Lance sat in the study of his new house, surrounded by boxes of unpacked books, and read one. He needed to clear his head of work, he knew, so he’d be fresh tomorrow, when he started reading operations files again. Still, Holly’s non-communication nagged at him. He dialed her satphone number again and waited: no answer. Then, just on the off-chance, he called his office number and entered the codes for his voicemail.
Holly’s voice came through clearly; she had done everything he’d instructed her to and had come up with nothing. Pemberton and Weatherby were dry holes. She finished with a plea for the jet to pick them up. That didn’t concern Lance, since Carolyn would have already notified her. Having e-mailed her Mona Barry’s photographs, he had done all he could do, too. He hung up, took a deep breath and gave himself over gratefully to Winston Churchill’s account of World War II tank operations in North Africa.
Teddy woke five minutes before the alarm would have gone off. He dressed, brushed his teeth, went to his workshop, grabbed the sniper’s rifle and went outside to his vehicle. Twenty minutes later, he was climbing the hill that overlooked duBois’s apartment building. He parked among some other vehicles, walked into the park and looked carefully around. The sun was not up yet, and the place was deserted. He made his way through the bushes to the coral wall and opened the rifle case.
He fastened the stock to the gun and screwed in the silencer and, first making sure that no one could see him, laid the weapon on top of the wall while he set up a small tripod. Then he hoisted himself up and sat on the wall, waiting for sun.
The sunlight illuminated the top of the building first, then began working its way down as the orb rose. Teddy saw some movement inside the penthouse. He didn’t know in which apartment duBois lived, but he hopped down from the wall and sighted through the powerful scope. He saw movement again, a figure crossing a room behind some sheer curtains.
Then, in an amazing stroke of luck for Teddy, a sliding glass door opened, and duBois, wearing pajamas, stepped into the sunshine striking his deck. Teddy perfected his aim and waited for the man to stop moving.
DuBois took a few steps, then stopped and spread his arms in a great stretch, yawning. Teddy squeezed off the round and saw the red plume from the chest as the tip of the .223 bullet exploded. DuBois staggered backward and fell into the plate glass door behind him, smashing it.
Teddy did not tarry. He disassembled the rifle, packed it into its case, viewed the park from the bushes to be sure he was still alone and walked unhurriedly toward his vehicle, pulling his baseball cap low over his face and donning sunglasses.
He reached the vehicle, and as his hand touched the door handle, a woman stepped out of her house a few feet away, bent, and picked up a newspaper, then glanced up at him as he started the engine. She smiled and gave him a little wave, and he waved back. She didn’t know him, but he had been seen.
He drove back to Black Mountain, never going faster than thirty miles an hour. Then, as he approached the turnoff to the road up the mountain, the black Mercedes that carried Sir Winston Sutherland to his office each day turned onto the main road and passed Teddy, going in the opposite direction. Before Teddy had even had time to think, he had made a U-turn and was following the Mercedes at a distance of a quarter of a mile.
Teddy’s mind began to work at top speed, calculating time and distance and plotting an escape route over a road through the hills. All this just in case the opportunity arose. He had thought about doing this many times but he had devoted his energies to eliminating Croft and duBois; Sir Winston would be more complicated, he knew, and he had not done the planning, and he was cautiously excited.
He watched as the Mercedes entered the outskirts of Markstown and came to a screeching halt. Children dressed in their Sunday finest were pouring out of a church and crossing the road toward three school buses, apparently for an outing of some sort. A nun stood in the road holding a stop sign.
Teddy stopped some distance back and watched; then Sir Winston made his decision for him. He got out of his car and waded into the group, kissing them and touching their hands. The nun remained at her station, stopping traffic, as did another nun on the other side of the children.
Teddy turned right and up a hillside, then made a left into a dirt track that ended in a small clearing. Occasionally, he caught sight of the Mercedes and the crowd. He turned his vehicle in the clearing and pointed back toward the road; then he got out, grabbed the rifle case and started back on foot, looking for gaps in the foliage. He came to one that gave him a view of the rear of the car and part of the crowd, knowing that Sir Winston was a few steps away, among the children.
Teddy was not willing to risk hurting a child, but Sir Winston would have to return to his car, and when he did, Teddy would be waiting. He knelt, opened the case and quickly assembled the weapon. It would be a standing shot, and he clipped on a shoulder strap, wound his arm through it and sighted. He had a window about a yard square, and he knew he would have only a second or two to fire.
Then Sir Winston appeared in that frame, his driver holding the door open, no policemen in sight, and he did something unexpected: he stopped at the open door, turned and stood waving at the departing children.
Teddy got off his shot, and he was reminded of the effect the bullet had had on Colonel Croft’s head. He carried the rifle back to the vehicle, trying not to hear the screams of the children, tossed the weapon onto the front seat, started the truck and drove. When he came to the road, he turned left, away from the scene of the shooting, and began climbing into the hills.
The road turned to dirt, and Teddy drove through a series of crossroads, always turning right, making his way back to the main road. Along the way he stopped for a moment, disassembled and repacked the rifle, then continued on his way. He reached the main road and stopped to check for traffic. He turned left and made his way back to Black Mountain Road. In the distance he could hear sirens.
Back at the house he noticed that low clouds were moving over Black Mountain. He went over every surface of the truck with a cloth soaked in Windex, then locked the vehicle in the garage and went back to his workshop. He switched on his police scanner and began to wipe down every surface of the workshop. The scanner was alive with police broadcasts, directing cars both to duBois’s building and to block off streets around the church.
He turned on the local radio station to hear the first news reports; TV wouldn’t come on until seven o’clock.
Stone woke up a little before seven, got out of bed and switched on the TV; out of habit, he wanted to get the local weather before flying. He went into the bathroom, peed and brushed his teeth, then came back into the bedroom, where Holly was sitting up in bed and pointing silently at the TV.
First reports from the police are that Colonel duBois was standing on the terrace of his penthouse apartment when he was struck in the chest by gunfire. This recalls the death earlier this week of his predecessor in the police, Colonel Croyden Croft, who was shot by a sniper while he sat in the courtyard of the police station.” The reporter accepted a sheet of paper from off-camera. “We have a report that an attempt has been made on the life of the prime minister, Sir Winston Sutherland, but no confirmation yet.”
“Holy shit,” Stone said quietly.
“You’re damned right,” Holly said.
“What do you make of it?”
“I make of it that Teddy Fay is alive and well and shooting people,” Holly said.
“And what do you want to do about it?” he asked.
“I don’t know what to do about it,” she replied, “but I’m going to ask Lance.” She got her satphone, switched it on and went outside for reception. No answer on Lance’s satphone; no answer on his office phone, so she left a message about what had happened; no answer on his home phone, either. Where the hell was he? She looked up at the sky: looked like it was going to be a cloudy day, the first since they had arrived.
Lance had left his house, on his way to Langley, five minutes before Holly called him there. He picked up coffee, a Danish and copies of the Sunday New York Times and Washington Post at a deli near his house, then drove in a leisurely fashion, listening to local news radio, alert for any story that might involve the Agency on a Sunday. He was waved through the front gate, after showing his ID; he parked in his reserved spot in the basement garage, near the elevator, swiped his ID card at the door and went upstairs to his office, clearing three more security checks.
He put the papers and his breakfast on the coffee table and sat down on the sofa, glancing at the headlines while he sweetened his coffee and munched on the Danish, not noticing the tiny, flashing red light on the phone behind his desk. He switched on the TV, which was already set to CNN.
He had finished his breakfast and was halfway through the Times when he glanced at a clip of yesterday’s golf tournament and, almost simultaneously, caught sight of the tape crawling across the bottom of the screen:…TWO POLITICAL SHOOTINGS ON CARIBBEAN ISLAND OF ST. MARKS
Lance walked around his desk and picked up his phone, noticing the flashing red light. He dialed voicemail and listened for a moment, then dialed Holly’s satphone number. “You’d better answer the bloody thing, girl,” he said aloud to himself.