watches and a two-man team manning the video feeds from the underwater cameras night and day. It must be getting very sketchy out there, Quick thought, taking the steps to the upper deck three at a time.
An hour later, Stokely and Sutherland were in the library, hard at it. They had managed to eliminate a few names from the Enemy Register and had created a new chart headed Physical Evidence.
“Trouble with that enemy chart,” Stoke said, sitting back in his armchair with his hands laced behind his head, “Is that Alex Hawke got a price on his head in half the damn countries on the list.”
“Quite right,” Ross said, turning from the chart. “But you don’t get paid for shooting the bride.”
“Yeah, I been thinking about that. Guy who did that to Vicky? He was sending a signal. I can hurt you and I can kill you. But before I kill you, I’m going to put you in a world of hurt.”
“Yeah,” Ross said. “It’s definitely not a standard-fare contract hit. Have to be at least five names up there we might safely eliminate.”
“Scratch ’em,” Stoke said. “Mr. Congreve wants ’em back up there, he can tell us why when he gets back from Maine.”
As Ross drew a red line through some of the names, Stokely got up and went to the evidence chart, a big black Magic Marker in his hand. He wrote the letters SVD at the top of the page.
“Let me tell you a little bit about the sniper rifle this guy managed to leave stuck in the tree,” Stoke said. “Gun was a Dragunov SVD. That’s short for Snayperskaya Vintkova Dragunova. I’m pronouncing that best I can.”
“Russian,” Sutherland said.
“Bet your ass. Now, here’s the weird part. That gun sucks. So out of date, guy might as well used a goddamn flintlock.” Stoke wrote the manufacture date, 1972, on the chart, next to SVD.
“Accurate enough, I’d say, assuming the target actually was Vicky and not Alex.”
“Oh, it’s accurate enough, you got a good enough scope on it. Which it did, by the way. Best goddamn scope money can buy. Now, here’s the weird part.”
“Yes?”
“I know a lot about this shit, as you know. I don’t want to bore anybody.”
“Bore me, Stokely, to tears,” Ross said, “Make me cry.”
“You asked for it, son. Okay. You see, while the SVD was mass produced in the old USSR in the seventies, they’re hard to come by these days. I mean, no serious shooter is going to go out and look for one of these things, know what I’m saying?”
Stoke was illustrating his points, getting everything down in writing on the physical evidence chart.
“Wouldn’t be professional, is what you’re saying,” Sutherland said, smiling.
“See? That’s why the boss likes you, Ross. You good, my brother. Now. This is the best part. While the gun itself is an antique, the scope is definitely not. The scope is a 10X Leupold & Stevens Ultra Mark IV. They don’t get much better. Multicoated lenses for superior light transmission and contrast. Bright, distortion-free image in any kind of light. And exposed knobs for easy windage and elevation adjustments. Bored yet?”
“You see any tears?”
“The Ultra Mark IV is brand spanking new. It has a range knob that goes from one hundred yards to one thousand yards with one complete turn of the dial. And that, little buddy, tells you something.”
“Namely?”
“That Leupold scope? Total overkill. It’s strictly American military or American law enforcement. Joe Public can’t buy one for love or money. I called the head tech support guy at Leupold this morning just to make sure. These scopes are locked down tight. Got a big computer with nothing to do all day but keep track of every damn serial number.”
“So,” Ross said, leaning forward in his chair, “Our shooter has to be either a U.S. serviceman or police officer.”
“Both possible, but not very damn likely.”
“Right. For now, at least. So we’ve got an outdated Soviet weapon with a brand new U.S. scope mounted on it. Strange, but I’ll go with it.”
“I’m saving the very best for last.”
“Please.”
“This guy Sarge put me onto at Leupold? I talked to the tech guy. Name was Larry. Wouldn’t give out his last name. Security. Anyway, he asks me why I’m so curious about this particular scope so I told him the whole story about Vicky, beginning to end. He’s listening to me now, ’cause at this point he knows I’m ex-SEAL, ex-NYPD, and shit and the cat knows my ass ’cause of reputation or some shit, you know, and the U.S. Navy?”
“U.S. Navy.”
“Hell, Ross, Navy’s a major contractor with him, do a whole lot of business with his company, dig? Whole damn lot. You capiche what I’m saying here?”
“He had a certain incentive to cooperate.”
“There you go again, Ross! Shit! Let’s just say the boy took a very deep breath and let me into his total utmost confidence.”
“What’d he say, Stoke? You’re driving me mad here.”
“He said, what the boy said was, Stoke, you didn’t hear this from me. But. There’s one damn scope out there somewhere we just can’t account for.”
“Christ!”
“That’s exactly what I said! Seems like about three months ago, somebody broke into the apartment of a Dade County SWAT team guy down in Miami. Killed him in his bed. M.E. guy on the scene said somebody drove a sharp object through both his eyes. Stole his weapon. Only thing he took.”
“Hold on. The SWAT guy had his weapon at home? That’s not how it works, Stoke. They lock them down at the HQ after every operation.”
“Shit, you think I don’t know that, Ross? Wasn’t supposed to have his damn sniper rifle in house. ’Course not. Against every SWAT reg in the book, you right. He was a bad boy. Weekends, he took his gun, a .50-caliber Barrett M82A1 rifle by the way, out into the ’glades, did himself a little gator shooting. Somebody watching the boy for a while, knew all his habits.”
“Knew weapons and scopes, as well.”
“Yeah.”
“Where exactly was this apartment?”
“South Beach.”
“Question.”
“Shoot.”
“How come Vicky’s shooter puts the new scope on the old rifle? Why not just use the .50-cal Barrett?”
“Thought about that. He’s more comfortable with the old SVD. Used it for a long time. The new Barrett is all funked out with new kinds of shit he’s not used to. So, he puts the good scope on the old gun.”
“You’re thinking this shooter is Russian, Stoke?”
“Russian, old Eastern bloc, maybe. Lots of pissed-off Commies running ’round the planet love to mess with Alex Hawke.”
“Chinese. North Koreans…”
“Them, too. But the Chinese and NKs, see, they got their own sniper rifles. Wouldn’t be messing with some outdated Soviet shit.”
“Middle Easterners might—”
At that moment Pelham appeared in the library, carrying a silver salver with a teapot and tea service for two.
“I daresay I hate to interrupt what is most certainly a most scintillating and fruitful discussion, but I thought that perhaps a cup of good Darjeeling might further stimulate the cerebral cells.”
“Pelham,” Stoke said, “You something else. You like some whole different species. Ordinary folks never know what the hell you talking about, but it always sound so good.”
“Most kind, Mister Jones,” Pelham said. “Will you be having tea?”
