worked soundlessly. Lovell put a second bullet into the man’s skull and he fell sideways, his massive bulk sending a shudder through the gondola. Lovell flicked the safety back on the automatic and put it back into his bag. The cartridges he had used had specially reduced loads which resulted in comparatively slow-moving bullets, fast enough to kill at close range but slow enough to stay lodged within the bodies and not pass through the walls or windows of the gondola.
Lovell unfastened his harness and dragged the bodies to the far end of the gondola, where they wouldn’t get in his way, and then knelt down and unpacked his rifle.
Bailey unbuckled his harness and slipped out of his seat, taking care not to unplug his headset. He pulled a green nylon bag from under Farrell’s seat. Inside was a laser targeting device, normally used by hunters, which had been fixed to a metal frame and a telescopic sight. Bailey carried it over to the hole in the bottom of the gondola where the television crew had been installing their camera. Bailey slid their equipment to the side and fixed the laser into the mounting, attaching it with four bolts.
Mary Hennessy handed her ticket to the grey-haired man at the gate, took the stub he gave her, and pushed through the turnstile, taking care not to snag her bag on the chrome bars. The man’s orange peaked cap was pushed back on his head and his forehead was bathed in sweat. The stadium was packed with fans, most of them dressed in colourful T-shirts and shorts, and the black and orange Oriole insignia was everywhere. The crowds were buzzing, and as Mary walked she heard good-natured arguments about the merits of the players, the teams, and whether or not the Prime Minister would manage to reach the catcher with his pitch.
She walked by food stalls where men in short sleeves were selling giant pretzels and hot dogs and the air was thick with the smell of french fries and onions. The lavatories were on her right. Kelly Armstrong was standing at the entrance wearing a pale blue jacket over a white dress. She gave no sign that she recognised Mary, but followed her into the lavatory. Most of the stalls were empty and Mary selected the one in the corner, furthest from the entrance. She put her bag on top of the toilet and undressed, hanging her clothes on the peg on the back of the door. From the bag she took out her orange and black usher’s uniform and the orange cap with its shiny black peak. She slipped on the black pants and fastened her orange suspenders, then put on the shirt and waistcoat, and adjusted the cap. She fastened her transceiver and holster around her waist, then took out a compact and checked her appearance in the small mirror. She tore off a piece of toilet paper and rubbed away her lipstick. She had a pair of bifocals in the bag and she put them on. The combination of bifocals and no make-up made her look much older. She nodded at her reflection, then rolled up her original clothes and stuffed them into the bag.
She knocked on the stall door twice and heard Kelly say that the coast was clear. Mary slipped out of the stall and pushed the bag into the bottom of the trash bag by the sinks. She gave herself a final check in the grimy washroom mirror and walked by Kelly to mingle with the crowds. As she went she heard the FBI agent whisper “Good luck.”
Lou Schoelen opened the office window and stood to the side as he looked at the ballpark in the distance. Four floors below, traffic was bumper to bumper as office workers headed out to the suburbs. Beyond the roads were the harbour-side shopping malls, and beyond them was the harbour, littered with small boats. Schoelen inserted the earpiece of his transceiver into his ear and switched it on. He clipped the radio to the rear of his belt, picked up his Horstkamp and knelt down by the side of the desk. He had put a large commercial directory on the desk and he rested the barrel of the rifle on it while he put his eye to the scope. He centred the pitcher’s mound in the scope, then swung the rifle slightly to the left so that the crosshairs were centred on the chest of a man wearing a grey suit and sunglasses.
He tested the pull on the trigger, then slipped his finger out of the trigger guard and laid the rifle on its side. He looked at the large stainless-steel diving watch on his wrist and rocked back on his heels. The excitement was almost sexual and he took several deep breaths. High in the air above the ballpark he saw a large green helicopter, Marine One. He picked up the rifle and focused on the helicopter as it circled over the stadium, then aimed at where he knew the fuel tanks were. One shot and Marine One would go down in flames, taking with it the most important man in America. Schoelen smiled. It would almost be worth it, but that wasn’t what he was being paid five million dollars for. He put the rifle back on the desk and watched the helicopter flare for landing.
“Incredible, isn’t it?” said Cole Howard, the binoculars pressed to his eyes as he watched the door of Marine One open and fold outwards to form a set of steps.
“I’m amazed that something that ungainly can fly,” said Clutesi.
The two FBI agents had left the main stand and gone down to the baseball diamond with Joker so that they could be closer to the President when he disembarked. Joker stood with his back to the helicopter, scanning the crowd for any faces he recognised.
As Howard watched Marine One, two Secret Service agents came down the steps, resulting in a wave of tumultuous applause from the spectators. Secret Service agents ran out and surrounded the helicopter, their heads swivelling from side to side, their hands never far from their concealed weapons. The radio crackled in Howard’s ear and he recognised Sanger’s voice, asking for situation reports from the men in the tunnel leading to the stand through which the President would be walking. Marine One had landed close to the tunnel entrance and effectively shielded the President from the buildings which overlooked the ballpark.
In his earpiece, Howard heard a voice say that Pied Piper was moving to the door of Marine One. The President appeared at the top of the steps and waved to the crowd. Howard heard an agent say that he’d seen a man reaching inside his jacket and there was a flurry of activity close to the tunnel with a trio of black-suited agents surrounding the man. It turned out to be a camera the man was reaching for. If the President was aware of the disturbance, he showed no sign of it. He walked down the steps, waving with his right hand and keeping a careful grip on the safety rail with his left. As soon as his feet touched the ground he was surrounded by half a dozen of the Secret Service’s bulkier agents and they moved together to the tunnel like some strange fourteen-legged sea creature. Only when the President and his security team were safely in the tunnel did the First Lady appear, followed by several more Secret Service agents. The First Lady followed her husband’s example and waved to the crowds before she descended. A second group of agents surrounded her and ushered her into the tunnel.
The crowd yelled and the rotor blades of Marine One began to spin, accompanied by the roaring whistle of its massive turbine. The huge helicopter lifted off, turned slowly in the air, and then flew up into the sky. It lifted up beyond the stands and the ranks of powerful spotlights which had been switched on, even though there was still plenty of daylight left.
“Come on,” said Howard, and he led Clutesi and Joker towards the tunnel entrance. Joker jogged to keep up with the fast-walking FBI agent. “Sanger says we’ll be allowed into the sky box, but he’d like us to keep our distance,” said Howard.
“The box is enclosed, so it’s unlikely that a sniper would try to shoot him through glass, isn’t it?” asked Joker. “The glass would deflect any bullet.”
Two Secret Service agents barred the way of the three men, their hands moving inside their jackets, until they saw their identification. They moved apart, their faces displaying no emotion.
“Yeah, that’d be the case if there was just one sniper,” said Howard. “But we’re talking about three. It could be that the first shot is to smash the glass, and it’s the second and third which will be the killing shots.”
They reached the sky box just in time to see the President shaking the hand of the Prime Minister. The two men were talking and smiling, though it seemed to Howard that the President was bored and only going through the motions. The First Lady joined them and began talking earnestly to the Prime Minister. A discreet distance behind the VIPs stood Sanger, his head turning slowly from side to side.
“Does your Prime Minister go in for sports?” Howard asked Joker, his voice little more than a whisper.
“Cricket, mainly,” said Joker. “And he goes to the odd soccer match.”
“I don’t see his wife here,” said Howard.
“She doesn’t get too involved in affairs of state,” said Joker. “Not like your First Lady.”
Howard grinned good-naturedly. “Yeah, I know what you mean. Seems to me that we voted in a two-man team without realising it.”
Secret Service agents were constantly moving around the President and his guests, and they were still on edge even though there were no members of the public within fifty feet. There were other security personnel around, members of the Prime Minister’s bodyguard unit. They seemed smaller and less fit than the American agents, and not as well groomed. The Secret Service agents wore expensive, immaculate suits, brilliant white shirts and perfectly knotted ties which wouldn’t be out of place in a bank’s boardroom. The Brits wore suits, but they clearly weren’t made-to-measure and their shoes were dull and scuffed. They did have one thing in common with
