The Long shot

dark brown hair lightly curled in a pageboy cut and her eyes moist. Another of the photographs was a full-length shot, clearly taken at a funeral because she was wearing black and had a handkerchief in her right hand. In the background he saw men in black berets and sunglasses and a coffin covered with the Republican tricolour flag.

“They’re the latest pictures we have of Mary Hennessy, taken at her husband’s funeral five years ago,” said the Colonel. “You’ve seen her since, of course.”

“She hadn’t changed,” said Joker, his eyes fixed on the picture. He could see a big automatic in the hands of one of the men standing by the coffin.

“She’s certain to have altered her appearance by now. She could be blonde, a red-head, brunette, we’ve no way of knowing. Her hair could be longer, or permed, and she could be wearing coloured contact lenses. And she could have put on weight.”

“No,” said Joker quietly, looking at the woman’s slim figure and shapely legs. “She was too vain about her looks. The hair, yeah, she might change that, but she won’t change her figure and she won’t risk plastic surgery. And even if she did, I’d always recognise her.”

There was a photograph of her getting into a car, and another of her outside a large red-brick house. Joker recognised several of the men with her, all of them leading IRA and Sinn Fein figures. The rest of the photographs were of Matthew Bailey. He was below average height with an unruly mop of red hair and piercing green eyes. He had a snub nose dotted with freckles and a deep dimple in his chin, as if someone had poked him with a finger and left an impression in the flesh, and a mole under his left eye. “Bailey is now twenty-six years old, and is responsible for the deaths of at least four members of the RUC,” continued the Colonel. “The IRA sent him to the States about six months ago when Northern Ireland had become too hot for him. One of the FBI’s anti-terrorist units almost caught him in Los Angeles four months ago trying to purchase a ground-to-air missile system but he was tipped off and disappeared for a while. Last month we received reports that he’d surfaced in New York and we sent Manyon in.”

Joker looked up sharply. “Tipped off, you said? Who could’ve tipped him off?”

“You know as well as me that the US is full of Irish Americans who sympathise with the IRA, Joker. They don’t see them as terrorists but as freedom fighters. And the law enforcement organisations have more than their fair share of Irish Americans. Every second cop in New York has an Irish name, just about, and they all wear the shamrock on St Paddy’s Day.”

“Are you saying we can’t trust the American cops?”

“Cops, FBI, Attorney-General’s Office, you’re to steer clear of them all. There’s to be no contact with the Americans at all. We can’t afford to blow this, we’ll only get one chance.”

Joker held up a picture of Bailey and one of Hennessy. They could have been mother and son. “What makes you think they’re together?” he asked the Colonel. “Did Manyon see them?”

“No. We had no idea she was there. It was only when Manyon’s body turned up that we recognised her signature. The Americans don’t even know — they’re treating it as a straightforward murder investigation.”

“They don’t know Manyon was with the regiment?”

The Colonel shook his head. “No. His sister arranged to have the body brought back, and his cover held.”

Joker put the photographs on top of the passport. He smiled when he saw there was a UK driving licence in the name of Damien O’Brien. He thought of his own revoked driving licence, suspended for a further two and a half years. His smile widened when he saw a thick wad of banknotes. He ran his thumbnail along one edge of the stack of cash and images of Benjamin Franklin flicked past. They were almost all one hundred dollar bills. “There’s five thousand dollars there,” said the Colonel. “We’re also giving you two credit cards, one Visa and one Mastercard, in the name of Damien O’Brien. You can use those for purchases or for withdrawing cash, up to $300 a day on each one. You should use the cards wherever possible, they’re keyed into a bank account which we’ll be monitoring. Each time you use the cards we’ll know within minutes where you are. I suggest you use them once a day; just make a small withdrawal so that we can keep track of you.”

“What about back-up while I’m there?”

“You’ll be alone,” said the Colonel. “The last thing you want is a team following you around. This is completely solo, Joker. It has to be if it’s going to work.”

Joker put the money back in the envelope and slid in the photographs and typed sheets.

“What about a weapon?”

“That you’ll have to get while you’re there. The sort of company you’ll be in, you won’t have any trouble getting tooled up.”

Joker rubbed his chin with both hands. He could feel the stubble from several days’ growth scratch the skin of his palms. “And then? You still haven’t told me exactly how you want me to take them out.”

The Colonel smiled thinly. “That’s up to you,” he said, his voice almost a whisper.

Joker nodded. He understood why it was a solo mission and why there would be no contact with the Americans. “Colonel, it’ll be a pleasure,” he said. Joker wished that he felt as confident as he sounded. His last encounter with Mary Hennessy had left him shattered — physically and emotionally — and his enthusiasm for the Colonel’s mission was tinged with an emotion he hadn’t felt for some time. Fear.

Cole Howard drove back to his office after dropping Andy Kim off at the airport. The mathematician had spent the previous day in the desert with several men from the Sheriffs Department and a laser measuring device which Howard had managed to borrow from the County Highways Department. Kim had been keen to get back to Washington and begin running his numbers through the university’s mainframe computer. He’d been like an excited child during the ride to the airport, bobbing his head backwards and forwards as he talked. Howard wished he could have got the same enthusiasm from the young FBI agent who’d been assigned to help track down the vehicles used in the desert rehearsal. She was a twenty-five-year-old college graduate straight out of the Academy, a pushy woman with too much hair who’d seen Silence of the Lambs fifteen times and clearly decided to model herself on Hannibal Lecter rather than on Jodie Foster’s character. She was tall, had backswept blonde hair and a sharp profile, with pale green eyes that always seemed to regard Howard with contempt. It was a look he was used to seeing in his father-in-law’s eyes. Her name was Kelly Armstrong and she seemed to blame Howard for giving her the mundane job to do, even though the assignment had come direct from Jake Sheldon. Howard had wanted someone more experienced but Sheldon had insisted that he use the new girl, because tracking down rental cars didn’t require anything more than a room temperature IQ. She hadn’t smiled at him once, and her icy politeness annoyed the hell out of him.

She was waiting for him in his office. She looked pointedly at her wristwatch, an expensive gold Cartier, and pursed her glossy pink lips. Howard wanted to tell her that he was late because of Andy Kim, but he didn’t want to give her the satisfaction of having to explain himself.

“Good morning, Kelly,” he said, coldly.

“Cole,” she acknowledged. “I’ve found twelve rental companies within fifty miles of Phoenix who rent or lease vehicles of the make and colour in the Mitchell video. In all there were eighty-three out on the day of the shooting.” She looked at her notebook and flipped over a page with the sound of tearing cloth. “Seventy-nine have been returned, four are still out. All four are still within their rental agreements.”

Howard nodded and sat behind his desk. He waved Kelly to sit down but she ignored him. “All eighty-three were paid for by credit card, and all went through without incident. No fake cards, no stolen cards. I’ve run checks on all the driving licences and other than a few dozen unpaid tickets and a guy who owes several thousand dollars in child support, there’s nothing untoward.” Howard opened his mouth to speak but Kelly continued. “I asked all the rental companies if they had rented out a blue and a white car at the same time, and none had. A total of eight had been involved in an accident of some form, but all were collision damage and all had the names and insurance details of the other drivers involved.”

“Good work, Kelly,” he said. “You’ve done a good job.” She nodded and turned to go. “But. .” he began and she tensed. When she turned back she was looking down her sharp nose at him like an angry bird preparing to peck out his eyes. She raised her left eyebrow archly.

“Those cars must have come from somewhere,” he continued.

“Without licence plates it’s going to be difficult to track them down,” she said slowly.

“Difficult, but not impossible,” said Howard.

“We’re not even sure they’re rental cars,” she said.

“True, but it’s unlikely they’d risk using their own vehicles.”