The target, an FBI agent, seemed to be a man of regular habits. In the coming days, Vasquez would ascertain just how regular those habits were. As with hunting any animal, success lay in learning the creature’s patterns of behavior. Vasquez intended to become an expert in this particular creature. He would learn by what doors he came and left, and when; he would ascertain who lived in the old mansion, who visited, what kind of security was in place. By understanding the movements, he would gain an insight into the man’s psychology. Even people who varied their habits out of fear of assassination always varied them in a pattern. From what little he’d observed, he already realized he was dealing with an exceptionally cautious, intelligent target. But then, Vasquez always assumed at the beginning that the target was smarter, craftier, cleverer than he was. Vasquez had stalked and killed them all: federal agents, diplomats, mobsters, minor heads of state, even physicists. He’d been in the business twenty-two years in as many countries, and he had learned a trick or two. But it was wise to stay humble.
Without moving any of the original contents of the room, Vasquez began to unroll thick canvas tarps over the floor and partway up the walls, fixing them in place with gaffing tape. The room filled with the strong, pleasant smell of waterproof duck. Next he laid out his tools, mentally running through the checklist in his mind. They were all there, as he knew they would be, but he double-checked just to make sure. He picked up his Remington M21 bolt-action rifle, removed the box cartridge, made sure its small magazine was filled with the subsonic 7.62 by 51 military cartridges he preferred. The weapon was of an old design, but Vasquez was not interested in the latest frills or gimmicks: what mattered to him was simplicity, accuracy, and reliability. He rammed the magazine home, cranked a round into the chamber, examined the permanently fixed tactical telescopic sight. Satisfied, he put the weapon aside and carefully laid out packets of beef jerky and jugs of water sufficient for five days. Next, he set up his laptop computer, arranging a dozen freshly charged battery packs beside it. A pair of night-vision goggles was inspected and found to be in excellent order. Then, moving to a far corner, the man set up his washstand and toilet by the dim light of his torch. He would not be disturbed: the door had already been locked, screwed shut in the jambs with a battery-operated screwdriver, and light-sealed with the gaffing tape. A small bathroom window in the back provided fresh air.
Returning to the front of the room, he switched off the light and removed the piece of plywood from the shooting hole: a hole just large enough for the barrel and scope. He snapped open a bipod assembly and mounted it to the fore end of the stock. He very carefully positioned the rifle onto the porte-cochère, at head height. Then he reached for a handheld laser range finder, pointed it at the mansion’s front door. It returned a distance of 30.66 meters. With a rifle that was accurate beyond five hundred yards, 30 meters was nothing. He would be shooting down through cool air with his target outside: the conditions he favored above all others. A few final adjustments and the weapon was ready.
His kill nest was complete.
Vasquez peered out again through the sight. The house was still and dark, the windows boarded up. This was not a normal home. Something illicit must be going on inside. But since it didn’t make his target in any way erratic, Vasquez didn’t really care. He had a job to do, limited in scope and restricted in time. He didn’t care who it was who had hired him, or why. He cared about only one thing: the two million dollars that had appeared in his numbered account. That was all he needed to know.
He returned to his patient observation. Sometimes he liked to think of himself as a kind of naturalist, studying the habits of shy woodland creatures. He had the perfect blend of intelligence, discipline, and disposition for sitting in a blind in the jungle for weeks at a time, observing, taking notes, looking for patterns.
Only thing was, there was no money in that. And besides: nothing could compare with the thrill of the kill.
{ 33 }
It was almost midnight, D’Agosta saw from his watch, and Hayward was still at her desk. The rest of the Homicide Division was quiet as a tomb: just the night crew, working in their cubicles on the floor below. Hayward was alone. The only light, the only sound, came from the open door of her office. Funny, considering most New York City murders happened at night. Like any other job, D’Agosta thought to himself. The average Joe doesn’t want to log any more hours than necessary.
He crept up to Hayward’s door and listened. He could hear the tapping of her computer keyboard. She had to be the most ambitious cop he’d ever met. It was a little scary.
D’Agosta knocked.
“Come in.”
The place was a disaster area: papers piled on every chair, the police-band radio squawking, a laser printer in a corner whining out some job. It was remarkably unlike the offices of most police captains, which were kept spotlessly clean and free of any real work.
She glanced up. “What brings you to brasstown so late?”
D’Agosta cleared his throat. This was going to be difficult. Pendergast—after dropping off the face of the earth for more than an hour—had just shown up in his hotel room thirty minutes before. Although he’d revealed precious few details of what happened, he had seemed almost animated, if such a thing was possible. And then he’d promptly sent D’Agosta off on an assignment—this assignment—because he’d known he had no chance at succeeding himself.
“It’s Bullard again,” he said.