Solo

sights that he was shown and took the latest model Schmidt & Bender scope to the door to see how it worked at long range.
    He looked at passers-by down the street. The zoom magnification was very effective and the little calibrations and illuminated cross-hairs reticle could be changed at the flick of a switch at the side.
    He returned to the counter and told Eugene that he needed a rifle that would fit this scope – but one that could be broken up and carried in a bag of some sort.
    ‘Have I got just the baby for you, sir,’ Eugene said and went into a room behind the counter emerging with what looked like a black plastic attaché case. He flipped it open and showed Bond the contents.
    ‘Just arrived – a Frankel and Kleist S1962,’ Eugene said with reverence in his voice. He took the separate stock, breech and barrel out of their recessed velvet moulds and fitted them together, sliding the scope on top. ‘Single shot, bolt action. Point five zero calibre bullet, two-stage trigger set to four pounds.’ Bond picked it up and raised it to his shoulder. It was matt black and surprisingly light. Bond fitted his cheek to the cheek rest and drew a bead through the window on a shop sign across the street.
    ‘You turn down the reticle illumination all the way on that scope you can shoot this mother at night, I swear,’ Eugene said.
    ‘Perfect,’ Bond said. ‘You made another sale.’
    ‘What’re you after?’ Eugene asked with a knowing smile. ‘Neighbours?’
    Bond laughed. ‘Elk,’ he said, spontaneously.
    ‘Don’t got much elk around these parts,’ Eugene said. ‘Still, you may get lucky.’
    ‘I’ll look hard,’ Bond said.
    He bought the guns and their relevant ammunition, showed his Bryce Fitzjohn passport, filled in the documentation – giving as his address his hotel, the Fairview – and marvelled, not for the first time in his life, just how easy it was to arm yourself in the land of the free.

·3·
     

THE ALCAZAR
     
    The next morning Bond parked his Mustang in an underground garage near the Federal Warehouse and walked the three blocks to the Alcazar, attaché case in one hand, a canvas grip in his other, containing the binoculars, the mattress, three packs of cigarettes and a vacuum flask filled with a weak solution of bourbon and iced water. He could always pop out for a sandwich or a dreaded burger or hot dog if he grew hungry, he reasoned.
    Secure in his room, the main door locked, he pulled the little circular chain that turned the blind sideways on to the windows. He set up his folding stool and unrolled his mattress. He sat down and picked up the binoculars. He had an ideal oblique line of sight on to the plaza and anyone entering or leaving number 1075. The binoculars allowed him an initial identification and the sniper-scope provided a genuine close-up with the aid of the zoom-magnification device. However, with the zoom at maximum the hand-shake distortion was sizeable. He needed a tripod, Bond thought – or, even better, the rifle it was designed for.
    He assembled the Frankel and fitted the scope. By resting the barrel on the windowsill he achieved perfect stability. Peering through the sight with the distance calibration and the cross-haired reticle in operation made him feel like an assassin. Just as well the gun wasn’t loaded, Bond thought: if he saw Kobus Breed crossing the plaza the temptation might prove too hard to resist.
    After a couple of hours’ watching, Bond began to feel himself stiffening up. He took off his jacket and did some un-strenuous exercises just to keep the blood flowing. He was feeling stronger every day but didn’t want to put any undue strain on his healing tissues. He smoked a cigarette, had a swig of his bourbon and water and sat down again.
    Through his binoculars he saw a glossy town car pull up in the indented drop-off spot at the edge of the plaza. A black man in a dark suit stepped out and leaned forward to have a quick word with the driver. Adeka, Bond wondered? He picked up his rifle and zoomed in with the scope.
    No – even more interesting, and someone else he’d met before: Colonel Denga, lately commander-in-chief of the Dahumian armed forces. There was the handsome face with the matinee-idol moustache. Bond watched him stroll across the plaza to 1075. He was dapper – the suit jacket was cut long and was waisted and the trousers fashionably flared. Just visiting, or was he now something to do with AfricaKIN Inc?
    Bond