destination.”
“What is that?”
“ That, as you call it, is the finest rifle ever built in the sniper class. It is a NATO 7.62mm semiautomatic regarded by most people who are familiar with things of this nature, such as myself, as the most accurate long- range weapon in the world. And there lies the trick, Walter. The Germans-a people so good at making things like this-built only seventy-two of them. If you asked me to get one for you today-and you would be a rich man, a very rich man to do so-I could not.”
“You’re serious? You couldn’t find one? How could a rank amateur?”
“He did not. It was no amateur. A Walther WA2000 is a transaction to be proud of. I think it could be sold for a hundred thousand euros, maybe more. A dealer I know in Hong Kong made just such a sale at the same time as these others, all bought within a few months of each other. I remembered hearing about it. We brag, as you Americans say, even in my profession. I called him last evening. He was bursting with pride still, and told me he arranged for it to be delivered to the same place-North Dakota. Be aware, Walter. With that gun you can kill anyone, anywhere.”
“No need for the concern. My man doesn’t want to kill me. He doesn’t even know me.”
“He will kill someone with it. When you do what you do you can never know what can transpire. If he does not know you, make sure it stays that way.”
“Don’t worry, Aat. But thanks.”
Aat van de Steen said, “No man spends that much money for such a thing and doesn’t use it. Besides, having played with it, practiced with it, held it in his hands and against his cheek and shoulder, taken it apart, cleaned and reassembled it, I am certain he will be unable to resist shooting it at someone. It must be so.”
“Thank you, Aat,” said Walter, acutely aware of the intensity in his friend’s voice. It struck him as almost religious-sexual. Every business has its Holy Grail. “As always,” Walter said, “I am in your debt.”
“Quite the contrary, Walter. It is I who owe you. It is my pleasure to assist. Do not forget. I am planning on it. In the spring, the Yab Yum.”
St. John
When the address in Raleigh turned out to be an empty lot, Walter was not surprised. No delivery service-not UPS, not Fed Ex, not anyone-would simply drop a package in an empty lot and drive away. Someone had to be there when it arrived, and Walter was sure it wasn’t Leonard.
He was certain, as certain as he could be absent real proof, that Isobel’s Kermit was Carter Lawrence. He was convinced, although less certain, that Carter had been present at the empty lot in Raleigh. It must have been he who took delivery as the packages of weapons and ammunition arrived there. What did he do with them? Probably, Walter conjectured, he shipped them on to wherever Leonard was. Most likely Carter loaded the packages into his car and drove south on interstate 85 back to Atlanta. If he had sent them out again it would have been from there, from somewhere in Atlanta. And if the two men had seen each other, Walter was sure it was Leonard who had come to Carter, not the other way around.
For the last twenty years, at least, no contacts had been more valuable than those that enabled Walter to see credit card records. With friends in the right places, vital information could be gathered instantly. Walter knew the authorities could accomplish the same thing, but it would take them weeks, even months. There would be search warrants, court orders, and, of course, the inevitable screw-ups caused by multiple and overlapping jurisdictions. The cops would have to deal with their own internal politics. Somebody might have the idea to check out credit card records, and somebody else, often times the next guy up the line, would kill the idea, simply because it wasn’t his. Walter’s years in the business also taught him that even when the cops, the FBI, or any of a slew of government agencies got it right-when they knew what to look for and where it was-they still missed it at least as often as they didn’t. Just as he once told Isobel the best way to follow someone can sometimes be to walk in front of them, he knew the best way to look for a clue was to know what you were looking for before searching for it. Easier said than done, but Walter trusted his instincts. For three decades they led him in the right direction.
Carter Lawrence’s credit card receipts gave Walter the confirmation he expected. Gasoline purchases tracked him from Atlanta to Raleigh and back again, more than once. Walter could even see where Carter stopped for lunch along the way. And, best of all, UPS records showed shipments from Carter Lawrence to a PO Box in Las Vegas, New Mexico-no doubt a private mail and package store just like the one in Fargo. The shipments were in Carter Lawrence’s name, paid for with his Visa card. The recipient was EM Inc.
After his ex-wife and two sons died, Carter hunkered down in Atlanta. Except for the trips to Raleigh, he went nowhere for more than two years. Some of his gasoline charges in Atlanta were separated by many weeks. He wasn’t even moving around in town. The only vendor that showed up on Carter’s records in any regular fashion was a Kroger supermarket. From the amount of the charges-never more than forty dollars-Carter was obviously eating alone. Then, only a month ago, charges appeared for gas and food in Birmingham, Alabama. “What was he doing there?” Walter wondered. This month there was another out-of-town charge. This time for a Hampton Inn in Clarksville, Tennessee-plus a restaurant bill of $130.46 at the Clarksville Holiday Inn. He wasn’t eating alone that night. Another gasoline charge showed up the following day in Springfield. Walter opened the travel atlas he kept handy on top of the refrigerator and turned to the map of Tennessee. Atlanta to Clarksville was about three hundred miles. He traced out a route, simple and direct, going north on I-75 and picking up I-24 just past Chattanooga, going west right into Clarksville. The round trip was too long to make on a single tank of gas, and the refueling stop fit the trip perfectly. Springfield was just down the road on the way to Nashville. It was clear to Walter that Carter Lawrence had driven from Atlanta to Clarksville, eaten dinner with someone, spent the night at a nearby Hampton Inn, and drove home the next day. Walter had seen his share of Holiday Inns, from Maine to Montana and too many places in between. There was no way anybody could spend $130.46 in any of their restaurants-not alone. Carter had more than one dinner guest-at least two, more probably three, Walter figured. There were no more surprises after Clarksville. Carter wasn’t hiding from anyone. He never thought to cover his tracks by paying cash. By now Walter expected to see the airline charge for Carter’s ticket to New York. Yes indeed, he was Kermit. No hotel for New York. Walter made a mental note to check the addresses for Carter’s brother and sisters. He was sure he’d find one of them living in New York City on the Upper West Side.
New Mexico
Walter’s plane didn’t land in New Mexico until late afternoon, and he had also lost two more hours by the clock. The trip had been grueling, but he felt momentum and didn’t want to break it, didn’t want to stop. Up at six, he had taken the ferry to St. Thomas and boarded a flight to Miami. From there he flew to Dallas, changed planes, and he was airborne again on his way to Albuquerque-his first time ever in New Mexico. Santa Fe was another couple of hours by car from Albuquerque. Walter had booked a room at Santa Fe’s most famous hotel, Inn of the Anastasia. At the suggestion of the reservations agent, he got one with a fireplace. “Isn’t Santa Fe in the desert?” Walter had asked her, mistakenly believing he was headed for a warm climate. “Yes it is,” she told him, “but it’s the high desert. It gets real cold here, Mr. Sherman. You’ll see. There’s snow on the ground right now. If you’re coming from the Virgin Islands you need to bring a coat.” She laughed a friendly laugh. Walter had a lopsided idea of what Santa Fe was all about, and he figured she labored under a similar misconception of the Virgin Islands, and most likely had never heard of St. John. “She probably thinks we’re all walking around in shorts and T-shirts, with floppy hats and sunglasses,” he thought. Then he realized if she did think that she wouldn’t be too far from right. “Take the fireplace. You won’t be sorry,” she said. After landing, he rented a car and drove first to Sure Shot Shooting Supplies and Accessories at 5400 Holly NE. It took him less than half an hour to purchase a Glock, with bullets and holster, for $576.42.
The interstate is straight as an arrow, uphill heading north. Walter found it barren and sad. Occasional Indian casinos, their satellite motels and restaurants, were clustered along the sides. He noticed with wry surprise that the sun was setting, suddenly, behind ragged mountains. The Caribbean sun takes forever to disappear out past Puerto Rico. Here it drops like a rolling stone; daylight one minute, dark the next. “Not my cup of tea,” Walter thought.
He didn’t like the landscape, either. It was mostly scruffy sand, much of it overrun by alarmingly hearty, ugly weeds. It wasn’t graceful desert like Arizona, Nevada, or even Aruba. Whatever it was, he’d not seen it before and
