The Eleventh Commandment

‘It may need a few modifications,’ said Connor.

The assistant hesitated. ‘Excuse me for a moment, sir.’ He disappeared through a curtain into a back room.

A few moments later an older man, also dressed in a long brown coat, appeared through the curtain. Connor was annoyed: he had hoped to purchase the rifle without having to meet the legendary Jim Harding.

‘Good afternoon,’ the man said, looking closely at his customer. ‘I understand you’re interested in a Remington 700.’ He paused. ‘With modifications.’

‘Yes. You were recommended by a friend,’ said Connor.

‘Your friend must be a professional,’ said Harding.

As soon as the word ‘professional’ was mentioned, Connor knew he was being tested. If Harding hadn’t been the Stradivarius of gunsmiths, he would have left the shop without another word.

‘What modifications

did you have in mind, sir?’ asked Harding, his eyes never leaving the customer’s.

Connor described in detail the gun he had left in Bogota, watching carefully for any reaction.

Harding’s face remained impassive. ‘I might have something that would interest you, sir,’ he said, then turned and disappeared behind the curtain.

Once again, Connor considered leaving, but within seconds Harding reappeared carrying a familiar leather case, which he placed on the counter.

‘This model came into our possession after the owner’s recent death,’ he explained. He flicked up the catches, opened the lid and swivelled the case round so that Connor could inspect the rifle. ‘Every part is hand-made, and I doubt if you’ll find a finer piece of craftsmanship this side of the Mississippi.’ Harding touched the rifle lovingly. ‘The stock is fibreglass, for lightness and better balance. The barrel is imported from Germany - I’m afraid the Krauts still produce the best. The scope is a Leupold 10 Power with mil dots, so you don’t even have to adjust for wind. With this rifle you could kill a mouse at four hundred paces, never mind a moose. If you’re technically minded, you would be capable of a half-minute of angle at one hundred yards.’ He looked up to see if his customer understood what he was talking about, but Connor’s expression gave him no clue. ‘A Remington 700 with such modifications is only sought after by the most discerning of customers,’ he concluded.

Connor didn’t remove any of the five pieces from their places, for fear Mr Harding would discover just how discerning a customer he was.

‘How much?’ he asked, realising for the first time that he had no idea of the price of a hand-crafted Remington 700.

‘Twenty-one thousand dollars,’ Harding said. ‘Though we do have the standard model should you …’

‘No,’ said Connor. ‘This one will be just fine.’

‘And how will you be paying, sir?’

‘Cash.’

‘Then I will require some form of identification,’ said Harding. ‘I’m afraid there’s even more paperwork since they passed the Instant ID and Registration Law to replace the Brady Bill.’

Connor took out a Virginia driver’s licence he’d bought for a hundred dollars from a pickpocket in Washington the previous day.

Harding studied the licence and nodded. ‘All we need now, Mr Radford, is for you to fill in these three forms.’

Connor wrote out the name, address and Social Security number of the assistant manager of a shoe store in Richmond.

As Harding entered the numbers into a computer, Connor tried to look bored, but he was silently praying that Mr Radford hadn’t reported the loss of his driver’s licence during the past twenty-four hours.

Suddenly Harding looked up from the screen. ‘Is that a double-barrelled name?’ he asked.

‘No,’ replied Connor, not missing a beat. ‘Gregory is my first name. My mother had a thing about Gregory Peck.’

Harding smiled. ‘Mine too.’

After a few more moments Harding said, ‘That all seems to be in order, Mr Radford.’

Connor turned and nodded to Romanov, who strolled over and extracted a thick bundle of notes from an inside pocket. He spent some time ostentatiously peeling off hundred-dollar bills, counting out 210 of them before passing them across to Harding. What Connor had hoped would appear no more than a casual purchase, the Russian was fast turning into a pantomime. The sidekicks might as well have stood out on the street and sold tickets for the performance.

Harding wrote out a receipt for the cash and handed it to Connor, who left without another word. One of the hoodlums grabbed the rifle and ran out of the shop onto the sidewalk as if he had just robbed a bank. Connor climbed into the back of the BMW and wondered if it was possible to attract any more attention to themselves. The car screeched away from the kerb and cut into the fast-moving traffic, setting off a cacophony of horns. Yes, Connor thought, they obviously could. He remained speechless as the driver broke the speed limit all the way back to the airport. Even Romanov began to look a little apprehensive. Connor was quickly discovering that the new Mafia in the States were still amateurish compared with their cousins from Italy. But it wouldn’t be long before they caught up, and when they did, God help the FBI.