Last Light (3 page)

The Portakabin's windows had to be slid open. Firing through glass would not only alert the tourists, but would also affect the bullet's accuracy. There was a risk that someone might think it unusual for the window to be open on a Sunday, but we had no choice. As it was, the suppressor alone would degrade the round's accuracy and power, which was why we needed supersonic rounds to make the distance. Subsonic ammunition, which would eliminate the crack, just wouldn't make it.

It would only be once she was happy with her fire position, and had checked that her commercial hearing-aid was still in place under her hood, that she would sign on. Her box of tricks didn't have lights, just a green wire antenna that would probably be laid along the desk then run along the floor. A copper coil inside the box emitted three low touch tones; when I hit my send press el they picked that up through the hearing-aid.

There was one other wire coming out of the box, leading to a flat, black plastic button; this would now be taped on to the weapon wherever she had her support hand in position to fire.

Hitting the press el five times, once she was ready to go, was what lit up my number-two bulb five times.

There was nothing left for her to do now but sit perfectly still,

weapon rested, naturally aligned towards the killing area, observe, wait, and maybe listen to the comings and goings just below her. With luck the other two were going to be doing the same very soon. If anyone from hospital security attempted to be the good guy and close her window, a woman dressed like an extra from the X-Files would be the last thing they ever saw as she dragged them inside.

It was only now that she was in position that her problems really began. Once she'd zeroed the weapon in Thetford Forest, it would have been carried as if it was fine china. The slightest knock could upset the optic sight and wreck the weapon's zero. Even a tiny misalignment could affect the round by nearly an inch, and that would be bad news.

And it wasn't just the possibility of the optic being knocked, or the suppressor affecting the round's trajectory. The weapon itself, issued to me by the Yes Man, was 'take down'. So, once she had zeroed it for that one, all-important shot, it had to be taken apart for concealment, before being reassembled at the firing point.

Thankfully this bolt-action model only had to be split in two at the barrel, and because they were brand new, they wouldn't have suffered that much wear and tear on the bearing surfaces. But there only had to be a slight difference in the assembly from when it was zeroed, a knock to the optic sight in transit, for the weapon to be inches off where she was aiming.

This isn't a problem when an ordinary rifleman is firing at a body mass at close range, but these boys and girls were going for a catastrophic brain shot, one single round into the brain stem or neural motor strips. The target drops like liquid and there is no chance of survival. And that meant they had to aim at either of two specific spots the tip of an earlobe, or the skin between the nostrils.

She and the other two would need to be the most boring and religious snipers on earth to do that with these weapons. The Yes Man hadn't listened. It annoyed me severely that he knew jack shit about how things worked on the ground, and yet had been the one who decided which kit to use.

I tried to calm down by making myself remember it wasn't entirely his fault.

There had to be a trade-off between concealment and accuracy, because you can't just wander the streets with a fishing-rod case or the world's longest flowerbox. But fuck it, I'd despised him when he was running the support cell, and now it was worse.

I looked through the window at the distant black and white figures moving around the killing ground, and wondered if the Brit who'd first played about with a telescopic sight on a musket in the seventeenth century ever realized what drama he was bringing to the world.

I checked out the area with my binos, using just one eye so I didn't miss One or Three signing in. The binos were tripodded because twelve-times magnification at this distance was so strong that the slightest judder would make it seem like I was watching The Blair Witch Project.

Things had moved on. The staff were still being hassled by the grey-suited catering bully. As guests came through the grand arched door on to the terrace, they'd now be greeted by trestle tables covered by brilliant white tablecloths.

Silver trays of fluted glasses waited to be filled as corks were pulled from bottles of champagne.

Things would be kicking off soon, and all I had was one sniper. Not good; not good at all.

I refocused the binos on the arched doorway, then went back to watching the lights, willing them to spark up. There was nothing else I could do.

I tried and failed to reassure myself that the co-ordination plan for the shoot was so beautifully simple, it would work with only one sniper.

The snipers had the same binos as mine and would also have them focused on the door. They'd want to ID the Yes Man the moment he walked into the killing area, and they'd use binos first because they give a field of view of about ten metres, which would make it easier to follow him through the crowd until he made the target ID. Once that was done, they would switch to their weapon's optic sight, and I would concentrate on the lights.

The method I was going to use to control the snipers and tell them when to fire had been inspired by a wildlife documentary I'd seen on TV. Four Indian game wardens, working as a team in total silence, had managed to stalk and fire sedative darts into an albino tiger from very close range.

Whenever any of the snipers had a sight picture of the target and felt confident about taking the shot, they'd hit their press el and keep it pressed. The corresponding bulb in front of me would stay lit for as long as they could take the shot. If they lost their sight picture, they released their press el and the bulb would go out until they acquired it again.

Once I'd made the decision when to fire, I'd push my send press el three times in a one-second rhythm.

The first press would tell the firer or firers to stop breathing so their body movement didn't affect the aim.

The second would tell them to take up the first pressure on the trigger, so as not to jerk the weapon when they fired.

As I hit the press el the second time, I'd also trigger the detonation. The third time, the snipers would fire as the device exploded on the roof of the hotel. If all three were up and the target was sitting, that would be perfect but it rarely happens that way.

The device would not only disguise the sonic cracks, but create a diversion on the north side of the river while we extracted. I just wished the MoD building wasn't closed for the weekend: I'd have loved to see their faces as the blast took out a few of their windows. Never mind, with luck it would make the Life Guards' horses on Whitehall throw off their mounts.

None of the snipers would know if the others had the target. The first time they'd know the option was going ahead was when they heard the three tones in their ear. If they didn't have a sight picture themselves, they wouldn't take a shot.

After the explosion, whether they'd fired a round or not, they would all exit from their positions, stripping off their outer layer of coveralls and leaving the area casually and professionally with the protective clothing in their bag.

The rest of the kit, and the weapons, would be discovered at some point by the police, but that wouldn't matter to me as I'd handed it over sterile. It shouldn't matter to these people either, as they ought to be professional enough to leave it in the same condition as they'd received it. If they didn't, that was their problem.

I rubbed my eyes.

Another light flashed.

Sniper One was in position, ready to go.

I hit the send press el three times, and after a short pause Sniper One's bulb flashed three times in 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.