Authors: Patrick Robinson
Tags: #Suspense, #Fiction, #Political, #Thrillers, #Weapons industry, #War & Military, #Assassination, #Iraq War; 2003-
Diamondhead (42 page)
Right now he had a lot on his mind. Four hundred and fifty miles away, Tommy had had the operation at the peerless Nyon Clinic, located a dozen miles from Geneva, along the north shore of the lake. He had told Anne it would be very difficult to make contact since he was due to attend a private meeting with navy pension officials in Norfolk that day. Anne did not believe him, but having been the wife of a SEAL commander for so many years, she knew better than to ask her husband what he was really doing.
Mack had seen pictures of the clinic, which was set in rolling country right on the edge of the lake. The views were marvelous, but above all, this place specialized in children’s diseases and they were confident of their breakthrough in the curing of ALD. The surgeon, Carl Spitzbergen, was the acknowledged world master at the long operation, and Mack could do nothing but hope, his only comfort being that Tommy was in the finest hands.
Out here on the rain-lashed M4 he was doing his level best to uphold his part of the bargain with Harry Remson. But he had to admit one thing: the McArdle-guaranteed Ford Fiesta was also doing its part, tearing along the highway, wipers flashing across the windshield, a tough, powerful little car, about half the size of the Buick but gutsy as hell, the way Mack had hoped.
He broke clear of the airport traffic and aimed the car west, watching the rise of the hills as he raced toward the Berkshire Downs. Out here on the high ground the rain was if anything worse, sweeping diagonally across the highway, and not letting up until the road swooped downhill, off the Downs and into Wiltshire.
From here it was a straight thirty-mile run across a flat plain of open farmland to the junction with the M5, which veers right around the north side of the port of Bristol. Mack pushed on through the rain, turning southwest, all along the coastline of North Somerset, with the River Severn estuary to his right.
The M5 then ran inland, running north of the Black Down Hills into the heart of Devonshire, and finally ran out of steam just south of Exeter, the most important city in the entire southwest of England, once walled by the Romans, and then conquered by the Normans a thousand years later.
The rain had stopped by the time Mack reached the end of the motorway, and now he ran onto another divided highway, the A380. This took him almost the whole way inland down to his destination, the ancient fishing port of Brixham, which sits in the great shadow of Berry Head, jutting out into the English Channel at the southern tip of Torbay.
Mack ran into the old part of the village, a half mile above the harbor, a little before five o’clock. He drove around for a half hour and finally settled on a small, unobtrusive hotel, with views to the sea. Saturday is traditionally changeover day in this part of the west country, and Mack was in luck.
The hotel was full, but they’d just had a cancellation. Yes, they could give him a single room with a bath for just one night, but after that they were once again full. Mack accepted and went outside to park his car in the small area at the back of the hotel.
He picked up his workman’s toolbox and his bag, locked the car, and came in to sign the registry. He was still in his Jeffery Simpson disguise, but signed his name Patrick O’Grady. The girl did not ask to see his passport.
He told her he would pay in cash, in advance, and the girl said their front rooms with the sea views were ninety-five pounds per night, plus tax, and that included breakfast, which was served from seven on. Mack gave her two fifty-pound notes and said he may be gone before breakfast, but understood the way things worked.
The girl gave him a key to Room 12 and told him it was on the second floor, straight up the stairs. She very much hoped he would be comfortable and let her know if there was anything else he needed. They did not do dinner, but there were plenty of excellent places in town, easily within walking distance.
Mack thanked her and carried his toolbox and bag up the stairs. He crashed onto the bed for an hour, weary after the long drive. When he awakened he called and asked if someone could bring him some coffee, which arrived after about twenty minutes. His room had a small balcony on the side rather than directly overlooking the harbor, and he leaned on the rail and sipped quietly.
Out on the northern edge of the port there was obviously some heavy construction in progress, because looming over the jetties on that side was a very high crane, maybe 150 feet. Mack stared up at it, went back into the bedroom, and began to assemble his sniper rifle, fixing all the components together except for the aluminum stock, which was the easiest piece of all to screw into place.
He loaded the rifle with six of his practice bullets, then packed both sections into his leather bag, pulling out a stack of British pounds for himself. At this point he prepared to go out for the evening and walked downstairs, still in his Jeffery Simpson disguise.
There was no one at the reception desk, and Mack walked straight out and around to the parking lot. He dumped his bag into the trunk and slammed it shut, knowing it could not be opened except with a key. Then he sat in the front seat and very carefully turned himself into Mr. Gunther Marc Roche, a Swiss national residing at 18 rue de Basle, Geneva.
He removed the blond wig, thin mustache, and rimless spectacles. He placed the long, curly black wig on his head. Then he affixed the bushy black beard to his face, combed it all into reasonable shape, and stepped out of the car, carefully locking it behind him.
In the soft summer light he glanced at himself in the wing mirror and was astounded by the transformation. No one could possibly have recognized him. He took a stroll down to the harbor, which took him about twenty minutes, and inspected the trawlers moored on the jetties.
This was a historic fishing fleet. It was the fishermen of Brixham who
invented
trawling for their catch, dragging the nets along the floor of the English Channel, way back in the eighteenth century. So far as Mack could see, they were still doing it. He counted fourteen draggers moored in the harbor, and he spent more than an hour observing both the boats and their masters.
invented
trawling for their catch, dragging the nets along the floor of the English Channel, way back in the eighteenth century. So far as Mack could see, they were still doing it. He counted fourteen draggers moored in the harbor, and he spent more than an hour observing both the boats and their masters.
There was not much activity, but it looked to Mack as if at least three of them were going out tonight. He assessed this from the boats parked on what Americans call the gas dock, where an attendant was loading them with diesel.
Mack walked past, stopping just once to practice his Swiss accent. “Nice night to go fishing,” he said to one of the skippers. “Calm sea and a good forecast.” In truth the accent was closer to Trinidad than Geneva, but the man turned around and grinned.
“I hope so,” he replied. “’Aven’t had that much luck this week. I’ll need to catch a ton just to pay for the bloody fuel.”
Mack smiled. “What time do you go?”
“There’s about three of us leave around ten o’clock in the summer. It’s about an hour out there to the best places. Old Charlie thought there were plenty of haddock around. So we’re just ’oping.”
“Good luck to you anyway,” said Mack, and walked slowly back down the jetty, trying to look casual. He hung around for another half hour, just watching the boats, watching the harbor master’s office, and noting the general quietude of the famous old port.
At around eight thirty he walked back up to the town, stopping to look at All Saints parish church in Lower Brixham, where Henry Francis Lyte had been the first vicar in the late eighteenth century. A well-kept notice board informed tourists that the Reverend Lyte had been the poet who wrote the bittersweet hymn “Abide with Me.”
Since Mack had only ever heard the hymn played at funerals, he was not 100 percent certain this was a particularly good omen. He hurried back up the long hill and went into a local pub, which was quite busy and served grilled steak, chicken, and fish. He ordered a tall glass of sparkling water and a medium-rare fillet of Angus steak. He positioned himself at a table close to the center of the beamed dining room, in full view of as many people as possible.
The steak was delicious, and Tommy would definitely have approved of the fries. Mack ordered another pint of water, and then a soft French cheese and crackers to complete his dinner. He was deeply tempted to have a large glass of port with the cheese, as Harry Remson almost always did. But he remembered his mantra—
Not one drop of alcohol, until Henri Foche lays dead.
Not one drop of alcohol, until Henri Foche lays dead.
He sat for a while, until he could see through the window that it was dark outside, then he paid his bill, and tipped the waitress generously. “Thank you very much, sir,” she said. “Come in again. Goodnight, Mr. . . . er . . . ”
“Roche,” said Mack. “Gunther Roche. I’m from Geneva, but I’ll be back.”
The waitress, a dark-haired young girl, obviously a local student, replied, “Before September—that’s when I go back to university. I’m Diana.”
It was such a short exchange, but both parties had established something important. The girl had demonstrated that she was not just a waitress but an intelligent academic doing a summer job. Mack Bedford had established in the village a very definite identity for the tall, bearded Swiss visitor.
He walked through the crowd and out into the street, making his way another two hundred yards up the hill to his hotel. But he did not go in. Instead, he walked around to the parking lot, unlocked the door, and fired up the Ford Fiesta.
He drove quickly out onto the street and turned right, climbing high above the little town on a lonely road all the way to the cliff top. From there he headed farther to the right, for almost a mile, until he was directly above the harbor. Way out to sea he could see the lights of a ship steaming east up the English Channel.
But those were not the lights he was interested in. The ones he had come for were high atop that crane that loomed over the jetties. He had guessed it would have a couple of warning lights, but in fact it had three, two directly above the driver’s cabin, one more out at the end of the rig. From where Mack stood, the high point of the crane was pretty much at eye level, about six hundred yards distant.
The road was deserted, and he pulled over onto the grass shoulder and drove forward maybe fifteen yards on a slight hill. He switched off the lights and opened the trunk. He unzipped the bag and retrieved the rifle that lay in two pieces. Carefully, he screwed the stock into place and checked that the weapon was tight. Then he leaned forward onto the roof of the car and drew a steady bead on the red light at the end of the crane’s forward rig.
With the light right in the middle of the crosshairs, he fired. Instantly, the crane had only two red lights instead of three. Mack lined up and fired again. And the small glowing red bulb high on the rig above the cabin was obliterated, showering glass onto the driver’s roof. Mack lined up his final target, the remaining red light set on a metal strut around ten feet above the cabin, the highest point of the crane. And once more he fired, shattering the bulb. It was a superb exhibition of marksmanship, Olympic-grade shooting, but standard procedure for a U.S. Navy SEAL sniper. Especially one who had finished Honor Man at Sniper School, out there on the rough desert ground of Camp Pendleton, the 125,000-acre U.S. Marine Corps Base, south of Los Angeles.
What truly pleased Mack was the quietness. The silencer fitted to the barrel with such immense precision by Prenjit Kumar was the best Mack had ever used.
“Tell you what,” he murmured, as he put the bag back in the trunk. “Sonofabitch knows how to make a rifle.”
CHAPTER
9
9
Mack sat in the car for a few minutes, mostly getting rid of Mr. Gunther
Marc Roche. He removed the wig and beard and replaced them with the lighter, much more comfortable Jeffery Simpson disguise. Then he drove back down to the town and parked behind the hotel.
Marc Roche. He removed the wig and beard and replaced them with the lighter, much more comfortable Jeffery Simpson disguise. Then he drove back down to the town and parked behind the hotel.
There was a different receptionist on duty, and Mack, who was carrying his leather bag, smiled and said, “Room 12, please.”
She handed over the key, glanced at the register, and said, “There you are. Thank you, Mr. O’Grady.”
Mack climbed the stairs to his room and went to bed. As he switched off the bedside light, his last thoughts were,
If I can just get a clear shot, I can’t miss, not with this rifle.
If I can just get a clear shot, I can’t miss, not with this rifle.
He slept soundly but only until six. He awakened and immediately climbed out of bed, showered, shaved, and dressed. He wore a clean black T-shirt, the same jacket, and pants. And once more he fitted his Gunther Roche disguise, the black curly hair and beard.
His plan was to escape the hotel without being seen, and the place was deathly quiet as he opened the bedroom door. With the toolbox in one hand and the bag in the other, he slipped along the corridor and down the stairs. There was no one on duty yet, and the kitchen staff was making no sound. He actually had to unlock the front door to make his exit.
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