Miss Buddha (65 page)

This—I realized as I tried to determine the
location of the shooter, then did, then pointed to—would be a hard
event to explain, tens, hundreds of video cameras recording it.

Roth had given me fair warning, and I
quietly thanked him for that. Now, here came the security guards
and many others crowding onto the stage to discover that I am still
very much alive, and to, yes, cover me up with their far too late
and much too bulky presence.

:

Wolfgang Bauer was possibly the perfect
prospect.

Loyal to a fault. Sharpshooter by trade. And
a good one at that, perhaps the best they had. An appointment to
the security detail of the Ruth Marten event was easily arranged by
a superior several rungs up the ladder.

And he was in financial trouble. Not well
documented, but they had ways of determining these things.

Four days before the event he was asked to
appear in his lieutenant’s office at precisely three o’clock, which
was, precisely, when he arrived. To find not only his lieutenant
but also two men he did not know personally, but did know by
reputation. And there was a third man he had never seen before. It
was this third man who spoke. Wolfgang could not place his accent,
possibly Swiss.

“Mr. Bauer,” said the man. “Would you like
to receive a three-year bonus?”

Wolfgang looked from one to the other of the
four men in the room that now felt a bit small to him.

“What does it mean, sir, if you don’t mind
me asking, three-year bonus?”

“How much do you make a year, Mr.
Bauer?”

Wolfgang looked over at his lieutenant, who
nodded, yes, answer the man.

“Sixty-two thousand euros, sir.”

“Then a three-year bonus would mean one
hundred eighty-six thousand euros.” Then the man added, “Tax
free.”

Again Wolfgang looked at his lieutenant, was
this for real? Really happening?

As if discerning the question his lieutenant
nodded, Yes Wolfgang, this is happening.

“Would I like to make that much money?” he
asked of the man he now definitely thought of as the Swiss.

“That’s the question.”

“Yes, sir. I would.”

“All right then. We are going to ask you to
perform a task for us. In four days’ time. You are to ask no
questions about why, only about how. Would that be acceptable to
you?”

“Yes, sir.”

The Swiss looked at the two men who flanked
him, they both nodded. Go ahead.

“Are you familiar with Ruth Marten?”

“Yes, sir.”

“She will be here in Berlin in four days’
time.”

“Yes, at the Humboldt University. I have
read about it.”

“You will be assigned to the security detail
for that event, and once the lecture begins you will make your way
to a pre-designated spot with a clear line to the stage.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And from there—it will be inside a remote
building—as soon as you can take the shot, you will kill her.”

He had not seen this coming, but once he did
he realized he should have seen it. He should have seen it at one
hundred eighty-six thousand euros.

He looked over at his lieutenant again, who
said and did nothing. All up to him now.

Wolfgang Bauer was not stupid. He knew that
Ruth Marten was making serious waves, not only in her native
America but the world over. Rocking many boats. And he could see
how some elements in his country, or any country for that matter,
wouldn’t mind that she went away. He was asked to facilitate this.
For a three-year bonus. It would save his house, and with it also
his marriage, he was quite sure of that.

And this was, obviously, officially
sanctioned. Those two top brass were here, and his boss for
heaven’s sake. Which is why he said:

“Yes, sir.”

“All right then. Your lieutenant will give
you the details of this assignment.”

“Yes, sir.”

Nods all around, and the three men left the
room, which again regained its normal size.

“Wolfgang,” said his lieutenant. “At
ease.”

Wolfgang Bauer shifted his weight, but did
not relax.

“Take a seat,” said his lieutenant.

“Yes, sir,” said Wolfgang Bauer, and
did.

“You will undoubtedly wonder why, but all
I’m going to say about that—well, for heaven’s sake, all I know
about that—is that we are doing the Americans a favor.”

“Yes, sir,” said Wolfgang Bauer.

:

They had selected a near perfect location
for the task.

A loosely curtained fourth-floor window.
Ample room for a tripod to support his long-range rifle. The stage
where Ruth Marten would address the crowd was a fraction over three
hundred meters away, at a first floor level with the raised
platform. A gentle, steady wind now from the west, shifting the
curtains a little, making it impossible to see him from the
outside, but affording him a perfect view. Under these conditions
he would hit a tennis ball at twice the distance. He was that good,
and he knew it.

He checked his watch. Only twenty minutes
now until she took the stage, give or take.

He went through the sequence again: finalize
calibrations to ensure accuracy of sight, await the signal—three
rapid knocks on the door, most likely about fifteen or twenty
minutes into the lecture (he had no idea what the criteria were for
the final go-ahead, but this was not for him to query), make any
last second re-calibration if conditions have changed, fire the
shot, collect the bullet casing, withdraw into the room, dismantle
the rifle and return it to its canvas bag, dismantle the tripod and
return it to its canvas bag, scan the room to make sure no trace of
his presence are left behind, leave by the back stairs, enter the
gray van idling outside the back entrance through the tail doors
which will stand slightly open, hand the two canvas bags to the
guard in the back of the van, travel with him for approximately
five minutes, exit the van and get in the light-blue Volkswagen
with Stuttgart plates waiting there (the driver will have a green
woolen cap), drive to unknown but safe location and lie low there
until the wind dies down, a few weeks or so.

End of mission.

Collect three-year bonus, get on with
life.

Ten minutes to go.

If anything the wind was dying down now. He
checked his scope and adjusted it slightly, minutely, to compensate
for the lighter wind. Not that he had to, even allowing for a
fairly wide margin of error, at this distance and under these
conditions he simply could not miss. Even so, perfection breeds
perfection, that was his motto in these matters.

He trained the rifle on the four stage
microphones, cross-haired the second one from the right, took a
deep breath, let it out slowly, and flexed his trigger finger.
Smooth. Piece of pie, as the Americans say, or was it cake?

He wondered again why they wanted her dead
so badly, the Americans. As instructed he had not asked any
questions, but they had not forbidden him to wonder. He had watched
some of her footage on the Internet. She was captivating, to say
the least. Dangerously so, perhaps. He knew all about captivating
speakers, it was part of his national heritage. Knew all about the
dangers of such people, and perhaps that was why they were so eager
to help the Americans. Eager enough to offer him a three-year
bonus.

Five minutes.

He went through the sequence again, rapidly
checking of each point.

One minute. Or so.

He took up his final position, trained the
rifle on the spot where he anticipated the American girl’s face to
be.

The crowd outside suddenly sprung to roaring
life, so suddenly and so loudly that it took Wolfgang a few moments
to realize that they were applauding. And here she came. Smiling.
Smiling. Her head in perfect focus. The best place for a bullet is
the left eye. Even at this angle, from slightly above, the left eye
would be best. He trained the crosshairs on the left eye and held
it there. Smooth. Piece of pie.

Now she waived at the crowd, no not waived
really, she was asking them to stop applauding, but they didn’t get
that, they just applauded more and louder. He checked his watch.
Plus three minutes now. And finally, the swell of hand-thunder
(which is what his father had called it) began to die down, and now
they were quiet. She was really pretty, this Ruth Marten. There,
the crosshairs precisely on the left eye. Keep them there. He
checked the wind again, virtually down to nothing, should he adjust
for that? No, no need. He retrained the sight on the left eye, held
it there. Awaited the signal—which might be another fifteen minutes
in coming. But that did not bother him. He was good at this. Good
at focus, good at waiting.

He was and wasn’t listening to what she was
saying. The words flowed out across the square and lawn loudly and
clearly but his English was not particularly good, and really, he
needed to focus on the task at hand—her left eye—not on her words.
She was really pretty though.

He checked his watch again. Plus twelve
minutes now. Stay focused.

He noticed that the wind had died down
altogether. All right, he would make the final adjustment, it was
part of the steps. A brief, minute calibration. Done. He re-trained
the scope, left eye. All set. Checked the wind again, it stayed
dead.

Checked his watch again. Plus sixteen
now.

No wind. Left eye in focus.

Checked his watch again. Plus eighteen.

Three soft knocks.

At first he froze, then he melted into sheer
focus. He verified his aim, her left eye. Perfectly still, the
crosshairs, right on the left eye. Right there while she brushes
away some strands of hair with her hand. He pressed the trigger to
the half-way point, took a deep breath and slowly let it out while
he slowly pulled the trigger home.

No one would have heard the shot, the
silencer was that efficient.

She fell. A perfect hit. Of course. In fact,
Wolfgang had never seen anyone collapse that instantly. Amazing. A
little too instantly, if you’d ask him. Amazing.

Then he sees what he could not possibly see.
The girl moves. Looks in his direction then directly at him and she
points. And that spins the world from calm accuracy into instant
catastrophe. From where they came he didn’t know, but suddenly the
girl was covered by what must have been a dozen men. No chance for
a second shot at all. Some of the men now looking in his direction,
too, and pointing.

Scheisse!

His next impulse is to run, but he is too
disciplined for that. The sequence, etched in this mind calls for
collecting the casing, which he did. Calls for pulling back from
the window and into the room, which he did. Calls for dismantling
the rifle, which he did. And the tripod. And check around for
anything else, and here the door flings open, crashes open really,
and two, three, four armed guards, weapons drawn and trained on him
rush in.

There’s nothing for it. He raises his hands
in the air. “Don’t shoot,” he says.

:

After a vigorous search, the German police
retrieved the hollow-point bullet from deep in the ground far back
of the stage. The investigators, calibrating angles and placements,
determined that had Miss Marten not collapsed when she did, she
would surely be dead now.

Without a doubt.

While the media debate about the missing
video footage continued on both sides of the Atlantic, the American
side of it issued a strong and formal protest to the German
government about security measures so lax that they could not
guarantee the safety of an American citizen invited to lecture in
Berlin. It was unacceptable. So all things American agreed.

The Germans took this rebuke with a very
straight face (since they had been promised amble recompense) but
were nonetheless truly embarrassed about having in fact failed the
agreed-upon mission.

Both governments were also inspecting
official video records of the incident, and there was no doubt in
anyone’s mind that the impossible had in fact occurred. The
sequence had not been tampered with, both sides confirmed this. One
of the television crews had the perfect angle: it showed Miss
Marten addressing the crowd, now brushing a few strands of hair out
of her face, then, with no interval at all, lying prostrate on the
stage.

No matter how many times they replayed the
footage, the shift (for it was not a move, they called it a shift)
was instant. Standing up—lying down.

Asked about this Miss Marten pleaded utter
innocence, she had no idea what they were talking about. She fell.
No, she didn’t know why. Tired, perhaps, after the long flight.

If there was one blessing in being an
assassination target it was that you’re not too pressed for
answers, you are, after all, the victim, not the perpetrator.

In the end, the public view landed squarely
on the side of outrage at the media who had, and so obviously,
tampered with the footage. Many of the Internet posters of the same
sequence begged to differ, of course.

The official word was finally handed down
(coordinated to the highest level, for there was no acceptable
explanation for the truth): yes, the video records shown had been
edited to remove Miss Marten’s collapse. How well over a three
hundred recordings had been equally—precisely so—edited was never
addressed, not to anyone’s satisfaction, anyway.

:

Ananda finally reached George Roth on the
phone, an audibly upset George Roth who kept repeating that he had
warned them.

“I know,” Ananda said for the third time. “I
know.”

“It’s got CIA written all over it,” said
Roth.

“But the State Department has issued a
formal protest,” said Ananda.

“Of course they’ll protest,” said Roth.
“That’s the official, the perception level of government. Trust me,
they were behind this all the way.”