return.
I was feeling a little better now, with two snipers sitting perfectly still, watching and waiting as they continued to tune into the killing ground. I could only hope that Sniper Three was close behind.
THREE
Big Ben struck half past the hour. Thirty minutes to go.
I continued to stare at the box, trying to transmit positive thoughts. The job was going to happen with or without Sniper Three, but what with the weapon problems, three chances of a hit were better than two.
My positive transmissions weren't working at all, and after ten minutes or so my eyes were drawn to the killing ground again. Things were happening. Different colours of clothing were moving amongst the black and white of the catering staff like fragments in a kaleidoscope. Shit, they were early.
I put one eye to the binos and checked them out, just as One and Two would be doing. The new arrivals seemed to be the advance party, maybe ten suited men, all of them white. I checked that the Yes Man wasn't amongst them and had fucked up his own plan. He wasn't. He would have fitted in nicely, though: they didn't really seem to know what to do with themselves, so decided to mill around the door like sheep, drinking champagne and mumbling to each other, probably about how pissed off they were to be working on a Sunday. Dark, double- breasted suits with a polyester mix seemed to be the order of the day. I could see the well worn shine and lard-arse creases up the backs of the jackets even from here. The jackets were mostly undone because of the weather or pot bellies, revealing ties that hung either too high or too low.
They had to be Brit politicians and civil servants.
The only exception was a woman in her early thirties with blonde hair and rectangular glasses, who came into view alongside the catering bully. Dressed in an immaculate black trouser suit, she seemed to be the only one of the new arrivals who knew what was what. With a mobile phone in her left hand and a pen in her right, she seemed to be pointing out that everything his staff had done needed redoing.
The cameraman also wandered into my field of view, taking light readings, and clearly enjoying the last- minute flap. There was a flash as he took a test shot.
Then there was another in my peripheral vision, and I looked down.
The third bulb. I nearly cheered.
I left the blonde-haired PR guru to get on with it, and concentrated on the box as I replied to the flashes. Sniper Three duly acknowledged.
Big Ben chimed three times.
Relief washed over me. I'd known all along that these people would only get into position at the very last moment, but that didn't stop me worrying about it while I was waiting. Now I just wanted this thing over and done with, and to slip away on Eurostar to the Gare du Nord, then on to Charles de Gaulle. I should make the check-in nicely for my 9 p.m. American Airlines flight to Baltimore, to see Kelly and finish my business with Josh.
I got back on the binos and watched the PR guru tell the Brits, ever so nicely and with a great big smile, to get the fuck away from the door and prepare to mingle. They cradled their champagne glasses and headed for the nibbles, drifting from my field of view. I kept my focus on the doorway.
Now that it was clear of bodies, I could just about penetrate the shadows inside. It looked like a canteen, the sort where you drag your tray along the counter and pay at the end. What a let-down: I'd been expecting something a bit more regal.
The door-frame was soon filled again, by another woman with a mobile phone stuck to her ear. This one had a clipboard in her free hand; she stepped on to the terrace, closed down her mobile, and looked around.
The blonde PR guru came into view. There was lots of nodding, talking, and pointing around the killing area, then they both went back where they'd come from. I felt a wave of apprehension. I wanted to get on with it and get aboard that Eurostar.
'One of the team,' the Yes Man had said.
One of the team, my arse. The only things that would help me if this went wrong were my security blanket and a quick exit to the States.
Seconds later, human shapes began filling the area behind the door, and were soon pouring out into the killing area. The woman with the clipboard appeared behind them, shepherding them with a fixed, professional smile. She guided them to the glasses on the table by the door as if they could have missed them.
Then the catering staff were on top of them like flies on shit, with nibbles on trays, and a whole lot more champagne.
The South American contingent was easy to identify, not by brown or black skin but because they were far better dressed, in well-cut suits and expertly knotted ties. Even their body language had more style. The group was predominantly male, but none of the women with them would have looked out of place in a fashion magazine.
Obligingly, Clipboard coaxed the guests away from the doorway and into the killing area. They spread out and mingled with the advance party. It became clear that everybody was going to continue standing up rather than move over to the benches. I'd have preferred them to sit down like a line of ducks at a fairground, but it wasn't going to happen. We were going to have to settle for a moving target.
The Yes Man was due to arrive ten minutes after the main party. The plan was that he'd spend five minutes by the door, making a call, which would give all four of us time to ping him. From there he would move off and ID the target.
All three would now be taking slow, deep breaths so they were fully oxygenated.
They would also be constantly checking the wind indicators until the last minute, in case they had to readjust their optics.
My heart pumped harder now. The snipers' hearts, however, would be unaffected.
In fact, if they'd been linked to an ECG
machine they'd probably have registered as clinically dead. When they were in their zone, all they could think about was taking that single, telling shot.
More people cut across my field of view, then the Yes Man appeared in the doorway. He was five foot six tall, and not letting me down by wearing the same sort of dark, badly fitting business suit as the rest of the Brits. Under it he had a white shirt and a scarlet tie that made him look like a candidate for Old Labour. The tie was important because it was his main VDM (visual distinguishing mark). The rest of his kit and his physical description had also been given to the snipers, but he was easy enough to identify from his permanently blushing complexion, and a neck that always seemed to have a big boil on the go. On any other forty-year-old it would have been unfortunate, but as far as I was concerned it couldn't have happened to a nicer guy.
On his left hand he wore a wedding ring. I'd never seen a picture of his wife in his office, and I didn't know if he had children. In fact, I really hoped he didn't or if he did, that they looked like their mother.
Producing his mobile, the Yes Man came off the threshold and moved to the right of the doorway as he finished dialling. He looked up and nodded hello to somebody out of my field of view, then gave a wave to them and pointed at the mobile to show his intentions.
I watched him listen to the ringing tone, keeping his back against the wall so that we could check the tie. His hair was greying, or it would have been if he'd left it alone but he'd been at the Grecian 2000, and I was catching more than a hint of copper. It complemented his complexion very well indeed. I felt myself grinning.
A young waiter came up to him with a tray of full glasses, but was waved away as he continued with his call. The Yes Man didn't drink or smoke. He was a bornagain Christian, Scientologist, something like that, or one of the happy-clappy bands. I'd never really bothered to find out, in case he tried to recruit me and I found myself saying yes. And I didn't set much store by it. If the Yes Man discovered C was a Sikh, he'd turn up at work in a turban.
His conversation over, the phone got shut down, and he walked towards the river.
As he wove and sidestepped through the crowd he bounced slightly on the balls of his feet, as if trying to give himself extra height. Watching his progress, I gently undid the tripod restraining clips so I could swivel the binos and continue to follow him if I needed to.
He passed the two PR women, who looked pretty pleased with themselves. Each had a phone and a cigarette in one hand and a glass of self-congratulatory champagne in the other. He passed the cameraman, who was now busy taking group shots with Big Ben in the background for the Latin folks back home. Little did he know that he was a couple of chimes short of a world exclusive.
The Yes Man side-stepped the photo session and continued to go left, still towards the river. He stopped
