he was still no nearer knowing where they were, who their target was, and when they intended to strike. He had a sickening feeling that Jake Sheldon would regard the slow progress as failure and that he’d assign someone else to supervise the case. Howard sighed and dropped the sheets of paper into his desk drawer. The desire for a drink was almost overwhelming. He pulled a slim book from his bottom drawer and flicked through it until he found the address of a local college where a meeting was scheduled to start in twenty minutes’ time. He quickly filled out the forms for the telephone records and the tap and put them into an envelope marked for Jake Sheldon. He put copies of the photographs of the snipers, the woman and the two men into another envelope and marked it up for an FBI records cross-check before putting it in his ‘out’ tray.
The drive to the college took less than ten minutes and there were plenty of parking spaces. It was a venue he’d visited before. The meeting room was on the first floor and a couple of dozen plastic chairs had been arranged in uneven rows facing a blackboard on which were scrawled a number of chemical equations. At the back of the room a coffee-maker bubbled contentedly, and a young man in a shabby suit was pouring milk from a carton into a row of china mugs. Howard took a seat at the back, next to a large woman in a fur coat. There were sixteen people in the room, most of them men. Howard had seen several of them before, both at the college and at other meetings. He was the third to speak. He stood up and, as he always did when addressing a group, he cleared his throat. “My name is Cole,” he said, “and I’m an alcoholic. It’s been three years and eight months since I had a drink.”
The group applauded and Howard felt their support and love wash over him like a warm shower.
It was a hot day and the crowds streaming towards the ball park were dressed appropriately — baggy shorts, bare legs, T-shirts, and baseball caps, most of them in the orange and white team colours of the Orioles. Mary left the hotel and followed the fans. She had put on a pair of baggy white shorts which showed off her slim, tanned legs, and a blue sweat-shirt, the sleeves pulled up to her elbows. The weather in Baltimore was the most varied she’d ever experienced: three days earlier it had been so chilly that she’d needed a warm coat when she went out, the previous day it had rained, and when the sky had cleared the temperature had soared into the high eighties and the television weather forecaster had said that the humidity would be high on the day of the game. He’d been right, and Mary found herself breathing heavily so thick and moist was the air.
Street vendors had sprung up on all the roads leading to the ball park, selling hot dogs, iced drinks, and cheap souvenirs. Mary walked by a bar where the customers had spilled out onto the street, mainly good-natured young men drinking beer from cans. It wasn’t the first baseball game she had been to, so she wasn’t surprised at how polite and agreeable everybody appeared to be. There was none of the mindless chanting and thuggery that always seemed to accompany large sporting events in Britain, where the violence off the pitch often had a higher priority than the game itself. In contrast, American crowds were generally families out for a good time. The police directing traffic seemed friendlier than their UK counterparts, their shirts rolled up and their caps pushed back on their heads. They smiled and joked with the crowds, and appeared to be as enthusiastic about the forthcoming game as the fans. She felt totally safe as she mingled in the crowd, though she kept a wary hand on the strap of her handbag.
The ticket had been delivered to her room in a sealed envelope early that morning, but she wasn’t sure which entrance to use. A large policeman saw her frowning as she studied her ticket and he asked her if she needed help. He had a badge on his chest which said his name was Murphy but his accent was a slow Maryland drawl with no trace of Irishness in it. He had a drinker’s nose, though, red and bumpy like she’d seen so many times on the faces of the men in the streets of Belfast. Officer Murphy pointed to where she should go, and wished her a nice day. He actually touched his hand to the peak of his cap, a gesture she associated more with Dixon of Dock Green than an American cop. The elderly man who checked her ticket at the turnstile was just as friendly. She could never get over how polite everyone was in America. Waitresses, policemen, bank clerks, people she met in the hotel, they all smiled and seemed to take a genuine interest in her. The people in Belfast were friendly enough, but there was still a coldness between strangers which didn’t seem to exist in the States.
She walked through the crowds to the stairway which led up to the level where her seat was. The stadium was buzzing expectantly, while down on the bright green playing surface players warmed up, throwing balls hard and fast and catching them with their large leather mitts. Even high up in the stand, Mary could hear the thwack of balls being hit home. Off to the side, by the dugouts, men were swinging bats, their arms extended, whirling them like propellers. Messages were being flashed onto a large electronic screen at the far end of the stadium, welcoming the fans and telling them who was on that day’s team. Men rushed up and down the aisles carrying boxes of beer cans, hot pretzels, hot dogs and soft drinks, shouting their wares. Food and drink was passed from hand to hand along the rows by the fans, and money shuttled in the opposite direction to be pocketed by the vendors.
The seat on Mary’s left was vacant, and to her right was a young boy, his head dwarfed by a black baseball cap with an orange Oriole logo on the front. He was eating a huge mustard-smeared hot dog and swinging his legs up and down while his father tried to attract the attention of the Budweiser-seller. Mary smiled down at the little boy and he grinned, his lips yellow with mustard. When Mary looked up, a middle-aged man wearing sunglasses was sitting next to her, a large tub of popcorn in one hand, a giant beaker of Cola in the other. He looked like a typical sports fan rather than the terrorist the world knew as Carlos the Jackal. The lenses of his sunglasses were pitch black and Mary could see her own reflection in them. “Good afternoon, Ilich,” she said.
“Mary,” he said quietly, turning to watch the players warming up. “It’s so nice to see you again. You are as beautiful as always.”
“Why thank you, Ilich. You’re too kind.”
He held out his tub of popcorn but Mary politely refused. The opening bars of the Star Spangled Banner began, and the stadium rumbled as the tens of thousands of fans got to their feet. Mary and Carlos followed suit, though they didn’t join in the chorus of cheers when the National Anthem finished and the Orioles ran onto the field. The opposition, a team from Minnesota, sat in the dugout while their first hitter went up to bat.
“How is everything?” asked Carlos.
“Fine,” said Mary. “I’ve rented a house overlooking the Chesapeake Bay, not far from Bay Bridge Airport.” She slipped him a piece of paper on which she’d written instructions and drawn a sketch map of the location of the house, and a set of keys. “Matthew is in Florida, when he gets in touch I’ll tell him to meet you in the house. How are the others?”
Carlos smiled. “A little tense,” he said. “They don’t like waiting. And Rashid is missing Lebanese food. Other than that, they’re raring to go. At the moment they’re in separate motels.” He pocketed the keys and the paper. “I’ll move them into the house tomorrow. How long is the lease?”
“I took it for six months, three months paid in advance. The electricity, gas and phone are connected, we won’t be having any unexpected visitors.”
“That is good, very good,” said Carlos. He scooped up a handful of popcorn and shovelled it into his mouth. The man always ate as if it was the last food he would see for some time, thought Mary. He never left any food on his plate, and she knew that Carlos would not throw any of the popcorn away. Any remaining when it came time for him to leave the stadium would be saved and eaten later. “The weather has been variable,” he said, his mouth full of popcorn.
Down below, the pitcher threw the ball and the spectators roared as it went straight into the glove of the catcher. “The changing of the seasons,” said Mary. “The forecast is good. But in any event, they can compensate for the wind.”
Carlos nodded. “I hope the game does not get rained out,” he said. “A rain check will be of no use to us.”
“You worry too much,” said Mary.
“I want to succeed,” said Carlos. “I cannot afford to fail.”
The little boy on Mary’s right was unabashedly trying to listen but she knew he was too young to follow the conversation. She smiled and the boy grinned back. His father smiled at Mary and began talking to his son about one of the players. Mary turned back to her companion. “Neither of us wants to fail,” she said, keeping her voice low. “It will be all right, Ilich. Trust me.”
“The luck of the Irish?” he said, grinning. He wolfed down another handful of popcorn.
“We’ve planned for every eventuality,” said Mary. “Don’t worry.”
Carlos swallowed. “You’re a cool one, Mary Hennessy. Where were you during the Seventies? I could have used you then.”
