by Jeff Gulvin
Kovalski looked at the file in front of him. ‘Small town Idaho,’ he said. ‘I’m looking to put in a long-haired drifter like you.’
Harrison raised one eyebrow. ‘What’s the deal?’
‘Jakob Salvesen.’ Kovalski sat more upright. ‘You heard of him?’
‘Oh yeah. Lots of money.’
‘About five billion, we reckon.’ Kovalski showed him a picture. ‘Taken at Estes Park in Colorado,’ he said. ‘October 1992, just after the Randy Weaver fiasco.’
Harrison looked at the picture—heavy, round-faced man with a mass of reddy brown hair and walrus-like moustache.
‘That was the big Christian Identity meeting,’ Kovalski said. ‘Every right-wing fundamentalist there you can imagine, anti-abortionist to Aryan Nations.’
Harrison nodded. ‘The Leaderless Resistance call.’
‘That’s right.’
‘Why Salvesen?’
‘Because we’ve been monitoring his activities on the Internet, John, and I think he might be trying to bind these groups together.’
‘You mean some sort of central command structure?’
‘Exactly.’ Kovalski pushed a hand through his hair. ‘Leaderless Resistance causes us a whole set of problems, little pockets of violence here, there and everywhere. A central command gives us something to go at, but it also makes them much more of a force. We don’t know what Salvesen’s trying to do, but he is doing something. If he’s uniting the militia—I want him.’
Harrison blew out his cheeks. ‘So, what’re we looking at, Tom? These groups are small. You’ll never infiltrate the cell.’
‘Not asking you to, Johnny. We want covert recon’, that’s all.’
‘Wires?’
‘Not enough probable cause. I need someone in there to ascertain the risk. If we can prove probable cause, we can take it further.’
‘Small town Idaho.’ Harrison made a face. ‘You’re talking about a long haul.’
Kovalski nodded. ‘We’ve done our homework. Pocatello’s assimilated a lot of information. Salvesen’s got a compound outside Passover, the bottom of Sun Valley. Lot of transients there. It’s mountain country, hunting and fishing. You’ve been up there on the big lake. Your Vietnam history is good and you look the part.’ Kovalski tapped the pages in front of him. ‘Also you’re old enough. People are less suspicious of older guys. We’re talking about arriving and stopping, getting a job and living. Stage Hands’ll set you up with the background. The Salvesen compound is set in two thousand acres, surrounded by government land so you can lay up and watch without breaking the law. We think he might be arming and training these groups, John, and we don’t want another Oklahoma.’
He had arrived in Passover in April. The snow was still edging the highway and he slept under the camper top in the back of his pick-up. The problem with any small town is who are you, what are you doing there, and why are you on your own? Harrison was forty-six when he got there, long hair tied at the back in a ponytail, scruffy, oil-greased baseball hat on his head. He got drunk in the Silver Dollar and slept the whole of the following day in his camper. Then he got drunk again. A drunk is a threat to nobody and he’s unlikely to be a cop. One night in Joe’s club when he was on his eighth whisky coke, somebody asked him what he was doing in the town. Harrison leaned on his dirty palm and looked at him out of rapidly closing eyes. ‘Undercover Fed,’ he said, and promptly fell off his stool.
When he went back the next night the story was round the bar and people were backslapping him as a joker. Slowly, he sobered up and then he got a job landscaping with the Mexicans. He went to work, came home, drank and shot a little pool. At first they took him for a hustler, but when his eight-ball game did not improve, they realized he was just no good. He would sit at the end of the bar and take the cuts about living with beaners. After a while, though, he started to slip into place and the suspicions grew less and less. He was just a good old boy from Marquette who liked nothing better than ice-fishing the big lake in wintertime.
Most evenings after work he would get out his bike and cycle up and down the river road pretending to get fit, but in reality probing gently; logging every property; who owned them, where they went and when. He would check the perimeter line of Salvesen’s land for the best points of observation. After eight months he started to figure out his close lay-up points. He moved very very slowly; dressed in cam’ gear and gilly suit he crossed the river and cut up the draws at a snail’s pace. Somebody moving fast is visible at night and very noisy. Gently, he probed the ranch boundaries and came upon Slusher’s cabin. The smoke gave it away long before the light did. He could smell it. The world smells different at night, a fact he had noted, making sure he smelled of nothing whenever he made an entry.
He saw elk and heard owls calling and the screech or two of a crow not quite settled for the night. He logged the exact location of the cabin and on his next venture he skirted the best trail round it. The next time out, he found a different trail and made sure he alternated movement. There were a full two miles of mountain from the cotton-wood grove by the mine to the compound and the Southern-style mansion that dominated it.
A mile north of Slusher’s place, across the twin saddles, was his keep hide, hidden in the thickest grove of cotton-woods deep in Dugger’s Canyon. Further inland from Slusher’s cabin was Drake’s, the last one on this side of the compound. Over time he had probed further and further, making ground every time he went out. He had two good lay-up points before Drake’s cabin where people could walk over him all day long and not see him. The initial problem with the keep hide had not been digging the hole, that only took him three visits. It was walking in with a big green Coleman cooler to store the equipment in. Dugger’s old place was on Bureau of Land Management ground, the only concession being the hogan Chief had built before the government took it back. The three of them used it—Harrison, Danny and Chief. That enabled Harrison to drive his truck up there and sink the cooler into the earth.
He did not visit the hide often; he had a temporary one located just inside the cottonwoods at the bottom of Little Mammoth, where he kept his full cam’ and gilly suit. Now, he pulled on the two-piece camouflage suit complete with hood and fold-over flaps for his hands. He wore tight-fitting leather gloves in the real cold, with the snowsuit flaps over that, but in this weather or any other time except deep snow, he preferred the dexterity of open fingers.
Suited, he moved out, silently, slowly up through the trees on to the open ground of the trail. Once above the old mine, he knew the trail and could risk moving more quickly. Even so, a two-mile hike would take him the best part of an hour through this country and he rarely did it in the week. Most of the activity happened at the weekend. He wasn’t sure what he would find tonight, but that new face bothered him. He had seen the man before but did not know where, and something about Jesse Tate’s mood disturbed him. They moved around a lot at night. The training compound was a mile further back in the hills and most new visitors got the full tour in darkness. Nothing quite like a display of night-sight shooting to get your blood running high. If there was such a show tonight he would be up most of the night. This guy had arrived late as it was, nine or more before Jesse picked him up. They might wait until morning, but Salvesen had nothing if not a sense of drama and he liked to show off to guests.
The last time Harrison had been in, about three weeks before, he witnessed Jesse drilling twenty new faces. The training compound reminded him of the Alamo, an adobe and wooden construction built on three levels, where Jesse put in the ‘recruits’, then attacked them with men of his own. He seemed to school them more in survival than guerrilla tactics, which somehow didn’t make sense. Tonight Harrison needed his night-vision SearchCam, so a trip to the hide was necessary. He never got there.
Two hundred yards this side of Drake’s house, he was on the downward slope of a small grassy hill which shouldered its way between two peaks, both of which carried snow right into June. Moving more slowly no
w, he was aware of the proximity of Drake and his penchant for shooting elk in the night. Salvesen had a big herd roaming his property and the government land that bordered it, and sometimes his men shot meat for their families, taking no notice of the season. A lot of the non-believers from Passover knew about the elk and Harrison had had to lie low more than once to avoid an over-eager poacher. If Salvesen caught you shooting on his land, that would be the last shot you ever made. The sign at the entrance off the highway said it all: ‘Trespassers will be shot. Survivors will be shot again. Federal trespassers will be tried and hanged for treason.’
Harrison had made it as far as the last line of fir when he felt the motion sensor vibrate against his hip. He stopped stone cold and allowed the weight of the gilly suit to fall over him. The hood was low, covering his face, and he stood as still as the grave. He had two passive infrareds set up on wire hidden in the branches of these trees. The wire followed the line of the bark to the grass where the transmitters were located. He had put them there because the third time he was out he was almost compromised by a poacher. The sensor jaggled against his hip again and then, very softly, he heard voices. Whispers, two men away to his right, just inside the line of trees. Harrison cut his breath to nothing, felt in his pocket for his knuckle knife and squatted on his haunches. Now he was just one of the rocks on the hillside. The voices drew nearer, low, but no longer a whisper. ‘I tell you I heard something.’ Drake’s eldest boy, Tommy, sixteen and already built like a wrestler.
‘Course you did. What d’you think we’re out here for?’
‘No, Dad. Not deer. It weren’t moving like no deer. I know how a deer moves. Goddamn, you’ve been showing me since I was but five years old.’
‘Don’t cuss, boy.’
Silence. They were now no more than fifteen feet away. If Harrison lifted his head he would see them. All was stillness. The night above purple, the moon casting a haze of watery light through the prickles of uppermost branches. Harrison did not breathe. They moved closer to him still. Slowly he lifted his head, inch by inch, not jerky but smooth, just far enough so he could see out from under the hood of the gilly. Drake and his boy were not ten feet away, lower on the hill than he was, peering through the darkness. Harrison’s face was coated with cam’ cream. Tommy Drake looked right at him.
‘If it was deer, why didn’t we hear it run?’
For a moment his father did not answer. He hefted his rifle to his shoulder and looked where his son looked. Harrison looked right back. He saw them. They did not see him. He did not move so much as a fingertip.
‘It was a deer,’ Drake said finally. ‘God, you’re spooking me, boy.’
His son crouched down for a moment as if he was looking at the ground. He straightened again and their heads jerked this way and that like roosters in a farmyard. Then they moved off, back down the hill towards the lights of their cabin a hundred yards below. Harrison remained where he was. He watched them, saw them moving until the darkness completely enveloped them, then he stood up, looked at the clarity of the sky and cursed. The wind and the rain, a covert man’s best friend.
He went home. He had lost too much time and there was every possibility that Drake would call someone up just to be certain. He could not risk that. There would be other times. The face bothered him, though. He had seen it somewhere before. He was in the yard tomorrow, however, and if Jesse or one of the others drove by with him, Harrison would make some excuse to call by the airport. One way or another he would get a second look at him.
It rained in London the day after Queen’s House Mews was raided. The previous evening, James Morton, alias Ibrahim Huella, had checked himself into St Ermin’s Hotel opposite Scotland Yard. It appealed to him, being right on their doorstep. He got a room on the fifth floor which overlooked the Yard itself and he made a point of watching them all return. He saw Jack Swann get out of a car, which someone else was driving, and go in through the main entrance. He saw two more cars arrive and disappear into the underground car park. He left the window then, and taking the roll of film from his camera he went downstairs to the payphones. He dialled and waited, lightly tapping his fingernails on the desk, and then she answered.
‘Yes?’
‘I have a package for you.’
‘What is it?’
‘Film to be developed.’
‘OK. When and where?’
‘The Lady Chapel. Now.’
‘How d’you want the pictures transported?’
‘I don’t. These are for my own use.’ He hung up and went outside.
The streets were wet, the rain had ceased and the sun was endeavouring to break up cloud, although so far with little success; it was muggy and the pavement steamed under his feet. He walked along Broadway to join Victoria Street. Parliament Square was already busy with taxis bunched up one behind the other. The police officer on the corner of Victoria and Broadway stood with his arms folded over his chest and ignored him.
Huella turned right on Victoria Street and continued as far as the Esso Building. Here he stopped and crossed the road into the square. Westminster Cathedral lifted against the sky at the far end: a square building with a tall round spire on the left as he faced it, almost Moorish to look at. Huella walked across the square, ignored the young man selling copies of the Big Issue and climbed the steps. The notice on the door always intrigued him. ‘Closed Circuit Television in operation.’
Inside, it was cool and darkened. Three huge domes in the ceiling ran the length of the main aisle to the altar at the far end. Just before the altar, the Christ hung on a cross twenty-five feet in height. Huella paused and they looked at one another. The walls were pillared in marble, pink and green and blue. He scanned for the cameras, hidden carefully from view so as not to disturb the ambience.
To the right was the Lady Chapel with the huge octagonal font which the priest would have to climb upon to perform any baptism. Huella sat down in the third row of chairs, four seats from the right. Bending his head, he stared at the ground. He would stay in St Ermin’s until the others arrived. He thought a little about the future, weighed up what it meant to him, but dismissed it. There was much to be done before then. He looked at his watch and considered who should make the delivery. There were security cameras everywhere. He could use the foot soldiers maybe, but he wanted them for other things later on.
He heard the sound of a woman’s footsteps behind him and he stiffened a fraction, then slowly raised his head but did not look round. The woman moved between the chairs and sat down in the seat directly behind him. Huella stared ahead and waited. She sighed and said, ‘The candles are lit.’
‘No, my dear,’ he replied. ‘The candles are alight.’ He placed the roll of film to be developed under his seat. The woman reached forward and picked it up. He heard the clack of heels as she walked away.
George Webb sat in the exhibits office at the Yard. Swann was with him and McCulloch from the investigation squad, together with DI Clements. Webb had sketched out the finds thus far: TATP in the pens, which had been rendered safe by the explosives officers and DRA; two complete timing and power units. Searching under the floorboards they had found the component parts for at least two PIRA Mk 15s. They had also discovered nearly a kilo of Semtex, rolled flat and stored in plastic office envelopes in a separate compartment under the top of the desk. The passport they had seen before, or rather they knew it was one of a batch of fifty counterfeits, Syrian in origin. The paper quality was good but not perfect, first seen by the Israelis.
There had been a number of other papers in the desk, scribblings, the odd word. A date, a time. Stuffed at the back of the drawer they had also found an A-Z of London. Webb had flicked through the pages and stopped at page sixty-one. Moor Street was circled in pencil. They also found a receipt from a glass supplier in Bermondsey for four eight-foot sheets of armour-quality glass.
Clements looked at the glass receipt encased in a nylon evidence bag. ‘How’re we doing for prints, Webby?’ he as
ked.
‘Got to get this lot over to Lambeth.’
Clements nodded. ‘What about the general dusting?’
‘Not finished yet, but we have some prints. They’re fuzzy and we’ve no way of knowing whose they are yet. There was a clear set on the outside door handle, mind you. They’re most likely to be his. The spotters definitely confirmed no gloves when he went out walking.’
‘The car?’
‘The OP’s still set up. If you want me to do a covert swabbing, I will.’
Clements shook his head. ‘Let’s leave it a few more days—see if anyone comes back for it.’ He looked at his watch. ‘The meeting’s set for eleven. Will you be ready by then?’
Webb made a face. ‘I want to do some work on the TPUs. Give me Jack for an hour and I will.’
Clements left them then and went back to the inspector’s office. Swann sat down opposite Webb and rested his elbows on the table, chin in the palms of his hands. ‘So talk to me,’ he said.
Webb scratched his moustache. ‘TPUs bother me, Jack. They remind me of something. I want to go through what we’ve got in bomb data.’
Swann cocked an eyebrow at him. ‘You want to tell me what we’re looking for?’
‘Something using a Plastia clock.’
They went through to the Bomb Data Centre and sat down with Brian Johns, the DS who ran the office. Webb told him what they were after and he gave them access to the computer. Webb tapped in his password and started flicking through the files. He recalled that two years previously information had come in from Spain over a possible ETA attack in Madrid. Whenever information came in, Webb always had sight of it and any coded warnings were sent under separate cover. He trawled through the information, with Swann sitting next to him, until he came to what he was looking for. He printed two copies, handed one to Swann and they both sat and read.
New Year’s Day 1995—Madrid car bombing Suspect: Ramon Jimenez (Translated from the Spanish)