Finding a parking space near the hall proved impossible. First point of adjustment. He would have to position the car during the afternoon, and arrive by cab for the critical performance.
There was no trouble with the case. No one paid any attention. His clothing, the limp caused by the stone he had put in his shoe, the winestain birthmark painted on his cheek and throat, proved sufficient distractions.
Inside, he reflected that he should have brought the weapon in now and have hidden it…
But that would have aborted his two a.m. practice session on the bank of the Thames.
That didn't begin encouragingly. He used all five target and two killing rounds before he trusted his weapon. He selected the sternlight of a moored barge for his final check shot.
It shattered. He departed to the muted, mystified curses of a river man.
Two rounds remaining.
He would need just one.
He would use it right up front, while they were spotlighting the members of the band, while the audience was still mesmerized by the show. Three to four seconds exposure for each musician. Plenty of time. If he timed his shot, his target wouldn't fall till after the spot had traveled on. There would be mild confusion at first. Twenty to thirty seconds would pass before anyone realized there was something badly wrong. He would be down to the side exit by then.
The lights would come up. More confusion. Time to reach the Simca. Panic. Screams of 'Murder!' and 'Police!' He should have the Simca off the street before it began settling out. He would become Hardy, aging himself with makeup, and be on the road again, in the VW, before the police showed any real life.
Would they seal all exits from the country? It seemed unlikely. They would have no reason to believe it a political killing. A grudge killer would just go home. Anyway, they wouldn't want to antagonize thousands of travelers when Britain needed every tourist mark and dollar. He didn't think that they would develop a reliable description before the unavoidable traces he had left had begun to surface. He would have a damned good chance of being over the Czech border, or at least into Austria, by then.
And the exposed trail would end at Hamburg.
Only bad luck could stop him. Or his own weakness.
He began to feel optimistic in spite of the haste of the mission.
But would he squeeze the trigger when the moment came?
He slept. And dreamed a nightmare in which his pursuers had run him into farm country resembling that surrounding the city where he had been raised. He lay exhausted, behind a treeline, near the top of a low ridge. They were coming toward him across a newly harvested cornfield, spread out in a broad skirmish line. They wore dress-blue police uniforms. Some were close enough to make easy targets. But when he laid the crosshairs on the nearest, he found himself looking into the face of his father.
He woke in a sweat, shaking. And immediately began practicing assembling his weapon.
He kept at it till he could do it without thinking, while concentrating on something else. Then he packed, went over the room till he was sure he had left no fingerprints, and checked out. He drove to the Spuk hideout, repeated his erasures. Then he took the Simca and parked it within a block of the concert hall.
A cab delivered him to his third address, where he changed into the Georgian costume, worked on the rifle, and scrubbed fingerprints again.
What a stir those would cause if found and identified.
And how unhappy the director would be.
Michael waited till he could enter the hall with a surge of young people. Again no one challenged the attache case.
Only the starscope, a baggy American leisure suit, a wig, and his makeup lay within. Not one person in a thousand would have recognized the scope. The rifle barrel was down his left side, beneath his shirt. Its breach he held clamped in his armpit. The silencer he had tucked inside his waistband at the small of his back. The rifle stock he had cut off at the handgrip. The rest wouldn't be necessary for this shot. What remained he had thrust down the tight pants over the 'bad' leg. The long coat concealed the bulges.
He wouldn't have fooled anyone watching for weapons smugglers. But gunrunners don't do business at rock concerts.
And people don't see anything they don't expect to see.
He hurried to a balcony level rest room, locked himself into a stall, quickly changed clothing and makeup. The rifle parts went into his bag. Everything else went into a waste can, beneath used paper towels, while the rest room was momentarily empty. He emerged looking a shopworn forty-five and faggoty, a man people would move away from without knowing why.
Trial chords reverberated through the auditorium.
The worst would be over in minutes.
'Snake, Snake, why the hell did you have to be so damned stubborn?' he muttered.
And thought, Mr. Director, how long do you expect to last if I survive this?
He moved to his box. As the house lights dimmed he assembled his weapon. He was cool, calm, without fear or thought. Training had taken over.
XXVII. On the Y Axis;
1975
Norm would have slept through a good chunk of Saturday if Lieutenant Railsback had let him. But the man was
