Today he had been in very early, before six, just so that he could sit in silence and compose himself. Because today was the crucial one, as he had said to Stilson earlier. And now he must wait for the information that could set in motion plans to kill again. He was at one of those crossroads when the wrong decision could ruin his network. Which was why he had Tullman in the room with him now. The Council demanded that all decisions required a minimum of two senior members, and Amiss would not act against the Council. That was as unthinkable as selling state secrets to a foreign enemy.
The phone’s light flashed to show he had a call and he had it to his ear before it had finished its first ring.
‘Amiss.’
‘Sir, it’s Stilson. There’s no sign of the target, sir. Frank Rand and the others are looking for him, but it’s like he’s just disappeared since he landed.’
Amiss turned his swivel seat around and he nodded.
‘Thanks for the heads-up, Mr Stilson.’
‘What do you want me to do?’
‘Hold on a moment.’
He set the phone down on the desk, and then leaned forward, his head bowed, as he faced the crucifix on its little shelf, and clasped his hands before his nose as he prayed and asked for direction.
It was the same whenever he asked the Good Lord to aid him. A wave of conviction seemed to rise about him and buoy him up, bringing him that confidence that could otherwise be so lacking. His string bracelet slipped along his wrist, and he smiled, his eyes still closed, as he felt that reminder. It was almost as though God was placing His hand on his, in gentle reminder.
Enough. He knew what he must do.
‘Mr Tullman, he has disappeared. Somehow he managed to give the waiting agents the slip.’
Tullman turned his pale eyes on to Amiss. He spoke in a soft, Boston accent, ‘It is the trouble with these, ah, Feds. They don’t know how to, ah, keep their eyes on their targets. Had it before.’
‘Are we agreed?’
‘We have no choice,’ Tullman said, nodding his head with that quick, jerky manner of his.
Amiss picked up the handset.
‘We must find him, Mr Stilson, and kill him. And then, to be safe, I think you should take a flight to Nevada. The desert can be lovely at this time of year.’
*
18.58 Seattle; 02.58 London
The walk back to the hotel took Jack a circuitous hour. There was no hurry. The resident spook at the Consulate had sent him a text message in a series of three coded number sequences. Not as secure as some systems, this was adequate for an agent in a hurry: the page was today’s date multiplied by nine; the next two numbers gave the line; the last three the position of the letter. Jack looked at his copy of the agreed book: A Rush Of Blood. It was a new book by the best-seller Quintin Jardine, not one that could raise eyebrows. Besides, Jardine was one of Jack’s favourite writers, which was why he had chosen it.
The numbers were stored on his phone. He needed somewhere to sit quietly and transcribe the message. Not here in the open, but back in the privacy of his hotel room.
He felt the urgency of the situation, but while he felt sure that he was not being followed, he took no risks. Even when he reached Pioneer Square, he didn’t go inside at first. There was a wariness about him – almost a superstitious sense that he was in danger here, although he had no idea why. There was a large Victorian cast-iron covering, which was a Victorian covered market of some sort, apparently, and he stood in the shade of a tree behind it, his eyes on the hotel half a block away. Beyond it he could see a freeway on tall legs, the cars racing past metres over the roadway, and behind that there was the occasional glint of the sea. Gulls wheeled overhead, their cries piercing in the clear air. Their calls were clear even over the rumble of the traffic.
Their calls took him back to Exeter and a day, years ago, when he had been at the cathedral, lying on his back, his head in Claire’s lap. He had been so full of love for her then. Their early married life had been one long joyous adventure, and even when he was sent away on his occasional rounds of meetings with his Joes, he had always felt that warmth at knowing he would be going back to Claire.
The sourness had only set in after she had realised about his job.
Others he knew had experienced the slow, debilitating destruction that was so common among his peers. Men who were incapable of forming close relationships with their wives because of the cynical conviction that no matter who the woman might be, she must in the end betray him. Doubt and deceit came so easily to those in the Service. And for many of the wives, the sudden discovery of an affair was enough after years of isolation. It was the natural way for an agent to treat his wife, as though she was not to be trusted, and must instead be kept secluded, like a victim of interrogation – like those whom Danny Lewin interrogated. But the women resented it when they realised that their husbands were off with other women. For the first time Jack wondered how the husbands of the female agents felt. Even the Ice Maiden had been married once, he knew, but now she was single, and all the more determined in her job. Only her religious faith kept her sane, Starck had said once, and Jack could easily imagine that religion would become a prop to a lonely woman.
Not all marriages broke up because of infidelity. There were many which broke apart because of the cops’ curse: the fear that lurked in the breasts of so many of the wives of police officers – that one day they would wave off their man and never see him alive again. There were all too many women who found that dread to be more than they could cope with. For a year, for ten, perhaps, they could cope. But as the children grew older and the number of colleagues who were themselves victims of violence began to increase, the women started to withdraw into themselves, until something snapped and inevitably there was the ultimatum: you can have me or the job, not both. And with only a few exceptions the women found that their blackmail rebounded.
At first, he had thought Claire had fallen out of love with him when she had discovered he had lied. It was almost eight years after they had married, and Jack had thought nothing could spoil their self-contained contentment. God, was he wrong. She had learned who his employer really was, and there was one thought uppermost in her mind: that for all those years, her life with him had been a lie. Still, she got over it. She was content to know he was involved in research and analysis. For a time, she even seemed proud of him. And then it all went sour.
He didn’t understand. She hadn’t known exactly what he did, but that was irrelevant – they’d been happy, for Christ’s sake. Not many women could say that. He had done all he could to keep her happy.
He had thought she had been happy – until she left him in 2011 and shacked up with Jimmy McNeill.
There was a movement farther along the street, and he peered around the tree-trunk towards it, but it was only a workman at the back of some truck. They were digging up a section of road.
He should have returned to his room, but he had an overwhelming reluctance to go back and sit there alone. Reflections of his life with Claire had brought on an emptiness in his chest. He could see her again on the day they had separated, the shrieked hatred she had flung at him, the accusations, and the horror in her eyes.
Turning, he headed back towards downtown along 1st Avenue, and started to look for a bar. He could transcribe the message there.
*
19.03 Seattle; 03.03 London
When the call came through, Frank Rand winced at the number on his screen.
‘Rand.’
‘Good. Can you come and see me, Frank?’
His operational chief here was Bill Houlican, a short, heavy-set man in his late forties. His grey hair was trimmed neatly, his blue eyes were steady, and in Frank’s opinion he was the epitome of the old-fashioned, lantern-jawed agent. Back from the good old days when there was a strict colour bar. There was never anything said, but Frank always felt that there was a noticeable frost when he was around, and it wasn’t the same when others were with Houlican.
‘Sit down.’
Houlican was in his shirt-sleeves, the cuffs rolled to the elbow. It was said that he liked to have his arms on display because they were so intimidating. He believed in intimidation. Once, it was said, a trainee agent had been called to his office for a bawling out, and Houlican had gone with the anxious recruit to the window, and gazed out with him at the people in the street seven stories below and said ‘D’you believe in reincarnation?’ to which the boy replied
‘I… I don’t know, Sir. Why?’
‘Because maybe, if I threw you out of the window, perhaps you could come back as a fuckin’ agent!’ Houlican bellowed suddenly, shoving the hapless man towards the window. His scream, apparently, could be heard half a block away.
Another time, when his temper got the better of him, Houlican responded to the release of a known felon by a clever attorney by hurling his desk’s chair across his room and through the plate glass window overlooking the agents’ room.
Those days were past, luckily. Management by physical aggression was frowned upon, as was promotion because of skin colour and nepotism, but old habits died hard. Houlican just now appeared to be unsure how to continue. He had a sheaf of papers on his desk, and he tapped them square against his Steelcase desk before eyeing Rand.
‘We’ve lost him, I hear.’
‘Yeah. He gave us the slip in the taxi, and so far we’ve had no luck tracking him down.’
‘Not good.’ Houlican murmured the words softly, and Frank ignored them.
‘We’re monitoring the British Consulate in the hope he’ll turn up there, and as hotel registrations come through, we keep tracking them, but apart from that, it could be a long, hard job.’
‘Then we need a little luck to bring him back,’ Houlican said. He stood, and stared through the window behind his desk. For a moment Frank wondered whether he would get a repeat of the reincarnation speech, but then Houlican turned back to him, shaking his head. ‘What do you think he was doing here, if he was a spy?’
‘I guess it’s what we thought: he was checking out the death of an intelligence officer, making sure the guy Lewin did kill himself, and wasn’t murdered. There could have been evidence on him.’
‘You seen the report from the police chief in Whittier?’
‘Yes.’
‘He mentioned that this Hansen, whoever he is, was off up to some place Lewin used to visit to draw and paint.’
‘Yeah.’
‘Strikes me as curious.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Do you think Lewin was a suicide?’
‘No. If it was, why would Hansen be in the firing line? I think he knows something about the whole thing, and the fact he’s gone to ground just reinforces that view.’
‘If Hansen is his real name.’
‘Yes, sir.’
Houlican nodded to himself. Then the phone rang; he picked up the receiver and barked his name, but then listened, his face becoming strangely blank, and then he looked at Frank as he nodded, said, ‘Got that. Yeah,’ and began to scribble in a notepad. He thanked the caller and set the handset down again. ‘Looks like we have more to worry about. There’s news from England, according to the CIA. Our liaison guy in London has brought us some data on your friend. Apparently he’s wanted for murder. That’s nice, eh?’
Frank Rand felt that like a punch in the stomach.
‘Anything else?’
‘We have his name and we have his English telephone number. Go get the asshole, Rand.’
*
19.23 Seattle; 03.23 London
The bar had been quiet enough when he walked in, a pleasant, long, narrow room with dark wood. Tables were set out on one side of the room, with tall bench seats covered in soft leather, and Jack walked to the middle of the room, taking his place at a two-seat table. He had a good look through the windows, satisfied that a surveillance team would not be able to peer in through the darkened windows while the street was in daylight. There were too many reflections.
A young waitress appeared, chewing gum, and he suddenly felt ravenous. He ordered a sandwich with fries, washed down with an ale. The beer arrived first, and he sank half the glass in the first gulp. It was a long time since he’d felt so thirsty. It was a long time since he’d felt so alone.
He had his book opened already, and since this was the 12th, he multiplied it by nine and went to page 108. Eight lines down, twelfth letter was “m”. First line, third letter “e”, and so on. Soon he had the message: “Meet Buenos Aires grill 220 Virginia Street tomorrow 1300”.
Jack memorised the location and time, and set his book to one side as his food arrived.
‘Thanks.’
*
19.26 Seattle; 03.26 London
Frank Rand sat back at his desk with a feeling of sick tension in his belly as he threw the papers back onto his desk.
So ‘Hansen’ was actually Jack Case, a British spy for many years. How Houlican had got the information, he didn’t know, and didn’t need to know, but it was clear enough that someone in Britain had spilled it. Just as it was plain that Jack Case had not been honest with Frank.
Rand had been fairly certain that he had been a spy, but it was a shock to have it confirmed so baldly. And that he was a rogue was very worrying. Why, if he was suspected of murder, had they allowed him to fly to the US? Because they wanted him off their own territory, so he could come here and commit death by cop in a shootout? From the time Frank Rand had spent with Hansen, or Case, he hadn’t got the impression he was unstable. Merely very self-contained. And that went for plenty of special ops guys he had known in his own time. Even his friends in HRT, the Hostage Rescue Teams within the FBI, men who were trained to kill in a moment in their anti-terrorism roles, were not madmen. They were like Case: cautious, thoughtful, considered men. It was just that when they pursed their lips to peer at a bar, you knew they weren’t thinking of the effort of pushing through the line to reach the drinks, but were wondering how much plastic explosive it would take to bring the place down.
But Case was a killer, and his own had called to warn Frank and his team. The ultimate betrayal. Whatever he was guilty of back home in England, it must have been bad for them to tell the Americans. And the Brits would know that this would hurt them. To send a spy undercover to a friendly country was bad. Not unforgivable, since they’d lost a guy, but bad. But for him to turn out to be a killer, that was much worse.
Frank picked up his phone and called through to Roy Sandford. ‘I have something for you to send out to all the operatives on this case. Ready?’
*
19.41 Seattle; 03.41 London
There was little else to do, but Roy believed in keeping busy. He was already monitoring all the cells he could, trying to find any sign of the man he knew as Hansen, but the systems were eluding him. They had the Brit’s UK phone number for a Blackberry. If his phone was turned on, Roy would easily be able to track it down with a fair degree of precision, but while it was turned off, there was no chance. And Rand and others thought he had bought a throw-away phone, too – a pay-as-you-go that would be untraceable. Still, there was a chance he would be using his Blackberry occasionally. If only he could learn when it was going to be turned on...
He brought up a list of phone numbers that had called the various Consulate lines, hoping that Case had called one, and began to check them off. None was the same as the listed phone owned by Hansen, but that was no surprise. If the guy was intending to fall off the radar, he would just leave his phone turned off. Easy.
Roy shook his head. He was an Echelon analyst. He ought to be back in his computer suite with Very Nice, not cooling his butt here in Seattle. He glanced at his phone, thinking he ought to call her, but he didn’t dare. She could be in a meeting, or with friends, and he daren’t phone in case he was overheard here.
Overheard. There was something he vaguely remembered: a case from a couple years ago. It was there, in the back of his mind, but
he couldn’t quite remember… something about cell phones… He chewed at his lips. Jeez, this was maddening! Must be something…
He rose, walked to the coffee machine, took a Styrofoam cup and held it ready, grabbing the jug, but didn’t pour. The memory was so close. Something to do with cell phones, and – it was a mobster, he remembered: the Ardito/Peluso case. The FBI officers involved in bringing the mobsters to book had bugged their properties, the restaurants where they did business, everything, but the Mafiosi had routinely swept for bugs. They found two, so the FBI had to go in and quietly remove all the others in case they were found too. But they’d thought up a new scam. Instead of fixed, detectable bugs, they checked on the cell phones the two used. A hacker managed to design a programme that turned on the mics in the phones, and the FBI had the software sent to the phones by the cell network. Bingo! All discussions held by the mobsters were recorded and sent in real time back to the FBI.
There was a guy involved in that. Roy picked up his phone and called Amiss. He’d be able to get the software patch if anyone could. And perhaps with that set up, they’d be able to turn on the microphone in Hansen’s phone.
And then he paused, thinking. If they could turn on the microphone, why not turn on the phone itself, and when they had, they could triangulate to get a fix on the guy’s location.
‘I’m going to get me a pay rise for this,’ he murmured to himself as the phone speed-dialled Amiss.
*
15.14 London
Claire had already walked the spaniels, and when she was back she was tempted to pretend she’d forgotten Starck was coming. She could go to work, behave like normal, like an ordinary woman. But if she did, he would likely turn up and question her there. And it was likely he’d make trouble for her. She knew he could. He was a complete bastard when he wanted to be. So, instead, she had called in and said that she was feeling sick and couldn’t work. The kennel owner was solicitous and concerned, and that itself made her want to burst into tears.
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