The Fletcher coasted to a complete stop in the middle of the estuary pond. Dave got hold of the poles and set them so they’d protrude out over the water, both on the hull facing away from the estate. I unlimbered the rifle from its leather case below the edge of the port gunwale so nothing as obvious as a rifle barrel would protrude out from the boat until I was ready. I didn’t need and didn’t have a laser rangefinder to tell me that the distance to the target was a little under two hundred meters.

Approximating range had become old hat from all the artillery work I’d done, both in practice and then on the field of combat. I stood up in the boat and balanced myself against the slightest of movement. I stared across the water, happy to discover that the water wasn’t creating any movement at all on its own. The only movement occurred when Dave or I moved inside the hull. That could be controlled. The flat water, however, would magnify the sound effect when the rifle went off as the surface of the water wouldn’t absorb of supersonic shock wave from the fast-moving bullet. Silencers or suppressors were built for low-speed bullets and used only for short ranges, certainly never for any sniping across significant distances.

The Don sat in a chair facing outward toward where the Fletcher sat offshore. His position was static and easy to observe through the Unertl ten-power scope as I raised the weapon and rested the forward part of the stock on the edge of the gunwale. I swept the house back and forth and then examined the grounds as quickly as I could, trying to minimize the time the rifle spent upraised enough to be visible. Not very visible but visible nevertheless, especially by a trained and experienced eye seasoned in shooting.

There was no point in delaying. The shot was there, the Don like a distance duck at a carnival shooting booth. My decision to fire was already made. I stayed low, using that same gunwale to aim the shot, warning Dave not to move a millimeter while I prepared and then fired.

The beautiful rifle had two triggers. The rear trigger was the set trigger. I pulled gently back until that trigger clicked ever so slightly. I moved my index finger to the front trigger, knowing that the set trigger had released the sear to the point where only the slightest pressure would cause the gun to go off.

I stared through the scope, which wandered in its usual way. Match shooting required any shooter to understand that the only kind of weapon that remained fully stationary was set atop of solid bench and then sandbagged in, with a trigger already set and ready. Master shooters used the natural movement of their own body to home in and then ‘dance’ around the target, gently applying pressure to the main trigger until the cartridge exploded and launched the bullet by ‘surprise.’ Breathing was a big thing as I let my own become relaxed and regular before touching the front trigger. Finally, I was ready. Nothing had moved, and nobody was present anywhere that either Dave or I could see or hear.

I took the shot and then pulled the weapon down, removed my earplugs, and hunched low in the boat to repack the rifle back into its waiting case before I eased the idling Mercury engine’s throttle forward and the Fletcher began to take us from the pond, down the stream, and out of the estuary toward the open Mediterranean.

“Confirmed kill?” Dave asked, looking over the stern unaided since we had no binoculars or telescope other than the Unertl atop the rifle barrel.

“No such thing, not in the real world,” I replied. “That’s all movie stuff. Sniper shooting is a Schrodinger’s Cat thing. The physicist Schrodinger hypothesized that in explaining the real world in quantum terms, he created a make-believe cat trapped inside a locked box with a dish of poison. Only when the box was opened would the cat be determined not to have eaten the poison and be alive, or, having consumed it, dead. Until the box is opened, however, the cat is both living and dead. The Don was hit or not. The man is dead or not. We’re out of here and don’t need to know, so as far as we’re concerned, he’s both living and dead, until the box with the cat is opened, so to speak.”

I said all the words, but my mind was almost totally focused on the scene behind us. I’d taken the shot. The range had been close enough, the glass not bulletproof proof that the projectile penetrated before striking the target. The target hadn’t moved. There had been no guard or other mafia types around. The wife was nowhere to be seen. The man sat in the chair unmoving after having had to have been hit. If he wasn’t hit, then the shattering of the glass alone would have caused him to move. But there was no movement. The bullet penetrated the glass and had to have expanded. The Don took the full impact of one ton of force square in his chest, from what I could see, but only for an instant, as we had to get back out to open water as quickly as we could.

I brought the boat up on plane and headed it out into the Med as we picked up speed. Once on top of the waves, I maneuvered the bow and pointed the craft past the Palma Harbor entrance and toward Calvia. Dave struggled to hold on while securing the rifle I’d pushed down onto the deck cushion between us.

“Who’s Schrodinger?” he yelled, against the wind, “and what does a cat have to do with anything?”

“When we hit open water, I want you to hold the rifle in its case next to the side of the hull with one hand,” I said, while we could still talk and be heard. “If we get threatened with any encounter, then let it slip away. It’s an expensive piece, and the sergeant will be in trouble if the DCM finds out it’s missing. We have the Amex card to replace the specialized weapon, though.” I knew that acquiring such a long gun would not be quick or easy, however, and then getting it back into the consulate’s inventory was another matter altogether.

Not far out from where the Calvia hotel rose into the sky, a patrol boat appeared, heading around the point and making way in the direction we’d just traversed. The boat didn’t appear to change speed or direction, but I knew from long enough experience that anyone with decent binoculars would be able to see everything up close aboard our small craft. There was no point in taking any chances. The depth gauge read two hundred feet, which meant that there’d be no diving for the rifle unless exotic gas divers and equipment were available.

“Let the rifle go,” I said, staring across the water at the patrol boat, my stomach knotted with a bit of fear. The shot would have been heard. Calls would have been made already, and the patrol boat might be evidence of a military or police presence that was on its toes and waiting for trouble. I kept Fletcher’s speed constant and slow, gently steering toward the floats.
The patrol boat turned slightly toward our position, and my heart raced. Two Americans out fishing with no bait and no fish would create immediate suspicion if the Fletcher were boarded and searched. As if changing his or her mind, the captain of the patrol boat pointed the craft back toward where the stream exited into the ocean from the estuary, and then increased speed. Those movements seemed to indicate that the shooting had been witnessed or noted and reported, such reports just beginning ot reach the authorities.

I nosed the bow into the concrete wall as gently as I could, and Dave leaped off, then reversed the craft and pulled alongside the float. I stripped down to my swimsuit, packed my civilian gear into a plastic bag, and went overboard. Breaststroking into the wall and then climbing the iron rungs was no problem at all. The boat would have to be left where it was. There wasn’t enough fuel to make it to the coast of Spain, nor was there time to return it to the harbor it was never supposed to be taken out of. A phone call and American Express would have to be used generously to have the boat recovered and the violation assuaged with money.

It took only minutes to get to the room, get a quick shower, and assemble the small items and other clothing we’d brought with us before departing without comment and making our way back to the lobby.

The ride to the airport was significant only in that I kept to all speed limits along the way and drove like a sane person. Drawing attention was a sure way to be questioned if stopped for any traffic violation, and on such a small island, there would be no evading or avoiding the authorities by running away.

I decided not to turn the Shelby back into the rental agency. The same rule would apply to the car as we were applying to the boat. Pay extra, although paying too much extra would simply attract attention, so the conversations with the rental agencies would have to be negotiations. That job I assigned to Dave, then moved to a more distant phone to call the Agency. There was no ability to make any calls that were either dedicated or encrypted, but I could report that we’d arrived at the Palma airport and hope to get instructions and directions to our exit mode of transportation.

I waited for Tony to come onto the line, but after several minutes, he didn’t. I hung up. The job of waiting to make contact would have to begin. Without the Agency backing our egress from the island following what had happened, without our control officer even knowing what had happened, was going to be a bit dicey and potentially problematic, I knew.

“Have you noticed how quiet things have been?’ Dave asked, sipping the strong coffee from his tiny European cup, both of us buying the awful stuff from the one small coffee bar located at the midpoint along the concourse.

I understood that he wasn’t speaking about the locals, Mallorcan or otherwise. Tony Herbert, or control officer, wasn’t trying to reach us, and we weren’t trying to reach him. Another mission that was not a mission was done, in the same manner as the one off Oahu before it. It was almost incomprehensible to come to believe that many missions of the CIA were so secret that the very existence of them was either never acknowledged in the beginning and then totally erased upon completion.

“It’ll go down as you and I taking out the Don and his son when this fish of a mission is cleaned, filleted, and cooked, you know, I mean, if anyone knows or admits to knowing.” Dave’s frown lines were deep when he said the words.

“Are you listening to yourself?” I asked, sipping my own impossibly tiny spot of intense coffee.

“I never dreamed,” Dave started to say, but I pulled my cup down and cut him off.

“You will dream, and one day you’ll call or visit and talk about what happened here, but that day’s hopefully long into our future, which is becoming much clearer and better as this proceeds.”

“That’s just it. I don’t want to proceed,” Dave said, putting his miniature coffee cup down on the miniature saucer.

“You said you wanted to work with me again,” I replied, more hurt than surprised.

“Work,” Dave sighed as his lungs exhausted the single word out.

“We succeeded,” I reminded him, knowing full well that the problem Dave was facing was much more significant than how our operation had gone.

“People died here, and I’m not used to or comfortable with that. I don’t understand almost any of what’s happened here, and you act like you do, but I don’t think you do either. Why isn’t that bothering you? Why just me?”

“You didn’t kill anyone,” I said firmly.

“They’ll think I did,” Dave replied, almost too quickly.
I caught the deep whining sound of turbine-driven helicopter blades before Dave did. The airport was classy, but small, and the many glass windows offered much more than simply a view and letting sunlight in. Heavy engine sounds not only penetrated the glass, but they also caused the panes to shake.

“That’s our ride,” I nodded hopefully, to my left, where the sound was coming from through the glass.

“I thought we were going home commercial first class,” Dave exclaimed, disappointment in the tone of his voice.

“The Air Force outside of Seville wanted one last piece of the puzzle or the action,” I said, more understanding and relief in my voice. I wouldn’t have to try to explain myself to Tony using some sort of arcane and made-up code, or beg for permission and the means to depart the island.

“They are like God, aren’t they, as far as we’re concerned,” Dave murmured, getting up out of his chair. “They don’t speak, they just act.”

I got up and headed for the entrance to the concourse, knowing Dave would follow. The only way to get to the far part of the runway where the chopper had to be sitting and waiting was to exit the building, walk to the far side, present our identification, and then walk the long distance across the bare tarmac. It was all exposed and uncomfortable and not without worry. Would our identification be enough to get through, since the security forces were Spanish and not U.S. Marines? Was the helicopter for us, although it was unlikely that a CH-53, unmarked at all, would be there for anyone else?

It all went smoothly, however. The long walk out to the chopper wasn’t pleasant as several vehicles loaded with security personnel came and went while we walked, me worrying that all it would take was one of them to stop and decide to ask what in hell two Americans were doing flying out in such a private and expensive manner when as major local figure had just been shot to death nearby. But no such stop was made.

The chopper flight took only two hours, and the 53 flew it at high altitude, so no interdiction or involvement could be seen with any other forces in the air. The bigger plane was ready to go, as well. The 53 landed a mile away for reasons unknown to Dave and me. Once more, we had to get across the concrete distance. The day had become long indeed, both emotionally and physically. Both of us were surprised upon boarding to find that the entire aircraft, as giant as it was, was also empty. We sat down in the nylon-strapped seats and waited. There was no Mack, no loading officer. One crewman opened the distant door to the crew cabin and waved. He went back inside, closing the door after him. That was it. The monster aircraft taxied for a time and then took off, the takeoff power of the turbines overwhelming everything, and the acceleration of the plane astounding for its size, at least experienced from the inside.

Dave stared over at me, the noise of the Galaxy overwhelming in the monstrous cargo bay where he and I sat alone, the plane having lifted off the base runway only half an hour before. The Galaxy, unlike the Starlifter C-141s, had wiring and plugs along the outer hull with attached headphones so we could talk.

“How many men have you killed?” he asked.

The question had come out of nowhere, other than possibly the fact that I was responsible for the deaths of two people on Malloca Island, one by my hand and one by a sort of proxy.

“Area or personal?” I asked him, looking toward the back of the plane instead of directly at him.

“What?” Dave replied in surprise.
“Area weapons, like Ontos, artillery, machine guns, and stuff like that,” I said, my tone flat, not that tone was doing real well in the headphone system we were using.

“Personal, then,” Dave asked.

“That I killed with my own hand or had someone kill who was very close by, but on my instructions?” I asked back.

“Both,” Dave said, although I could tell from his expression that it was like he was not happy about the path the conversation was taking.

“Do men count the same as women? Do children count as a whole number or a fraction?”

Dave stared at me as the huge turbines whined, the drumming vibrational sound penetrating everything, including the close-fitting headphones.

“How many?” Dave continued.

I couldn’t understand why a number was important to Dave at all, since the action on Mallorca had been only marginally violent and not physically at all as far as he was concerned. There seemed to be no point in my attempt to get the man to understand that killing people wasn’t black and white. The shades of gray went on and on and on when motivation, rationality, necessity, mistaken identity, responsibility, and more were factored in answering such a question. There seemed to be no point to continuing the back-and-forth discussion.

“Forty-five, give or take,” I finally said, just to hopefully put the subject to bed.

“You don’t seem that way,” Dave said, after a long delay.

“Thank you,” I replied, wondering whether the material we were communicating back and forth might make a good black humor comedy skit one day.

“Who knows?” Dave asked, unexpectedly.

“I don’t know,” I answered, truthfully, once again wondering why any of our conversation mattered to either one of us.

I’d killed the Don’s son. Everything that had happened after that was because of that. I’d played Investigator Poirot like in an Agatha Christie movie in trying to figure out everything that had happened and caused us to have to take out the Don. I felt, however, much more like Inspector Clouseau from the movie Pink Panther or Shot in the Dark, except without the humor and a substratum of dark selfishness.

I’d killed the Don, if that’s what had happened, not because of any of the stuff about the school headmistress, her death, the affair, if there was one, or even the spying she’d been doing. It was personal and out of fear. I wanted to make sure the bosses of the Don would not come looking for me at home or out in the world, and I wanted them to figure out that it was the CIA that was their enemy and not some foot soldier like me.

Most of all, I wanted some sanity to return to my life, sell life insurance, attend my son’s swim meets and my daughter’s school plays, and continue to form the insurance operations around the world…and even deal with Alan Weh here and there. Clean up from the mission would have to be made and covered. Dave had covered the car and the boat, and I wasn’t at all sure that the twenty thousand dollars would be acceptable to the Agency, nor the best of ideas. I needed the wise counsel of my wife and the coming of Christmas to feel like a real human being again.

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