I, Sniper

27

Banjax reached Bill Fedders at nine, as Fedders had become his ex-officio counselor, his Deep Throat, if you will, but also his adviser, his mentor, his confessor, his priest. Banjax explained what was happening and sought Bill’s advice on whether to fish or cut bait. Go for it-Bill knew in a second-but he was smooth, he knew well enough to keep the greed out of his voice, and so he did a number on the young reporter, all wisdom and gravitas and admonitions to the ethical side of the equation, but in the end, he felt confident he’d made the sale, and he sent Banjax off on his mission with enthusiasm high.

Then Fedders poured himself a stiff Knob Creek in a crystal highball glass, let the bite of the bourbon blur a little as the ice melted, yelled upstairs to his wife that he’d be up in a second, went to his Barcalounger in front of the fire, and placed a call to Tom Constable’s private number.

“Can this wait?” said Tom, clearly in the midst of something energetic and interesting.

Bill took great pleasure in responding. “No,” he said. “Not really. You’ll want to hear it.”

“Okay,” said Tom, and the phone was set down at his end as various arrangements were made, until finally he returned.

“This better be good. She was worth every pe

“You will, Tom. Trust me. You might even surpass yourself.”

“Let’s hear it.”

“Well, it seems that brother Banjax, ace reporter that he is, has just gotten a very interesting tip. It could be the end of our problems with Special Agent in Charge Memphis.”

“He has hung in there a long time.”

“The director likes him. Everybody likes him. But not after this.”

“Go ahead.”

Fedders savored his drink, letting the mellow glow spread.

“It seems that maybe Memphis isn’t the boy scout everybody thinks he is.”

“Interesting,” said Tom.

“He may be dirty.”

“Very interesting,” said Tom.

“Now the one thing the FBI needs is sniper rifles. They’re in the lengthy proces of acquiring three hundred new ones. These rifles are traditionally built by the custom shop at Remington; they’re something called a Remington 700. A special barrel is mounted on them, a special scope, special ammo is used, all that stuff, and they’re guaranteed to shoot, hmm, I think it’s angle of minute-”

“Minute of angle,” corrected Tom, the world-renowned hunter. “It means very accurate.”

“Yeah, well, although the contract isn’t big in monetary terms-less than a million-within the gun industry it’s considered a big prestige thing. Remington has had it for years, and on account of the FBI’s belief in the product, they’ve become the preeminent sniper rifle supplier to police forces and military units the world over. That million-dollar contract is really worth twenty million a

“So?”

“Well, there’s a European firm called FN. It’s part of the Belgian government, actually; FN just means ‘National Factory,’ and it has been making guns for a hundred years, and now they make a lot of our machine guns and stuff. But recently they bought up what was left of the old American firm Winchester, which produces a gun called the Model 70.”

“I have a dozen. Very fine guns, the old ones at any rate.”

“Yes, well FN has started manufacturing Model 70s again at a plant it built in South Carolina. Now if FN could get the FBI sniper rifle contract from Remington to replace the 700 with the 70, it would be an incredible coup.”

“What does this-”

“Nick Memphis, an ex-sniper, is on a committee to pick the next rifle. It seems there’s some internal feeling that it’s time to shake things up by going to the FN product, and according to Banjax’s source, Nick is in the forefront of that move. Now, it turns out he accepted an all-expenses-paid trip to South Carolina-”

“Good God, I can see selling out for a trip to Brussels, but South Carolina!”

“Hard to believe. But they flew him down there to talk to the big shots at FN, which is a big no-no without prior executive permission. It seems also that there’s a long track of ‘gifts’ made to Agent Memphis from his good friends at FN that may well be in violation of FBI guidelines. There’s lots of receipts for di

“Where did all this come from?”

“In my opinion, it came from Remington. These guys play rough and they are very worried about losing this contract. So they hired a security firm to monitor the process, and one of their guys evidently came up with it.”

“So, Memphis is dirty. The Bureau can’t stay with him then, right? He’s out, he’s gone, he’s history.”

“He’s definitely history.”

“And the Times will run this story?”

“They’re way out ahead of everyone, and in that business, that’s the greatest thing. They can feel it so close it’s driving them nuts with desire. A scoop. A big, government-humiliating, career-wrecking scoop. That’s how Pulitzers are won. Corruption and misjudgment, sniffed out by a vigilant press-it’s the cocaine that makes them insane. You’re damn right they’ll run it.”

“So that’s the straw that broke the camel’s back. Or the rifle that shot out the camel’s spine.”

“That’s right, Tom. When Banjax gets the photo and it’s vetted by the photo experts the Times hires, we’ll have him. Memphis has to go. And I’ll make sure the next guy is more cooperative.”

28

Swagger hit the floor hard amid a spray of glass sleet from the windshield as the burst atomized the glass, a bullet flying so close by his neck he felt the breeze. He wedged himself low into the cave under the dash, thanking God he’d forgotten to buckle up for safety, hearing the bullets bang hard off the hood, the engine block, back again to the windshield as the gu

Inspiration came from-well, who knows? God? Intelligent design? A hundred previous gunfights? The obviousness of what was before his nose, which was De

But now he had a plan, and a man with a plan is a man with a chance. He reached up, pushing De