Howard began to realise that there were other uses for the technology Theodore Clayton was developing. He knew how keen the CIA and FBI would be to use camcorders to identify trouble makers at civil rights demonstrations, and there were certain to be those in the darker corners of the Pentagon who’d love to be able to use phony videotapes in all sorts of covert operations. Howard knew how easy it would be to blackmail someone who was a threat to Government interests, or how the right sort of tapes could be used to usurp an uncooperative head of state. The hi-tech manipulation of videotape would work both ways: in the hands of the unscrupulous it could become the greatest propaganda weapon of all time. It was already happening to a small extent in advertising, with Coca-Cola using images of long-dead Humphrey Bogart, James Cagney and Louis Armstrong to sell their products. It wasn’t too much of a leap to manipulate news broadcasts. Howard remembered the black and white videos he’d seen of ‘smart bombs’ seeking their targets in the Gulf War, released to the television stations to show how well US technology was performing. True or fake? Howard had no way of knowing, and nor did the viewers. But everyone believed what they saw. Clayton was predicting not an era of truth, but a time of deception and lies, when no-one would be able to trust the evidence of their own eyes.
“So what are you saying, Ted?” asked the lawyer. “Are you saying that anything that’s captured on tape should be in the public domain?”
“I think that’s happening already,” said Clayton. “The most popular shows on television are the so-called reality shows, the ones that follow around police and rescue workers doing their jobs, showing them making arrests and pulling victims out of car wrecks. The public can’t get enough of them.”
“Maybe the public needs to be protected from its blood lust,” said Howard quietly.
“And who’ll be the judges of what they should see?” asked Clayton. “Who’ll be the censors? The FBI? You want to go back to the Hoover days?” He raised his hand to silence Howard before he could reply. Theodore Clayton preferred to answer his own questions. “No, the floodgates have been opened, I’m afraid. There’s no going back.”
“And what lies ahead?” asked the television producer.
Clayton grinned. “Ah, Ross, if I only knew. If only I knew.” The two maids began clearing the table and Jarvis carried a large gold-inlaid mahogany box over to Clayton. It was his deluxe Trivial Pursuit set, a game he loved with a passion and which he insisted his guests play after wining and dining them. “Everyone ready for a game?” Clayton asked cheerfully.
“Terrific,” said Howard as Clayton lifted the lid of the box and took out the board. Lisa kicked him under the table, but not too hard. She knew how much he loathed game-playing.
Kelly Armstrong sashayed into Howard’s office unable to control her excitement. Howard was sipping a cup of hot coffee and he put it down on his desk and looked at her with an amused smile on his face. He was still feeling pleased with himself after his and Lisa’s victory at Trivial Pursuit the previous evening. It was the first time Clayton and his wife had ever lost, and Howard had been unable to stop grinning all the way home. He was still smiling when he woke up that morning. It would take a lot to spoil his day. “Yes, Kelly, what is it?” he asked.
“I’ve found the firms that hired the cars!” she gushed. “Two firms, one leased a blue Chrysler Imperial three days before the plane was shot down, another leased a white Imperial two days before. Both cars have been returned.”
“Well done,” he said, sitting back in his chair. “Do they still have them?”
“The blue one is out with another customer, the white one is still available. And it hasn’t been cleaned yet! I’ve told them to hold it for us.”
Howard stood up. “That’s the best news I’ve heard today,” he said. “How did you find the companies?”
“Like you said, I contacted all the home addresses of the drivers who’d rented the cars. Two used fake addresses — one of the streets didn’t even exist, and both were recently issued licences.”
“And the credit cards?”
“Same addresses as the licences. Both cards were recent and are tied to bank accounts here in Phoenix. I’m applying to have access to the account records. With your say-so, of course.”
“Of course,” said Howard. “Go for it.” He handed her copies of the photographs which Clayton had given him. “Then go out and talk to both rental firms. Show them these photographs, see if they recognise anyone.”
Kelly scrutinised the pictures. “These are from the video?” she asked.
“They’ve been computer enhanced,” said Howard. “I’m expecting to get improved pictures later this week.” As he and Lisa had left Clayton’s house, the industrialist had slapped Howard on the back, congratulated him on his unexpected victory at Trivial Pursuit and whispered that his researchers had been working on the tape over the weekend and had made considerable progress. They’d be in touch before the week was out, Clayton had promised.
“Where are the rental companies?” Howard asked Kelly.
“Both here in Phoenix,” she said. “There’s something else. One of the men wasn’t American, the woman who rented out the blue Imperial said she thought he had an accent: Scottish or Australian.”
“Interesting,” said Howard. He sat down again. “Good work, Kelly. I’ll make sure Jake Sheldon gets to hear what a help you’ve been on this.”
Her green eyes widened and a red glow spread across her cheeks and Howard knew without asking that she’d already spoken to Sheldon. Howard’s smile tightened and he picked up his coffee. “Thanks, Kelly,” he said. He watched her buttocks twitch under her skirt as she left his office and he imagined burying a long, sharp knife between her elegant shoulder blades.
Cole Howard knew that he needed a briefing from someone with sniping experience, someone who could give him an idea of what sort of men he was up against. His office at 201 East Indianola Street was on the fourth floor and immediately below was the Treasury Department of Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms. Howard knew one of the agents in the department, a fifteen-year veteran called Bradley Caine. Howard rang Caine’s extension but got the engaged tone, so rather than wait he took the stairs down and stood at the agent’s door until he’d finished his call. The two men shook hands and Howard dropped down into the chair opposite Caine’s desk. Caine was a former soldier and he still wore his hair military-style. He was forever suffering from migraine headaches and swallowed aspirin like M amp; Ms. Without going into details, Howard explained that he needed information on snipers and their weaponry. Caine unscrewed the top of his bottle of aspirin and tossed two into his mouth, swallowing them dry.
“There’s a guy in the Phoenix SWAT team, Joe Bocconelli, let me give him a call,” said Caine. He held out the aspirin bottle to Howard, who shook his head.
“A bit early for me, Brad,” said Howard, with a smile.
Caine shrugged and dialled Bocconelli’s number. He put the call on the speaker-phone so that they could both hear him.
Bocconelli’s first thought was that Howard needed someone with a military background and Caine nodded in agreement. Bocconelli said that only a very, very special sniper could have shot down a plane with a rifle and he suggested that Howard check with the Marines, or the Navy SEALs. According to the sergeant, there were only about a dozen men in this country who could make a two thousand yard shot and that most of them would be in the military. Bocconelli recommended a sniper who lived in Virginia, not far from the Quantico Marine Corps Air Station where the Marines trained their snipers. Bocconelli had explained that the man, Bud Kratzer, was a former Marine Captain who had retired in 1979 after twenty years’ service, most of it as a sniper. He now worked as an independent consultant, selling his military skills to police SWAT teams around the country, and was a frequent visitor to Quantico where he was treated with a respect which bordered on reverence. Bocconelli also said he was on retainer from several counter-terrorist organisations but that details were understandably sketchy. Howard knew Quantico well. The FBI’s Academy was there, and so too was its Behavioral Science Unit, the office responsible for psychological profiling of hunted criminals, especially serial killers. Howard scribbled a reminder to himself on a notepad that if all else failed the BSU might give him a clue as to the sort of men who might be involved in the assassination.
Back in his own office, Howard telephoned Kratzer who said he’d be in Washington the following day and that he’d be more than happy to chat with him. Howard had hoped that the former Marine would fly to Phoenix but he said it was out of the question, much as he’d wanted to help. He was going straight from Washington to Germany for a two-week training session with the Kampfschwimmerkompanie, the German equivalent of the Navy SEALs.
Howard caught the redeye flight and he washed and shaved in the men’s room at Dulles Airport. Kratzer had
