down, the movement tightening the muscles in the back of her legs and emphasising the curve of her buttocks. Despite the cold knot of fear in his stomach, Lovell felt himself grow harder. When she straightened up he moaned. She had her rifle in her hands. She caressed it lovingly, the way she’d stroked his erection, her eyes hard. Once more she sat down on the bed next to him, her skin against his. “I was ordered to kill them, but I would have done it anyway. It was a pleasure. I hate Americans, Lovell. I hate all Americans.” She held a bullet inches from his face, and then chambered it.
“Let me go,” he pleaded.
“You wanted to know what it was like to be fucked by me. Now shut up and enjoy it.” She straddled him again and reached down with her left hand to hold him. This time she gripped him hard, digging her nails into his flesh, and he yelped. While his mouth was open wide she pushed in the barrel of her rifle, the metal clinking against his teeth. He tried to move his head to the side but she pushed the rifle forward so that the end of the barrel jammed into his cheek. “Keep your head straight, pig, or I’ll push it right through the flesh.” Lovell did as he was told. Rashid smiled. “Now suck it, gently, as if you were sucking me.” Lovell’s lips closed around the metal and he made small sucking movements, like a baby at its bottle. Rashid released his erection and with her left hand she switched off the safety and slipped a finger onto the trigger. “It takes three pounds of pressure to pull this trigger,” she said quietly. “I thought you’d like to know that.” Her left hand went back to his erection, massaging him as she spoke. “They knew it was going to be their last fuck, but somehow I don’t think they enjoyed it,” she said. She used her hand to guide him inside her, just the first inch, and then she rocked her hips from side to side. Sweat was running down Lovell’s face and collecting in the hollow of his throat. His eyes were wide and scared as he sucked at the barrel. She allowed him inside another inch and he felt her internal muscles grip him. “It was the timing that was difficult,” she said. “Knowing exactly when they were coming.” She opened her thighs and pushed down, allowing him all the way in, then she began to move up and down slowly. “I didn’t want to pull the trigger until they came, you know? God, Lovell, I’ve never felt such power.” She was moving faster now, her hair whipping around her shoulders, her skin damp with sweat. “To know that I was the last person they’d see as they died, that they died fucking me.” The barrel of her rifle was driving in and out of Lovell’s lips in time with the motion of her body. Suddenly she slowed, and moved her hips up so that he was only just inside her. “I’d pull the trigger and their brains would blow out over the floor and their whole body would go into sort of convulsions. Their pricks would get so big, so hard, and the convulsions would drive them deep inside me, deeper than anyone has ever gone. All women should feel what’s it’s like, to have a man die inside you. God, I came so hard.” She smiled. “They never knew, of course. They never knew what an intense orgasm they gave me. It’s like they say, Lovell, the only good Yank is a fucking dead one. I suppose I’d better thank you in advance. .” She thrust her groin down, so hard that he gasped. “Come on, Lovell, make me come,” she said, her voice deep and harsh, like a man’s. Lovell tried to resist, but his limbs were bound tight and the pillow was pushing his groin against hers. He could see her trigger-finger tensing. He tried to fill his mind with images that would take his mind off what was happening, hoping that if his erection subsided she’d stop. He thought of baseball scores, old movies, decompression tables, but it was no good, he could feel himself tightening. He opened his eyes and saw that she was staring at him as she pounded against his flesh, her mouth open, her eyes glazed. Her chest was glistening with sweat like a wild horse at the gallop, and the muscles in her neck were as tight as steel wires. Her small breasts were bouncing as she moved, and his eyes travelled down her flat stomach to the triangle of hair at her crotch. As she rose and fell he could see the glistening wet condom appear and disappear like a piston. He began to shake with fear. He could feel himself building to a climax and as the woman drew back her lips in an almost canine smile, he knew that she also realised he was going to come. He wanted to scream and to beg but the barrel of the rifle was pressing down on his tongue, making him gag. His hips began to thrust into her as if they had a mind of their own. He wanted her, even though he knew it was going to be the death of him. The trigger began to move as the finger tightened. Rashid moved faster and harder. “Fuck me and die,” she cursed, her internal muscles squeezing and holding, and then Lovell felt himself spurt and kick inside her and he saw the trigger pull back and the hammer begin to move. He screamed as he’d never screamed before in his life and he never heard the clicking sound the hammer made as it struck the firing-pin and drove it into the empty chamber.
Carlos heard the frantic screaming as he lay on his back in his own bedroom, and he smiled. He doubted that Lovell would try to get into Dina’s bed again.
Don Clutesi poured himself a coffee and added three spoonfuls of sugar. “Do you want one?” he asked Frank Sullivan as he stirred.
Sullivan shook his head as he read the FBI file on his desk, and grunted. Clutesi walked up behind him and read over his shoulder. “Mary Hennessy,” he said. “The RUC were looking for her two years ago, weren’t they? Have they found her?”
“They haven’t, but an agent in Phoenix might have,” said Sullivan, still reading. He groped for a photograph and held it by his ear for Clutesi to take.
Clutesi took it and compared it with the photographs in the file. The hair colour was different, but other than that it was clear that they were the same person. “When was this taken?” Clutesi asked.
“Recently,” said Sullivan, “that’s all I know. I don’t even know where he got the picture from,” he said. He handed over a second photograph. “She was with a guy. Recognise him?”
Clutesi took the photograph and shrugged. “Is he IRA too?”
“He’s Matthew Bailey, the IRA guy who tried to buy the missile in LA last year. There’s another man, but I haven’t been able to get a match from our files.” Sullivan showed him the photograph of the moustached man wearing sunglasses who was holding a walkie-talkie to his mouth. “I’m going to ask Phoenix if it’s okay to cross- check with the RUC and MI5.”
A middle-aged man stuck his head around the door. It was Douglas Foulger who worked down the corridor in the Counter-intelligence (Middle East) office. “Yo, Frank, you okay for softball this Saturday?”
“Sure, Doug. Who are we playing?”
“One of the Brooklyn SWAT units,” said Foulger, grinning. “You’d better pack a rod.” He walked into the office, nodding a greeting at Clutesi. He looked at the picture of Mary Hennessy. “Good looking woman,” he said. “She looks experienced, you know?”
“She’s that all right,” said Clutesi. “She’s an IRA terrorist who gets a kick out of torturing undercover agents.” He handed Foulger the other picture, the one of the man with the walkie-talkie. “I don’t suppose you know who this is?” he asked.
Foulger took one look at the picture and sneered at Clutesi. “Get outta here, Don. You’re jerking me around, right?”
Sullivan’s head snapped up. “You know him?”
“Come on you guys, there isn’t an anti-terrorist agent in the world who wouldn’t know who this is.” His mouth dropped. “Jesus H. Christ, are you telling me he’s in the States?”
“Who?” said Clutesi. “Who the fuck is he?”
Foulger held the photograph out in front of him. “Unless I’m very much mistaken, gentlemen, this is Ilich Ramirez Sanchez. Alias Carlos the Jackal.”
Lou Schoelen switched on the small television in his bedroom and adjusted the sound level until he was satisfied that it would cover his voice. Carlos had been insistent that they were all to shun any contact with their friends and relatives until after the hit, but Schoelen thought he was being over-cautious. There was no evidence that anyone was on their trail, and besides, he had a foolproof way of ensuring that any call he made was totally untraceable. Carlos had left the house earlier, Lovell was downstairs watching television in the den, and the Lebanese woman was in her own room.
He pulled his kitbag out from under the bed and unzipped a small pocket from which he took a black plastic box about the size of a paperback book. On one side of the box were twelve grey buttons and on the reverse was a small grille covering a speaker. The electronics inside were quite simple and Schoelen had made the device for a few dollars. All the box did was to generate electric pulses which mimicked those used by the telephone companies. It was quite useless in the hands of someone who didn’t understand how communication networks operated, but Schoelen was no amateur. He flicked open a small notebook and ran his eyes down the columns of figures. It had taken him ten years to gather together the information in the book, swapping numbers with other phone hackers in the same way that children traded baseball cards.
Schoelen dialled the telephone number of an insurance company in Baltimore. He knew that the office would be closed — it was after nine o’clock at night — and that the call would not be answered. He waited until the third
