Free The Master Sniper by Stephen Hunter

know where there are some marvelous gatherings tonight. Care to come along? Really, I can offer Indian nabobs, Communist poets, homosexual generals, Egyptian white slavers. The relics of our late empire. It’s quite a show. Do come.”
    “Thanks, Major,” Leets said. “I’d really rather—”
    “Tony.
Tony
. I’ve taken to the American habit.
You
call
me
Tony and
I’ll
call
you
Jim. First names are such fun.”
    “Major, I—”
    “Jim, it might be kind of fun,” Susan said.
    “What the hell,” Leets said.
    Presently, they found themselves in a cavernous flat in a splendidly fashionable section of London, along with a whole zoo of curiosities from all the friendly nations of World War II. Leets, pinned in a corner of the room, drank someone’s wonderful whisky and exchanged primitive pleasantries with a Greek diplomat, while he watched as across the room Susan deflected, in rapid succession, an RAF group captain, a young dandy in a suit and tie, and a huge Russian in some sort of Ruritanian clown suit.
    “She’s smashing,” Tony said to him.
    “Yes, she’s fine, just fine,” Leets agreed.
    “Is good very, no?” the Greek said, somewhat confusingly to Leets, but he merely nodded, as though he understood.
    But after a while he went and got her, fighting his way through the mob.
    “Hello, it’s me,” he said.
    “Oh, Jim, isn’t it wonderful? It’s so interesting,” she said, beaming.
    “It’s just a party, for Christ’s sake,” he said.
    “Darling, the most wonderful thing happened today. I can’t wait to tell you about it.”
    “So tell.”
    “I say, guess who’s here now?” Tony said suddenly, at his ear.
    “It’s Roger,” shrieked Susan. “My God, look who he’s got with him!”
    “Indeed,” said Tony. “An authentic Great Man! That is the hairy-chested novel writer who kills animals for amusement, is it not? Thought so.”
    “All we need is Phil,” said Susan.
    “Phil who?” said Leets, as his young sergeant drew near, his eyes crazy with glee, pulling in drunken tow the great writer himself. The two of them weaved brokenly across the crowded floor, Roger guiding the blandly smiling bigger man along. The fellow wore some kind of safari-inspired variation on the Air Corps uniform, open wide at the collar so that a thatch of iron-gray hair unfurled.
    “The famous chest, for all to see,” said Tony.
    The writer had a pugnacious mustache and steel-frame glasses. He was big, Leets could see, big enough for Big Ten ball, but now he had a kind of drunken, horny benevolence, dispensing good fortune on all who passed before him. Several times in his journey, the writer stopped, as though to establish camp, but at each spot, Roger’d give a yank and unstick the fellow and pull him yet closer.
    “Mr. Hem,” Roger declared when he got the big fellownear enough, “Mr. Hem, I want ya ta meet the two best friggin’ officers in World War Two.”
    “Dr. Hemorrhoid, the poor man’s piles,” the writer said, extending a paw.
    Leets shook it.
    “I adored
The Sun Actually Rises”
said Tony. “Really your best. So
feminine
. So wonderfully
feminine
. Delicate, pastel. As though written by a very sweet lady.”
    The writer grinned drunkenly. “The Brits all hate me,” he explained to Susan. “But I don’t let it bother me. What the hell, Major, go ahead and hate me. It’s your bloody country, you can hate anybody you goddamnwellfucking choose. Nurse, you’re beautiful.”
    “She’s married,” Leets said.
    “Easy, Captain, I’m not moving in. Easy. You guys, do the fighting, you have my respect. No problems, no sweat. Nurse, you are truly beautiful. Are you married to this fellow?”
    Susan giggled.
    “She’s married to a guy on a
ship
. In the
Pacific,”
said Rog.
    “My, my,” said the writer.
    “Hem, there’s some people over here,” Rog said.
    “Not so fast, Junior. This looks like a most promising engagement,” the writer said, grinning lustfully, putting a