THE PERFECT KILL (34 page)

Corkscrew Two had told them that the door-keeper would leave at six p.m. The front doors would not be locked as it was pointless because there was an entrance to the foyer from the restaurant itself. Opposite the door was a lift and to the right-hand side a stairway. At the top of the building, there was a door to the roof, also unlocked. Michael left the building and walked down the avenue to Martyrs’ Square. Creasy had already left to pace out the distance from the dais to the hole. It came to about five hundred and twenty metres. Michael lined himself up between the dais and El Malek. He also surveyed the distance and decided that it was a long way. He retraced his steps down El Malek to the building and then, as instructed, paced out the distance from the building to the hole. He also timed himself. It was just over five hundred metres and at a brisk walk took him six minutes.

Creasy was already back at the apartment. They spent the rest of the afternoon going over the procedures, codewords and contingencies.

That night, Michael cooked dinner, steaks, rice and vegetables.

It had taken a long time, but Leonie had finally convinced the young man not to eat overcooked meat. At the orphanage, everything had been overcooked and he was used to it that way.

Now he cooked the steaks medium-rare and thought about her as he did so. The meal would be their last solid food for the next forty-eight hours. They ate in silence. Michael was hungry, relaxed and confident. Creasy was in a strange mood. The young man kept glancing up at him, wondering at the mood.

Only Guido would have understood Creasy’s mood at that moment. It was always the same before he went into combat; always very quiet, thoughtful and introspective. Going back over the past. Thinking about the times of danger. Thinking of the dead…the many dead. At this moment he was thinking of Michael, trying not to see him as one of the dead. He knew that the chances of killing Jibril were good, but that the chances of getting away alive themselves were slim. At that moment he also knew that although what he had created was a killing machine, that machine had become part of himself. Nadia was dead, Julia was dead, Leonie was dead. He would do everything in his power to make sure that Michael did not die. He thought briefly about leaving Michael in the hole while he went to do the job himself but he quickly discarded the idea. Michael was right: there was no monopoly on vengeance. And Rambahadur Rai was right: Michael was the better sniper. But if he had to, he would give his life to save his creation.

They spent all the next day in the apartment, eating nothing and drinking only water very sparingly. At seven in the evening they packed the long canvas bag. Everything was first laid out on the beds and checked. The two sniper rifles, with the telescopic sights and silencers, the Jasker wind gauge, the forty-metre lengths of rope, the plastic bottles of water with glucose, the bottle of Dexedrine pills which would keep them awake. The bottle of Pyron which they would take before making the “hit”. Pills which would calm their nerves and keep their hands steady.

The pills that the world’s top snooker players and marksmen are not allowed to take but sometimes do. Several black rubber wedges of different sizes. Two thick woollen blankets, a pair of small but powerful binoculars. Two black woollen sweaters, two pairs of fine black cotton gloves, two small torches, eight spare batteries, the twelve-foot-square camouflaged canvas and finally the small wooden box containing the four special bullets. They would be wearing ankle-length Arab robes, under which would be concealed the handguns and the coils of rope around their waists. Their only way off the building.

They left separately, shortly after ten o’clock. Creasy went first. Before opening the door, he embraced the younger man and said, “Whatever happens, Michael, you are truly my son and always will be.”

“And you are my father,” Michael replied against the big man’s shoulder.

It was a clear night. Creasy sat drinking coffee in the restaurant on the ground floor of the building. He was close to the door.

Across the street, he glimpsed Michael through the traffic, sitting at a table outside a small cafe. The canvas bag was at his feet.

The restaurant was busy, some of the customers in traditional Arab dress and some in smart business suits. An open truck full of troops passed in front of Creasy. Across the street, a police man strolled lazily along, a holstered handgun on his right hip.

Creasy was watching the main entrance of the building. During the next half hour, several people came out. He ordered another coffee and sipped it slowly. For the next fifteen minutes nobody came out of the doorway. Finally, Creasy lifted his left hand and brushed his hair several times. He saw Michael stand and pick up the bag. The young man crossed the road, weaving in and out of the traffic. Without glancing at Creasy, he moved straight through the side entrance of the restaurant.

Five minutes later Creasy climbed the ten floors of the building quietly on rubber-soled shoes. Michael was waiting at the top, next to the door to the roof. The canvas bag was at his feet. A Colt 1911 with silencer was in his right hand. Creasy pulled up his robe and took out his own Colt 1911. He nodded to Michael who reached forward, turned the handle and pushed open the door. Creasy went through in a crouch, the gun held in front of him. Staying in a crouch, he quickly surveyed the roof. To his left was the concrete room housing the lift machinery, and next to that a large round water tank. He glanced quickly around over the roof top. There were no other buildings nearby that were taller. They were not overlooked for at least three hundred metres. He gestured behind him. Michael came to the door also in a crouch, carrying the bag. He closed the door behind him, immediately unzipped the bag and took out the black rubber wedges. The third one fitted. With the heel of his hand he hammered it under the door. It took them three minutes to prepare.

First they laid down the black blankets side by side at the edge of the roof, then they unpacked the sniper rifles and the rest of the equipment. They took off their outer robes and unclipped the handguns, laying them next to the sniper rifles on the blankets.

They uncoiled the ropes from their waists, moved to the back of the building and peered down at the dark alley. There was a thick water pipe at the base of the short wall. They quietly tied one end of the rope to the pipe and carefully coiled up the remainder. Then they moved back to their firing position.

They lay on their stomachs on the blankets and pulled the camouflaged canvas over them. It exactly matched the sand coloured surface of the roof. Creasy took off his Rolex Oyster and put it in front of his face. It showed ten fifty-five. He picked up his rifle, pulled the canvas back slightly and sighted down the avenue. Through the scope, he could clearly see the reviewing dais. In approximately forty hours, Ahmed Jibril would be standing there.

“Take a quick look,” he whispered to Michael. “Then we go Dunga fusto Basne.”

Ahmed Jibril had a penchant for rather flashy Western clothes: Italian suits and brightly coloured sports jackets. But for this occasion he dressed in faded combat uniform. The same clothes that he had worn when he was a young fighter.

He left his headquarters in a jeep, sitting in the back seat with his son Khaled, and a heavily armed fighter next to the driver.

His jeep was sandwiched by two others, both full of bodyguards. The streets were lined with soldiers and police and as they neared Martyrs’ Square he could see sharp-shooters on the roof of almost every building.

At the square, he was greeted by Colonel Jomah. The two men saluted each other and then embraced, kissing each other on both cheeks. They climbed the steps of the dais, followed by Khaled. There were a dozen men already there, all wearing uniforms and all from various factions of the Palestinian resistance.

They all greeted Ahmed Jibril with warmth and respect. Only three days earlier, four fighters from the PFLP-GC had penetrated the Israeli border and killed three Israeli settlers before being killed themselves by Israeli security forces. They made space in the centre of the dais for Jibril, Khaled and Colonel Jomah.

About five hundred and twenty metres away, Creasy’s hand moved out from under the camouflaged canvas, holding the Jasker wind gauge. It was three thimble-sized cups on a spindle and a needle gauge. The needle registered nine knots. He pulled the gauge back under the canvas and both he and Michael unscrewed the silencers from the sniper rifles. Both men were stiff from the hours of stillness. Several times during the day helicopters had passed overhead. Especially during the last two hours. On the first day, both men had urinated in their trousers.

On the second afternoon, Creasy had gone through the agony of cramp in his leg three times.

“Let’s take a look,” he whispered.

The barrels of the rifles edged out from the bottom of the canvas, followed by the scopes. They surveyed the scene on Martyrs’ Square. After a few seconds, Creasy whispered, “He’s in the centre. Do you see him?”

“Yes. I have his head in my cross sights.”

“OK,” Creasy said. “Now we adjust sights, a nine-metre crosswind from the left. Five hundred and twenty metres with, say, a twenty-seven-degree depression…Give a fraction more on the depression…Better a bit low than over the top.”

They both turned the wheels on their sights, thinking through the calibrations. Creasy said, “You shoot first, I’ll follow right after.”

“Head or heart?” Michael whispered.

“Neither. The way he’s positioned, go for his right shoulder…Just above his right nipple.”

Michael’s head twisted to look at him in astonishment.

“Shoulder? I thought we came here to kill him!”

Creasy’s voice came back very low and hard. “His right shoulder. Do what I tell you.”

“Why?”

“Never mind why. I’ll explain later…Take him in the right shoulder. Wait until the review starts. He will salute his own unit. At that moment take him in the right shoulder…Just do it, Michael.”

The young man grunted and took aim.

Fifty yards in front of the dais the Syrian Airforce band played the Palestinian national anthem. Creasy and Michael pulled back their rifles as a helicopter clattered overhead. The barrels re-emerged as the noise receded. In Martyrs’ Square columns of fighters began to march past the dais, holding their rifles aloft and shouting slogans.

As the column from the PFLP-GC approached, Ahmed Jibril pulled himself to his full height; pride swelled in his chest. On the roof, Michael reached forward and made a minute adjustment to his sight, and then lined the cross hairs onto Jibril’s chest. The clattering sound of a helicopter approached.

“Do it!” Creasy hissed. “Don’t wait! Forget the chopper…The right shoulder.”

The helicopter was overhead, its blades thrashing the air.

“It’s directly above,” Creasy said loudly over the noise. “So the crew can’t see us…The right shoulder.”

Very slowly Michael moved the cross hairs of his sight to Jibril’s right shoulder. He took a very deep breath. He could feel the wind from the helicopter in his hair. His mind held nothing. The rifle was part of his body. An arm, a leg, a brain, or a heart.

The PFLP-GC contingent came abreast of the dais. Their eyes were jubilant as they shouted their loyalty to their leader. He smiled with pride and his right arm lifted in a stiff salute.

Like a caress, Michael’s finger stroked the trigger; half a second later, Creasy’s finger did the same.

Michael’s bullet found its target. Jibril spun sideways and backwards. Creasy’s bullet plucked at his sleeve. For three seconds they both watched through their scopes as pandemonium erupted on the dais. Then Creasy muttered an old Rhodesian hunting expression.

“Dead one. Let’s go.”

They left everything in place and ran for the ropes. The helicopter clattered off urgently towards Martyrs’ Square.

They came down the side of the wall, the ropes under their armpits, pushing off with their feet. Towards the bottom Michael made his first mistake, in his excitement he let himself go too fast. He hit the concrete lane hard, and only on his left leg. The ankle twisted under him.

Creasy landed easily on both feet. He heard the gasp of pain next to him. He ignored it, first reaching for his pistol and glancing down the alley towards the main road. The helicopter was back overhead. There was no one else in the alley.

He bent over Michael.

“Is it broken?”

“I don’t think so…just sprained.”

“Can you walk?”

Michael pushed himself up and tested his foot.

“Yes, but slowly.”

Creasy took a decision.

“You go first. Stay on the main road moving towards the square…Follow the crowds out of curiosity, then break away down a side street to your left and make your way back to the hole. I’ll follow about fifty metres behind…if you run into trouble turn back towards me.” His voice went low and hard. “They won’t take us alive. If it looks like that I’ll shoot you…And then myself…Go.”

Without a word Michael hobbled down the alley.

He reached the main road as a column of police cars with sirens and lights all alive swept past. Crowds of people were streaming towards Martyrs’ Square. He mingled among them.

Creasy followed, trying to keep him in sight. His pistol was tucked under his left armpit, enfolded in his robe, butt forward.

He saw Michael limp to his left towards a side street. Creasy pushed through the crowd and turned into the same street.

Michael was face to face with three paramilitary policemen. One of them was shouting at him. All three had pistols in their hands.

Creasy watched as Michael dropped to his right knee, pulling his gun from under his robes. He shot the man in front of him and then the one to his left. As they both jerked backwards onto the street the man on the right shot Michael.

As a woman screamed behind him Creasy pulled the gun from his armpit and put a bullet into the face of the man on the right.

Michael was lying on his side. He was moving, trying to push himself up. Across the street an old man was halfway out of the door of a green Fiat. Creasy ran across and held his gun at the man’s head.