“Yes, but you don’t even know this O’Brien’s background, Cole.”
“Like I said, we’re running a check on him now. He claims to be a former SAS soldier who worked against the IRA in Northern Ireland. He’s as well trained as our Special Forces guys, and he’s worked undercover.”
“But you said he’d been tortured, and shot,” said Mulholland.
“He’s hurt, but not too badly,” replied Howard. “I’ve already spoken to his doctor. He says most of his injuries are superficial, and though he’ll be a bit weak for a few days, he’s in no danger.”
“I’m not sure how close Bob Sanger will want him getting to the President.” It sounded to Howard as if Mulholland was looking around for reasons to say no.
“I know it’s a long shot, but if it was explained to him in the right light. .”
Mulholland laughed. “Okay, Cole, I’ll run it by him. You let me know what Sullivan says. He’s going to check with London, right?”
“Right. And we’re running the prints of the dead girl through the computer, too.”
“You think she’s the third sniper, Dina Rashid?”
“There’s a strong possibility, yes. And if one of the snipers is dead, that increases the possibility of them changing their plans and going for a close-in hit.” Clutesi stood in front of Howard, his cellular phone at his side, making a small waving motion with his free hand. “Wait one second, Ed,” said Howard. “What’s up?” he asked Clutesi.
“Frank says the dead girl is Dina Rashid for sure,” Clutesi answered.
“What about O’Brien?”
“Nothing on our files, or Interpol’s. We’re checking with MI5 but, bearing in mind what happened to their man, they might not be especially helpful.”
Howard nodded and spoke into his phone. “Ed, Frank says the girl in the basement is definitely Dina Rashid. He’s still checking out O’Brien’s story.”
“Okay. Let me speak to Bob Sanger and then I’ll get back to you. Oh, I almost forgot, Jake Sheldon was on the phone from Phoenix. He wanted to know how Kelly Armstrong was getting on with our team here in Washington. He seems to think very highly of her.”
“Yeah, she’s doing a great job,” said Howard, bitterly.
“That’s what I told him,” said Mulholland. “Okay, Cole, talk to you soon.” The line went dead.
“Everything okay?” asked Clutesi.
“Peachy keen,” said Howard.
Matthew Bailey took a cab from Bay Bridge airfield to the Marriott Hotel in Baltimore, and there he waited a full thirty minutes before catching another cab to the airfield where Farrell Aviation was based. He kept his baseball cap pulled down and had his dark glasses on, but he needn’t have bothered: neither driver even bothered to look at him. He had the taxi drop him at the airfield car park and he waited until he was sure that he hadn’t been followed before getting into his rental car. He drove back to the motel, eager to be with Mary Hennessy again, but knowing that he had to stick to the speed limit. He couldn’t understand why the Americans had chosen 55 mph; it was a snail’s pace compared with what he was used to in the United Kingdom. He tapped the wheel impatiently, then flicked through the channels on his car radio. There were advertisements on every one: for restaurants, repair shops, store sales, beer, supermarkets. It was as if the stations had banded together and co-ordinated their advertisement breaks so that there was no escape. He’d noticed the same phenomenon on American television. He switched the radio off and concentrated on the road ahead. He was no longer nervous about the forthcoming operation — he was looking forward to it, keen to show Mary what he could do. The anticipation was a hard knot in his stomach, and it made him feel more alive than he’d felt in a long time. Mary had been right, they’d talk about this day for a long, long time in the bars of Belfast. Songs would be sung and glasses would be raised and Matthew Bailey and Mary Hennessy would be remembered forever.
He parked the car at the rear of the motel and rushed to the room, his heart pounding. He realised that he hadn’t taken the key with him and he knocked impatiently. His face fell when Mary opened the door and he saw that Carlos, Schoelen and Lovell were already there. Lovell was wearing a short-sleeved white shirt with the Farrell Aviation hawk and propeller logo on the back and on the breast pocket. Mary ushered Bailey inside and closed the door behind him. “Everything’s okay?” she asked.
Bailey nodded. “The plane’s at Bay Bridge, fully fuelled. It’ll take half an hour to get there from the city; by the time we get to the field it’ll be deserted. There’s no tower there, and so long as we head south immediately, we won’t cut through the Baltimore TCA.”
Carlos nodded and held out his hand, palm upward. “I’ll look after the keys, Matthew,” he said.
Bailey looked over at Mary and she nodded agreement. Reluctantly, he handed them over.
“I’ve been on the phone to Farrell, and everything’s fine at his end,” said Mary. “He hadn’t seen the television last night, and I didn’t enlighten him. Don’t bring it up when you see him, I don’t want him spooked.”
“Sure,” said Bailey. He desperately wanted to get Mary on her own but there didn’t seem to be any way he could manage that: Lovell was lying on one of the beds, his arms behind his head, staring up at the ceiling, and Carlos had seated himself on the dressing table, swinging the keys to the Centurion around his index finger. Mary looked stunning. Bailey remembered how smooth and firm she’d been in bed, how her legs had gripped him like she was riding a stallion, squeezing and holding him, and how good she’d smelled — musky, like an animal in heat. He felt himself growing hard and he shook his head.
“Matthew, are you all right?” Mary asked.
Bailey blushed. “I’m fine,” he said.
“We’re going to do a final run through,” she said. “You give a wind reading, as if you were reading it off the computer. Okay?”
“Sure.”
Schoelen was already taking his rifle out of its case. Carlos looked at Lovell. “Let’s get to it, Rich.”
Lovell rolled off the bed and opened the case containing his Barrett rifle. Carlos took Dina’s rifle and checked it while Mary opened her suitcase and picked up five transceivers in black leather holsters, with earpieces and body microphones. She gave one to Bailey and he clipped it to his belt and inserted the earpiece. The microphone he attached to the neck of his shirt.
The rest of the men set up their transceivers and Mary spoke to them one at a time, checking that they could receive and transmit. When she was satisfied that the equipment was working, the three snipers moved to different parts of the room, all facing the same direction, towards the door. Bailey stood by the bathroom door and Mary leant against the dressing table, her arms folded across her stomach. The snipers had their rifles to their shoulders, but their fingers were outside their trigger guards.
Mary let them make themselves comfortable and waited until she could see that their breathing had steadied.
“Check One,” she said.
“Check One,” repeated Lovell.
“Check Two,” said Mary.
“Check Two,” said Schoelen.
“Check Three,” said Mary.
“Check Three,” said Carlos.
“Check Wind,” she said.
“Two One Five at Nine,” said Bailey. The imaginary wind was blowing from two hundred and fifteen degrees at nine knots. The snipers mentally calculated how they would adjust their aim.
“Two One Five at Nine,” repeated Lovell.
“Two One Five at Nine,” said Schoelen.
“Two One Five at Nine,” said Carlos.
“With you, One,” said Mary.
Lovell pressed the scope to his eye. “Target sighted,” he said. “Countdown starting. Five, four, three, two, one.” He made a firing motion with the index finger of his right hand, and then continued to count in a steady, even voice. “One thousand and one, one thousand and two.” As he said ‘two’, Schoelen made a similar firing motion. Lovell’s count continued. “One thousand and three.” Carlos pretended to fire his rifle. “One thousand and four,” said Lovell. All three snipers lowered their rifles.