Act of Vengeance

by Michael Jecks

  ‘If ya want a coffee, I ain’t gettin’ it,’ she said succinctly.

  ‘Come in and sit down a while, Debbie.’

  ‘Yeah, what?’

  ‘Is there anything more on the two guys out at the old gas works yesterday?’

  ‘They had no ID and seem to have no records anywhere. I don’t get it. It’s like they had their whole life stories erased.’

  ‘If they were American, we’d have their details somewhere.’

  ‘If they weren’t American, we’d have fingerprints, iris scans, Christ knows what,’ Debbie said. ‘Unless they were illegals and came in over from Canada or Mexico. It’s possible, I guess.’

  ‘But?’

  ‘But this is too clean. It looks more like a wipe-job. Like all their data’s been erased.’

  ‘Could someone do that?’

  ‘If they had clearance, I guess. I heard once about a British operation in the Second World War. They wanted to make the Germans think there was an attack going to land somewhere, instead of where the invasion was going to happen, and they pretended a man had been killed in an accident, and on his hand was a case full of pretend plans. But thing was, they were pretending this officer was a real character in their planning team. So they had to go back and lose all the real guy’s records and invent new ones for the imaginary agent they were inventing.’

  ‘So you reckon…’

  ‘It could be done. Everything’s computerised now, so someone with the contacts could get records wiped. But that would mean these goons weren’t just hoods. They were agents like you and me.’

  ‘Not like you and me,’ Frank said. ‘We’re legal. If these guys have to have their records removed, even their fingerprints, that means they’re not like you or me at all.’

  ‘But they almost certainly were government agents,’ she said. ‘No one else would be able to get all their details rubbed out like they did.’

  ‘So these two were after this guy Jack Case, and he killed them both.’

  ‘Which is what scares me about him,’ she agreed.

  ‘And then he knocked over two cops at the bus station too,’ Frank said. ‘But he didn’t kill them. It was minimum force.’

  ‘They were no threat.’

  ‘No,’ Frank agreed. ‘He didn’t look the kind of guy who’d kill for no reason.’

  ‘But he killed those two guys.’

  ‘So?’ Frank said.

  ‘Shows he has skills. He’s good on his own, taking down two gunmen.’

  ‘Who’d also killed his companion on the boat,’ Frank reminded her.

  ‘That was self-defence, yeah,’ she said.

  ‘The cop with the bruised windpipe might have something to say about how much minimum force usually involves,’ Frank said caustically.

  Debbie nodded, but her mind was already moving on, ‘Why’d the Brits hand him to us? He’s obviously no threat. He doesn’t kill for no reason.’

  ‘You think so?’

  ‘So far, every case looks like self-defence to me. Maybe they think he’s gone wild. Think he’s a psycho, Frank?’

  ‘Thought you were supposed to be trained out of that kind of thinking at Behavioural.’

  ‘I have been. But I still believe in crazies.’

  *

  08.09 Seattle; 16.09 London

  Jack had definite plans, and he didn’t want to be held up with the police. He walked to the rail station and searched for a bank of telephones. With the receiver under his chin, he booked a ticket to Los Angeles from Seattle at three, and took out his credit card in the name of Hansen. It was $198.

  He hung up, and went to the next free telephone and booked a flight from Seattle to Vegas on a flight two hours earlier, using the name Rod Avon and with Avon’s cards. That was $276. He walked from the phones and into the toilets. There he pulled out the Browning and dropped it into the cistern. There were ways to take a gun onto an aircraft, but he didn’t have time to organise it. He flushed the toilet and walked out.

  A block or two from the station there was another little coffee bar. He wandered inside and sat at a stool by the window, watching the people passing in the street while he sipped a large Americano.

  His back still hurt. It was worse after his impromptu fight at the bus station, but at least he came out all right and his description would hopefully add to the confusion of the police. Now he had firm plans: he had to make it to Vegas to see Sumner, and learn what he could from the man. After that, he would have to see how he could best get back to the UK. That was his one aim now: to get something that would ease his return to Claire. He had to get back to her.

  His phone was in his bag, but the battery was still out so he couldn’t be traced. Now he looked at it with a sense of regret. He ought to call Claire, to make sure she was all right. She was eight hours ahead of Seattle. It’d be easy to call her. But if he did, he knew that there was too high a risk that Echelon or a similar system could pick up his call. The risk of being discovered by triangulation from cell transmitters was too high to risk. And even if he used his new throwaway phone, he was sure as hell that they’d monitor all calls in and out of Claire’s line. He daren’t.

  Instead, he finished his coffee, picked up his bag, stepped outside, and hailed a cab to take him to the airport.

  *

  08.32 Seattle; 16.32 London

  Frank Rand got the call almost as soon as the systems had validated the ticket booking, and shouted at Debbie to join him. The rest of the team was already en route when he reached his car and jumped in.

  ‘So, Frank, think this time he’s screwed himself?’

  Frank glanced at her as he pulled out of the car park.

  ‘He’s not so used to modern computers, is all.’

  ‘Oh.’

  He looked over at her. She remained steadfastly staring at the road as he powered down the hill.

  ‘And?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘That “nothing” of yours is deafening,’ he said. ‘What?’

  ‘Just that he’s done pretty well in Seattle for a guy who’s no idea about modern computers. I mean, he hasn’t shown up on ours, has he? And he managed to buy a ticket to LA without problem. Why LA?’

  ‘To catch a connection? He has an aunt lives down there? Shit, how’d I know?’

  ‘Yeah. Like you say. How’d we know,’ she agreed.

  He glanced at her again sure she was holding something back, ‘What?’ he demanded.

  ‘I don’t think we’ll find him there today.’

  ‘Where is he, then?’

  Debbie looked away, over the streets to her right and then said, ‘I think he’s setting us up so he can get out of here. I’d bet he’s got a flight after the one he’s mentioned. He’ll get us running ragged so he can watch us, and then he’ll be on the first fuckin’ plane out after we’ve killed ourselves chasing our tails.’

  ‘Or he is on a plane earlier. Or he’s back at the rail station since we’re here,’ Frank guessed. ‘Ah, shit! Nothing’s straightforward.’

  ‘Nope. But I don’t see how we can figure anything better.’

  Frank nodded, but he was thinking fast. He pulled up outside the airport and picked up his phone, dialling Sandford as he went.

  ‘Roy? I got a problem for you. I don’t have your replacement yet and I really need some help.’

  He outlined the information he had. ‘You think you can find out anything from that? Like, where’d he make the call from, or whether he’d made any other calls?’

  ‘What’s the timeframe? Do you have a good idea when the call was made to book his flight?’

  ‘Yeah, that’d be at the airport booking, I’d guess,’ Frank said.

  ‘You get me the time he called to book the flight, and I may be able to tell you where he called from, I guess, perhaps.’

  ‘Good,’ Frank said.

  He closed the call and within an hour he and Debbie were with a flustered administration clerk at the airline’s offices.

>   ‘This really has got to be important,’ the little man kept saying as though trying to convince himself as he looked up at the two FBI agents. ‘I’m not supposed to give away data like this without a warrant.’

  ‘You have the Homeland Security laws to thank for our authority,’ Frank said, deadpan.

  ‘Here it is, anyway,’ the man said, ripping off the printout.

  ‘Roy?’ Frank said, calling again. ‘I have the time of the call for you.’

  ‘Thanks,’ Roy said. ‘Be back to you.’

  Frank and Debbie thanked the clerk and were off, through the door into the airport’s main concourse, where they joined their companions at the departure area. They mingled with the crowds, Frank peering over the heads of the men and women in the halls, his hand itching to grab his gun, because the adrenaline rushing through his body was so electrifying. It was a rush stronger than the thrill he used to get from drugs, back in the bad old days before he kicked the habit. He daren’t move his hand towards his firearm because he knew that the urge to draw it would be too great. Instead he deliberately pulled his jacket round and buttoned it. He forced himself to walk more slowly and deliberately. He forced himself to push his hand into his pocket. And when the phone in his pocket trembled, the shock was so great that he almost shot through the ceiling

  ‘Rand.’

  ‘It’s Roy, Frank. I reckon I’ve got the guy for you. There was a call made from a payphone in the rail station at the right time. No recording, but the period was right.’

  ‘Did he make another call?’

  ‘Not from that phone. I’ll check the ones beside his. He may have moved and called separately.’

  ‘Call me when you know,’ Frank said.

  *

  12.04 Las Vegas; 20.04 London

  It was warm as he entered the long walkway to the arrivals hall, but Jack did not take off his light jacket. He felt the warmth as a pillow that cushioned him from the reality of the people about him. He passed the drinks machines, the one-arm bandits, the kiosks with coffee and doughnuts, the burgers. The scent of spicy noodles reached his nose, reminding him he was hungry, but he avoided all the food stalls. Walking purposefully, he smiled at the security guards, his bag rolling at his side, and outside he hailed a cab to take him downtown.

  He was relieved to be in the vehicle. It was a new cab, and the seats were still soft and unscuffed. The plastic partition between him and the driver was clear and unscratched, and the air conditioning worked fine. It was a relief to be able to sit back with the sense that so far all was well. But he could not relax. He had evaded the men who wanted to catch him at the airport in Seattle, but there were cops here in Vegas, and there were telephones to call through from Seattle.

  The driver dropped him at the entrance to the Bellagio. It was a sheltered entrance. As Jack climbed out and looked about him, he was reassured by the size of the place. This was an enormous, opulent hotel. And one used to protecting the anonymity of its guests, he hoped. Once before he had spoken with a friend who was a committed gambler, and he had always considered the Vegas casinos as being among the most determined to ensure that anyone, be he arms dealer, prince or garage mechanic, should have an equal right to lose money at the casino’s tables.

  It took little time to check in. He was offered, and refused, a view of the fountains for an additional fifty, and instead took a small room on the fourth floor at the rear. It was adequate. He was surprised to see that the room had no coffee machine or kettle, but a call to reception gave him directions to a series of coffee bars within the hotel complex. He threw his bag on the bed, and took his book with him to the lifts.

  The lifts deposited him in the main slot machine hall. He soon realised that the casino was designed deliberately to ensure that a guest must always pass by these machines, no matter what they wished. A coffee? They’d pass the machines. A newspaper? Yes. A meal? Yes again. There was nothing in the casino or hotel that could be reached without passing the militarily precise formations of slot machines.

  He ignored them, walking to the nearest coffee bar and buying a cup. It was not so strong, nor as good as his morning’s Americano in Seattle, and he pulled a face at his first sip, but it was safer than a stronger drink. Instead he took to watching the punters. Many had bought sprung plastic cords, in various colours, to which they had affixed their credit cards. With the other end clipped to a belt or buttonhole, the contented gamblers could sit at their stools, smoking, drinking complimentary drinks, while their cards gradually emptied their bank accounts. All they need do was press the button or pull the lever, to continue their onward march to bankruptcy, one coin at a time. It left him feeling empty to see so many men and women sitting at their stools, silent, drinking themselves to oblivion, and concentrating their entire beings on the machines before them.

  It was depressing.

  He had to find Sumner. Jack walked from the hotel and stood outside a moment feeling the sun on his face. It was strange to come here. From the balmy English weather, to the chilly climate of Anchorage, and now to the dry heat of Nevada, his body was finding the adjustment difficult.

  Crossing the road, past the glorious fountains that jetted skywards and danced in time to the music from massive loudspeakers, Jack walked along the sidewalk until he came to a store. It was the kind of stuff he would have derided as ‘Tourist Tat’ in England, but here he didn’t mind the clear plastic dice, the spring cords for credit cards, the playing cards in their cellophane wrappers, and all the paraphernalia of the gambling industry. He saw a street atlas, and bought it. At the back there was a listing of different services and stores in the neighbourhood, and he ran his finger down until he found an internet café on Spring Mountain Drive. It was only a short walk away.

  *

  12.17 Seattle; 20.17 London

  Frank’s phone rang again and he grabbed at it.

  ‘It’s Roy Sandford, Frank. I have it! I think he booked a flight from a second phone just along the way.’

  Frank shook his head, staring at two agents hurrying towards him and said, ‘He did. Yeah, he called from another phone,’

  ‘How do you know that?’

  Frank didn’t answer, but shut up the phone as his agents reached him.

  ‘Well?’

  ‘We showed the guy’s mugshot to some of the staff over at the other desks. The Virgin desk lady thought she recognised him. Said he caught a plane to Vegas.’

  ‘Vegas?’ Frank said. ‘What the fuck does he want in Vegas?’

  *

  15.23 Langley; 20.23 London

  Amiss looked up as he heard the knock on his door, and he surveyed Roy Sandford without blinking before pressing the button under his desk. The electronic log clicked and Roy walked in nervously.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Sir, the team has found the man called Case. He’s managed to escape them again and has made it to Vegas.’

  ‘Where in Vegas is he?’

  ‘I don’t know yet, but it won’t take long to find him,’ Roy said.

  ‘Good. What of the team in Seattle?’

  ‘Agent Rand has arranged for an FBI jet to fly him and some of the team out to Nevada, sir.’

  ‘Good. Keep me informed.’

  ‘Sir.’

  Roy withdrew and the door silently closed once more.

  Amiss leaned back in his chair and turned it round on its swivel until he was staring at the crucifix again. Then he clasped his hands once more as he prayed for help to overcome this latest problem.

  When he felt that he had calmed his spirit enough, he bowed his head to the little figure on the cross, and turned back to his table. He picked up his telephone receiver, glancing up at the windows as he did so. There was the usual click and then sequence of tunes, but then, when the call was answered, he said, ‘This is Peter. Could you go secure, please?’ and pressed the button for encryption. There was the fifteen second delay, and then he heard Stilson’s voice.

  ‘Yes?’

&nb
sp; ‘I have heard that our belief we could remove these problems yesterday was a little over-optimistic.’

  ‘He took out two of my guys.’

  ‘What are you doing to resolve the issue?’

  ‘I have two men on the team leader with the Feebies, but he doesn’t seem to have much idea where this man is.’

  ‘I can tell you that. He is in Vegas.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Do you have anyone on Sumner yet?’

  ‘There is one guy who was tracking him down, but had no luck so far. I was on my way there today to help find him.’

  ‘Where are you now?’

  ‘In Seattle.’

  ‘You must hurry. The FBI are on their way by private jet. I do not want them to question Sumner about his involvement. Nor Case. Understand?’

  *

  12.34 Las Vegas; 20.34 London

  The internet café was maybe a little over a mile from the Bellagio, and Jack walked with a firm determination. He had the impression that he was ahead of whoever it was who wanted to kill him, and that itself was reassuring, but he knew that they could still find him if he was careless. He could not afford that.

  He entered the café and was soon seated at a computer studying the White Pages. He tried the name Sumner, and there were several men with his name. Against some there were pictures of an envelope, and Jack clicked on one. It brought up a new screen, and on this there were ages, addresses, and other details. Nothing seemed to correspond to the description of the man he had read about in Anchorage, or like the man he had met years before.

  There were other resources to look at, and he spent a fruitless two hours searching, before he could sit back and consider. Sumner was clearly not registered here yet. He had no telephone in his own name; he had no accommodation. Jack tried to put himself into the mindset of the man, trying to imagine where he would live.

  He had been a soldier. That meant he would try to avoid the worst doss-houses, and he’d try to keep himself tidy, surely. But he would also be on a pensions list, if he had been invalided out of the Forces.

  On a hunch, Jack pulled out his mobile phone. The call he’d made to Orme probably meant that phone he had bought in Seattle was as compromised as his Blackberry. He checked on the computer for the British Legion website. There he found a number for the rehabilitation unit in Surrey, Headley Court, which he recalled reading about in the paper. The café had a payphone, and he used a credit card in his new name to buy a call. It was quickly answered.