Page 18 of Safe Enough

“Maybe being Russians was a coincidence. Maybe they were just walkers in the park. Targets of convenience.”

“Not a well-represented national origin here. The odds are against it. But it’s certainly possible. Although I feel somehow it shouldn’t be. It’s almost a philosophical inquiry.”

“What is?”

Kleb tested a sentence in his head, and then on his lips. Out loud he said, “There’s a second issue that might or might not be a coincidence. Is it too big of a coincidence that two other things might or might not be coincidences also? Or do all three things reinforce each other and make the implication more likely to be true than false? It’s an existential question.”

“Speak English, loony boy.”

“I think the dates might be important. They might explain the Russians. Or not, of course, if it’s all just one big coincidence. Then my theory collapses like a house of cards.”

“What dates?”

“The dates of the shootings. January 31, 1953, and today, which is January 27, 1954.”

“What do they have in common?”

Kleb tested another sentence in his head, and on his lips. It was a long sentence. It felt okay. Out loud he said, “I think you should look for a German national in his thirties. Almost certainly a local resident. Almost certainly an ex-prisoner of war, detained back in Kansas or Iowa or somewhere. Almost certainly an infantryman, likely a sniper. Almost certainly married a local girl and stayed here. But he never gave up the faith. He never stopped believing. Certain things upset him. Like January 31, 1953.”

“Why would it?”

“It was the tenth anniversary of the Germans’ final surrender at Stalingrad. January 31, 1943. Their first defeat. Catastrophic. It was the beginning of the end. Our believer wanted to strike back. He found a Red in the neighborhood. Maybe he had heard him speak at the Legion Hall. He shot him in the park.”

“The date could be a total coincidence.”

“Then today would have to be, too. That’s what I’m trying to figure out. Does the fact that the dates could be significant together mean they must be?”

“What’s today?”

“The tenth anniversary of the lifting of the siege of Leningrad. Another catastrophic retreat for the Germans. Another huge symbolic failure. Stalin, Lenin. Their cities survived. Our believer didn’t like it.”

“How many more anniversaries are coming up?”

“Thick and fast now,” Kleb said. “It was Armageddon from this point onward. The fall of Berlin comes on the second of May next year.”

Cleary was quiet a long moment.

Then he winked.

He said, “You keep thinking, smart boy. That’s what you’re good at.”

Then he walked away.

Late the next day Kleb heard Cleary had ordered a sudden change of direction for the investigation, which paid off almost right away. They made an arrest almost immediately. A German national, aged thirty-four, a local resident, an ex-prisoner of war who had been held in Kansas, previously a sniper with an elite division, now married to a Kansas woman and living in California. Cleary got a medal and a commendation and his name in the paper. Never once did he mention Kleb’s help. Even to Kleb himself. Which turned out to be representative. Kleb worked forty-six years in that basement, shy, awkward, strange in his mannerisms, largely ignored, largely avoided, and by his own objective count provided material assistance in forty-seven separate cases. An average of more than one a year, just. He was never thanked and never recognized. He retired without gifts or speeches or a party, but nevertheless it was a happy day for him, because it was the anniversary of the moon landing, which meant, same day, different year, it was also the anniversary of the first vehicle on Mars. Which was the kind of connection he liked.

THE .50 SOLUTION

Most times I assess the client and then the target and only afterward do I set the price. It’s about common sense and variables. If the client is rich, I ask for more. If the target is tough, I ask for more. If there are major expenses involved, I ask for more. So if I’m working overseas on behalf of a billionaire against a guy in a remote hideout with a competent protection team on his side, I’m going to ask for maybe a hundred times what I would want from some local chick looking to solve her marital problems in a quick and messy manner. Variables, and common sense.

But this time the negotiation started differently.

The guy who came to see me was rich. That was clear. His wealth was pore-deep. Not just his clothes. Not just his car. This was a guy who had been rich forever. Maybe for generations. He was tall and gray and silvery and self-assured. He was a patrician. It was all right there in the way he held himself, the way he spoke, the way he took charge.

First thing he talked about was the choice of weapon.

He said, “I hear you’ve used a Barrett Model Ninety on more than one occasion.”

I said, “You hear right.”

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