accustomed to use during his time in the Guards, and since his retirement. He had spent the last few weeks using it against targets among the olive trees on the rocky hill. He had quickly realized that it was far more accurate than the previous weapons he had used: he had found it accurate over a distance of more than 800 metres.
But his target practice had already left him vaguely dissatisfied . It was one thing to hit a piece of card pinned to a tree. Or explode a ripe melon on a post. It was quite another to feel the adrenalin rush when the target was a living, breathing human being. The line of perspiration on his upper lip; the measured breathing; the silence during the waiting until the moment arrived; the gentle pressure upon the hair-trigger….
He knew he had a need, a
hunger
to use the Sharpshooter rifle for the purpose for which it had been designed. He needed to end the barren months he had experienced since his last assignment .
So, though there were problems, even dangers involved, he had accepted the commission. He had checked the bank: the upfront payment he requested had quickly been made. He was now committed. Arrangements had been put in place. Soon, he would be fitting the telescopic sight, settling down into position and caressing the smooth barrel of the rifle.
It would all be over in seconds, when it happened.
But it was what he had been trained for. It was what he still
needed.
1
C ARMELA HAD ARRANGED a cab to the airport next morning; when they arrived at their Spanish destination she picked up a hire car and insisted on driving. Arnold was happy to concede the argument since he disliked driving in Europe, but was less relaxed when he observed the hectic pace at which she drove. She seemed to throw the vehicle around the twisting bends that led towards the coast and when the tracks narrowed he found himself praying fervently that they met no other car ahead. But the countryside seemed almost deserted in the heat of the morning and, as the road began to ascend into the coastal hills, he caught occasional shimmering glimpses of an intensely blue sea. He switched on the air-conditioner to stay cool: he caught the knowing grin Carmela gave him. Grimly, he thought to himself he always seemed to be driven by women.
They swung away from the main roads as they climbed. They reached a small, sleepy village with a creamy-stone church and a market-square that contained two cafés and a general store and then proceeded along a cliffside track lined with groves of gnarled olive trees twisted into grotesque shapes by the prevailing offshore breezes.
They finally came to a halt as the dusty track reached the top of a hill overlooking a small, secluded bay. Ahead of them, overlooking the cove, was a scattering of whitewashed villas, each with its pool, sheltered below the lee of the hill, against a background of green pine trees and scrubby maquis. Carmela pointed to one of the villas, halfway along the narrow road that skirted the steep-sided
barrancas
. ‘It seems that’s where he hides himself these days,’ she commented in a surly tone.
Arnold inspected the villa. Its pool glittered blue under the hot morning sun; built at two levels the villa boasted a terrace that ran around three sides of the building in order to take advantage of the sun most of the day. The house seemed well maintained, its walls shining white against the green of the trees, and was protected by tall gates which Arnold guessed would be electronically controlled.
‘Your Mr Steiner seems to have done well enough for himself,’ he suggested.
‘The wages of sin.’
‘What exactly did he do?’
Carmela growled deep in her throat. ‘Put simply, Peter Steiner was a thief. But more than that, in our eyes. He betrayed the confidence people had placed in him, and contributed towards the damage of our ancient heritages.’ She leaned forward, cut the engine, sat in silence for a little while, frowning. ‘He was well qualified, and
But his target practice had already left him vaguely dissatisfied . It was one thing to hit a piece of card pinned to a tree. Or explode a ripe melon on a post. It was quite another to feel the adrenalin rush when the target was a living, breathing human being. The line of perspiration on his upper lip; the measured breathing; the silence during the waiting until the moment arrived; the gentle pressure upon the hair-trigger….
He knew he had a need, a
hunger
to use the Sharpshooter rifle for the purpose for which it had been designed. He needed to end the barren months he had experienced since his last assignment .
So, though there were problems, even dangers involved, he had accepted the commission. He had checked the bank: the upfront payment he requested had quickly been made. He was now committed. Arrangements had been put in place. Soon, he would be fitting the telescopic sight, settling down into position and caressing the smooth barrel of the rifle.
It would all be over in seconds, when it happened.
But it was what he had been trained for. It was what he still
needed.
1
C ARMELA HAD ARRANGED a cab to the airport next morning; when they arrived at their Spanish destination she picked up a hire car and insisted on driving. Arnold was happy to concede the argument since he disliked driving in Europe, but was less relaxed when he observed the hectic pace at which she drove. She seemed to throw the vehicle around the twisting bends that led towards the coast and when the tracks narrowed he found himself praying fervently that they met no other car ahead. But the countryside seemed almost deserted in the heat of the morning and, as the road began to ascend into the coastal hills, he caught occasional shimmering glimpses of an intensely blue sea. He switched on the air-conditioner to stay cool: he caught the knowing grin Carmela gave him. Grimly, he thought to himself he always seemed to be driven by women.
They swung away from the main roads as they climbed. They reached a small, sleepy village with a creamy-stone church and a market-square that contained two cafés and a general store and then proceeded along a cliffside track lined with groves of gnarled olive trees twisted into grotesque shapes by the prevailing offshore breezes.
They finally came to a halt as the dusty track reached the top of a hill overlooking a small, secluded bay. Ahead of them, overlooking the cove, was a scattering of whitewashed villas, each with its pool, sheltered below the lee of the hill, against a background of green pine trees and scrubby maquis. Carmela pointed to one of the villas, halfway along the narrow road that skirted the steep-sided
barrancas
. ‘It seems that’s where he hides himself these days,’ she commented in a surly tone.
Arnold inspected the villa. Its pool glittered blue under the hot morning sun; built at two levels the villa boasted a terrace that ran around three sides of the building in order to take advantage of the sun most of the day. The house seemed well maintained, its walls shining white against the green of the trees, and was protected by tall gates which Arnold guessed would be electronically controlled.
‘Your Mr Steiner seems to have done well enough for himself,’ he suggested.
‘The wages of sin.’
‘What exactly did he do?’
Carmela growled deep in her throat. ‘Put simply, Peter Steiner was a thief. But more than that, in our eyes. He betrayed the confidence people had placed in him, and contributed towards the damage of our ancient heritages.’ She leaned forward, cut the engine, sat in silence for a little while, frowning. ‘He was well qualified, and
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