Storm Crow

by Jeff Gulvin

  Harrison checked above him to make sure the guard had not had a sudden urge towards vigilance and then he moved back up the hill. He had as much as he needed; the day had been more than a success and the thought of getting some sleep in Chief’s hogan was far more appealing than spending the rest of the night out here. Collecting his gear, he made his way much more quickly up the hill and headed for Dugger’s Canyon. He made good time, the wind got up and the rain slanted at his back, pushing him along trails which now ran with water. He was not as vigilant as he had been earlier, but he reckoned he could walk right by someone in this weather and they would never know it.

  He didn’t see the figure that crouched above the entrance to the cave where the bats lived, water dripping off his uncovered head. He squatted against black rock, hunting bow over his knees, as if keeping a silent vigil on the valley below. He heard Harrison long before Harrison got to him and then he saw him shadowy against the sky, moving quickly through the rain with his coat tails dragging in mud.

  In the cottonwood grove in Dugger’s Canyon, Harrison stripped off the gilly and quietly shook it out. The cam’ suit was soaked and he kept it on. He could dry it out in the hogan. He scrubbed at his face and the backs of his hands with Cam-off wipes and then replaced the lid on the cooler. He had his roll of film, and the information logged in the back of his mind. He put the film in his pocket inside its sealed plastic container and moved out of the trees. Not ten feet from him the figure crouched again, head to one side, dark eyes watching him. When Harrison had gone, the figure slowly uncoiled and moved into the cottonwoods. Here he stood for a long moment, studying the ground as it was lit up by lightning: a faint undulation in the earth. The figure bent, pressed the soil, worked his fingers around and then lifted. He looked down at the top of the cooler.

  12

  SWANN’S DREAM SOURED HIS MOOD. Webb noticed the sudden quietness that had come over him, though it was perhaps reminiscent of the general atmosphere on the fifteenth floor. Security was tight; MI5 intelligence officers had to wear their ID tags, anyone else had to have a warrant card and nobody from outside the department or Special Branch came up unaccompanied.

  Webb sat in the exhibits office with Tania Briggs and DI Clements. ‘There you go,’ he said, handing the information he had sourced from bomb data to Clements. ‘Descriptions given by the lad on the scaffolding, the secretary upstairs at the DTI and the other witnesses match the E-fits from the assassination of Alessandro Peroni in Paris in 1995. Not only that but the MO is the same.’ He paused, licked his moustache and looked up. ‘Tal-Salem and Pier-Luigi Ramas. Hit men,’ he said. ‘Both are in their mid-thirties, originally trained by the Syrians in the Bekaa Valley. They’ve worked in Europe, Israel, Egypt and the Lebanon, amongst other places. They’re professional killers, but they have done other work. Sheikh Omar Abdel Rahman of Gamaa Islamiya has had contact with them.’

  ‘The Blind Egyptian,’ Briggs said. ‘World Trade Center. They were involved in that?’

  ‘Could’ve been. Not in the actual attack, but the planning, maybe.’

  Webb looked back at the print-out on Tal-Salem and Pier-Luigi Ramas, information fed to them from various antiterrorist organizations worldwide: the FBI, BKA in Germany, the French, and an awful lot from the Jonathan Institute in Israel, where every year there was an international conference on terrorism. The institute had been set up after Entebbe and named in honour of Jonathan Netanyahu—the brother of the Prime Minister, Benjamin—who had been killed leading the attack on the plane. ‘They’ve done stuff for Abu Nidal in Israel.’ Webb pointed out three instances where their assassination handiwork was apparent to the Israeli Secret Service. ‘They also carried out bombings for the PLF and Hizbollah in France in the 1980s.

  ‘The Israelis and the FBI suspect them of being active during the Gulf War,’ he went on. ‘There were a hundred and seventy-odd terrorist attacks during the war, only thirty of them actually carried out against Western targets, though. The rest were in Third World or Arab countries. These two are consummate professionals. They’re probably better than anyone we’ve come up against.’ He took a long breath. ‘I reckon what we’ve seen so far is just for openers.’

  Clements looked sourly at him.

  ‘You know what I mean, Guv. Queen’s House Mews—why give the right address on the wrong driving licence? Shit, they could’ve done the old Flat 36G when it only goes up to F routine. OK, Jack Swann worked bloody hard to find out James Morton was dead, but we know how it works—find someone who’s dead and get their birth certificate. If they died before sixteen you can get their national insurance number as well. Anyone with Huella’s credentials would do it a different way. He did it with Ramon Jimenez. I’ve checked with the Spanish authorities. The real Jimenez was a barman in Cadiz who’d never applied for a passport. Huella got a passport in his name and his only mistake was that Jimenez had a record. When the Spanish did their checks on the Jimenez who hired the car, they found the guy in Cadiz. They showed him pictures and he recognized Huella immediately. He had hung out in Cadiz for six months, just to get an ID.’

  ‘I think we need to get on to that Fed again, Webby,’ Clements said.

  ‘I’ll phone him this afternoon.’

  Swann and McCulloch were co-ordinating the house to house in Hackney. Every occupant was spoken to, every business, every pub and shop. Swann went into the newsagent’s under the Eastway. The little Indian man looked thoughtful. ‘The night before,’ he said. ‘A man came in to buy cigarettes.’

  ‘What man?’

  The Indian smiled. ‘You will understand why I remember him when I tell you.’

  ‘Go on,’ Swann said.

  ‘White, quite small, with a skinhead haircut and tattoos.’

  Swann felt his pulse quicken a fraction.

  The Indian man touched his left ear lobe. ‘Lots of earrings too. Four, I think. Two studs and two round ones, you know, the loops.’

  ‘Sleepers,’ Swann said.

  The man nodded. ‘That’s right, sleepers.’

  ‘The tattoos,’ Swann asked him, ‘anything particular that you remember?’

  ‘Spider’s webs on his hands.’

  Swann narrowed his eyes. ‘Anything else—no Nazi insignia—swastikas, stuff like that?’

  ‘No, I only remember the webs.’

  Swann thanked him and left.

  He and McCulloch went into the King’s Head pub on Victoria Park Road and spoke to the landlord. ‘Skinhead,’ Swann said to him. ‘Lots of tattoos. Four earrings.’

  The landlord nodded. ‘I remember. There were two of them.’

  ‘Two?’

  ‘One small. He was the one with the earrings. The other was quite a bit taller.’

  ‘Can you describe him?’

  The landlord sighed. ‘Skinhead,’ he said, making an open-handed gesture. ‘Green bomber jacket, I think. He had tattoos, too.’

  ‘Any that you remember specifically?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Swastika, maybe?’ McCulloch put in.

  The landlord looked at him for a moment and shook his head. ‘Not that I noticed,’ he said.

  Webb phoned Louis Byrne for the second time in as many months. He could not get hold of him right away as he was attending a memorial function in the quadrangle. Byrne called him back an hour or so later.

  ‘George Webb,’ Webb said as he picked up the phone.

  ‘George, this is Louis Byrne. FBI. You called me.’

  ‘Louis, how’re you doing?’

  ‘Pretty good. You?’

  ‘So so.’ Webb leaned an elbow on the desk. ‘Couple of developments over here. I never got round to letting you know but we received a delivery, not long after I spoke to you.’

  ‘Delivery?’

  ‘Photographs. Three of us with bullet holes in our heads.’

  Byrne was quiet for a moment. ‘It’s him, George. No question.’

  ‘I was afraid you were going to say that. Can you send us a fil
e, Louis—the work that you’ve done on him so far?’

  ‘I’ll be in London myself next week. Shrivenham. Bringing my wife. I’ve got a spare day or two before the conference, I’ll bring in what I’ve got. You can show me what you guys got and maybe we can cross-reference.’

  ‘OK,’ Webb said. ‘Listen, let me know the flight you’re on and we’ll send a car.’

  ‘Thanks, George. But the leg-att’ll organize a cab for us. I’ve got to check in at the embassy anyway and we’ll be staying at the Marriott.’

  ‘You been to London before?’

  ‘Oh yeah. Several times. My wife’s first trip, though. I guess she can do plenty of shopping while I’m in Oxfordshire.’ He paused. ‘The other thing I’d suggest you do is talk to the Jonathan Institute. They’ve got a file over there as well.’

  ‘Anyone in particular?’

  ‘Ben Dubin. Good guy. Criminal data section.’

  Tommy Cairns sat at his kitchen table with his brother, a cigarette burning between his fingers. He was reading the newspaper and Jean-Marie Mace’s face looked up at him. He laid the paper down, twisted his mouth at the corners and sucked on the cigarette. Frank was very still beside him. ‘Makes me an accessory to murder,’ he said.

  His younger brother said nothing.

  ‘Doesn’t it.’ Frank passed a hand over his scalp. ‘Tom?’

  ‘Shut up, Frank. I’m thinking.’

  Frank was silent then. Getting up, he looked out at the overgrown grass in the garden. The day was hot and sticky. He opened the door and let the dogs in. Two Staffordshire bull terriers, they sniffed about at his feet. ‘I didn’t know what they were going to do,’ he said as if to reassure himself. ‘I didn’t want to be no terrorist, Tommy.’

  ‘What d’you think Action 2000 is—fucking teddy bears’ picnic?’

  Frank looked round at him and Tommy held his gaze. ‘Frankie, every time you smack a Paki or put burning paper through a Jewboy’s letterbox, you’re terrorizing. That’s what we do.’

  ‘Yeah, but they’ve killed people, Tommy. You do a lot of time for that.’

  Tommy slapped the open newspaper with the back of his hand. ‘Tell me where in here it mentions a description of the cab driver?’

  ‘I haven’t read it.’

  ‘Well read it.’ He threw the paper at him and it fluttered against his chest, pages falling everywhere. ‘Everything’s fine, Frank. We’re making a lot of money.’

  Bob Jackson, Harrison’s supervisor, sat in the air-conditioned comfort of his office in Salt Lake City. He had been feeling a bit easier of late. After McVeigh was convicted in June and subsequently sentenced to death, security had been the tightest he had known it in thirty years with the FBI. They had been expecting, almost anticipating, some form of ‘patriot movement’ backlash, but it had not materialized. Jackson was married with four grown-up kids and three grandchildren. His wife worried about him much more than she used to. But that feeling of security, the little bit of breathing space he seemed to have been allowed these last couple of weeks, dissipated like evaporating water as he stared at the latest product from Idaho. Opposite him, Harrison’s case agent, Tom Brindley, and contact agent, Max Scheller, watched him. Jackson got up and moved over to the window. The traffic was backing up downtown. It was late afternoon and pitifully hot on the street.

  ‘So, what d’you reckon, Bob?’ Brindley said after a few moments. Jackson went back to his desk, sat down in the swivel chair and looked once more at the pictures. ‘I don’t know, but it could be.’

  ‘I think it’s him,’ Scheller said. ‘Maybe we ought to speak to headquarters.’

  Jackson looked at him thoughtfully, then back at the pictures of the blond-haired man with Jakob Salvesen. He looked up at his computer screen and decided against E-mail. This was too sensitive to send electronically. Most of the militias used the Internet and they had picked up FBI information before. Jackson himself had come across the names of field agents and their families in Montana and northern Idaho, the one time they had broken the ‘pretty good protection’ software surrounding the militias’ web sites.

  He picked up the phone and dialled the direct line. He could not get hold of Kovalski, so he tried him through the Strategic Intelligence Operations Center. ‘I’m trying to locate Tom Kovalski in Domestic Terrorism,’ he said.

  ‘One moment, please.’ Jackson rapped his fingertips against the wood of his desk, then the operator came back on the line. ‘He’s at the Arizona field office.’

  Jackson rang Phoenix.

  ‘Kovalski.’

  ‘Tom, this is Bob Jackson over in Salt Lake.’

  ‘Bob, how’s it going?’

  ‘It was going good, Tom. Now I’m not so sure.’

  Kovalski’s voice dropped an octave. ‘What’s up?’

  ‘Just got a fresh batch of product from our man out west. It’ll be coming over to you tomorrow.’ He paused and looked across the desk at Brindley and Scheller. ‘You’re not going to like this, Tom. We’ve got a guy deep in conversation with the main man. They’re taking a stroll in the garden.’

  ‘Who is he?’ Kovalski said quietly.

  ‘We think it’s Bruno Kuhlmann, the John Doe from Atlanta.’

  Louis and Angie Byrne flew into Heathrow. Angie sat at the window and gazed over the city as the plane drifted under the clouds. She had her face all but pressed to the glass, trying to take everything in at once.

  ‘You’ll see it all, hon’,’ Byrne said, patting her arm. ‘Don’t worry.’

  Angie looked back at him out of piercing blue eyes, the sort of eyes that cut you down in a courtroom. ‘Don’t patronize me, Louis. I want to remember it from the air.’

  Byrne shook his head and smiled.

  They landed, collected their bags and took a taxi into the West End. The cabbie loaded their bags and looked Angie up and down. She was tall, slim and statuesque, in a two-piece red suit. She wore a white chemise with a low neckline and her breasts lifted together. Gold hung from her neck and from her ears and flashed in the sun on her wrist.

  ‘First time in London?’ the cabbie asked them.

  ‘For my wife, yes. Not for me.’ Byrne looked out of the window.

  ‘Holiday, is it?’

  ‘Business.’

  ‘Where’d you want to go, then, sir?’

  ‘Hotel Marriott in Duke Street.’

  ‘American,’ the driver said. ‘Visiting the embassy, are you?’

  ‘Possibly.’ Byrne glanced at his wife.

  The driver dropped them at the Marriott just off Grosvenor Square and the doorman took their luggage. Their room was on the fourth floor, overlooking the street. Byrne tipped the porter and looked at his wife. ‘Hope you like it, honey.’

  ‘It’s a hotel room, Louis. I’ve seen one or two before.’

  ‘You gonna be OK with me gone all week?’

  She fisted a hand on her hip. ‘Think I’ll manage. Don’t you?’

  ‘I guess.’ He kissed her then, her scent thick in his nostrils. ‘I just gotta go over and see the leg-att. I’ll be right back.’

  ‘Now?’

  ‘Yeah. I want to pick up my bag.’

  He crossed Grosvenor Square and went into the embassy through the side door. A British armed police officer from the Diplomatic Protection Group patrolled the corner, in white shirt and body armour. Byrne nodded to him, showed his badge at the door and went inside. The FBI office was on the third floor. Byrne knew Matheson, the legal attaché, from D.C. Government service grade 15, fifteen years older than he was and looking towards his pension. Still, London was as decent a place as any to do that. Matheson had a good file, almost as good as his own, but then he was that much older. Byrne went straight into his office and Matheson looked up from behind his desk.

  ‘Lucky Louis Byrne. You’ve arrived, then.’

  ‘Looks that way, Bill.’

  Matheson stood up and they shook hands. ‘Over for the Shrivenham conference. I expected you to go straight t
o Oxfordshire.’

  ‘Yeah, me too. But I brought my wife with me.’

  ‘Angie—over here?’

  ‘That’s right. She’s taking a week’s vacation to see the sights. Her first time in London.’

  ‘Well, I shall have the pleasure of looking after her while you’re at the conference.’

  ‘I’d appreciate that. She thinks she’s a tough attorney, but she doesn’t know London.’

  He sat down and rested an ankle on his knee. ‘Bill, is my bag here? It got packaged in D.C. and sent across in the pouch.’

  ‘RSO’ll have it. Why’d you do that, anyway?’

  ‘Because I’ve got papers for the cops over here that I didn’t want broadcast if they searched me at the airport.’

  Matheson squinted at him. ‘You didn’t bring anything else with you, did you?’