Last Light (2 page)

From the moment the Yes Man dropped me off with my two Jiffy-bags, I'd started protecting myself far more than I normally would. I knew that if I got caught by Special Branch the Firm would deny me, and that was part and parcel of being a K. But there was more to it this time. The stuff I did normally didn't happen in the UK, and no way would anyone in their right mind give this the go. Everything felt wrong, and the Yes Man would never want to be on the losing side. He'd knife his own grandmother if it meant promotion; in fact, since he took over the Ks Desk from Colonel Lynn, he was so far up C's arse he could have flossed his teeth. If things didn't go to plan, and even if I did evade SB, he wouldn't hesitate to fuck me over if it meant he could take any credit and pass on any blame.

I needed a safety blanket, so I started by noting down the serial numbers of all three snipers' weapons before grinding them out. Then I took Polaroids of all the equipment, plus the three firing positions during the CTRs. I'd given the snipers photographs in their orders, and I kept a set myself. I had a full pictorial story of the job, together with photocopies of each set of sniper's orders. It all went into a bag in Left Luggage at Waterloo station, along with everything else I owned: a pair of jeans, socks, pants, washing kit and two fleece jackets.

After loading the three snipers' DLBs, I should have left them alone but I didn't. Instead I put in an OP (observation post) on Sniper Two's dead letter box, which was just outside the market town of Thetford in Norfolk. There was no particular reason for picking Sniper Two's to OP, except that it was the nearest of the three to London.

The other two were in the Peak District and on Bodmin Moor. All three had been chosen in uninhabited areas so that once they'd got the weapons, they could zero them to make sure that the optic sight was correctly aligned to the barrel so that a round hit the target precisely at a given distance. The rest -judging the wind, taking leads (aiming ahead of moving targets) and working out distance is part of the sniper's art, but first the weapon sight and rounds need to be as one. How they did that, and where they did that within the area, was up to them.

They were getting more than enough cash to make those decisions themselves.

Inside the DLB, a 45-gallon oil drum, was a large black Puma tennis bag that held everything needed for the shoot and was totally sterile of me: no fingerprints, certainly no DNA. Nothing from my body had made contact with this kit. Dressed like a technician in a chemical warfare lab, I had prepared, cleaned and wiped everything down so many times it was a wonder there was any Parkerization (protective paint) left on the barrels.

Jammed into a Gore-Tex bivi bag and dug in amongst the ferns in miserable drizzling rain, I waited for Sniper Two to arrive. I knew that all three would be extremely cautious when they made their approach to lift the DLBs, carrying out their tradecraft to the letter to ensure they weren't followed or walking into a trap. That was why I had to keep my distance: sixty-nine metres to be exact, which in turn had meant choosing a telephoto lens on my Nikon for more photographic evidence of this job, wrapped in a sweatshirt to dampen the rewind noise, and shoved into a bin liner so that just the lens and viewfinder were exposed to the drizzle.

I waited, throwing Mars bars and water down my neck and just hoping Sniper Two didn't choose to unload it at night.

In the end it was just over thirty boring and very wet hours before Sniper Two started to move in on the DLB. At least it was daylight. I watched the hooded figure check the immediate area around a collection of old, rusty farm machinery and oil drums.

It edged forward like a wet and cautious cat. I brought up the telephoto lens.

Tapered blue jeans, brown cross-trainers, three-quarter-length beige waterproof jacket. The hood had a sewn-in peak, and I could see the label on the left breast pocket: LL Bean I'd never seen one of their shops outside the US.

What I'd also never seen outside the US was a woman sniper. She was maybe early thirties, slim, average height, with brown hair poking out of the sides of the hood. She was neither attractive nor unattractive, just normal-looking, more like a young mother than a professional killer. She reached the oil drums, and carefully checked inside hers to make sure it wasn't booby-trapped. I couldn't help wondering why a woman would take up this line of work. What did her kids think she did for a living? Work at the cosmetics counter in Sears, and get dragged away a couple of times a year for week-long eyeliner seminars?

She'd been happy with what she saw inside the drum. Her arms went inside very quickly and lifted out the bag. She turned in my direction, taking the weight of it in both hands, and threw it over her right shoulder. I hit the shutter release and the camera whirred. Within seconds she'd melted once more into the trees and tall ferns; like a cat, she'd probably find a place to hide now and check out the spoils.

Sniping does not simply mean being a fantastic marksman. Just as important are the field craft skills stalking, judging distance, observation, camouflage and concealment and judging by the way she lifted the DLB and got back into cover, I bet she'd won gold stars in all of those disciplines.

While in the Army I had spent two years as a sniper, in a Royal

Green Jacket rifle company. I was as keen as anything: it had something to do with being left alone just to get on with it with your sniper partner. I learnt a lot and was a good shot, but I didn't have the passion required to make it a life's vocation.

I was still staring at the three bulbs, waiting for One and Three to sign in. A helicopter clattered overhead, following the river-bank on the north side, and I had to look up to satisfy myself that it wasn't looking for me. My paranoia was working overtime. For a moment I thought that it had found the explosive device I'd placed on the roof of the Royal Horseguards Hotel in Whitehall the night before. The hotel was just out of sight, behind the MoD (Ministry of Defence) main building across the river to my half right. Seeing the three service flags fluttering on the roof of the massive light-coloured stone cube prompted me to check something else for the millionth time.

Keeping the row of torch bulbs in my peripheral vision, I looked down at the river to check the wind indicators.

In urban areas the wind can move in different directions, at different levels, and in different strengths, depending on the buildings it has to get around.

Sometimes streets become wind tunnels, redirecting and momentarily strengthening the gusts. Indicators were therefore needed at different levels round the killing area, so the snipers could compensate by adjusting their sights. The wind can make an immense difference to where a round hits because it simply blows it off course.

Flags are really useful, and there were more around here than at a UN summit. On the water there were plenty of boats moored with pennants at the stern. Higher up, on both ends of Westminster Bridge, there were the tourist stalls, selling plastic Union Jacks and Man United streamers. The snipers would use all of these, and they would know where to look because I'd keyed them on to the maps supplied in the DLB. The wind condition at river level was good, just a hint of a breeze.

My eyes caught movement in the killing ground. I felt my face flush and my heart rate quicken. Shit, this shouldn't be kicking off yet.

I had a grandstand view of the terrace, and the times-twelve magnification of the binos made me feel as if I was almost standing on it. I checked it out with one eye on the binos, the other ready to pick up any flashes from the torch bulbs.

A feeling of relief flooded through me. Catering staff. They were streaming in and out of the covered pavilions to the left of the killing ground, busy in their black and white uniforms, laying out ashtrays and placing bowls of nuts and nibbles on square wooden tables. A stressed-looking older guy in a grey, double-breasted suit stalked around behind them, waving his arms like a conductor at the Last Night of the Proms.

I followed the line of the terrace and spotted a photographer on one of the wooden benches. He had two cameras by his side and smoked contentedly as he watched the commotion, a big smile on his face.

I went back to the conductor. He looked up at Big Ben, checked his watch, then clapped his hands. He was as worried about the deadline as I was. At least the weather was on our side. Taking the shot through one of the pavilion windows would have made things even more difficult than they already were.

The three sniper positions were all on my side of the river; three Portakabins in the grounds of St. Thomas's Hospital, directly opposite the killing ground.

Three different positions gave three different angles of fire, and therefore three different chances of getting a round into the target.

The distance between the first and third sniper was about ninety metres, and they'd be shooting over a distance of between 330 and 380 metres, depending on their position in the line-up. Being one floor up, the killing ground was below them, at an angle of about forty-five degrees. It would be just good enough to see the target from the stomach up if it was sitting down, and from about thigh up when standing, since a stone wall about a metre high ran the length of the terrace to stop MPs and peers falling into the Thames when they'd had a drink or two.

The riverbank in front of their positions was tree-lined, which provided some cover, but also obstructed their line of sight into the killing ground. These things are nearly always a matter of compromise; there is rarely a perfect option.

This would be the first time the snipers had ever been to the fire position, and it would also be the last. Soon after the shoot they'd be heading for Paris, Lille or Brussels on Eurostar trains, which left from Waterloo Station just ten minutes' walk away. They'd be knocking back a celebratory glass of wine in the Channel tunnel well before the full extent of what they'd done had dawned on Special Branch and the news networks.

TWO

Once I'd satisfied myself that the only activity in the killing ground came from harassed catering staff, I got back to watching the three bulbs. Snipers One and Three should have signed on by now. I was well past concerned, and not too far short of worried.

I thought about Sniper Two. She would have moved cautiously into the fire position after clearing her route, employing the same tradecraft as at the DLB, and probably in a simple disguise. A wig, coat and sunglasses do more than people think, even if SB racked up hundreds of man hours poring over footage from hospital security, traffic and urban CCTV cameras.

Having first put on her surgical gloves, she would have made entry to her Portakabin with the key provided, closed the door, locked up, and shoved two grey rubber wedges a third of the way down and a third up the frame to prevent anyone entering, even with a key. Then, before moving anywhere, she'd have opened the sports bag and begun to put on her work clothes, a set of light blue, hooded and footed coveralls for paint spraying from B&Q. It was imperative that she didn't contaminate the area or the weapon and equipment that were going to be left behind with fibres of her clothing or other personal sign. Her mouth would now be covered by a protective mask to prevent leaving even a pinprick of saliva on the weapon as she took aim. I was pleased with the masks: they'd been on special offer.

The coveralls and gloves were also there to protect clothes and skin. If she was apprehended immediately after the shoot, residue from the round that she'd fired would be detectable on her skin and clothes. That's why suspects' hands are bagged in plastic. I was also wearing surgical gloves, but just as a normal precaution. I was determined to leave nothing, and disturb nothing too.

Once she'd got covered up, with just her eyes exposed, she'd be looking like a forensic scientist at a crime scene. It would then have been time to prepare the fire position. Unlike me, she needed to be away from the window, so she'd have dragged the desk about three metres clear. Then she'd have pinned a net curtain into the plasterboard ceiling, letting it fall in front of the desk before pinning it tight to the legs.

Next, she'd have pinned up the sheet of opaque black material behind her, letting it hang to the floor. As with the netting, I had cut it to size for each fire position after the CTR. The combination of a net curtain in front and a dark backdrop behind creates the illusion of a room in shadow. It meant that anyone looking through the window wouldn't see a fat rifle muzzle being pointed at them by a scarily dressed woman. Both sets of optics that she'd be using, the binos and the weapon sight, could easily penetrate the netting, so it wouldn't affect her ability to make the shot.

Some fifteen minutes after arriving, she'd be sitting in the green, nylon-padded swivel chair behind the desk. Her takedown weapon would be assembled and supported on the desk by the bipod attached to the forward stock. Her binos, mounted on a mini-tripod, would also be on the desk, and in front of her would be her plastic lunch-box. With the weapon butt in her shoulder, she would have confirmed the arcs of fire, making sure she could move the weapon on its bipod to cover all of the killing ground without being obstructed by the window-frame or trees. She'd generally sort herself out and tune into her environment, maybe even dry practise on one of the catering staff as they rushed around the terrace.

One of the most important things she would have done before signing on with me was check her muzzle clearance. A sniper's optic sight is mounted on top of the weapon. At very short ranges the muzzle may be three or four inches below the image the sniper can actually see through the sight. It would be a total fuck-up if she fired a round after getting a good sight picture and it didn't even clear the room, hitting the wall or the bottom of the window-frame instead.

To deaden the sound of the shot, each weapon was fitted with a suppressor. This had the drawback of making the front third of the barrel nearly twice the size of the rest of it, altering its natural balance by making it top heavy. The suppressor wouldn't stop the bullet's supersonic crack, but that didn't matter because the noise would be down-range and well away from the fire position, and covered anyway by the device going off; what it would stop was the weapon's signature being heard by hospital staff or Italian tourists eating their overpriced ice cream on the embankment just a few feet below.