do just fine,” said Howard.

“I can give you close-ups of the faces, if you want.”

“Sounds good,” said Howard. “I’d like duplicates, too.”

McDowall walked over to a large printer and switched it on while Wyman pounded on the keyboard. A few seconds later the printer made a humming noise as it processed the first print. Wyman crushed his empty beer can and threw it into the wastepaper bin. “So, what sort of music does an FBI Special Agent listen to?” he asked.

Mary Hennessy took a cab from Baltimore-Washington International Airport to the city. It was a hot day but the driver, a big black man wearing mirrored sunglasses, hadn’t turned the air-conditioning on. Instead he’d opened all the windows and the draught blew Mary’s blonde locks backwards and forwards across her face. It was a pleasant feeling and she closed her eyes and moved her head from side to side, letting the breeze play across her face.

“You Australian?” the driver asked over his shoulder.

“British,” she replied. She hated having to hide her Irish origins but knew it was necessary.

“Yeah? I can never tell the difference,” said the driver laconically, his elbow resting on the open window. There were three lanes of highway heading north to the city and all the traffic was sticking religiously to the 55 mph speed limit. There was none of the lane switching and aggression she associated with driving on European roads, everyone seemed quite content to cruise along in their own lane. “First time in Baltimore?” the driver asked. He didn’t pronounce the ‘t’ in the city’s name. Bawlmore.

“That’s right,” said Mary. She looked out of the window at the lush, almost tropical, vegetation which lined the side of the road. Years ago, in what almost felt like a past life, she’d gone on honeymoon to the Far East and had stopped off in Singapore for two days. The climate and the rigid adherence to the speed limit reminded her of the island republic.

“You here to see your man?”

Mary frowned. “My man?”

The driver laughed, a deep-throated rumble that vibrated through his body. “Yeah, your Prime Minister. He’s coming here in a week or so, didn’t you know?” He watched her in the driving mirror. Mary shook her head. “Yeah, he’s going to a Bird’s game,” he said. “Stopping off on the way to Washington, I guess.”

“What’s a Bird’s game?”

He laughed again. “The Orioles,” he explained. “They’re our baseball team, and Maryland’s state bird. We’re coming up to the ball park on our right.” Mary looked over to the right and saw the stadium looming up like a modern-day coliseum. “We had your queen here in 1990. She went to a Bird’s game in the old Memorial Stadium, north of the city. Don’t know if she enjoyed it much.” He laughed. “Your man’s going to throw the first pitch,” he continued.

“Really?” replied Mary.

“Uh-huh,” he grunted. “The President’s going to be there and everything.” He laughed throatily. “Last time the President was here he threw the first pitch — and they measured it at 39 mph. He never lived that down. I mean, there’s ladies’ softball teams with faster throws than that, know what I mean?”

“Yes,” said Mary, even though she only understood half of what the man was saying. The stadium was brick-built with huge arches that gave it a cathedral-like form. Overhead were huge banks of floodlights. The building looked brand new.

“Built in ninety-two,” said the driver as if reading her thoughts. “It’s a great ball park. You should go while you’re here in Baltimore.”

“I’ll certainly try,” said Mary.

Joker plumped up the pillow, shoved it against the top of his bed and sat with his back against it, his long legs stretched out towards the television. A woman with frosted hair and glasses with red frames was hosting a studio discussion about eating disorders. She was directing questions from her audience to three young women all of whom claimed to be suffering from anorexia nervosa, though to Joker they all looked to be in good shape. The questions were almost all accusatory in nature, along the lines of “Why the hell don’t you eat more?” It was the hostility from the distinctly overweight audience which surprised Joker. Generally he found Americans to be easy-going people, but there seemed to be something about food and eating which brought out the worst in them. A woman with elephantine legs and flabby arms stood up and the host stuck the microphone under one of her three chins. “I may not be thin, but I still feel good about myself,” the woman bellowed. “Being large is not something to be ashamed of.”

The audience whooped and clapped and the woman looked around, nodding her enormous head. Joker smiled to himself. The show abruptly changed into a commercial for a seven-day diet which promised dramatic weight loss or your money back. It was one of the ironies of the country, thought Joker, that some people consumed so much that they had to pay to lose weight, while in the inner cities children were dying because they weren’t inoculated against childhood illnesses and adults were begging in the streets.

He leaned across to the bedside table and poured more Famous Grouse into his tumbler. As he raised the glass to his lips he registered movement at the periphery of his vision and his hand jerked, sloshing whisky down his hand. It was a white cat at the window, standing with its back legs on the ledge outside and resting its paws on the glass. It was staring at Joker with emerald green eyes. The cat’s left ear was mangled and torn and its fur was matted and streaked with what looked like oil. Joker raised his glass to the cat and drank. He turned to watch a commercial for fat-free, cholesterol-free blue cheese salad dressing, but the cat began to pat its paws against the window to attract his attention. Joker went over to open the window. As soon as he raised the lower section of the window, the cat jumped onto the carpet and padded over to the bed. Joker stood and watched as the cat leapt up onto the bed covers and walked stiff-legged over to the table. It sniffed delicately at the alcohol, screwed up its nose and looked disapprovingly at Joker.

“It’s only whisky,” he said. The cat meowed. She was female, Joker decided. “No, I haven’t got any milk,” he said. The cat sprang off the bed, stalked around the room, popped its head around the bathroom door, sniffed, and then jumped onto the window ledge. She looked up at Joker, gave him another plaintive meow as if telling him to have milk next time, and then ran down the fire escape.

Joker settled down to concentrate on what he was to do next. He had no problems thinking while watching television. Most of his childhood had been spent in a two-bedroomed tenement flat with two younger brothers and an unemployed father, where the television was on eighteen hours a day and privacy was a luxury he rarely experienced. At seventeen he’d joined the Army and life in the barracks wasn’t much different from life at home, and before he’d left his teens he’d grown accustomed to concentrating, no matter what the distractions.

He’d now spent more than a week working behind the bar at Filbin’s, usually with Shorty, though he’d met two other part-time barmen, both of them teenagers from Belfast and, like Joker, working without the proper visas. There had been no sign of Matthew Bailey, though Joker had seen several faces he recognised from photographs in files he’d read before his last undercover operation in Northern Ireland. Two were IRA hit-men who’d done time in the H-blocks of Long Kesh, not for murder but for armed robbery, and the third was a bombmaker, a small, shrewish man in his thirties with a Hitler moustache who chainsmoked Benson amp; Hedges cigarettes. He was calling himself Freddie Glover but Joker knew him as Gary Madden, wanted in the UK for an explosion which had killed four Army bandsmen and injured another nine.

The men were clearly at home in the bar, where they were treated almost as folk heroes — heads turned whenever they entered, smiles and nods were exchanged as they moved to their regular table and throughout the evenings free drinks would be sent over, usually the gift of one of the construction workers. Joker had asked Shorty how long the men had been in New York. Shorty had just tapped the side of his nose knowingly and winked. “Careless talk costs lives,” he’d said and Joker hadn’t pressed it.

Joker had yet to meet the owner of Filbin’s. Though Shorty had hired him and paid his wages each evening in used dollar bills, the little man clearly wasn’t the owner because Joker had seen him surreptitiously pocket money from the till on several occasions. Shorty knew everyone in the bar by name, and from conversations they’d had Joker had learned that he had been a member of the Provisional IRA since his teens, moving to the States in the early eighties. He had been one of thousands of Irish granted US citizenship in 1991 and was the only barman who was working legally in Filbin’s. Joker had wanted to raise the subject of Matthew Bailey with him, but had been loath to tip his hand so soon. Shorty had a sharp mind and a quick wit, and Joker doubted that he’d give much away, especially about active IRA members. If anything, it was Shorty who was doing the probing, asking Joker about his past and testing his views as he cleaned glasses and served drinks. Joker had little trouble sticking to his cover and after the first few days Shorty’s conversations had become less probing and more friendly.

The bar was a centre for the IRA’s fund-raising in the city, with a small room at the back frequently used to sort and count cash, and Joker had seen several men come out of the room putting their wallets in their pockets as if they’d been collecting money. In one of few revelations, Shorty had told Joker that some IRA men on the run from the UK weren’t able to work and that they drew regular wages from the organisation’s funds. The bar also acted as an unofficial employment centre for the Irish community. Representatives of several construction companies would sit at tables, drinking Guinness and reading Irish newspapers, and there would be a constant stream of visitors, mainly young men, who after a few whispered words would leave with an address scrawled on a piece of paper. The construction companies always needed workers, and they paid in cash. When Joker had made it known that he’d worked as a bricklayer he’d been offered several jobs at a much higher rate of pay than he got from the bar. He’d turned down the offers, knowing that Filbin’s was a far better source of information about the IRA than laying bricks would be.

Joker used the remote control to flick through the channels on the television set: Gilligan’s Island, I Love Lucy, Charlie’s Angels, Mr Ed. Nothing but repeats and game shows, all of them punctuated by the same mind-numbing commercials. He picked up the tumbler of whisky and balanced it on his stomach. He was still none the wiser about Bailey’s whereabouts, and sooner or later he was going to have to intensify his search. So far he’d been ultra-careful about raising the man’s name, and on the few occasions he’d mentioned it outside the bar it had got him nowhere. Joker knew that if anyone knew where Bailey was, it would be the patrons of Filbin’s, but to raise the subject risked drawing attention to himself. So far he’d been accepted by the Irish community, but that could easily change. Once, late at night, he’d overheard some of the construction workers laughing about a ‘Sass-man’ who’d once tried to infiltrate the bar, and he guessed they were talking about Pete Manyon. By the time Joker had managed to get over to clear empty glasses from their table they’d changed the subject. It had given Joker the chills. It was easy to forget that many of the jovial patrons were active members of the IRA and had been responsible for the deaths of British soldiers and innocent civilians. Joker flicked through the television channels faster and faster, trying to think of some other way of achieving his objective which wouldn’t involve him putting his life on the line. He picked up the tumbler of whisky, but as he lifted it to his lips he caught sight of himself in the mirror over the dressing table. He winced as he realised how out of condition he was. There was no concealing his thickening waistline and the unhealthy pallor of his skin.

Joker switched the television off and put the glass on the bedside table before standing in front of the mirror. He didn’t look any better vertical. He sucked in his gut and pulled his shoulders back. A bit better, but not much. With a sigh that bordered on the mournful he sat down on the threadbare carpet and linked his fingers behind his neck. With his eyes on the whisky, he began a series of hard and fast sit-ups, grunting at the unfamiliar strain on his muscles.

Frank Sullivan shared an office with four other agents in FBI headquarters at Federal Plaza in Manhattan, though it was rare for more than one of them to be there at a time. Much of their work in the Counter-Terrorism (Europe) Division involved surveillance, either sitting in the back of parked vans or in darkened rooms, watching and waiting, or meeting informers in parks or cinemas. As a result paperwork tended to pile up and Sullivan had a stack of files as long as his arm to deal with.

He poured himself a cup of black coffee from the filter machine which he and his three colleagues had bought using their own money and set it down by the pile of files in his ‘in’ tray. Most of the files contained answers to queries he’d sent to the Royal Ulster Constabulary in Belfast, and they were contained in pale blue FBI file covers. Information from MI5, the British counter-espionage service, was always kept in manila folders, ever since one of their files had ended up in Belfast by mistake. The file had contained an MI5 case officer’s criticism of an RUC undercover operation and had caused no end of embarrassment. A flurry of memos and an FBI agent being posted to a two-man office in Fairbanks, Alaska, had been the result, along with an agreement that for ever more RUC and MI5 information would be clearly marked and kept apart. About half a dozen of the files on Sullivan’s desk were from MI5.

Traffic between the FBI, MI5 and the RUC had intensified in recent years as an increasing number of IRA activists had sought sanctuary in the United States. More than a dozen top-ranking IRA officials had been killed in the UK in the previous twenty-four months, some in accidents, others shot in the course of undercover operations, several had committed suicide, a few had been murdered, their assailants unknown. Rumours were rife of a shoot-to-kill operation, questions had been asked in the House of Commons and the Sunday Times’ Insight team had published several investigative articles suggesting that the SAS had been systematically wiping out the upper echelons of the terrorist organisation prior to the 1994 ceasefire. Nothing had been proved, however.

Up until 1992, it had been the Special Branch of the Metropolitan Police who had been responsible for keeping tabs on the IRA, as they had done since the nineteenth century when they were first formed to combat the Irish nationalists. Sullivan and his colleagues had always preferred dealing with Special Branch: unlike MI5 they were real policemen, men the FBI agents could identify with. MI5 were spies who had found themselves with a declining workload after the break-up of the Soviet Union, and most of them adopted a superior attitude when dealing with the Bureau. Sullivan had spent three months in London working in MI5’s Curzon Street offices alongside the British anti-terrorist specialists as part of a now-defunct exchange programme, and it had been a disheartening experience. He found the MI5 agents cold and distant, with a public-school humour that he’d never managed to comprehend. They’d appeared to be more interested in maintaining their own sense of superiority than sharing their expertise, and he’d returned to New York feeling that the whole experience had been a waste of time. The few personal contacts he’d made during his twelve-week attachment had been no help at all once he’d crossed the Atlantic, and requests for information from Curzon Street consistently took twice as long as similar communication with the RUC.

On several occasions MI5 had sent its own agents to the United States without telling the FBI, and relations between the two agencies were, at best, strained. Sullivan pulled the manila files from the stack and began to read them first. Two of the files contained telex requests for information on IRA activists the British had apparently lost track of. Sullivan smiled and slipped them into the bottom drawer of his desk. He’d get to them eventually, but they were low on his list of priorities.

Of the remaining four files, one was MI5’s reply to his request for information on Damien O’Brien, the new face working as a barman in Filbin’s. Sullivan took a mouthful of hot coffee and opened the file. All it contained was a telex from Curzon Street saying that MI5 had no record of a Damien O’Brien with the date of birth supplied, though there was a seventy-two-year-old Damien J. O’Brien currently living in Dublin who was an active IRA member in the late Fifties but who was now considered to be retired. O’Brien’s passport was genuine and the fingerprints which the FBI had sent did not match those of any IRA members. The rest of the telex concerned the file held on Damien O’Brien by Criminal Records Office and detailed his two convictions for drunk and disorderly behaviour, both of which had resulted in fines, and a three-month spell in a Glasgow jail for assault. The fingerprints on the bottle of Budweiser matched those of the Damien O’Brien who had spent three months in prison. Sullivan closed the file and dropped it into his ‘out’ tray. O’Brien seemed to be genuine: a barman with a drink problem who was working illegally in New York. He made a note on the file cover to review the man again in three months. If he’d kept his nose clean and hadn’t made contact with any of the IRA regulars, he’d inform INS and have the man deported for working illegally on a tourist visa. Meanwhile, Sullivan had bigger fish to fry.

Cole Howard had a large blackboard delivered to his office and in the middle of it he fixed the photograph of the four dummies in the desert. Around it he stuck six photographs: the BUPERS file pictures of Lou Schoelen and Rich Lovell; a shot of what he thought was probably the third sniper; the woman; the young man; and the man with the walkie-talkie. He took a stick of white chalk and linked the pictures to the centre like spokes in a wheel and then sat down in his chair. He sat unmoving for a full hour, trying to put all the facts into perspective: trained Navy SEAL snipers; two unknown men and a woman. Four targets, two thousand yards or so from one of the rifles. He took a pad of paper and began to write a list of his priorities, a habit he’d picked up in the FBI Academy.

It was dark outside when he’d finished his list and he had to switch on his desk lamp. He put down his pen and massaged his temples. His head was throbbing, a dull ache which two painkillers had failed to dispel, and he wanted a drink, badly. There were more than a dozen paragraphs scribbled on the sheets of paper and he sat back in his chair and read them through. He had to put in a requisition for phone company records for the two former Navy SEALs through Sheldon’s office so that he could find out who the men had been in contact with prior to disappearing. He also wanted a tap put on the telephone belonging to Lou Schoelen’s parents in case he called home, as well as access to their phone records. He would have to run the new photographs of the mystery men and the woman through the FBI’s files, and he could start those wheels turning before he left for the evening. Andy Kim had to be contacted and his progress ascertained. If Bob Sanger had been as good as his word, the computer expert would already be ensconced in the White House. Howard had made a note to check that sufficient FBI programmers had been assigned to the project.

Howard had also made a note to ask Kelly about the bank accounts belonging to Schoelen and Lovell, and to see if she’d made any progress on the credit cards the men had used to hire the cars they’d driven into the desert.

Howard was now convinced he had identified two of the three snipers, but the third was a mystery. The new pictures of the snipers would also have to be run through the files in the hope that there would be a match somewhere. The third sniper seemed to have long hair, almost shoulder length, so he figured it wouldn’t be too hard to identify him. He would follow Kratzer’s advice and try to track down the rifles by approaching the manufacturers. He doubted that a check of their records would provide any surprises: the two rifles which had been identified were in the hands of the known snipers, but there was an outside chance that they might provide a lead.

As an afterthought, he made a note to ask the State Department for a list of overseas VIPs who would be visiting the US over the next six months. Howard sighed and massaged his temples again. The investigation seemed to be growing exponentially and he felt that it was slipping away from him. There were plenty of leads but he didn’t seem to be able to get on top of any of them. He felt some satisfaction in having identified two of the snipers, but he was still no nearer knowing where they were, who their target was, and when they intended to strike. He had a sickening feeling that Jake Sheldon would regard the slow progress as failure and that he’d assign someone else to supervise the case. Howard sighed and dropped the sheets of paper into his desk drawer. The desire for a drink was almost overwhelming. He pulled a slim book from his bottom drawer and flicked through it until he found the address of a local college where a meeting was scheduled to start in twenty minutes’ time. He quickly filled out the forms for the telephone records and the tap and put them into an envelope marked for Jake Sheldon. He put copies of the photographs of the snipers, the woman and the two men into another envelope and marked it up for an FBI records cross-check before putting it in his ‘out’ tray.

The drive to the college took less than ten minutes and there were plenty of parking spaces. It was a venue he’d visited before. The meeting room was on the first floor and a couple of dozen plastic chairs had been arranged in uneven rows facing a blackboard on which were scrawled a number of chemical equations. At the back of the room a coffee-maker bubbled contentedly, and a young man in a shabby suit was pouring milk from a carton into a row of china mugs. Howard took a seat at the back, next to a large woman in a fur coat. There were sixteen people in the room, most of them men. Howard had seen several of them before, both at the college and at other meetings. He was the third to speak. He stood up and, as he always did when addressing a group, he cleared his throat. “My name is Cole,” he said, “and I’m an alcoholic. It’s been three years and eight months since I had a drink.”

The group applauded and Howard felt their support and love wash over him like a warm shower.

It was a hot day and the crowds streaming towards the ball park were dressed appropriately — baggy shorts, bare legs, T-shirts, and baseball caps, most of them in the orange and white team colours of the Orioles. Mary left the hotel and followed the fans. She had put on a pair of baggy white shorts which showed off her slim, tanned legs, and a blue sweat-shirt, the sleeves pulled up to her elbows. The weather in Baltimore was the most varied she’d ever experienced: three days earlier it had been so chilly that she’d needed a warm coat when she went out, the previous day it had rained, and when the sky had cleared the temperature had soared into the high eighties and the television weather forecaster had said that the humidity would be high on the day of the game. He’d been right, and Mary found herself breathing heavily so thick and moist was the air.

Street vendors had sprung up on all the roads leading to the ball park, selling hot dogs, iced drinks, and cheap souvenirs. Mary walked by a bar where the customers had spilled out onto the street, mainly good-natured young men drinking beer from cans. It wasn’t the first baseball game she had been to, so she wasn’t surprised at how polite and agreeable everybody appeared to be. There was none of the mindless chanting and thuggery that always seemed to accompany large sporting events in Britain, where the violence off the pitch often had a higher priority than the game itself. In contrast, American crowds were generally families out for a good time. The police directing traffic seemed friendlier than their UK counterparts, their shirts rolled up and their caps pushed back on their heads. They smiled and joked with the crowds, and appeared to be as enthusiastic about the forthcoming game as the fans. She felt totally safe as she mingled in the crowd, though she kept a wary hand on the strap of her handbag.

The ticket had been delivered to her room in a sealed envelope early that morning, but she wasn’t sure which entrance to use. A large policeman saw her frowning as she studied her ticket and he asked her if she needed help. He had a badge on his chest which said his name was Murphy but his accent was a slow Maryland drawl with no trace of Irishness in it. He had a drinker’s nose, though, red and bumpy like she’d seen so many times on the faces of the men in the streets of Belfast. Officer Murphy pointed to where she should go, and wished her a nice day. He actually touched his hand to the peak of his cap, a gesture she associated more with Dixon of Dock Green than an American cop. The elderly man who checked her ticket at the turnstile was just as friendly. She could never get over how polite everyone was in America. Waitresses, policemen, bank clerks, people she met in the hotel, they all smiled and seemed to take a genuine interest in her. The people in Belfast were friendly enough, but there was still a coldness between strangers which didn’t seem to exist in the States.

She walked through the crowds to the stairway which led up to the level where her seat was. The stadium was buzzing expectantly, while down on the bright green playing surface players warmed up, throwing balls hard and fast and catching them with their large leather mitts. Even high up in the stand, Mary could hear the thwack of balls being hit home. Off to the side, by the dugouts, men were swinging bats, their arms extended, whirling them like propellers. Messages were being flashed onto a large electronic screen at the far end of the stadium, welcoming the fans and telling them who was on that day’s team. Men rushed up and down the aisles carrying boxes of beer cans, hot pretzels, hot dogs and soft drinks, shouting their wares. Food and drink was passed from hand to hand along the rows by the fans, and money shuttled in the opposite direction to be pocketed by the vendors.

The seat on Mary’s left was vacant, and to her right was a young boy, his head dwarfed by a black baseball cap with an orange Oriole logo on the front. He was eating a huge mustard-smeared hot dog and swinging his legs up and down while his father tried to attract the attention of the Budweiser-seller. Mary smiled down at the little boy and he grinned, his lips yellow with mustard. When Mary looked up, a middle-aged man wearing sunglasses was sitting next to her, a large tub of popcorn in one hand, a giant beaker of Cola in the other. He looked like a typical sports fan rather than the terrorist the world knew as Carlos the Jackal. The lenses of his sunglasses were pitch black and Mary could see her own reflection in them. “Good afternoon, Ilich,” she said.

“Mary,” he said quietly, turning to watch the players warming up. “It’s so nice to see you again. You are as beautiful as always.”

“Why thank you, Ilich. You’re too kind.”

He held out his tub of popcorn but Mary politely refused. The opening bars of the Star Spangled Banner began, and the stadium rumbled as the tens of thousands of fans got to their feet. Mary and Carlos followed suit, though they didn’t join in the chorus of cheers when the National Anthem finished and the Orioles ran onto the field. The opposition, a team from Minnesota, sat in the dugout while their first hitter went up to bat.

“How is everything?” asked Carlos.

“Fine,” said Mary. “I’ve rented a house overlooking the Chesapeake Bay, not far from Bay Bridge Airport.” She slipped him a piece of paper on which she’d written instructions and drawn a sketch map of the location of the house, and a set of keys. “Matthew is in Florida, when he gets in touch I’ll tell him to meet you in the house. How are the others?”

Carlos smiled. “A little tense,” he said. “They don’t like waiting. And Rashid is missing Lebanese food. Other than that, they’re raring to go. At the moment they’re in separate motels.” He pocketed the keys and the paper. “I’ll move them into the house tomorrow. How long is the lease?”

“I took it for six months, three months paid in advance. The electricity, gas and phone are connected, we won’t be having any unexpected visitors.”

“That is good, very good,” said Carlos. He scooped up a handful of popcorn and shovelled it into his mouth. The man always ate as if it was the last food he would see for some time, thought Mary. He never left any food on his plate, and she knew that Carlos would not throw any of the popcorn away. Any remaining when it came time for him to leave the stadium would be saved and eaten later. “The weather has been variable,” he said, his mouth full of popcorn.

Down below, the pitcher threw the ball and the spectators roared as it went straight into the glove of the catcher. “The changing of the seasons,” said Mary. “The forecast is good. But in any event, they can compensate for the wind.”

Carlos nodded. “I hope the game does not get rained out,” he said. “A rain check will be of no use to us.”

“You worry too much,” said Mary.

“I want to succeed,” said Carlos. “I cannot afford to fail.”

The little boy on Mary’s right was unabashedly trying to listen but she knew he was too young to follow the conversation. She smiled and the boy grinned back. His father smiled at Mary and began talking to his son about one of the players. Mary turned back to her companion. “Neither of us wants to fail,” she said, keeping her voice low. “It will be all right, Ilich. Trust me.”

“The luck of the Irish?” he said, grinning. He wolfed down another handful of popcorn.

“We’ve planned for every eventuality,” said Mary. “Don’t worry.”

Carlos swallowed. “You’re a cool one, Mary Hennessy. Where were you during the Seventies? I could have used you then.”

“The Seventies?” said Mary wistfully. “I was happily married then. I was a housewife and mother. I had a husband and I had a brother.” Carlos nodded and noisily sipped his Cola through a straw. Mary looked around the ball park. Every seat was full. The Baltimore Orioles were having a good season and the city had rallied to support them. Beyond the stands were the towering office blocks of the city centre. Mary shielded her eyes from the sun with her hand as she scrutinised the tall buildings. When she turned back to Carlos, his seat was empty.

Cole Howard left it until 10 a.m. before ringing Jake Sheldon’s secretary and asking if he could see the director. He wanted to be sure that Sheldon had seen the new computer-enhanced photographs and the written request for a wire tap. The secretary told him that Sheldon was at a meeting until noon but that she’d pencil him in for twenty minutes after that.

Howard picked up a set of the Clayton photographs and went along the corridor to the office Kelly shared with five other agents. She was on the phone and Howard read through the departmental notices on the wall while he waited for her to finish. “Good morning, Cole,” she said brightly as she replaced the receiver. He put the pictures on her desk and watched her as she scrutinised them. She brushed her blonde hair behind her ears, her eyes wide. He saw the glint of a wedding band. She looked up at Howard and then back at the photographs. “This is amazing,” she said. She was wearing a pale blue dress with short sleeves and gold buttons. It reminded him of one of his wife’s expensive Chanel outfits and he wondered who Kelly’s husband was and if he had money. “Are these from Clayton Electronics?” she asked.

Howard nodded. “That’s right,” he said. “Can you run them by the people in the car rental office? Also, I’d like you to see if you can get a match from our files. Try Interpol, too. Let’s see if we can get a match now that we’ve improved the resolution.”

“Sure,” she said eagerly. “This is incredible. How on earth did you get these?”

“High-powered computers and a couple of space cadets,” said Howard.

Kelly looked at the pictures of the snipers. “Pity that the snipers have got their scopes up against their faces.”

“Yeah,” agreed Howard. “I’ll send them to Lovell and Schoelen’s Navy SEAL unit and see if they can ID the third sniper. Did you have any luck chasing down their bank accounts?”

Kelly shook her head. “Both accounts were closed three months ago,” she said.

“Yeah, I thought they would be,” said Howard. “What about the credit cards?”

“The Justin Davies American Express card has turned up in Los Angeles,” she replied. “A couple of homeboys were trying to buy a boom box with it. The local police found their apartment full of stuff they’d been buying. It was like Wheel of Fortune.”

“How did they get the card?”

“They say they found the wallet in the street. One of the agents from our LA office is seeing them this afternoon, but they stuck to the same story all day yesterday. If they did lift it, we’ll get a description eventually. The other card is still loose.”

Howard nodded. “Okay. Look, I’m going up to see Sheldon at noon. I’d like you there.” She nodded and went back to studying the photographs.

“There’s nothing that warms my heart more than to see a good Catholic boy on his knees,” laughed Shorty.

“Why don’t you join me, and while you’re here you can plant a big wet one on my arse,” replied Joker. He was kneeling in front of the low-level shelves where the bottled beer and soft drinks were stored, restocking and making sure that all the labels were facing outwards, like soldiers on parade.

“I’d love to, but I’ve arranged to meet a young lady over in Queens, and if I’m not there in an hour she’ll as likely start without me.” The small man took off his apron and retrieved his jacket from a hook on the wall. “You’ll be okay minding the shop on your own?”

“Sure, Shorty, no sweat. You enjoy yourself.”

Shorty winked as he walked by the bar, heading for the door and the sunshine. “I surely intend to, Damien.”

“And give her one for me!” Joker shouted after him, standing up and stretching. He carried the empty crates into a storage room, then went back to the bar and began slicing lemons and limes. There were only three customers: two old men in tweed jackets and caps sitting at a round table playing cribbage and a long-haired young man in torn jeans who was nursing a half-pint of Guinness. He was one of the two teenagers who’d been collecting for the IRA when Joker had first visited Filbin’s on St Patrick’s Day, the one who’d held out the bucket. His name was Dominic Maguire, though everyone called him Beaky because of his large nose, and he was a regular visitor to the bar, both as a fund-raiser and as a customer.

“So how’s it going today, Damien?” asked Beaky.

“Slow,” said Joker, scraping the fruit slices into a bowl. He washed the knife in the small sink under the bar. “Where’s John today? John Keenan was Beaky’s friend and the two were practically inseparable.

“Over in the Bronx, seeing a lawyer. He’s hoping for a shot at the next Green Card lottery.”

“Good luck to him,” said Joker. “You want another?”

Beaky shrugged. “I’m a bit short, to be honest, Damien.”

“That’s okay,” said Joker, taking his almost empty glass and refilling it. “You can have this on me.”

Beaky grinned. “Yer a saint, thanks a lot.”

Joker poured himself a double measure of Famous Grouse and added a splash of water. He raised the glass to Beaky. “Cheers,” he said. He savoured the whisky as Beaky returned the salute. “I hope John gets his Green Card,” he added.

“Don’t see it makes any difference,” said Beaky.

“There’s plenty of guys can get you a counterfeit one if yez needs it. Me, I wouldn’t even bother.”

“Why’s that?”

“Once they get their claws into you, they never let go,” said Beaky. “The IRS get onto you, immigration keep checking on you, it’s too much hassle. I get paid in cash, no tax, no fingerprints on file, no nothing. I’ve been here three years with never a problem.”

“But what if you want to leave?”

“No sweat, I can get a fake I-94 and a stamp in my passport, that’s all you need. When you leave, the airline looks at the 1-94 and they take it off you and send it to INS. They don’t know shit. They’re not trying to stop people leaving, they just don’t want to let you in.” He took a mouthful of the dark stout and wiped the foam off his upper lip.

“It’s as easy as that?” asked Joker.

“Depends who you know,” said Beaky. “Why, you want something doing?”

Joker shook his head. “Nah, I’m okay so far. But I’ll let you know.” He finished his whisky and helped himself to another. “Say, a friend of mine was in New York some time ago, said he was trying to get a Green Card, maybe you know him. Matthew Bailey.”

Beaky put his head on one side like a parrot listening to a sound it hadn’t heard before. “Bailey? Yeah, a carrot top, right?”

Joker nodded. “Hair like a fox, that’s him.”

“Where was it I saw him? Yeah, I know, O’Ryan’s Bar. Sometime last year. He was planning to go to Washington, I think.”

At the mention of Washington, Joker’s stomach lurched. That was where Pete Many on’s body had been found.

“Do you know where I can get hold of him?” asked Joker.

“Yeah, he was going to see a guy called Patrick Farrell, a pilot who runs some sort of aircraft leasing company between Washington and Baltimore.”

“You don’t know the name of it, do you?” asked Joker. “I’d really like to get in touch with Matthew if it’s possible.”

“No, but I’ll ask around,” said Beaky.

The last thing Joker wanted was for Beaky to go around asking questions about Bailey, but he knew that to refuse the man’s offer would only raise suspicion. He took Beaky’s glass, refilled it and then turned the subject to a robbery which had taken place just three streets away, leaving a husband and wife and their young daughter dead from knife wounds. As they talked, Joker’s mind was racing. It shouldn’t be too hard to track down a pilot called Patrick Farrell.

Howard looked at his watch. It was five minutes before noon. On his way to the elevator he looked into Kelly’s office. She’d gone and he wasn’t surprised to find her already sitting opposite Sheldon’s desk. “Cole, come in, sit down,” said Sheldon, waving him to the seat next to Kelly. “Kelly’s just been updating me on your progress.”

“That’s decent of her,” said Howard, unable to keep the bitterness out of his voice.

“These new photographs are really quite something,” continued Sheldon, as if he hadn’t heard Howard. “I’m quite hopeful that we’ll strike gold with these.”

“They’re certainly a big improvement,” agreed Howard. “Did Kelly tell you about the bank accounts of Lovell and Schoelen?”

“She did, and I’ve already approved the subpoena of the telephone records, our legal boys are doing the paperwork now. Same goes for the phone tap.”

Howard nodded. Sheldon toyed with a pencil thoughtfully. “The Justin Davies credit card turned up in Los Angeles, I gather. What are your feelings on that?”

“I think it’s a set-up,” said Howard quietly. “I think they dumped the card, hoping that it’d be picked up and be used.”

“So where should we be looking for these snipers?”

Howard was about to speak, but Kelly got in first. “I’ve already spoken to the two rifle manufacturers — Barrett and Horstkamp. They’re going through their sales records now. They sell mainly through dealers, so it’ll be a question of approaching them for names and addresses.”

Howard’s mouth dropped. It had been his idea to track down the rifles, but she’d made it sound as if the brainwave was hers. “That’s good,” said Sheldon.

“That and the telephone tap are just about our only leads on the snipers,” said Howard. “Unless the telephone records show up anything. Incidentally, I’d like more manpower, it’s going to take some legwork.”

“How many were you thinking of?” asked Sheldon, tapping his pencil on his blotter.

“Two should be enough at this stage.”

Sheldon nodded. “Consider it done. Let me have a look at the rosters and I’ll give you names this afternoon. Now, how are the computer experts getting on with their sniping program?”

“They should be in the White House as we speak,” said Howard. “I was planning to speak to Andy Kim today.”

“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?”

Joker held his hands out, showing his palms. “Jesus, I don’t know. Someone in Glasgow, I can’t remember who.”

Piggy Eyes sighed as if he was disappointed. “I don’t think anyone in Scotland would know he was over here.”

“What can I tell you?” said Joker.

The two heavyweights said nothing for a while. Joker knew that they were doing it to make him sweat, so he tried to relax. It was The Frowner who eventually broke the silence. “Yez told Billy O’Neill yer had a telephone number for him, but that it had been disconnected.”

“Billy O’Neill?”

“Guy from Filbin’s. At the Gaelic football match.”

Joker rubbed his chin with his hand, feeling the stubble. “Aye, that’s right, I did.”

“So who gave you the number?” asked Piggy Eyes.

“I don’t know,” said Joker.

“Billy says yer told him that Matthew gave it to you,” said The Frowner.

“I guess he must have,” said Joker, a chill running down his back. They had him bang to rights.

“Well, I don’t think he’d have given yer his number here, O’Brien,” said Piggy Eyes. “In fact, I’m pretty bloody sure he wouldn’t.”

Joker didn’t know what to say. He began to tense his legs, preparing to spring, either for the gun or the bottle.

“And yer told Beaky Maguire that Matthew wanted a Green Card,” said The Frowner.

Piggy Eyes shook his head. “Big mistake that, O’Brien. Matthew doesn’t need a Green Card.”

“I must have made a mistake,” said Joker.

The Frowner grinned. “That’s for sure.”

“So tell me, are you a Sass-man, O’Brien?” asked Piggy Eyes. He walked over to the dressing table and picked up Joker’s wallet. He stood next to The Frowner as he went through it. “We had a Sass-man here a few months ago.” He pulled out the Visa card and looked at it, then showed it to The Frowner, who nodded. “He had a Visa card, too. And he used the money machines a lot.” They both looked at Joker. “So, O’Brien, are you a Sass-man or what?” pressed Piggy Eyes.

As the two men waited for him to answer, Joker heard a pattering on the fire escape outside. He realised it was the cat coming for its milk and that she would soon start banging on the window. It was a small chance, but in view of what his visitors already knew, it could prove to be his only chance.

“I’ve got friends,” said Joker, “and they’re not far away.” He wanted them edgy so that they’d over-react when the cat made its presence felt.

“Yeah, of course you have,” said The Frowner. Both men laughed. That was when the cat began hitting her paws against the glass as she had done every night for the previous week. The two heavies whirled round and faced the window. As The Frowner aimed his gun, Piggy Eyes stepped to the side and reached for the cord that controlled the blinds. Joker sprang up from his chair and lunged for the bottle. The Frowner heard him move and began to turn, but Joker already had the neck of the bottle in his grasp. He threw it as hard as he could at The Frowner’s head and it caught the man on the temple. The bottle bounced off his skull and hit the bed. Before the man could react, Joker rushed forward, his hands forming fists, and he hit him twice, once in the throat, once in the sternum, and the big man went down, blood pouring from a gash on the side of his head. Joker bent down smoothly to pick up the gun which had dropped from The Frowner’s nerveless fingers. Piggy Eyes kicked Joker in the side, his speed belying his bulk, sending him sprawling across the bed, but before he could continue his attack Joker had the gun up and his finger on the trigger. “Easy,” said Joker, “just take it easy.”

“Yez move fucking fast for a barman, O’Brien,” said Piggy Eyes. On the floor, the other man groaned. Joker stepped back slowly, putting more distance between them. He rubbed his ribs gingerly. Nothing was broken but he’d be black and blue within twenty-four hours. The cat continued to pat at the window. Piggy Eyes turned to look at the window. “My friend,” said Joker.

The cat meowed and Piggy Eyes shook his head. “A fucking cat,” he said.

Joker chewed the inside of his lip as he ran through his options. Whatever cover he had was now blown. He had no choice but to leave New York, and Washington seemed the best bet, even though Beaky Maguire had probably told the heavyweights about Patrick Farrell, the man Bailey had been talking to. But what was he to do with the two men in his room? Killing them was out of the question, yet he needed several hours to get clear of the city. He gestured with the gun at the wounded man on the floor. “Take his clothes off,” said Joker.

“You’ve got to be joking,” said Piggy Eyes.

“I don’t know how quiet this gun is with this silencer, but I’m willing to try it,” he said. He levelled the gun at the man’s groin.

“Okay, okay,” said Piggy Eyes, hurriedly going down on one knee and stripping off The Frowner’s raincoat.

“And the rest,” said Joker. “Be quick about it.”

The Frowner moaned and tried to resist but Piggy Eyes told him to lie still. A few minutes later and The Frowner was lying naked on the floor like a beached seal, his clothes and shoes in an untidy pile by the window. “Good, now use his tie to bind his wrists behind his back,” said Joker. “And make sure it’s tight because I’ll be checking.” Piggy Eyes did as he was told, then straightened up. “Now your clothes,” said Joker. Piggy Eyes obeyed, his eyes hard. He stared meanly at Joker as he undressed and Joker knew that he was looking for an opportunity to resist. He kept the gun aimed at his groin. “Don’t even think about it,” Joker warned.

When the man was naked Joker had him turn round and kneel down, facing the window. Folds of fat had gathered around his waist like pink inner tubes and the flesh hung loosely around his arms. “Hold your arms out behind you, and link your fingers,” said Joker. As the man followed his instructions, Joker stepped forward and clipped the gun hard against his temple, knocking him out. Piggy Eyes slumped across The Frowner’s prostrate body. Joker quickly used Piggy Eyes’ tie and expertly knotted it around the man’s wrists. He used their belts to tie their legs together, and quickly checked that The Frowner’s wrists were tightly bound. The Frowner began to cough and tried to sit up. Joker knocked him senseless with the butt of the gun. He tucked the automatic into the back of his trousers and pulled up the blinds. The cat stared at him and meowed. Joker opened the window for her and she jumped down onto Piggy Eyes and then across to the bed. Joker ripped open the carton of milk and poured some into a glass. “You, young lady, have earned yourself a drink,” he said. The cat lapped happily as Joker filled his suitcase with his belongings and the clothes stripped from the heavyweights.

He found two handkerchiefs and used them as makeshift gags for his two prisoners, then picked up the bottle of Famous Grouse. He took a long pull at the whisky and then put the bottle into his suitcase. The cat finished drinking and padded back to the window and leapt smoothly onto the fire escape. She turned and meowed once as if to say goodbye and then disappeared into the night. Joker closed the window behind her, switched off the light, and carried his case downstairs.

Kelly Armstrong pounded her horn and cursed the old woman in the car ahead of her. Phoenix had one of the worst traffic accident rates, and highest insurance premiums, in the country, not because of drunk drivers or joyriding teenagers but because of all the retirees who moved to Arizona in search of a better climate. Their failing eyesight and slowing reactions meant that the city’s emergency services were forever pulling them out of their wrecked cars. The woman who was holding up the traffic ahead of Kelly was a typical snowbird, a tiny, white-haired, thin-boned woman with wrinkled skin and thick-lensed glasses, hunched over the steering wheel of a car which was far too big and powerful for her. She was, thought Kelly, probably sitting on a stack of telephone books with blocks on the pedals so that she could reach them and planned her routes so that she never had to make a left turn.

“Come on you bitch, go!” Kelly fumed, pounding her horn again. Eventually the old woman realised that the traffic light had turned green and she pulled away in a series of jerks. It was a beautiful day, the sky a cloudless bright blue, the temperature in the low seventies, and to Kelly it seemed that all the snowbirds had come out to play. She savagely punched at the buttons on her car radio, hunting for a halfway decent station that would make the crawlspeed less frustrating. Eventually she found a Pet Shop Boys track and she tapped her steering wheel as she followed the snowbird at precisely five miles an hour below the speed limit.

Fergus O’Malley ran a construction company based in Litchfield Park, to the west of Phoenix and close to Luke Air Force Base. He had a reputation for quality work at reasonable prices, and he’d built up a good solid business, employing more than fifty workers. Though he’d lived in Arizona for most of his fifty-seven years he continued to play on his Irish roots, to the extent of having a shamrock logo on all his trucks and speaking with an Irish lilt. Kelly drove her Buick onto the O’Malley lot and parked next to a flatbed truck piled high with scaffolding. Two young men in overalls stopped work to watch as she climbed out of the car and walked to the office building, a white envelope under her arm. One of them whistled, but Kelly didn’t react. She was used to the attention, and no longer resented being whistled at by strangers. She knew that the time to worry was when the whistles stopped.

O’Malley wasn’t a man to spend money on expensive furnishings, and his offices contained only the bare essentials. There was no couch for visitors in the reception area, just a desk where his secretary laboured over an old manual typewriter. She was pulling a file from a battered filing cabinet when Kelly walked in and asked to speak to the boss. Barely had she spoken to Fergus O’Malley over the intercom than the man came rushing through the door like a whirlwind, grabbing Kelly in a flurry of arms and clasping her to his chest. He lifted her clear off the ground so that her feet swung from side to side. “Kelly my darling girl, what’ve you been doing with yourself?” he boomed, squeezing the breath from her body. The envelope slipped from her grasp and landed on the floor.

“Uncle Fergus, would you put me down?” she asked. “Please.”

“Are you telling me I can’t hug my own fair niece?” O’Malley said, tightening his grip and planting a kiss on her cheek. She could smell whisky on his breath.

Eventually he lowered her to the ground, picked up the envelope and ushered her into his office. Like the reception area, a thin film of dust coated most surfaces. He saw her look of distaste and produced a handkerchief from his trouser pocket with a flourish which he used to wipe clean a chair. “Sit, sit,” he said, handing her the envelope and leaning against his paper-strewn desk. “And tell me what brings you out to my neck of the woods.” Kelly opened her mouth to speak but O’Malley held up his hand. “Drink?” he said. “Coffee? Tea? A drop of the hard stuff?”

Kelly shook her head. “I’m fine, Uncle Fergus. But don’t let me stop you.”

“Kelly my girl, I was hoping you’d say that,” he said with a smile and dashed around the desk with a speed that belied his bulk. He was a bear of a man, his work jeans stretched tight around an expanding waistline and the sleeves of his plaid shirt rolled up around thick forearms. His big hands were square and weatherbeaten and the skin on his face was roughened from years working out in the open. He pulled open the bottom drawer of his desk and took out a bottle of whisky. He found a glass hidden under a stack of receipts and poured himself a decent measure. “Here’s to you; may your life be filled with laughter, may your pockets be filled with gold.” He raised the glass in salute, and drank deeply. Kelly laughed. O’Malley returned to his perch and looked at her with affection. “So, what’s up?”

Kelly opened the flap of the white envelope with a scarlet fingernail and took out one of the photographs it contained. “I wondered if you might know this man,” she said, and handed it to O’Malley.

He scratched his chin thoughtfully as he studied the photograph. “What makes you think I’d know him?” he asked.

“He’s Irish,” said Kelly.

O’Malley looked at her and raised his eyebrows. “If you don’t know who he is, how do you know he’s from the old country?” he asked.

Kelly smiled. “Uncle Fergus, you wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”

“Try me,” he said, and took another drink from his glass.

“He rented a car, and the woman he spoke to said he had an accent.”

“Americans can’t tell the difference between Irish, Australian and South African, you know that. They all sound the same to them.”

Kelly shook her head. “I played her some tapes, and she recognised the accent as Irish.”

O’Malley beamed and raised his glass again. “Smart girl,” he said.

Kelly felt a warm glow inside. Normally she didn’t feel the need for praise; she regarded it as just another technique men used to try to get through her defences. But her uncle was different and she was pleased that she’d impressed him. “So, do you know him?”

O’Malley looked at the picture and shook his head. “He looks familiar, but I can’t put a name to the face.” He handed it back to her.

Kelly studied his face, looking for the signs that would let her know that he was lying, but his eyes returned her scrutiny with a steadiness that reassured her. She passed him the computer-enhanced photograph of the blonde woman. “What about her?”

O’Malley’s reaction was transparent. His jaw dropped and his eyes widened and he shot up off the desk. “Where did you get this?” he said.

“The desert,” she said.

“Recently?”

“Uh-huh. Uncle Fergus, the suspense is killing me. Who is she? Do you know her?”

“I do, girl. That I do. But Jesus, Mary and Joseph, what the hell is she doing in Arizona?”

Rashid threw the damp towel onto the floor and pulled on an old pair of men’s pyjamas. She was tying the trouser cord when the door to her bedroom slowly opened to reveal Rich Lovell standing there, leaning on the jamb with a sly grin on his face. “I sort of assumed you wouldn’t be wearing a Victoria’s Secret nightgown,” he said, looking her up and down.

“Get out of my room,” she hissed, fastening the top button of her pyjama jacket.

“Come on, Dina,” said Lovell, “why are you playing so hard to get?”

Rashid picked up a hairbrush and sat down at her dressing table where she ran it through her long hair with firm, even strokes. She watched Lovell in the mirror as he closed the door behind him. “If you don’t get out, I’ll call Carlos,” she said quietly.

“He doesn’t scare me,” said Lovell, walking up behind her and massaging her shoulders.

“Then you are truly a fool,” she said, continuing to brush her hair.

Lovell’s fingers tightened around her neck. He bent down and kissed her shoulder. She felt his beard scratch against her skin. “It’s been five weeks since I’ve had a woman, and you really turn me on.”

She stood up quickly, startling him, and she held out the hairbrush like a knife. “It’s not mutual, Lovell. You repulse me.”

Lovell grabbed the brush and tossed it to one side, then stepped forward and held her tightly against him. He tried to kiss her on the lips but she brought up her knee into his groin, missing his testicles but hurting him nonetheless. She pushed him hard in the chest and he staggered back, breathing heavily. He moved to grab her again but she stopped him by raising her hand. He waited to hear what she had to say, his eyes wild. “Just go,” she said. She could see his erection pushing at the crotch of his jeans.

“No,” he said.

She shook her head. “You couldn’t handle it,” she hissed.

“Handle what?” he said, confused.

“Me,” she said. “You couldn’t handle the way I fuck.”

He smiled evilly. “Try me,” he said.

Rashid licked her lips slowly. “You want it, you bastard? Well I’ll give it to you. But you’ll be sorry.” Lovell stepped towards her but she held up her hands again. “No,” she said. “You do it my way or you don’t do it at all.”

“Your way?” he said. “What do you mean?”

“Take off your clothes, and lie on the bed,” she ordered. For a moment it looked as if he was going to refuse, but then he undid the buttons of his shirt, revealing a hairless chest. He smiled as he took off his shirt, dropped it onto the floor, and unzipped his jeans. He sat down on the bed as he pulled the jeans off and stripped off his socks. He lay back and took off his boxer shorts, leaving him naked on the bed. He moved to roll under the covers, but Rashid shook her head. “No, I want to watch you,” she said. She picked up his shirt, sat down on the bed next to him and took his erection in her hand. She squeezed and he gasped. He reached for her but she shook him away. “My way,” she insisted. Lovell smiled and she felt him grow even harder in her hand. She straddled him smoothly, then leant forward, bringing his arms above his head. He tried to kiss her but she kept her head away from him, her hair dragging across his face. With quick, deft movements she used the sleeves of his shirt to tie his hands to the headboard.

“What are you doing?” he asked, trying to pull his hands free.

“This is the way I fuck guys I don’t like,” she said. She slipped off him and took the belt from his trousers, using it to tie one of his legs to the bottom of the bed.

“I don’t want it like this,” he said, pulling at his bonds. Rashid sat on the edge of the bed and took him in her hand again.

“It feels to me like you do,” she said, gripping him. He groaned. She went over to a wardrobe and returned with one of her own belts, which she used to bind his remaining foot to the bed. “I’ve only ever fucked two Americans,” she said. “Like you, they were pigs.” She stood up and picked up her wallet. From it she took a condom in a foil packet. She opened it and sat down on the bed.

“I don’t want to wear anything,” Lovell protested.

Rashid slipped the condom onto him in one smooth movement. “You think I’d fuck a pig like you without a condom?” she said. She spat in his face. “You’re crazy.”

Lovell tried to wipe the spittle from his face onto the pillow but he couldn’t reach. It dribbled down his nose and into his beard. Rashid saw his erection begin to subside and she stroked him until he grew hard once more. “Funny how you pigs lose interest when you feel threatened,” she said.

“Stop it,” he said. “Just untie me. I’ve changed my mind.”

Rashid laughed throatily. “You asked for it, you bastard, and now you’re going to get it.” She stood up and slipped off her pyjama top. She had broad shoulders and small breasts, hardly more than slight swellings. Lovell could see that she didn’t shave her armpits, and the growth there was thick and long. There was hair around her nipples. She pulled the pillow from under his head. “Lift your arse,” she ordered. He obeyed and she slipped the pillow under his backside. “They were hostages, those Americans. We had them in Beirut, kept them chained to radiators for months. They stank, but then Americans always stink.” She slowly untied the pyjama cord and let the flannelette trousers fall around her legs, revealing thin, brown legs. The hair at her crotch was as black and thick as the tufts in her armpits. Lovell’s eyes were drawn to it and she smiled. “One of them was a CIA agent, we never found out who the other one was. They were lousy fucks, Lovell. Are all Americans such lousy fucks, I wonder?”

“Untie me, Dina,” said Lovell nervously.

Rashid laughed at his discomfort. She turned her back on him and went over to the wardrobe. She bent down, the movement tightening the muscles in the back of her legs and emphasising the curve of her buttocks. Despite the cold knot of fear in his stomach, Lovell felt himself grow harder. When she straightened up he moaned. She had her rifle in her hands. She caressed it lovingly, the way she’d stroked his erection, her eyes hard. Once more she sat down on the bed next to him, her skin against his. “I was ordered to kill them, but I would have done it anyway. It was a pleasure. I hate Americans, Lovell. I hate all Americans.” She held a bullet inches from his face, and then chambered it.

“Let me go,” he pleaded.

“You wanted to know what it was like to be fucked by me. Now shut up and enjoy it.” She straddled him again and reached down with her left hand to hold him. This time she gripped him hard, digging her nails into his flesh, and he yelped. While his mouth was open wide she pushed in the barrel of her rifle, the metal clinking against his teeth. He tried to move his head to the side but she pushed the rifle forward so that the end of the barrel jammed into his cheek. “Keep your head straight, pig, or I’ll push it right through the flesh.” Lovell did as he was told. Rashid smiled. “Now suck it, gently, as if you were sucking me.” Lovell’s lips closed around the metal and he made small sucking movements, like a baby at its bottle. Rashid released his erection and with her left hand she switched off the safety and slipped a finger onto the trigger. “It takes three pounds of pressure to pull this trigger,” she said quietly. “I thought you’d like to know that.” Her left hand went back to his erection, massaging him as she spoke. “They knew it was going to be their last fuck, but somehow I don’t think they enjoyed it,” she said. She used her hand to guide him inside her, just the first inch, and then she rocked her hips from side to side. Sweat was running down Lovell’s face and collecting in the hollow of his throat. His eyes were wide and scared as he sucked at the barrel. She allowed him inside another inch and he felt her internal muscles grip him. “It was the timing that was difficult,” she said. “Knowing exactly when they were coming.” She opened her thighs and pushed down, allowing him all the way in, then she began to move up and down slowly. “I didn’t want to pull the trigger until they came, you know? God, Lovell, I’ve never felt such power.” She was moving faster now, her hair whipping around her shoulders, her skin damp with sweat. “To know that I was the last person they’d see as they died, that they died fucking me.” The barrel of her rifle was driving in and out of Lovell’s lips in time with the motion of her body. Suddenly she slowed, and moved her hips up so that he was only just inside her. “I’d pull the trigger and their brains would blow out over the floor and their whole body would go into sort of convulsions. Their pricks would get so big, so hard, and the convulsions would drive them deep inside me, deeper than anyone has ever gone. All women should feel what’s it’s like, to have a man die inside you. God, I came so hard.” She smiled. “They never knew, of course. They never knew what an intense orgasm they gave me. It’s like they say, Lovell, the only good Yank is a fucking dead one. I suppose I’d better thank you in advance. .” She thrust her groin down, so hard that he gasped. “Come on, Lovell, make me come,” she said, her voice deep and harsh, like a man’s. Lovell tried to resist, but his limbs were bound tight and the pillow was pushing his groin against hers. He could see her trigger-finger tensing. He tried to fill his mind with images that would take his mind off what was happening, hoping that if his erection subsided she’d stop. He thought of baseball scores, old movies, decompression tables, but it was no good, he could feel himself tightening. He opened his eyes and saw that she was staring at him as she pounded against his flesh, her mouth open, her eyes glazed. Her chest was glistening with sweat like a wild horse at the gallop, and the muscles in her neck were as tight as steel wires. Her small breasts were bouncing as she moved, and his eyes travelled down her flat stomach to the triangle of hair at her crotch. As she rose and fell he could see the glistening wet condom appear and disappear like a piston. He began to shake with fear. He could feel himself building to a climax and as the woman drew back her lips in an almost canine smile, he knew that she also realised he was going to come. He wanted to scream and to beg but the barrel of the rifle was pressing down on his tongue, making him gag. His hips began to thrust into her as if they had a mind of their own. He wanted her, even though he knew it was going to be the death of him. The trigger began to move as the finger tightened. Rashid moved faster and harder. “Fuck me and die,” she cursed, her internal muscles squeezing and holding, and then Lovell felt himself spurt and kick inside her and he saw the trigger pull back and the hammer begin to move. He screamed as he’d never screamed before in his life and he never heard the clicking sound the hammer made as it struck the firing-pin and drove it into the empty chamber.

Carlos heard the frantic screaming as he lay on his back in his own bedroom, and he smiled. He doubted that Lovell would try to get into Dina’s bed again.

Don Clutesi poured himself a coffee and added three spoonfuls of sugar. “Do you want one?” he asked Frank Sullivan as he stirred.

Sullivan shook his head as he read the FBI file on his desk, and grunted. Clutesi walked up behind him and read over his shoulder. “Mary Hennessy,” he said. “The RUC were looking for her two years ago, weren’t they? Have they found her?”

“They haven’t, but an agent in Phoenix might have,” said Sullivan, still reading. He groped for a photograph and held it by his ear for Clutesi to take.

Clutesi took it and compared it with the photographs in the file. The hair colour was different, but other than that it was clear that they were the same person. “When was this taken?” Clutesi asked.

“Recently,” said Sullivan, “that’s all I know. I don’t even know where he got the picture from,” he said. He handed over a second photograph. “She was with a guy. Recognise him?”

Clutesi took the photograph and shrugged. “Is he IRA too?”

“He’s Matthew Bailey, the IRA guy who tried to buy the missile in LA last year. There’s another man, but I haven’t been able to get a match from our files.” Sullivan showed him the photograph of the moustached man wearing sunglasses who was holding a walkie-talkie to his mouth. “I’m going to ask Phoenix if it’s okay to cross-check with the RUC and MI5.”

A middle-aged man stuck his head around the door. It was Douglas Foulger who worked down the corridor in the Counter-intelligence (Middle East) office. “Yo, Frank, you okay for softball this Saturday?”

“Sure, Doug. Who are we playing?”

“One of the Brooklyn SWAT units,” said Foulger, grinning. “You’d better pack a rod.” He walked into the office, nodding a greeting at Clutesi. He looked at the picture of Mary Hennessy. “Good looking woman,” he said. “She looks experienced, you know?”

“She’s that all right,” said Clutesi. “She’s an IRA terrorist who gets a kick out of torturing undercover agents.” He handed Foulger the other picture, the one of the man with the walkie-talkie. “I don’t suppose you know who this is?” he asked.

Foulger took one look at the picture and sneered at Clutesi. “Get outta here, Don. You’re jerking me around, right?”

Sullivan’s head snapped up. “You know him?”

“Come on you guys, there isn’t an anti-terrorist agent in the world who wouldn’t know who this is.” His mouth dropped. “Jesus H. Christ, are you telling me he’s in the States?”

“Who?” said Clutesi. “Who the fuck is he?”

Foulger held the photograph out in front of him. “Unless I’m very much mistaken, gentlemen, this is Ilich Ramirez Sanchez. Alias Carlos the Jackal.”

Lou Schoelen switched on the small television in his bedroom and adjusted the sound level until he was satisfied that it would cover his voice. Carlos had been insistent that they were all to shun any contact with their friends and relatives until after the hit, but Schoelen thought he was being over-cautious. There was no evidence that anyone was on their trail, and besides, he had a foolproof way of ensuring that any call he made was totally untraceable. Carlos had left the house earlier, Lovell was downstairs watching television in the den, and the Lebanese woman was in her own room.

He pulled his kitbag out from under the bed and unzipped a small pocket from which he took a black plastic box about the size of a paperback book. On one side of the box were twelve grey buttons and on the reverse was a small grille covering a speaker. The electronics inside were quite simple and Schoelen had made the device for a few dollars. All the box did was to generate electric pulses which mimicked those used by the telephone companies. It was quite useless in the hands of someone who didn’t understand how communication networks operated, but Schoelen was no amateur. He flicked open a small notebook and ran his eyes down the columns of figures. It had taken him ten years to gather together the information in the book, swapping numbers with other phone hackers in the same way that children traded baseball cards.

Schoelen dialled the telephone number of an insurance company in Baltimore. He knew that the office would be closed — it was after nine o’clock at night — and that the call would not be answered. He waited until the third ring, then pressed the grille against the mouthpiece of the telephone. With deft movements he pressed twelve keys, one at a time, sending tonal pulses down the line. He put the phone to his ear and listened to a series of clicks which told him that the call was being routed through the Baltimore exchange and across the country to San Francisco. The clicks stopped and he heard the dial tone again, though this tone was being generated by an exchange thousands of miles away. So far as the phone company records would show, he had made a local call to the insurance company and nothing more. He put the box back to the receiver and keyed in a second string of pulses, which again produced a series of clicks. This time the call was being routed down the West Coast to an exchange in Los Angeles. Schoelen ran his finger down to a number of a call-box which he knew was in a line of six such boxes in Long Beach. He keyed in the pulses, and thousands of miles away the phone began to ring. Schoelen’s fingers moved quickly because he had to get the next pulses down the line before the phone was answered. He keyed in another string of twelve pulses which transferred the call to the main San Diego exchange. As the pulses shot across the country at close to the speed of light, the telephone stopped ringing in Long Beach.

Schoelen put the phone to his ear and once again he heard a dial tone. This one was being generated by the San Diego exchange, but if anyone should try to trace the call, the trail would end at the pay phone in Long Beach. The final pulses generated by the black box set the telephone ringing on the hall table in his parents’ house in Coronado. His mother answered on the fifth ring and immediately poured out a torrent of questions in her thick Germanic accent which had changed little during all her years in the United States. Schoelen waited until she’d finished. “Mom, I’m fine,” he said. “No, I don’t know when I’ll be back. How’s Willis?” Schoelen’s dog was the reason for the call. Before he’d left Coronado, his Rottweiler had been off his food and had been listless at night.

“Oh, Lou, he was not so good,” said his mother. “He was sick many times, so we took him to the veterinarian last week. His intestine is twisted, he said.”

Schoelen’s stomach lurched. “He’s okay, isn’t he, Mom?”

“Oh, he’s fine now, he’s back home, but it was expensive, Lou. Eight hundred dollars for the operation and the medicine.”

Schoelen sighed with relief. He had raised the dog from a puppy and loved it with a passion. “That’s okay, Mom. I’ll send you the money in a couple of weeks. Is he eating okay now?”

“Like a horse. We have to take him back next week to have stitches removed, but his stomach is fixed. So, when are you coming home?”

“I don’t know, Mom. This job is very important. It’ll all be over in two weeks though.”

“Willis misses you, Lou. And so do we. Please come home soon.”

“I will, Mom. Say hello to Dad for me. I have to go now.” Schoelen replaced the receiver. On the television screen Captain Kirk and Spock beamed up to the bridge of the Starship Enterprise.

The days of FBI agents wearing telephone company overalls and scaling telephone poles to tap phones disappeared with the advent of digital exchanges. Physical wiretapping was replaced by computerised monitoring, much to the relief of the agents who had previously been forced to spend hours in damp basements or in the back of vans, their ears sweating under too-tight headphones.

Once Jake Sheldon had obtained the necessary legal approval for the monitoring of the telephone line at Lou Schoelen’s parents’ house in Coronado, the details were passed to an agent, Eric Tiefenbacher, on the fourth floor of the FBI’s East Indianola Street offices. He in turn liaised with a fifty-year-old technician in the phone company’s headquarters, a man who had been as closely vetted as any FBI agent. It was his job to arrange for the line to be monitored and he did that by pressing a few keys on his computer terminal and sending the signal along a dedicated line to the FBI building. He did it while on a second line to Tiefenbacher and sent a test signal down the dedicated line to ensure that the link was good. At any one time the technician was responsible for up to sixty telephone taps, most of them for the FBI and the DEA, and he had enough information to destroy a host of long-term investigations into organised crime and corruption. He was positively vetted every year by the Bureau, but the technician would never in a million years consider trading the information he had. His granddaughter had died five years earlier, knocked down by a getaway car driven by three black teenagers who had just robbed a liquor store. For him, wire-tapping was a personal crusade, a way of helping the forces of law and order against the vermin who ruled the streets.

Three walls of the office in which Tiefenbacher worked were lined with tape-recorders. The machines were voice-activated and the reels only turned when a call was made. In the centre of the room was a teak veneer desk and a chair at which Tiefenbacher chain-smoked while he monitored the tape-recorders and replaced the tapes as necessary. Each hour, on the hour, he picked up a clipboard and went from machine to machine, noting down the digits in the tape counter next to each line. The notation was a back-up check because the time of each call was electronically recorded on the tape, along with the number of the phone on the other end of the line. Call-tracing with digital exchanges had become a simple matter of computer programming.

Tiefenbacher alternated his shifts with three other agents, all of them heavy smokers, and between them they ensured that the office was occupied twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. Some of the tape-recorders had red stickers attached, signifying that any calls had to be immediately reported to the agent involved, the rest were checked on a daily basis. Most of the agents in the building referred to the surveillance room as The Tomb and the four agents had long been nicknamed The Living Dead. All four had in one way or another offended someone high up in the Bureau. Being assigned to The Tomb was not a good career move for an ambitious agent.

Eric Tiefenbacher’s transgression had been to allow his partner to take a bullet in the chest during what was supposed to have been a straightforward arrest of a bail-jumper. He had been in The Tomb for five months and was already applying for other jobs outside the FBI. When the Schoelen tape began to turn, Tiefenbacher stubbed out his cigarette, picked up a pair of headphones, and walked over to the machine, which had a red sticker on it along with the names of two agents: Cole Howard and Kelly Armstrong. He plugged the headset into the machine and listened. The old lady made only a few calls, usually to local stores who delivered, or to the vet who had been treating her dog. The red sticker had the home telephone numbers of the two agents so that they could be contacted outside of office hours. Kelly Armstrong had visited the surveillance room soon after the phone tap was arranged, and she’d asked that she be called first if there was anything of interest. She’d told him a little about the investigation as she perched on the edge of his desk, leaning forward to give him a glimpse of cleavage. She was one hell of a hot babe, Tiefenbacher thought, with breasts that he just ached to touch. She had class, too; her clothes were stylish and he noticed that the watch she kept looking at was a gold Cartier. She was wearing a wedding ring but he was giving some thought to asking her out for a drink after work.

He listened to the conversation. The old woman was obviously talking to her son, Lou Schoelen, the man the agents were interested in. The display below the tape counter listed the number of the telephone number the old woman was talking to. The digits would be recorded on the tape at the end of the call, but Tiefenbacher scribbled them down on his clipboard so that he could tell Kelly Armstrong right away. Maybe if he impressed her, she’d be more amenable to a date.

Lisa Howard carried two mugs of coffee into the sitting room and placed them on the table, being careful not to disturb her husband’s papers. “Thanks, honey,” he said, looking up and smiling. “How are the kids?”

“Fast asleep,” she said. “They’re growing up so fast. Eddy asked me if he could start playing golf today; can you believe that?”

“I bet that’ll please your father no end,” said Cole. Theodore Clayton was a scratch golfer, and Lisa had been playing for years. She was good enough to turn professional, though she only played for fun.

“Daddy wants to buy him his own set of junior clubs.” She sipped her coffee.

Howard put down the yellow marker he had been using to underline paragraphs of interest in the papers he was reading. “Hey, if Eddy wants golf clubs, I’ll get them for him. His birthday isn’t far off, they’ll make a great present.”

Lisa smiled thinly. “Actually, I was playing with Daddy today and he’s already bought them.” She saw that her husband was about to protest, so she rushed to speak first. “I know, I know, but there was nothing I could do. You know how strong-willed he is. It’s just a set of golf clubs.”

Howard scowled. It was more than just sports equipment, it was yet another sign of his father-in-law’s interference. Howard had always strived to maintain his independence, to do the best he could to support his family, but no matter how hard he worked, no matter how many hours of overtime he put in, he could never hope to compete with Theodore Clayton’s immense wealth. Howard knew that it wouldn’t stop with the golf clubs. Down the line there’d be offers of horses, cars, college tuition, vacations, anything the children wanted. Acceptance would become easier as time went on, and he didn’t want his children to grow up thinking that everything would be handed to them on a plate. “If my son wants to take up a sport, I’d rather be the one who sets him up. .” Howard began, but he stopped himself when he realised how petty he sounded. “Does this mean he’s gone off baseball?”