Storm Crow

by Jeff Gulvin

  ‘What if I were to sit down in front of you instead of behind?’ she said. ‘What if I were to turn round and look you right in the face?’

  ‘Then you would die.’ He laughed then, a cruel sound, low and loose in his throat. ‘Or be sent back where you came from.’ The flight attendant was on her way up the aisle. ‘Enough,’ he said. ‘Games are for other people. Stage two is at hand.’

  Louis Byrne took the call from Scotland Yard. He was seated at his desk, working on some papers for a lecture he was about to give in conjunction with the Bomb Data Center. In the wake of the Timothy McVeigh trial, the Bureau was polishing up its public image and Byrne was its best advert. Thirty-eight years old and already GS14. Supervisory special agent in the International Terrorism Operations Unit, National Security Division, and arguably the most able agent they had. ‘Byrne,’ he said as he answered.

  ‘This is Detective Sergeant George Webb, Scotland Yard Antiterrorist Branch.’

  Byrne sat back. ‘Good morning. How’s it going over there?’

  ‘Busy.’

  ‘You guys are always busy.’

  ‘Tell me about it.’

  ‘What can I do for you, George?’

  ‘I think we have a problem over here and I’m told you’re the man to help us.’

  ‘I am?’

  ‘Apparently so.’

  ‘All righty. Shoot.’

  Webb paused. ‘We’re not sure,’ he said. ‘But we think the Storm Crow’s in London.’

  Byrne was silent, his hand a fist on the desk, eyes fixed on the black feather pinned on the office wall. ‘Go on,’ he said quietly.

  ‘We had a car bomb in Soho back in April.’

  ‘I heard about that.’

  ‘Well, what you won’t have heard is how we raided a house and found nothing except timed tape recordings and a gun operated by movement sensors.’

  ‘Really?’ Byrne sat up straighter.

  ‘Unfortunately, yes. Reception committee, Louis. We’ve seen nothing like it in years.’

  Byrne moistened his lips with his tongue. ‘So tell me, George—why Storm Crow?’

  ‘Modus operandi. We’ve got details over here of one or two events in Europe. The assassination of an Italian banker, Paris in 1995, and a car bomb in Madrid.’

  ‘Tormenta Corneja? Byrne said.

  ‘Right. A watch made by a company called Plastia was used in the timing and power unit. We found dual circuitry in Soho and complete TPUs with the same integrated circuits in Queen’s House Mews. The timing unit was a Plastia LCD clock. At first we thought maybe the IRA and ETA were trading operatives, but now I don’t think so.’

  Byrne glanced at the photograph of his own face framed on the cabinet by the desk. Above his right eye, a mock bullet hole had been punched through the paper. ‘Have you received anything from him?’

  ‘Received? You mean as in a coded warning?’

  ‘No. I mean received received. Anything in the mail?’

  ‘Such as.’

  ‘Well, I don’t know if you guys are aware, but we bumped into him in Texas, right after Oklahoma.’

  ‘Don’t remember it, no.’

  ‘Fort Bliss got mortared. A few days later, our field office in El Paso got something in the mail. A black crow’s feather and a picture of me with a bullet hole in my head.’

  Webb blew out his cheeks. ‘We’ve had nothing like that.’

  ‘Then maybe it’s not what it seems. This guy’s specific, George. Got a big ego. Makes Carlos look modest. If it is him, he’ll let you know.’

  ‘What about the TPU?’

  ‘Could be, sounds kinda familiar, but he likes to confuse people. He’s used stuff from just about every known group there is. He can make it look like Hamas or Hizbollah or the IRA if he wants to.’

  ‘That makes sense,’ Webb said. ‘We had two TPUs in the car bomb. One was a decoy, PIRA Mkl5.’

  Byrne was silent again for a moment. ‘Now that does sound like him. Tell me something, George. You got any idea what he’s doing?’

  ‘Not so far. There doesn’t seem to be any obvious motive.’

  ‘That sounds like him too.’

  ‘Our bomb data files tell us you’ve had more to do with trying to catch him than anyone else around.’

  ‘I have been kinda interested, I guess.’

  ‘What makes you so sure it’s a him?’ Webb asked.

  Byrne exhaled audibly. ‘Hunch, I guess. I went to Tel Aviv in 1989. At the time I was working out of the legal attaché’s office in Athens. My old marine lieutenant was the regional security officer in Israel.’

  ‘Right,’ Webb said.

  ‘So what I’m saying is—when they hit Welford-Jennings’ motorcade, I was all but on the spot. That was the first recorded incident.’

  ‘I’ve got it on file over here. Brigitte Hammani and Said Rabi.’

  ‘Right. The thing is, Rabi was a disaffected Fatah member. He fucked up or something and I think Arafat’s guard were out to slit his throat. I had a theory that the attack on Jennings was him and Hammani working alone. His way of trying to appease the Fatah. Because he got killed, I think somebody else may’ve claimed it.’

  ‘Storm Crow.’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘One man?’

  ‘I’d say so. Kinda like putting himself on the market right there and then.’

  ‘So you’re saying he wasn’t actually responsible for it, but claimed it because nobody else did.’

  ‘Well the Fatah didn’t. Neither did the PLF or anybody else.’

  ‘What about the girl—she was never caught. Right?’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘Working with him?’

  ‘Could be.’

  ‘We’ve got a woman here in London right now. We don’t know who she is, but she’s rented a property on behalf of a company. The name being used is Joanne Taylor, blonde hair and blue eyes.’

  ‘Brigitte Hammani was a Palestinian, George. She looks like one—dark skin, very long, very black hair. Real pretty.’

  ‘D’you have any pictures of her?’

  ‘There was one, seized from an apartment in Bethlehem. It got destroyed by mistake.’

  ‘That was fucking handy.’ Webb was quiet for a moment. ‘If it is Storm Crow, what’s he likely to be up to?’

  ‘Who knows, George. He’s basically for sale. Whoever’s prepared to pay his price. The Fort Bliss thing was drugs. He’s done the same in Colombia.’

  ‘Any idea who he is, where he’s from or anything?’

  ‘That’s why he’s so good. Nobody has a clue. Look, I gotta go now—I’m late for a lecture. PR thing, trying to remind the public that the FBI’s not the enemy. I’m coming to England in August for the Shrivenham conference, though. I’ll bring over what I have if you want.’

  ‘That’d be good.’

  ‘If you need me in the meantime, just call.’ Byrne put down the phone and stared long and hard at the black feather on the wall.

  Ibrahim Huella checked out of St Ermin’s Hotel and called a taxi. He had been there a week and had learned all that he could. He left the taxi idling in the Broadway, strolled past the guards at Scotland Yard and went into the foyer. The eternal flame burned on his right and the desk sergeant looked up at him.

  ‘Can I help you, sir?’

  ‘Just dropping something off for a friend of mine in SO13. Jack Swann, DS. Room 1521.’ He handed him the large envelope he was carrying. ‘D’you think you could see he gets it?’

  ‘The floor’s not sealed if you want to go up. You got your warrant card?’

  ‘No time. I’m due at a briefing.’

  ‘Who shall I say left it?’

  ‘Just tell him Jim. SO12. A Squad.’

  ‘Right you are then.’

  Huella thanked him, walked outside and climbed into the waiting cab.

  Swann, Webb and the rest of the team were discussing the information that Webb had gleaned from the FBI. Garrod had gone public with a photogra
ph of Huella/ Morton again, but as yet they had had no response other than the normal crank callers. Trying to trace the ringed Cortina had proved all but impossible, and they still had no lead on the man who had hired the Vectra. Various Nazi groups had been considered, but no individual identified. The assistant at the hire company had been shown book after book of mugshots and had not recognized anyone. They had a reasonable E-fit, but nothing you could hang your hat on. Swann was on his way out to revisit the glass supplier in Bermondsey when the call came into the squad room. ‘Jack, it’s Campbell. There’s a package for you downstairs. They’re screening it now.’

  ‘OK. Thanks, mate.’ He put the phone down and looked at Webb. ‘Package for me.’

  Webb looked at his watch. ‘Bit early for Christmas.’

  The envelope came up and Swann sat down at his desk. He slit open one end and eased out three large photographs. For a long time he stared. Webb was sitting opposite him.

  ‘What is it, Jack?’

  Swann didn’t reply, just kept staring at the pictures.

  Webb walked round the desk and looked over his shoulder. Goose flesh broke out on his cheeks. Three photographs, close-up shots—Colson, himself and Swann. They all had a hole in their heads, as if someone had shot a round through the paper. ‘I think we better talk to the guv’nor.’

  They walked the length of the corridor to the superintendent’s office. Colson was just handing over to DSU Robertson, his counterpart. Swann tapped on the door and he looked up.

  ‘What is it, Jack?’

  ‘Can we have a word, Guv?’

  Colson beckoned them in and Swann laid the pictures down on the desk. ‘These were hand-delivered downstairs.’

  Colson stared at the photographs, a hole right between his eyes. Webb’s was on his right temple and Swann’s on his left. He recognized the scene from behind the cordon tapes on Adie Road.

  Swann picked up the telephone and dialled the front desk. ‘This is Jack Swann, SO13 Reserve. You’ve just had a delivery for me.’

  ‘Yes. We sent it up.’

  ‘The person who delivered it, what did he look like?’

  ‘IC3. Black beard, glasses. Said you knew him. Certainly knew you. Your name, your floor, even the room number. Said his name was Jim. Prof from Special Branch.’

  Swann felt the shiver run the length of his spine. ‘Thanks.’ He put the phone down and looked at the others. ‘Afro-Caribbean male, black beard and glasses. Said his name was Jim—Prof from SB.’

  ‘Storm Crow,’ Webb said quietly.

  ‘What?’ Colson looked over the desk at him.

  ‘Has to be, sir.’ Webb motioned to the pictures. ‘Louis Byrne, the Fed I talked to, had one like this sent to him two years ago. That was from the Storm Crow.’

  Colson looked again at the photos. ‘Special Branch A Squad,’ he said.

  ‘Close protection.’ Swann drew in his lips. ‘He’s telling us we need it.’

  Colson looked up at Webb. ‘George, he could only have taken these from Queen’s House Mews. Get a team down there now and check the angles.’

  ‘Hotel,’ Swann said. ‘The one on the corner. First, second floor maybe. Last place to be evacuated.’ And then he remembered, the little brown-faced man with the horn-rimmed glasses and beard, the one he had checked when he set off the wrong way up the road. ‘Jesus Christ, I spoke to him. Guy with the hat and a stick. Little fucking bastard.’

  ‘Get that team, George,’ Colson said again. ‘But don’t go yourself. You and Jack stay here. We need to talk to the old man about this.’

  Garrod had a senior MI5 operative in his office. Colson interrupted them. ‘Sorry, John,’ he said. ‘I’m afraid we need to talk to you.’

  Swann and Webb followed him inside. Swann glanced at the Indian pictures. He always did; they had a way of drawing your eye. It was then he remembered the book that Morton had been reading when he interviewed him. It had been lying on the side table, a biography of Geronimo, the master of illusion. Colson told Garrod what had happened and showed him the pictures. Garrod pressed his glasses higher up his nose, then looked at Webb and Swann. ‘Right,’ he said. ‘This floor is sealed until I say otherwise. For Christ’s sake, we’ve just issued a picture of the man.’ He looked at Colson then. ‘D’you want personal protection weapons?’

  Colson pursed his lip. ‘Maybe for a week or so.’

  Garrod looked at Webb who nodded. ‘Swann?’

  ‘Jesus,’ Swann said. ‘A gun. I’ve got two kids and an au pair in the house. I suppose I’d better, yes.’

  ‘Pick them up when you’re ready. I’ll write the authorization now.’

  Swann suddenly needed to go home. The girls were there with Annika, the new au pair. He took the tube to Waterloo and walked home. Charley was leaning out of the lounge window and waved frantically when she saw him. Swann realized then just how much he had missed coming home to them. ‘Get back inside, Charley. You’ll fall,’ he called.

  Upstairs, they jumped on him, knocking him on to the sofa. ‘Girls, girls,’ Annika clucked at them. ‘Be careful of Daddy’s suit.’

  Swann smiled at her. ‘They’re all right.’

  ‘I’m cooking,’ she said. ‘Would you like some?’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Spaghetti.’

  ‘She makes great spaghetti, Daddy. Better than yours.’ Charley tugged round his jaw so he faced her.

  ‘She has got a name, young lady,’ Swann said. ‘She’s the cat’s mother.’

  They both started laughing then and Swann tickled them. ‘Not Annika,’ he said. ‘You know I don’t mean Annika.’

  Joanna sat up straight, pushing her hair out of her eyes. She patted his chest, then pulled his jacket open. ‘You’ve got a lump …’ She saw the butt of the gun sticking out of the shoulder holster. Swann pulled his jacket closed. Annika stared at him. He put his finger to his lips. ‘That’s enough now. You’re too noisy. Bath time.’ He clapped his hands together.

  They shuffled downstairs to the bathroom and he heard Joanna whisper, ‘Daddy’s got a gun, Charley.’

  He stood with his hands on his hips for a moment, then turned back to Annika. ‘You OK?’

  ‘Fine.’

  He patted his jacket. ‘Don’t worry. I don’t usually carry one. We’ve got a bit of a threat on at the moment, that’s all.’

  Annika shrugged her shoulders. ‘All our policemen have guns.’

  The phone rang then and he picked it up. ‘Swann.’

  ‘Jack, it’s me, Pia.’

  ‘Hey, you.’ He sat down on the couch crossing one leg over the other, entwining the cord round his fingers. ‘How’re you?’

  ‘I’m OK.’ Her voice sounded a little awkward.

  ‘What’s up?’

  ‘Nothing. I just needed to speak to you.’

  ‘Another bad day?’

  ‘No more than usual. Can I see you tonight?’

  Swann looked at Annika. ‘I’m home with the kids tonight, love.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘Come round. Stay. You’ve not tried out the couch yet.’

  She hesitated. ‘I don’t like it with another woman in the house.’

  Swann put his hand over the receiver and spoke to Annika. ‘Fancy a night out?’

  Her eyes lit up. ‘I could see my boyfriend.’

  ‘Great.’ He spoke to Pia again. ‘Annika’s going out. Come round whenever you want.’

  He read Charley the story of The Elves and the Shoemaker, the original Ladybird hardback that he had read as a child. She loved the pictures, he loved the pictures, the texture in the leather of the shoes after they were sewn together. Joanna read her own book. When the story was finished he kissed them both and then Charley pulled his head close to hers. ‘Daddy,’ she whispered. ‘Why have you got a gun?’

  ‘It’s complicated, darling. But don’t worry, it’ll only be for a few days.’

  Upstairs, he took a bottle of beer from the fridge and put some music on. Pia arrived
just after seven-thirty, let herself in and appeared beside him in the kitchen. She flung her arms round his neck and kissed him hard on the mouth. Swann looked deep into her oval eyes.

  ‘Missed me, did you?’

  She hugged him again. ‘I don’t like this other woman in your house.’

  He held her at arm’s length. ‘She’s eighteen, Pia. I really don’t think we’ve anything to worry about.’

  ‘She’s pretty.’

  Swann cocked an eyebrow at her, letting his gaze drift over her face, neck, breasts. ‘There’s pretty,’ he said, ‘and then again there’s pretty.’

  She kissed him again, mouth working into his. Swann broke to breathe and then he poured some wine.

  Pia spotted the shoulder holster lying with his jacket on the couch. ‘Jack.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Why’ve you got a gun in the house?’

  ‘Take no notice of it. It’s just a precaution.’

  Pia looked at him with her head to one side, arms tight across her chest. ‘Precaution against what?’

  He sighed, took her hand and sat down with her on the couch. He stroked her cheek with the backs of his fingers. ‘There’s been a bit of bother over the Soho bomb.’

  ‘What sort of bother?’

  He slipped the Glock from its holster and weighed it in his hand. ‘We’re dealing with a bad one, love.’

  Pia stared at the gun. ‘Put it away, Jack. Somewhere out of sight. I can’t stand guns.’

  Swann placed the gun and holster above the kitchen cupboards. ‘Sorry,’ he said, ‘there was no need for you to see it.’

  She stared at him, eyes broken up at the edges. ‘Jack, if you’re carrying a gun, I want to know about it.’

  He sighed. ‘It’ll only be for a while. A couple of us have got them. Personal protection weapons. For a week or so, no longer. Just till the threat dies down.’

  ‘What threat? Tell me, Jack.’

  ‘It’s probably nothing. Happens now and again. Webby carried one once before, when we found his name on a PIRA list.’

  ‘But why now? What’s happened, Jack?’

  Swann tipped the neck of his beer bottle to his lips and swallowed. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. ‘This is for your ears only. Understand?’

  She nodded. ‘Of course.’