That thought brought on another. Was it right that Roy had managed to track him down? After all, with all the technology at his disposal, it had been the error made by the Brits that had led them to him. And it was unlike the Brits to make such an elementary error as calling on open lines. Especially since they knew all about Echelon from their own involvement. And someone had passed information to Houlican about the man, too.
It was enough to set him thinking about the whole course of the hunt for Jack Case, and the conclusions did not strike him as satisfying. He was still sitting there on the bench when his phone trilled.
‘Rand.’
‘Frank, we have multiple shootings at the old gas works up at the park, you know the place?’
‘Yeah – why, what’s been… you think it’s him? Have they found him?’
‘No, but sounds like he found some people.’
Frank ran to his car. He didn’t see the black vehicle half a block away that pulled out behind him.
*
18.31 Seattle; 02.31 England
Jack didn’t have any blood on him, which was a relief. He needed to escape this place, and that meant getting away without people staring.
The gun was empty, and he hadn’t time to search the bodies for more ammo. He walked away from the place, pulling out a fold of his shirt and wiping the pistol as he went until he was sure it was clean, and then he dropped it into a bin at the edge of the car park, walking quickly but without urgency. He was a man on the way to a meeting, not a felon leaving the scene of a crime. He took out his map of the city and held it in his hand like a tourist. Sirens were approaching, but he kept on going. Hopefully there would be no one with a description of him yet. Chances were, no one would be able to. Witnesses of shootings tended to notice the gun, not the gunman. Their eyes were drawn to the muzzle, and their testimony was at best doubtful.
Crossing a road, he found himself in a residential neighbourhood, and he kept his eyes on the cars parked at either side. It was some while before he found an old and battered vehicle that suited him. It was a VW Rabbit, and with the windows wide, he could see the tatty interior. It was parked along a narrow alley, and he slipped inside it, pulling at the wires while his other hand moved the steering wheel to make sure that there was no lock. There wasn’t. It took a couple of attempts to start, but then he was away, driving north, and checking his route on the map. He found his way to North Pacific Street, then to the Eastlake Avenue, heading back down to the apartment where Stephen had lived.
He parked the car four blocks away in a dark little alley, and left it, striding purposefully to Stephen’s place, approaching from the lakeside.
It was a pleasant flat: neat and tidy, with prints of the sea on the walls. Jack moved through it in a hurry, his eyes searching for the safe that he was sure must be here. He went into the bedroom and looked at the door. It was immensely heavy, and had solid hinges and a Banham lock. This was the secure room for Stephen. The houses of spies and other diplomatic staff would usually have safe areas in their homes so that if they were endangered for any reason, there was always a place to which they could run and lock themselves inside. And inside there would be the safe, too.
Jack had not been on the more recent safe-breaking courses, but he didn’t think that a safe here in Seattle would have been changed recently for a newer, high-tech model. The city was not high on the list of dangerous locations, unlike those in Arab countries and European capitals. There the lack of trust from the Foreign Office tended to ensure that diplomatic staff had the most up-to-date safes and security.
He was right. The safe was partly concealed in the floor of the bedroom under a rug, and when he looked at it, he was relieved to see that it had a simple key, which was on the key ring he had taken from Stephen. He opened it and reached inside.
There were no codes. Only an ancient Browning Hi Power, two magazines of 9mm ammunition, and five thousand dollars in cash. Jack took out the money and riffled through it. Luckily it was all in different denominations. He put two hundred dollars in his wallet and stuffed the rest into his rucksack along with the magazines, but he hesitated over the Browning before putting that in there as well. Brownings were invented before the Second World War, and this one had the look of a collector’s piece. The slide was browned, the original steel blueing worn away. Jack pulled the slide open, and peered in. It was clear, but the slide rattled slightly – very old, very worn. He sniffed at it, and could detect the chemical odour of gun oil, but there was not much. Still, it was better than no gun at all. Men who were determined to kill him had chased him halfway around America, and he had no idea why, except for Lewin’s story and the ledger. It had to be something about that. And all he could do was try to return to Alaska to find out what they wanted with him.
No – there had to be another way to learn what he wanted. But first he had to leave this place. The cops would soon be here.
He shut the safe, locked it, and walked to the back, locking the door as he went. Then, crossing the road, he shouldered his rucksack and marched back towards the town. And as he walked, he threw the Orme’s keys into the water.
*
18.46 Seattle; 02.46 England
Debbie watched as Frank jumped from his car and joined her.
‘Well, Debbie?’
‘A man was on a small boat, rammed it into the beach, jumped and ran up here. All the way, two guys in another boat were shooting at him, and they chased him up to here. He slugged one over there, beside the truck, and then came up and shot this one.’
‘Slugged him?’
‘He may come round, but if he does, he’ll have a headache for a year. Whole of the top of his skull is cracked, according to the medics, and he’s some trauma to the temple. They didn’t hold much hope he’d live. Took him to the Harborview Medical Centre.’
‘Make sure there’s a guard on him there,’ Frank said, and shook his head in disbelief as he gazed about him. ‘How’d he do all this?’
‘He appears to have been unarmed. Witnesses say these two were packing and shot at him, but he didn’t return. Not until he’d got one down. That one had a Glock 23.’
‘Right.’
The Glock model 23 was the big brother to the 27. Both the 27 and the 23 fired .40 calibre bullets, larger and more deadly than 9mm, which was why the FBI itself issued them. The smaller, lighter 27 had a shorter barrel and cut-back grip to make it more easily concealable, but in every other way it was the same gun. The FBI allowed its agents to take that instead of the 23 for concealed carry, if the agents preferred.
‘So, if that one had a Glock, what’d the other one carry?’
‘I’m assuming Case took his gun. No sign of it around here.’
‘Shit. Any idea who these two are?’
‘They’re not known.’
‘ID?’
‘Nothing. Not even credit cards.’
‘They must have something on them. Driving licences?’
‘Nope. Nothing.’
That made Frank frown.
‘Anything on their boat?’
‘No. Not on theirs.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘There was another body in the little boat. Before you ask, no, there’s no ID on him either. But I checked with the Department for Licensing, and they reckon this was owned by a Brit called Stephen Orme.’
‘Who’s he?’
‘Don’t know. But on a hunch I called the number Roy Sandford found. You know, the one talking to the Brits about your friend Jack Case? Made a phone ring in the boat, and when I checked in his call logs, one number was the one from the cab.’
‘Show me the body.’
‘Over here, boss.’ She led him across the grass to the beach where the two boats lay beached. ‘You think Case could’a killed him?’
‘Could have, I guess,’ Frank said. ‘I just didn’t have him down as a killer. Anyway, he didn’t have a gun until he took the guy’s Glock in the car park, did he?’
&n
bsp; ‘Christ,’ she said, and winced as he set his lips. She knew he was deeply religious and could be offended by blasphemy. She must remember to moderate her language in front of him. ‘Sorry.’
‘No problem.’
There was a ladder beside the craft already, and Frank ascended, peering down into the craft at the wide-eyed blond man. ‘When he was shot, they did it well.’
‘He’d have died quick,’ she commented.
‘In answer, no.’
‘Eh?’
‘I don’t know, but why’d Case shoot this one guy, then get chased by two others? Makes no sense.’
‘That’s what I reckoned. Case had no gun on him, or didn’t return fire anyhow, according to the folks all about here.’
‘Anyone actually confirm it was him?’
She nodded.
‘Three women pretty certain it was him soon as I showed them his mugshot. You can’t be certain of ID in a moment of stress, but two of ’em looked pretty convincing. Reckon it was him in the boat, and the two gunmen took some potshots at him. Sort of looked like one bullet killed this guy, and Case managed to get away.’
‘Poor bastard. He’ll be running now.’
‘If he has a brain, he’ll be hiding really carefully. They’ve been chasing him all the way from Alaska.’
*
18.53 Seattle; 02.53 England
He had no plan. Jack walked as though walking was the sole reason for his existence, his entire body was devoted to it. At first he headed east, and found himself in a quiet suburban area with large houses, grey or brown, with pleasant shaded roads from the tall trees. Then he turned southwards towards the downtown area. He saw a street sign and read 14th Avenue East, and nodded, checking that against the map he had memorised. The attraction of the American cities was this grid pattern. It made navigation much easier, but without a firm destination, he was no better off than in a British city.
Who were those guys? He had to figure out who was trying to kill him. They looked like agents from the FBI or CIA, but that made no sense. Why would they want to kill him? If it was somehow because of the journal and Lewin’s death, there was no justification for members of the US counter espionage teams to want to hurt him.
Or was there?
He would find out. He had created the Scavengers to do this. The Scavengers existed to clear up mess and this was worse than any other operation he had known. In the past Jack had worked deep undercover, especially in Russia. There he had sometimes been a rogue agent seeking other rogues, but no matter where he had served, he had been aware of the rules. British agents were not supposed to carry weapons, they were not supposed to kill or maim the citizens of other nations. When he was running his men and women in Russia and East Germany, he was not permitted to take too many risks, to participate in black ops: he was not allowed to move without approval being given first. And when the decision was taken to disband his Joes, he had no say in the matter. He was just told to go and pay them off. And many had died. Well, fuck that! He wasn’t going to die here.
Filled with a new resolve, Jack stopped and took stock. Looking about him, he took careful note of the area. This street was pleasant, with its shading trees and comfortable houses, but there ahead of him he could see the first tall towers of downtown Seattle. Right, that gave him an objective: suddenly his mind was operating on a different level.
He had been betrayed by someone – the calls on unsecured lines to Orme proved that. Those guys in Whittier could have been from anywhere, but for others to reach him here in Seattle, for him to be chased and for Orme to have been followed, leading them to Jack, that meant an intelligence organisation. It meant someone was deliberately searching for him, and was getting help, either from the US agencies, or from the UK. He didn’t know which, but whichever it was, he was screwed unless he could take the initiative.
The rules had been the rock on which his life had always been fixed. Once, just once, he had stepped outside the rules. Well, now someone else had taken the rule book and tossed it through the window.
Fuck them. He was going to find out who was responsible. Somebody had set him up, and he was going to make them pay.
*
05.12 England
Paul Starck had still been thinking things through as he drove home. All the way since leaving Claire at her house, he had been replaying their conversation in his mind. It had seemed clear to him that Claire had not thought Jack could have been responsible for Jimmy’s death, and Paul’s words had hit her hard. Too hard, perhaps. It was that which grabbed his attention as he drew up last night.
He had been told to contact the Ice Maiden as soon as he got back, but screw her. She could wait. He lit a cigarette and peered through his windscreen while he smoked, the window down to let the smoke gust out of the car.
The fucking fags would kill him off. There was no doubt in his mind. The medical officer at Vauxhall kept on telling him that at the rate he was smoking, he’d not last another ten years, and even if he did, he’d soon start to suffer from failing circulation, and have one leg or both amputated. Well, that was fine. He didn’t particularly mind the idea of death. He had no family, he had no dependents, but he did enjoy the weed, and he’d be fucked if he’d allow some quack from HR to dictate his pleasures. It was bad enough that the do-gooders had managed to prevent all smoking in the offices, so that now he was forced to sit outside on a terrace to get his regular fixes. That would be how Karen would fire him in the end: the amount of time he spent outside. Bitch.
He wound up the window, left the car and slammed the door. Jangling his keys, he climbed the steps to his house.
When he bought this place, Notting Hill Gate wasn’t too expensive. It was only in recent years that the prices had rocketed, especially after the film had been made here. Very satisfactory.
It was a Regency house built on four floors, with a basement beneath. He had been advised to acquire this house because the cellar had a reinforced concrete ceiling, installed at some time during the Second World War, and when a fresh, young agent, he had been advised that this could help him. Perhaps after the nuclear holocaust it was felt that there would be a need for spies to ensure the continuation of government. He didn’t care what the reason was; it made an excellent storage area.
He walked to the first floor, where he had a large kitchen and dining room, and there he grabbed a large cut-glass tumbler and decanter of brandy, taking them downstairs with him. The door to the basement was under his staircase, and he unlocked the two Banham locks and entered, turning on the light. Pulling the door closed behind him, he walked cautiously down the steps.
It was uncarpeted here, and he walked to the little metal desk which he had liberated from the Ministry of Defence, and sat on the old office chair leaking ancient foam rubber, setting the glass before him and half-filling it. There was a carton of two hundred cigarettes on a low shelf, courtesy of the resident spook in Paris. Beside it was a hollowed out piston from a Spitfire engine, which he used as an ashtray. He took a pack, lighting a cigarette from an ancient Ronson desk lighter and reached down to the safe bolted to the floor and two walls. It took a while to work the fiddly dial and pull out the files.
One was a copy of Jack Case’s personnel file, and he read it again. The days in Moscow, in Berlin, and the brief stint in Prague were all well documented, with few obvious holes. That there were holes, Starck did not doubt. Every good officer would keep something back, but Jack’s secrets were well concealed.
Starck took a long pull at his brandy. He was tired of all this – the subterfuge, the deceits. He had given up his life for the Service, and had precious little to show for it. With the latest penchant for saving money, he knew full well that his own position was precarious. He was one of the old lags, the kind who was less and less necessary now. Politicians only saw the need for young computer whizz-kids, and there was a positive lusting for some semi-psychopathic bullies to join in with Broughton’s lads, to maintain the fiction that the British
Secret Service had a purpose and mission in life, but the actual intelligence analysts, like Starck, were not valued at all. Not any more.
Which was why he had become so disgusted with the Service.
There were some who, at his time of life, would have said that they had wasted their whole lives. That was not the sort of whining complaint he would tolerate. Better to try to always keep on going. He had once heard a man say that the most important fights an agent would participate in were not outside the Service with enemies; they were all internal – within. And it was true. An agent could be damned good out there in the field, but if he didn’t have cheerleaders back at Vauxhall Cross, all his efforts would be in vain. A man had to have supporters or all his work would be forgotten, or, worse, passed off as another’s.
Starck lit another Rothman’s from the stub of the last, and inhaled deeply. It may well be toxic, but what a glorious poison it was! He opened the second file and looked through it.
He was irked by the way that good agents were destroyed for no reason. Jack Case was one such. In the past Starck would have moved heaven and earth to protect his Joes, but Karen had forced him to betray Jack. There was a crawling worm of guilt in his belly at the thought of what he had done.
The Ice Maiden was too quick to see her own opportunities. She had shafted Jack as keenly as she was shafting Starck himself now. She was a spider, trapping all power and position in her webs. She didn’t even give the poor bastards a shag first; there was no need for her to try to sleep her way to the top, not when so many poor saps were prepared to help her.
That was how she had risen to her own prominent position – reporting directly to the DDG, in charge of Starck and his Scavengers, in charge of Broughton’s Bullies, in charge of liaison with the Brothers in America. She had a grasp of all of the power and influence within the Service.
He hated the bitch.
Starck returned the files to the safe. And then he leaned back in his chair and gazed at the ceiling speculatively before draining his glass and refilling it. He lit another Rothman’s, and wiped his eyes. Then he picked up the telephone, dialling Karen’s home number.
Act of Vengeance Page 23