and China. He threw his words like missiles from the safety of Washington, a coward who would not dare repeat his slurs in the face of the enemy.
But, had he been punished for the innumerable deaths his rhetoric had caused or the hatred his words had incited? No. The senator had been allowed to retire to his mansion, and his three-million-dollar view. Not bad for a dacha, or as the Americans called them “vacation properties”. The Russian let a sneer form on his face. The property would be vacated soon enough. He had watched his target, and knew his routine well. Piper took a glass of wine at eleven o’clock each morning on his deck in order to appreciate his view. Akulov had also enjoyed the vista. The ocean – like him – was a contradiction. By turns calm and violent. Not that he was naturally a violent soul, but he employed violence in the defence of his country.
The target was a widower, his wife having perished along with twenty-eight other Americans a year before, in a terrorist attack in Jakarta. But for the Jakarta team this had been a failure. Bitter fate had intervened in his employer’s plans, made the senator succumb to food poisoning and unable to leave his hotel suite to join the bus tour. The bus his wife was on, the bus that had been boarded by gunmen who slaughtered every passenger. Grief-stricken, the senator had resigned and retired. The Jakarta team’s failure ensured that Piper was added to the hit list given to Akulov, and Akulov did not fail.
The maid appeared. She stood by her master’s side. She held his hand. Through open curtains, the Russian had observed the old man consoling himself by screwing her. It had not been at all arousing but Akulov had made himself watch, much like a wildlife photographer cataloguing the mating rituals of primates. Piper had grunted; the maid had not.
Mercifully at that precise moment the pair were only talking. At this distance, in the open, he could not hear the sounds escaping their lips, but he imagined they were the sickening words lovers pass to one and other. It wasn’t his business. He didn’t care what was or was not being said, what was or was not being promised. But what about the late wife? Would she have wanted her husband to become a monk or would she have approved of his new bedfellow? Piper looked contented, and had done so each day the assassin had observed him. Even now he continued to sip his wine, oblivious to the fact that a single .338 Lapua Magnum round from the Russian’s suppressed rifle was seconds away from entering his chest and ripping out his heart.
Akulov adjusted the scope of his German sniper rifle. In ordinary times, Piper’s death would be seen as a clear message to his country’s leader, but these were about to become extraordinary times. The senator’s death today would be ignored by tomorrow, and perhaps not be investigated until months after his death – if at all.
Akulov had not entertained the idea of killing the woman, even though strategically it made sense. She was the only other person in the house and leaving her alive would mean the alarm was raised that much faster, but he had no desire kill her. She was an innocent, a civilian and that went against his code. Besides, he mused, her relationship with Piper was sufferance enough. The maid stepped away and walked back into the house. Moments later her rotund shadow crossed a kitchen window.
Now Akulov steadied his breathing, watched the sway of the large trees dotting the property and the direction of the gulls as the grey-haired, potbellied Piper raised his wine glass to his mouth for the last time. Akulov made his final adjustments and calculations then gently squeezed the trigger. The .338 round rocketed towards the unwary enemy of Mother Russia, tore through his torso, punched out a fist-sized hole and kept going before it drilled itself into the timber-clad wall of the mansion.
*
Jack Tate didn’t see the blue flashing lights in his rear-view mirror immediately; he was lost in the lyrics of Bruce Springsteen’s “Born to Run”. As the song drew to a close, he heard the sirens and then saw the police vehicle gaining ominously behind him. Tate swore; he couldn’t believe that after all his years of training and active service, he’d made such a rookie mistake. He knew the drill; he pulled the Chevrolet Tahoe over on the shoulder, powered down the window, turned off the engine, and placed his hands in clear sight on the top of the steering wheel. As a police officer stepped out of the liveried Crown Victoria, the next song on Tate’s radio started. He tried not to laugh – it was the Eagles’ classic “Desperado”.
The officer drew level with Tate’s window but stayed several paces back, as procedure dictated. He asked him to switch off his music and then hand over his driver’s licence and insurance documents. He spoke to Tate without checking them. ‘Is this your vehicle, sir?’
‘No.’
‘Who does it belong to?’
‘The rental company.’
‘I see.’
‘So what did I do wrong?’
The officer’s brow furrowed and he took a moment to form his next question: ‘You’re British?’
‘From London,’ Tate replied, as the warm August air overcame the lingering cold of the Tahoe’s climate control.
‘You were ten miles an hour above the limit back there. We’ve had a lot of accidents on this stretch of road over the years. People see the view, get too excited and then … well, it’s not a pretty sight.’
‘I understand.’
The officer nodded. ‘And what is your destination today?’
‘Camden.’
‘Business or pleasure?’
‘Just a holiday.’
‘Holiday?’
‘Vacation.’
‘On your own?’
Now it was Tate’s turn to frown; these questions didn’t seem to be usual for a traffic violation. ‘Yes, on my own.’
The officer gestured with his left hand, the one holding Tate’s documents, whilst his right slid towards his belt and rested on the butt of his firearm. ‘This is a large vehicle for one person.’
‘The rental company was out of stock. They gave me a free upgrade.’
‘Stay in the vehicle, sir. I’ll be back in a moment.’
Still holding Tate’s documents, the officer backed away to his patrol car, where his colleague had been talking on the radio. Via his mirror Tate saw a brief exchange between the two before they approached the SUV, each angling for a different side of the Tahoe, weapons drawn. Tate frowned. Every instinct he had, every part of his training, told him to hightail it out of there, put the car into drive and pull away, wheels spinning, leaving the officers choking in the dust … but he was on holiday, not on deployment, and these were police officers not enemy combatants.
‘Step out of the vehicle with your arms raised and place your hands on the vehicle!’ the second officer barked.
Tate sighed. This wasn’t what he needed, and unlike the cops back home, they were armed. He had no choice but to comply. This was where mistakes happened; this was where he was putting his life in the hands of men in uniform he didn’t know, trusting them and trusting their training. It wasn’t the first time he’d had more than one loaded weapon pointed at him. Tate slowly opened the door and shuffled around the side of the SUV as the roadside dust danced at his feet and the sun warmed his back. He kept his eyes firmly fixed front and centre, and watched the armed men approach via their reflection in his window.
