North of the Rock

by Ian Jones

  Defections between parliamentary parties were not that unusual, and it could easily be said that he was never really a full member of One Race anyway.

  But John knew he was right, it had to be more than just a coincidence. Martin Scanlon had not mentioned visiting Germany once in his speech in the pub, and maybe Collis was not supposed to say anything either. But he had, and he owned a .22 rifle, which was not a calibre a sniper would use but was fine for target practice.

  The next morning, he spoke with Neil who shared his concerns and they did further checks. Collis and Scanlon had flown back to the US into Chicago from Frankfurt the previous evening. John flew into Cologne that afternoon and met with an agent of the FIS called Dietmar. They looked around the university grounds and Dietmar took him to where the shot had been fired which was a window on a landing in a half occupied office building opposite. John looked carefully, it was less than three hundred yards which was meat and drink to a professional sniper, nothing at all. Dietmar was happy to talk, he seemed to be enjoying himself. He explained how they worked out where the shot had come from and John was impressed. He looked closely at the slight drag marks where the rifle barrel had been rested on the window frame. Romann had been killed by a 7.62 round which was a pretty standard bullet for a sniper rifle and told them next to nothing, but the FIS would hold onto it for ballistics checking. So far there were no suspects. They went for coffee and John asked Dietmar if there was any other information on Romann and explained that he knew about the One Race connection.

  Dietmar nodded, they had also been looking into this but could find no link to anyone they were looking at currently. Romann had been due to marry a woman of Turkish descent, and there were no skeletons in the closet as far as they were concerned. Joining One Race appeared to be a blip on an otherwise spotless career path, they had been making a lot of noise at the time and it could have been regarded as an understandable attempt to build a higher profile. It was said that Romann was very reserved, he lacked a sense of humour and took himself a little too seriously but Dietmar had not heard of anyone being killed for those traits. John hadn’t either.

  He flew back that night and pondered the situation.

  He was starting to believe that One Race did need to be looked at, that he was actually doing something worthwhile after all.

  The next day the department began working in earnest. They started with the CIA, but as usual got no help at all. The FBI were better, One Race appeared to be very well funded, they had a network of rich donors. The majority of these were to be found in the south; Alabama, Mississippi, Texas. But nothing was read into this, they were strictly Republican states and possessed a large number of older ex-employees of the political world. It was noted that there were also several donors who wished to remain anonymous.

  The FBI offered to examine this list more closely.

  John continued his own research with his team and then uncovered something that on the face of it was even more incriminating. Just over six months previously, a French politician called Lucille Canour had been shot in the head as she watched a speech being made by her Socialist Party in the town square in Reims after they won a local election. Due to the increase in French right-wing support the One Race backed candidate had initially appeared to be doing fairly well in the polls, but then had fallen by the wayside massively. Canour had been very outspoken in her criticism of the party and had laughed when the low count for One Race had been read out. It turned out that One Race had a meeting of their chapter in Paris the night before, which had been attended by one of the founders from the USA. Not Scanlon this time, but a man called Norman Flint. Reims was no more than two hours’ drive from Paris. The sniper was in a building which directly overlooked the square, the report read two hundred and fifty metres. They dug deeper. Anthony Collis had passed through immigration two days before and out again on the same day.

  John spoke once more to the FBI, they were interested but powerless, the crimes had not taken place on USA soil but they were keen to help. John told them they would carry on digging, and then found a third one almost straight away. Italy, Tivoli. An elderly statesman by the name of Giovanni Trisi had been shot in the garden of his home in just outside Tivoli. This was just a year ago. One Race had run a series of commercials looking for new party members. Trisi had still been in local government at the time and had spoken out against them, declaring them to be Nazis. A chapter had started in Rome, and eventually it was discovered that there had been a representative from the USA the night before the killing, but this time they could find no trace of a name. It didn’t matter, it was enough. Tivoli was an hour from Rome.

  John picked up the phone and called the FBI, who looked into it and confirmed that Anthony Collis had passed through immigration back into the USA in Houston the following day.

  He had seen all he needed to.

  Chapter Three

  Two hours in and John saw a road sign for Howarth Penitentiary. He had passed Van Horn and was close to Fort Stockton. The sign was high up on posts along with others pointing to Odessa and Midland. Patrick had emailed over a visit pass and other details; John was supposedly on an authorised visit from the UK government looking at wrongful arrests. Collis would remember him, there was no question of that but it would be too late by then. Fuck him if he can’t take a joke.

  Just over three hours had passed and John was finally approaching Gray Rock. He remembered the sharp climb uphill which led to an even steeper downhill and then the town would come into view on his right. But as he crested the hill he was shocked by what he saw and slowed to a crawl. There was now a huge building towering up between the town and the airfield which was further north, and on the opposite side of the road was now what appeared to be a business park. These had not been there before. He continued to slowly roll down the hill trying to take it all in. The town was there alright, but appeared to be more than twice as big as he remembered. The petrol station where Collis had shot the student was still there, just as he recalled immediately before the town limits. There was a big shiny new sign, which wasn’t peppered with buckshot holes. It said ‘Welcome to Gray Rock – Population 2611’. Which was well over a thousand more than when he was last here. There was a tatty poster cable tied to the pole that read ‘Justice for Anthony’. He slowed even further to a stop and rolled onto the shoulder as he passed the plant, which looked brand new, it could only be a few years old. The main building was over five or six storeys high, a massive cube of concrete, glass and steel in a vast square of neatly cut grass and scrub with another big three-storey office block running at right angles and several smaller outbuildings and full car parks dotted all around. It was protected by a high steel mesh fence with razor wire across the top and John could even see a helicopter in the far rear corner. In front of him was a wide turning off the road which led onto a straight run down to a set of barriers with a guard house at the side. A massive white sign alongside said BRP Pharmaceuticals and this was also displayed across the top of the building. As he sat watching a big truck trundled past and turned in. A guard came out and checked over some paperwork and raised the barrier. As the truck disappeared around the side another came out, this one clean and shiny with the BRP logo on it. It went through the checkpoint and then followed the approach back to the main road and turned left, passing John on its way up the hill. It was all very impressive. He turned his head, looking back beyond the building toward the airfield and got another shock, there were several new buildings there too and a sign which said ‘Gray Rock Airport’. Airport? It had been a small airfield eleven years ago, a hangover from the oil days. He pulled out and then turned left into the business park, prowling around to have a look. It was a rectangular shaped collection of single story buildings, identically finished in tan brick and mostly office units mixed in with some that looked like small warehouses. There were cars parked here and there. It looked like a lot of the buildings were occupied.

  Times had really changed.

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nbsp; He pulled out back onto the road and continued down the hill, heading south.

  He was driving on the original main road into Gray Rock, which was unchanged and came in from the north meeting the town in what was previously the northeast corner but everywhere had been built up since. The town sloped downward from north to south. Less than a mile later he saw the motel on his right, where he had stayed on his last visit and intended to stay now. It had been given a lick of paint but looked the same otherwise. Down the road further south on the left he was pleased to see the diner was still there. Past the diner it opened out, there was the crossing with the east west road which would eventually take him to the army base if he drove for long enough to the east, on the corner on the other side was the town hall.

  He pulled into the motel parking lot, then got out of the car, stretching. It was starting to get dark and was warm and breezy. The motel was a two-storey building which had a short right angle turn behind on the left-hand side, like a stunted, inverted L shape. He glanced at the office and saw a woman inside staring out at him and talking on the phone. He collected his bag, locked the car and walked over.

  Inside the woman was sitting behind the short counter, and glared at him malevolently as he approached. Her stance did not change when she heard his accent as he enquired about a room. There was a big sign that said vacancies so there really wasn’t a great deal to discuss. He asked for two nights and she quoted him sixty bucks a night. Politely John pointed to the Vacancies sign, where underneath was written $40. She pursed her lips and said nothing, then took the eighty dollars he passed over without looking at him. Behind her was a board with a long row of keys, there were thirty-two rooms and twenty-eight keys, so business was slow.

  She passed him the key for number sixteen, and then told him there was no parking directly outside his room, which was upstairs. He shrugged and picked up the key and his bag, then left the office.

  He worked out his room was on the end of the L upstairs, so he turned right and began walking. He didn’t get far. A Sheriff Chevrolet Impala came fast into the parking lot and stopped in the centre with its roof lights flashing. The driver’s door opened and a short, fat sheriff climbed out with difficulty, then stood at the side leaning on the open door, breathing hard and staring at John, who looked deliberately at his watch and then continued the route around the motel.

  ‘Now you stop right there boy. Stand still,’ the sheriff barked.

  John stopped and turned to look at the man properly. He was very overweight and his uniform was extremely tight around his belly. He had a big round head with a mop of greasy grey hair which was stuck to his forehead with sweat. As John watched, his dropped his hand and rested it on the butt of the Colt revolver he had on his right side.

  He looked ridiculous.

  ‘What can I do for you officer?’ John asked politely.

  ‘You can just step your skinny ass this way, is what you can do,’ was the reply.

  ‘I thought you wanted me to stand still?’

  ‘Don’t get smart with me, y’hear? I ain’t got the time for any bullshit. Now get over here.’

  John walked across to the car. He wasn’t too surprised the sheriff hadn’t wanted to make the short journey himself, he looked as if he ever took any exercise it would be the last thing he did. Up close he was even less impressive. He had on a grubby undershirt which was damp all around the neck and his gut was hanging down over his belt buckle. There was a dirty metal badge with the name ‘Carter’ on his left breast pocket.

  John stopped and dropped his bag, waiting patiently. A Harley came down the road, grumbling and farting as it passed. There was a big man in a beaten up old brown leather jacket riding, he slowed and stared hard at the sheriff who conscientiously avoided looking at the man. He smiled, revved the bike and rode away.

  The sheriff opened the rear door of the car.

  ‘Right, get in. We need to have a talk.’

  ‘Really? I just got here. Where are we headed?’

  ‘Sheriff’s office, I got some questions for you.’

  ‘Sheriff’s office? Isn’t it quicker to walk?’

  John looked pointedly down at the town hall. The sheriff’s office was the next building, maybe a five minute walk at the very outside.

  ‘Just get the hell in the car smart ass, I am done with this shit. Just get in.’

  So John got in. Why not? It would be interesting to find out what this was all about. Carter threw John’s bag onto the passenger seat and then walked back around. As he went to close the door John looked up at him.

  ‘I think I’ll make my phone call when we get there.’

  Carter grunted and climbed back in the car, which sagged badly when he did so. John looked around, the Impala was way past it’s best. Probably a brand new car in a smart precinct maybe twelve years ago, probably more. Maybe downtown in Chicago, or out in the bay in San Francisco. Then it had done its time there and been moved on to a more laidback police department, gratefully received, still working but with some miles on the clock. Then a few more years, and it had been moved on again, somewhere slower, more rural and then probably on again, to end up here. Inside it was very second hand. Tired and beaten up, there were screw holes all over the dashboard where various items of equipment had been fixed in place over the years. The rear seat was worn and filthy with a torn cover. The front seats were even worse, with a shotgun fixed between them in the centre just in front of the privacy screen, that was marked and scratched. The sheriff started the car and reversed back through a thick cloud of blue smoke, and then drove out. He followed the road past the diner, crossed over the east–west road and then turned in immediately after the town hall into the car park in front of the sheriff’s office. Total driving time less than thirty seconds. There was one other cruiser parked there, equally ancient. Carter huffed and puffed getting out of the car, and finally opened the rear door which squeaked loudly. John swung his legs around and got out, then stood up. John wasn’t a particularly tall man, a fraction over six feet but he towered over the sheriff.

  He stood and looked around.

  The sheriff grunted again.

  ‘Let’s go.’

  They made their way over to the building, which was single-storey red brick construction and didn’t look like much, more like a small office. They entered through a pair of glass doors on the right side. Inside was a basic reception area which led directly onto an open plan area behind, with a couple of open cells like tall cages in the back corner. The place was empty apart from an old man in a deputy uniform seated on a stool behind the counter. He looked at John curiously as they walked in. Carter gestured toward a short row of empty seats.

  ‘Sit your ass down there while I get things sorted out. I got a lot of questions to ask you.’

  John didn’t move.

  ‘I said, sit your ass down in there!’ Carter barked.

  John continued standing where he was.

  ‘Thing is sheriff; I would like to make my phone call,’ he said very politely, and dug his mobile out his front pocket.

  ‘You do that when I say so, y’hear?’

  Carter laid a hand face up on the counter.

  ‘Gimme the cell keys will you Frank,’ he asked.

  The old man stooped down and came up with a heavy bunch of keys, which he laid in front of Carter, who swept them up and turned to face John.

  But John had seen enough and looked at him levelly.

  ‘I think you need to listen sheriff. Closely. Before you think about locking me in one of your cells. Firstly, I haven’t been arrested. I haven’t been told why I am being detained. Secondly, you put me in your car and you didn’t cuff me, you didn’t even search me. You didn’t even look twice when I took my phone out my pocket. Thing is, I could have a gun on me right? But you know I don’t, so I am getting interested now. How did you know I don’t have a gun, and also to look out for me, and why was the woman in the motel told to call you? Why were you waiting for me?’
/>   Carter stood looking up at him, mouth wide open.

  ‘So, I’ll just make my call,’ John sat down without waiting for a reply and called Patrick.

  Loudly he told him about Carter and all that had happened. Patrick reacted exactly as John had expected, and once the expletives had stopped told John to give him five minutes and then hung up. John relaxed, sat back and watched, waiting for the show to begin. The deputy was busy doing nothing at the counter and Carter had slumped uselessly in a chair in the main office. Both men had heard every word that John had said.

  The office phone rang.

  The deputy jumped and answered it, and then a stricken look crossed his face. He held the receiver away and looked behind.

  ‘Ah … Joe. I got a call on one for you. It’s the … Feds.’

  Carter sat upright and stared out at John, then reached over to the phone on the desk in front of him and picked up the receiver. He pushed a button, and wasn’t able to complete saying hello before the barrage hit him. Then, the office phone rang again, and once more the deputy answered it, looking nervously over at Carter who was still being grilled.

  This time, the deputy rapidly became even more desperate, and then asked the caller to hold.

  ‘Ah … Joe, I got another call!’ he tried to interrupt. Carter looked at him, and was trying to speak at the same time. Eventually he nodded and spoke quietly and hung up. He looked at the deputy who indicated the phone so he picked it up again, and received exactly the same treatment but louder this time, whoever it was on the other end of the line was not holding back. John could pick up the odd word here and there, it wasn’t Patrick. The sheriff was getting another bollocking from someone else altogether. Eventually the call ended and Carter sat back in the chair and rubbed his face.