leant against the dressing table, her arms folded across her stomach. The snipers had their rifles to their shoulders, but their fingers were outside their trigger guards.
Mary let them make themselves comfortable and waited until she could see that their breathing had steadied.
“Check One,” she said.
“Check One,” repeated Lovell.
“Check Two,” said Mary.
“Check Two,” said Schoelen.
“Check Three,” said Mary.
“Check Three,” said Carlos.
“Check Wind,” she said.
“Two One Five at Nine,” said Bailey. The imaginary wind was blowing from two hundred and fifteen degrees at nine knots. The snipers mentally calculated how they would adjust their aim.
“Two One Five at Nine,” repeated Lovell.
“Two One Five at Nine,” said Schoelen.
“Two One Five at Nine,” said Carlos.
“With you, One,” said Mary.
Lovell pressed the scope to his eye. “Target sighted,” he said. “Countdown starting. Five, four, three, two, one.” He made a firing motion with the index finger of his right hand, and then continued to count in a steady, even voice. “One thousand and one, one thousand and two.” As he said ‘two’, Schoelen made a similar firing motion. Lovell’s count continued. “One thousand and three.” Carlos pretended to fire his rifle. “One thousand and four,” said Lovell. All three snipers lowered their rifles.
Mary nodded enthusiastically. “Excellent,” she said. “If we can do that for real, all three bullets will arrive within half a second of each other. Any problems?”
Everyone shook their heads. They’d practised the manoeuvre hundreds of times and it was now second nature to them all.
Mary looked at her wristwatch. “Matthew, you and Rich had better go and meet Farrell.” Bailey frowned and began to protest, but Mary raised a warning eyebrow and he shut up. “I’ll see you at the airfield at eight o’clock,” she said. Lovell packed his rifle away and shouldered the case as Bailey changed into a short-sleeved white shirt like the one Lovell was wearing.
Bailey desperately wanted some sort of physical contact with Mary, a hug or a kiss, but he realised that it was out of the question while the others were there. He’d have to wait. “Okay, Mary,” he said. He raised a fist in silent salute. “See you later.” He left the motel room, the knot in his stomach growing like a cancer. Rich Lovell followed him, winking at Schoelen on his way out. Mary picked up her handbag.
“Are you going to see the Armstrong girl?” Carlos asked.
“That’s right,” she replied. “She’s going to tell me how much the FBI know and she’s got details of the stadium security for me.”
“I want to come with you.”
“No,” said Mary, sharply.
“I want to talk to her.”
Mary caught Schoelen’s eye and with a shake of her head indicated that he should leave the room. Mary waited for him to close the door before rounding on Carlos. “Are you crazy?” she shouted. “Kelly might be prepared to help me, but what the hell do you think she’ll say if she knows you’re involved? Jesus, you’re Carlos the Jackal! I’m Irish, she has a reason for helping me. You, you’re a. . a terrorist!”
Carlos looked at her, astonished by her outburst. Then he smiled, and gradually the smile turned into a laugh. Mary realised what she’d said, and she laughed with him, her anger forgotten. “I’m sorry, Ilich,” she said.
Carlos laughed all the louder, and wiped a tear from his eye with the back of his hand. “You’re right, of course. If she sees me, she might have a change of heart. You must go alone.” He regained his composure, but he was still clearly amused. “But be careful.”
She leant forward and kissed him gently on the cheek. “I will,” she promised. “I’ll be back within the hour.”
Carlos watched her go before picking up the telephone at the side of the bed. He tapped out a number and within seconds a man’s voice answered. “I’m calling in for the final time,” said Carlos.
“You have problems, I understand,” said the voice.
“You saw the television broadcast?”
“I would think that most of America saw it,” said the voice. “You are still going ahead?”
“The problems are not insurmountable,” said Carlos. “Security will be tighter but we now have a contact who is in a position to make it easier for us. Everything will continue as planned.”
“I understand that Rashid is no longer a part of the team.”
Carlos took a deep breath. “That is true.” The man on the other end of the line said nothing and Carlos knew that he was waiting for an explanation. “I will be taking her place.”
“You can do that?” said the voice.
“I can,” said Carlos.
“I must see you first,” said the man.
“Now?” said Carlos, surprised.
“Now,” repeated the man.
Carlos did not argue. He picked up a pen and scribbled down an address on a sheet of motel notepaper.
Joker lay back in his hospital bed, his arms at his sides. The painkillers were wearing off and he was becoming aware of the injuries to his body: the bullet wound in his shoulder was a small point of pain surrounded by a dull ache, like a toothache; his wrists were sore and it felt as if his hands were barely connected to his arms, that the bones and cartilage had been stressed to their limit and that they would never heal; and his legs ached as if he’d run a marathon. Worse by far, though, was the wound on his chest, the deep hole where his right nipple had been hacked off. The hole felt as if it went right to his spine and was liquid inside, though the dressing was clean and dry.
On balance, though, Joker considered that he’d been lucky. After his last encounter with Mary Hennessy he’d been in a hospital bed for three weeks and restricted to a liquid diet for months. As he tested and checked his various body parts, he realised that his bladder was full and that a visit to the bathroom was a pressing need.
The uniformed cop was slouched in his chair, his cap tilted on the back of his head, reading the
The cop looked at him with bleary eyes and put down the newspaper. “No,” he said. He returned his attention to the paper.
“Ah, come on,” said Joker. “What do you expect me to do? Wet myself?”
The cop shrugged. He kept his eyes on the paper and pointed to a glass bottle on the cupboard next to the bed. “Use that,” he said laconically.
“What, from here?” said Joker, indicating the chain that bound him to the bed.
The cop sighed mournfully, folded his newspaper and stood up. He kept his distance from the bed just in case Joker decided to lunge for his gun. He picked up the bottle by its neck, handed it to Joker, and went back to his seat.
Joker looked at the bottle in his hand, and back to the cop. “Is it too much to expect a little privacy?” he asked.
“Yes,” said the cop, reading.
“Terrific,” said Joker. He slipped the bottle under the covers and prepared to urinate into it. Just as he started, the door to his room opened and the two FBI agents stepped inside. Joker looked up. “Hell, if I’d known that my taking a piss was going to be this popular, I’d have sold tickets,” he said.
“Don’t let us interrupt you,” said Howard. He turned to the uniformed cop and asked him if he wanted to get himself another cup of coffee. The cop cheerfully accepted and slipped out of the room. Clutesi closed the door behind him and stood next to it, his arms folded across his chest. The FBI agents waited while Joker finished filling the glass bottle. He slipped it out from under the bedcovers and made a half-hearted attempt to put it back on the bedside table. It was clear he couldn’t reach, and he looked expectantly at Howard. Howard looked at Clutesi.
