Jones had no further interest in them. She was looking forward to a bath and another evening with Ed, whose company she was beginning to enjoy so much more than she might have expected.
There was nothing else she could do now. Not until that USB arrived.
The anonymous looking man sitting alone in a vehicle parked just a small distance further back from the others, made no attempt to leave his equally anonymous silver grey saloon car as Jones drove by. Instead he merely watched the performance of the rest of those gathered there, some of whom actually ran after Jones’s Lexus, stopping only when the big electric gates closed in their faces.
There was a camera on the passenger seat next to the anonymous man, but he didn’t even pick it up. Instead he waited until Jones had disappeared into the grounds of Northdown House, before finally climbing out of his car, and walking around to the rear to remove from the boot a small leather case which he opened rather furtively, glancing from side to side to ensure no one was nearby. He seemed to be checking the contents of the case, in which nestled a very sophisticated looking sniper rifle, its stock and barrel in two separate sections, a silencer, and a box of ammunition.
He turned to study the press corps again, most of whom were now grouped together by the electric gates, looking as if they were discussing what to do next. Nobody was taking any notice whatsoever of the anonymous man. With one hand he smoothed down his already smooth mousey brown hair. With the other he turned up the collar of his raincoat, a garment, almost exactly the same shade of brown as his hair, which was perhaps not entirely necessary on a dry and relatively warm September evening. Then he removed the rifle parts from the case, and with practised ease, quickly assembled and loaded the weapon.
He replaced the case in the boot, slid the rifle beneath his raincoat, holding it close to his body beneath one arm, and began to walk casually towards a wooded area just to the right of the gates.
He went straight to a spot from which he had a particularly good view of the house, even though he was then quite well concealed by trees and shrubs. Anyone watching might have assumed he knew exactly where he was going, and that he had already checked out the vantage point. But there was nobody watching.
The light was fading fast. It was very nearly dark. The anonymous man liked that. Darkness surrounding illuminated windows. Silhouettes standing out clearly against brightly-lit backdrops. Even in properties where windows were hung with heavy curtaining, there were almost always moments of vulnerability at dusk. Moments when lights were switched on before the curtains were drawn.
Lights were being switched on now upstairs in the house. And he could already see a shadow moving around in what he knew to be Jones’s bedroom. The shadow moved beneath the room’s bright central light. It was her.
He grunted in satisfaction. His was the simplest of plans. And it was extraordinary how often such a plan could circumnavigate the most advanced of security systems. There was no need to even attempt to breach the well-protected perimeters of Northdown. The anonymous man was an expert at what he did. Swift and accurate. And he liked to attack from without.
The gathered press had unwittingly provided him with his cover. Sandy Jones had been wrong to think that a press presence would give additional protection to her and Ed, not when a would-be assassin of this man’s calibre had been deployed. Depending on how quickly the waiting journalists became aware of the incident that would soon occur, they might yet also provide a displacement activity covering his escape from the scene.
The anonymous man lifted the rifle to his shoulder and took aim.
Meanwhile in New York, in a tall thin Brooklyn brownstone, Dom was trying not to nod off in an armchair while Connie slept surprisingly soundly on a bed in the same room. Sheer exhaustion had finally caught up with both of them.
The big man hadn’t slept properly for a long time either. Gaynor had given him a full account of the Wall Street fracas, and that had made Dom all the more nervous and on edge. He no longer left Connie’s side for a minute. Even when she used the bathroom he stood outside the door.
When she’d popped in with provisions earlier, Gaynor had offered to take her turn looking after Connie, but Dom had refused, sending her off back to work, telling her this was his problem and he’d sort it. The truth of course was, that, even though she was a cop, and she was smart and she was tough, Dom now wanted to involve Gaynor as little as possible. At best the incident in the financial district could destroy her career. At worst she could also now be targeted. Indeed, she may already have been targeted. They neither knew the identity of the mystery gunman nor his intent. Dom didn’t want Gaynor put in any more danger.
The big man yawned deep and long. It was the middle of the day in New York, but that made no difference. Dom’s eyelids felt like they were made of lead. They weighed more than he could bear. He just couldn’t stop them closing.
He was snoring gently when the Enforcer and his Apprentice arrived, their mission having been assigned to them by Mr Johnson and various of his associates.
Mikey hadn’t known who Gaynor was, of course, beyond her claiming to be a cop. But because an NYPD patrol car had been involved it had been easy enough for the Chelsea Feds to track down the patrolmen’s report and identify her. Just a little more checking had revealed that she was the girlfriend of one Norman Bishop — otherwise known as the Dominator. All the Enforcer and his Apprentice had to do then was to tail her. They’d banked on her leading them to the Dominator and to Connie Pike, the woman they’d been entrusted to remove from the face of the earth. Ultimately Gaynor had done just that.
The Enforcer could break into almost any property almost anywhere without causing a disturbance. He knew as much about electronic security systems as the people who designed and manufactured them. Indeed he could probably have designed a system as well, if not better, than most of them, were it ever in his interests to do so.
It was the Enforcer who opened the door to the room where Connie and the Dominator slept. He was good at opening doors without making a sound. He moved silently towards Dom, sprawled in his armchair, snoring rhythmically, and gestured to the Apprentice, who, the sweat standing up on his brow, began to approach the bed where Connie slept.
The Enforcer reached into the inner folds of his grey overcoat and produced a butcher’s knife. The Apprentice glanced across at him. He was already carrying a smaller, but equally lethal looking, knife in his right hand. Its long narrow blade gleamed in the shaft of afternoon sunshine shining through the room’s one window. The Apprentice moved closer to the bed and aimed the point of the blade directly at the base of Connie Pike’s throat.
Dom was still snoring softly, his chest moving up and down as he breathed in and out. The Enforcer leaned over the big man, drew his knife hand back a little, and tensed the muscles in his shoulder and arm ready to deliver a lethal stab to the heart. The Enforcer was a professional. It would only take one blow.
Connie Pike and her unlikely protector were about to die.
Nineteen
Back in the UK, in the thick undergrowth just beyond the iron railings which surrounded Northdown House, the anonymous man was ready for the kill. His first target was in his sights, clear as could be. He could not have asked for better.
He curled the index finger of his right hand around the trigger of his rifle. The man was able to hold his hands and arms almost unnaturally still. He was a professional. And to him, this was almost too easy. Sandy Jones had just seconds to live.