you more details, I’m sure.”
Kratzer took the photograph back and studied it again. “There’s a sniper in the Navy SEALs, name of Rich Lovell. He’s an expert shot with the Barrett. I’m not certain, not a hundred per cent, but this might be Lovell. The face isn’t clear, but there’s something about the way he holds his head when he uses the scope. That could be him.”
Howard noted down the name and Kratzer told him where the SEALs were based. They were one of the units happy to pay the former Marine for sniping coaching. “What about the other two weapons? My father-in-law said that one of them might be a Horstkamp.”
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.
