Storm Crow

by Jeff Gulvin

  Swann left the motorway. ‘Word on the street is that you’re one of the most wanted police officers in the world.’

  ‘Am I? Where’d you hear that—Logan? You shouldn’t believe everything she tells you.’

  ‘Seems like a bright girl to me.’

  ‘Yeah, and pretty. She got a degree in psychology from Columbia.’

  ‘Who’s after you, then—Hizbollah?’

  Byrne shook his head. ‘No. Gamaa Islamiya aren’t too happy with me, though. They think I kidnapped one of their own.’ He shook his head. ‘I know who the players are, Jack. I try to track their movements. I guess they know I’m doing it.’

  ‘And Storm Crow?’

  ‘Him in particular.’

  Harrison sat across the counter from Lisa Guffy in the diner, where she had just served him a platter of fried chicken, baked potatoes and onion salad. He looked at the food, resting his crossed forearms on the counter, and then he looked in her eyes. ‘Well, thank you, Miss Lady Mam.’

  ‘Eat,’ she said and pulled his baseball hat over his eyes. He did eat and he watched her serving the last tourists of fall, with her short skirt and hair piled on her head, breasts thrusting at the material of her shirt. She felt his gaze trailing around after her and she flicked at him with a towel.

  ‘Eat,’ she said.

  ‘I’m eating.’

  When he was finished he wanted to smoke, but couldn’t in the diner, so he paid the check, left two dollars’ tip and slid off the chair. ‘I’m going to shoot a little pool in the hotel,’ he told Guffy. ‘You wanna come by after work and drive me home.’

  ‘Only if you’re sober.’

  ‘Deal.’

  Harrison hitched up his jeans and crossed the road to the Westlake Hotel. Then he remembered he had promised to pick Danny up from the Silver Dollar in Passover, because he had backed his truck into a post and knocked the muffler off.

  He drove south out of town and saw Tate’s pick-up coming the other way. Jake Salvesen was in the passenger seat. Harrison slowed and they passed without seeing him. They pulled into the airport and Tate drove him straight out to the runway, where Willie was waiting by the steps to Omega 2. Harrison pulled over and flipped the hood on his truck. He leaned under it and watched Salvesen climb the steps to the plane, and then Willie helped Tate with the luggage. Three big cases; it looked like he was going away for a while.

  He parked the truck at the back of the bank by Danny’s little condo—more of a cabin really, built in the twenties and a little lopsided now—and handed Danny the keys. ‘You can keep it till tomorrow, Dan. Guffy’s driving me home tonight.’

  ‘How’s that third gear?’ Danny asked him.

  Harrison looked sideways at him. ‘You see me grab it?’

  ‘Nope.’

  ‘That’ll work, then.’

  Danny got two Bud draughts and some quarters for the pool table. Long-haired Mike was in the bar and shooting on the far table with Jimmy, the English ex-pat, who’d worked all over the country before moving to Idaho with half a million dollars in the bank. He had a tattoo of a swallow between the forefinger and thumb of his right hand, and an ageing Elvis Presley haircut. Harrison nodded to Cecil and Junior, then saw Belinda talking to Tracy, Lisa Guffy’s home girl.

  ‘You seen Chief, Belinda?’ he asked her.

  She shook her head. ‘I think he’s home painting or something. I was gonna go over later, if I can get me a ride.’

  Harrison nodded. ‘Guffy’s coming for me. We’ll give you a ride.’

  He took off his jacket, just a white singlet underneath, and he picked up a pool cue. He rubbed the rat tattoo on his shoulder and yawned, then spied Tony Vasquez sitting on his own in the corner. Harrison tweaked a Marlboro from his jacket and lit it, watching as Danny racked. He was leaning over the table to break, when Jesse came in with Drake and Wingo. They bought beer, then moved to a table close to the pool tables. He caught snatches of their conversation.

  ‘No, I ain’t seen the little beaner since,’ Jesse was saying, ‘whipped his ass for him good. Can’t he read no signs.’ He laughed then. ‘No, I guess he can’t at that. Don’t speak nothing but Spanish.’

  ‘Should ship ’em all back,’ Wingo, a tall rangy man with blond hair and muscles, added. ‘Little mothers, alls they do is drive around in low riders all day, with boom boxes banging at you every fucking minute.’

  In the corner Tony Vasquez knocked back his shot and slid his chair away from the table.

  Harrison bent to the table. ‘Five ball, corner pocket.’ He missed and swore. Then he took a pinch of chew from his tin and placed it under his lip. When he looked round, both Jesse and Wingo were staring at him.

  ‘Dude’s got a rat crawling up his arm,’ Wingo said.

  ‘Yeah, well, he ain’t worth a rat’s ass, anyways.’ Jesse laughed, a cruel guttural sound.

  Harrison’s first instinct was to whip his cue over Jesse’s head so hard he’d never get up, but he ignored him and bent to his shot.

  Tony Vasquez leaned a palm on the table and stared beyond Harrison to Jesse. His eyes were glazed from Cuervo. ‘Hey, motherfucker.’ He slurred the words and Jesse pushed back his chair. ‘What did you say?’

  The bar had quietened considerably. Harrison potted the one ball and then reached for the chalk. Jesse was on his feet now, Wingo with him. Tony reeled a little as he pushed his weight away from the table. Out of the corner of his eye, Harrison saw Chief walk through the main door.

  Jesse and Wingo moved towards Tony Vasquez. Harrison laid the pool stick down on the table.

  ‘What did you call me, beaner?’ Jesse’s lips curled in a snarl.

  ‘Motherfucker. I call you motherfucker. It’s what you are—you beat my boy, motherfucker. Maybe you like to pick on someone your own size.’ Tony staggered, losing his footing, one boot sliding across the dust on the floor. He regained himself and leaned against the wall. Jesse picked up a pool stick and Harrison stepped in front of him.

  ‘He’s drunk, Jesse, Let him be.’

  For a moment Jesse stopped, looking down into Harrison’s eyes. ‘Get out of the way.’ Wingo stood at his shoulder. Chief moved away from the bar.

  ‘You assholes wanna fight—do it in the street.’ Sula-Mae, the bartender, screeched across at them. ‘Tell you what …’ She had the phone in her hand. ‘I’ll call 911 now, so the cops can be ready for when you’re done with it.’

  Jesse looked at Harrison. Harrison looked back at him. Tony could hardly stand.

  ‘I got your marker, Harrison,’ Jesse said quietly.

  Harrison felt the sudden desire to kill. He had killed before: underground in Vietnam, one on one. You, your flashlight and your six-shot revolver. Him, his AK47 and the M-26 grenade he stole from you.

  ‘Then you better get the drop on me,’ he replied, ‘because if you don’t, I’ll kill you.’

  Chief moved between them, six foot six and 260 pounds. ‘Didn’t you hear the lady?’ he said.

  Wingo took a step backwards. Jesse glanced at Chief’s black eyes and nodded slowly. ‘I got a long memory, Harrison.’

  ‘So do I.’

  Jesse looked once more at Tony. ‘You watch your mouth, beaner. Or it won’t be a beating you take.’ He picked up his hat. ‘Come on, boys. We got work to do.’

  Byrne and Logan ate with Swann and Webb at the Wonkei on Wardour Street. No cheques, no credit cards, just cash—a three-course meal at five pounds a head. Cheyenne told them a bit about herself, her background, her three years in Naval Investigation before joining the FBI.

  ‘You married, Chey?’ Swann asked her.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Boyfriend?’

  ‘Oh, Jack. Give it a rest.’ Webb hit him lightly on the arm. ‘Just because Pia’s out of town.’

  ‘I’m just asking. Polite conversation, it’s called.’

  ‘In other people’s language, maybe.’

  Byrne’s pager went off. He frowned and glanced at Logan. ‘Leg-att wants m
e to call him.’ He went outside to use his mobile phone.

  ‘Do you think there’s a connection between your militia investigation and here, Chey?’ Webb asked her.

  She sat back and adjusted the napkin on her lap. ‘On the face of it, it makes no sense,’ she said. ‘The militia’s beef is with the US government. They think we own their lives just because they’ve got a social security card. Oh, it’s more complicated than that—conspiracy theories—New World Order—international Jewish banking cartels. They even believe we’re training the Hong Kong police and the Gurkhas to take their weapons away. I can’t see how any of that fits with what you’ve seen over here. But Kuhlmann in Salvesen’s compound is a helluva coincidence. And now Abel Manley?’

  Byrne came back then, his face serious. ‘Remember the fingerprints you gave me, George, the first time I was here?’

  ‘Yeah. Huella’s from Queen’s House Mews.’

  ‘I just got an ID. The leg-att received a definite confirmation from CJIS. Huella’s a US citizen. His real name is Ismael Boese.’

  Logan frowned, eyes intent upon Byrne’s. ‘James and Morag Maguire,’ she said slowly.

  ‘And the SLA before them.’

  ‘You chaps want to explain this to us?’ Swann asked quietly. ‘Who’s Ismael Boese?’

  Logan glanced at him. ‘Sorry, Jack. It’s a long story.’

  ‘Tell them,’ Byrne said.

  ‘Back in 1974,’ she began. ‘Two members of the Symbionese Liberation Army were convicted of terrorist activities. You remember the SLA—they kidnapped Patty Hearst.’

  Webb nodded. ‘Who could forget Patty?’

  Logan pushed her plate away. ‘The SLA wasn’t around for very long. After that episode with her, we hit them hard and it all ended with a Los Angeles SWAT team. Anyway, in an unrelated incident, two other SLA members were tried for terrorist activities in 1974. Pieter and Leona Boese. They got ninety years apiece. He was German-American, she Afro-American. They had a son called Ismael. He was thirteen years old when they went to jail, and they gave him to two of their friends to bring up. James and Morag Maguire.’

  Byrne leaned forward. ‘IRA fundraisers.’

  ‘Ismael was mixed race, a good-looking boy,’ Logan said. ‘They put him through high school, then college. I think he majored in electronics.’

  ‘James Maguire was arrested in Belgium in 1984,’ Webb interrupted, ‘trying to blow up an off-duty British major.’

  ‘Sandford-Adams,’ Swann added. ‘What happened to the kid?’

  ‘In 1984 he was twenty-three,’ Logan said. ‘He’d left home long before then.’

  ‘Born to two terrorists, then brought up by two more.’ Webb stroked his moustache. ‘Where is he now?’

  She made an open-handed gesture. ‘We lost touch with him years ago. Morag Maguire’s doing time for conspiracy. That’s back in the States.’

  ‘And the kid got a degree in electronics?’

  ‘I think so. I can check.’

  They were silent for a moment and then Webb pushed air from his cheeks. ‘If ever there was a blueprint for an habitual terrorist, that’s it.’

  ‘Ideologue,’ Byrne said.

  Swann felt a shiver prickle his scalp. ‘That fits with something else. What you told me, Louis, about the French police train in 1982. Carlos and the mixed-race unknown. Your man in Israel, Ben …’

  ‘Dubin.’

  ‘Yes, him. Your theory about the Storm Crow being in this for money. First the Russians and then the Syrians stitched up Carlos when they didn’t want him any more. Imagine, you’re brought up by two people with a cause and they end up doing life. Then you go to two more with a similar cause and they end up in prison as well. The connection is the cause. Think about it—your parents, your adopted parents, and eventually Carlos the Jackal himself.’ Webb looked at Byrne. ‘How did you get the prints?’

  ‘We didn’t. It was the ATF in California, years ago. This kid tried to buy some blasting caps. The ATF had an undercover man working Venice beach. They checked him out and found he was Ismael Boese. With his past, they tailed him for a while, but he seemed to be pretty clean. One night in a bar, however, the UCA lifted the glass Boese’d been drinking from. Always useful to have a set of prints on file. Only they never made it to the national crime computer. That’s why it took us this long.’ He sat back, shaking his head. ‘I would never have thought of him, but it’s true, his profile’s got to be the most pathological terrorist ever.’ He gestured with an open palm. ‘I think we just identified the Storm Crow.’

  20

  THE FOLLOWING MORNING, SWANN briefed Clements and Colson on what had transpired. Colson sat in his office swivelling back and forth in his chair.

  ‘Louis Byrne came up with this?’

  Swann nodded. ‘The leg-att paged him while we were in the Wonkei, Guv. They’d had word from Washington—Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms.’

  ‘Ismael Boese, the Storm Crow. That’s a hell of a result, Jack.’

  Swann pushed out his lips. ‘Only one thing bothers me, sir. What we’ve seen so far has taken a tremendous amount of planning, not to mention the money …’

  ‘Meaning Boese’s too much of an action man to be Storm Crow,’ Clements cut in.

  ‘Carlos was an action man, Jack. He also planned his operations in the minutest of detail. How d’you think he evaded capture for twenty-odd years?’

  ‘I’m not arguing, Guv. Byrne’s probably right.’

  Colson came down to the squad room after imparting the news to the commander. Byrne and Logan were checking files. Swann had got agreement to bring in Frank Cairns, even though the video evidence was far from clear, and was about to go and get him.

  ‘Ismael Boese, Louis,’ Colson said, sitting down across from him. ‘Now we know who he is—what about a motive?’

  Byrne laid down the file he was reading. ‘Money.’

  ‘Is Jakob Salvesen paying him? Is that why Bruno Kuhlmann was in the compound?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ Byrne sat forward. ‘Everything we know about the militia indicates their fight is with the US government. Yet Salvesen is arming them. Kuhlmann could be a coincidence, so could Abel Manley. It’s possible, probable even that the two things are entirely unrelated.’ He stood up and pointed to the information pasted round the walls. ‘There’s never been a specific pattern with Storm Crow,’ he said. ‘He goes where the money is. But since Fort Bliss, in 1995, he’s only been active in Europe.’ He looked back at Colson. ‘Five separate incidents, and three of them to do with banking.’

  Swann watched him, one foot resting against the edge of his desk. ‘I can’t believe that Kuhlmann is just a coincidence,’ he said.

  Byrne looked sharply at him. ‘Why not, Jack? What possible reason could Salvesen have for being behind what Storm Crow is doing in Europe? The people who frequent his compound are US militia leaders.’

  ‘Apart from Sebastian May. The right-wing Euro MP.’

  ‘MI6 have cleared him.’

  Swann held his gaze. ‘I don’t believe in coincidences, Louis.’

  ‘There is one thing,’ Logan interrupted them. ‘We told you that Salvesen runs this religious foundation called Omega. He claims it’s funded to research Biblical prophecy. Some of his sermons are transcripted for people who didn’t catch his radio broadcasts and are published on the Internet. Recently, he’s been talking about the “fourth kingdom”, something to do with the ancient Roman Empire.’

  Swann raised one eyebrow. ‘That helps a lot, Chey.’ He stood up and looked at Colson. ‘I’m going to nick Frank Cairns,’ he said.

  The Catholic priest walked into Westminster Cathedral and smiled at the woman behind the desk. Around him, the organ pipes groaned as if someone who could not play was trying to. ‘They’re being tuned,’ she said.

  He smiled at her and wandered to the font at the back of the Lady Chapel, where he sat down to pray. He sat a long time and then he heard footsteps on the flagstones, slow delib
erate steps and the creak of the chair behind him.

  ‘Such a fine autumn day, so it is.’

  The priest straightened and half smiled. ‘A good day to be in Dublin.’

  ‘Aye.’

  The Irishman leaned forward in his seat. ‘Are you prepared?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘I don’t think you’re hearing me, Father. I mean, are you prepared?’

  The priest paused then and stared at the lighted candles on the altar. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I am.’

  ‘Talk to our mutual friend,’ the Irishman told him. ‘She’ll have the last of everything ready.’ He scraped back the chair and stood up. The priest felt the heat of his breath on his neck. ‘In the meantime, try to enjoy your vacation.’

  ‘And I stood upon the sand of the sea, and saw a beast rise up out of the sea, having seven heads and ten horns, and upon his horns ten crowns, and upon his heads the name of blasphemy.

  And the beast which I saw was like unto a leopard, and his feet were as the feet of a bear, and his mouth as the mouth of a lion: and the dragon gave him his power, and his seat, and great authority.

  And I saw one of his heads as it were wounded to death: and his deadly wound was healed: and all the world wondered after the beast.’

  Jakob Salvesen addressed his audience in Ely. He was a guest of the Nevada Unorganized Militia, whose leader—Evan Robinson—sat at the front of the hall with him. There were three hundred people crammed inside, some of them having to stand. Salvesen leaned on the lectern. ‘Sound familiar, friends?’ He stood up again, pushing out his belly under the white suit, and stroked the length of his chin. ‘The situation that arises before the final struggle. We all recognize it. We know of the conspiracy, the New World Order, the global government which will mean an end to US sovereignty. The likes of Mikhail Gorbachev in this country right now, an office in the San Francisco Presidio.’ He threw out a big hand to his left. ‘The liberals who want to see an end to the family as we know it—not American citizens, but citizens of the world. Homosexual freedoms, AIDS and abortion. The World Bank pouring billions into abortion and other forms of contraception to stop what they call the population explosion and what we call family life. You’ve got the United Nations giving orders to American forces. We pay and they play. That’s treason, friends.’ He stood back and hooked his thumbs in his belt. ‘It began with Ruby Ridge, and then the Brady Bill and finally, Waco. No wonder that gal in Indiana called on the people to arm themselves and go arrest Congress. No wonder people see black helicopters in the skies, and concentration camps from Alaska to Jerome, Idaho. No wonder people don’t want to pay federal taxes, when the money they pay gets pumped into liberal, demonic causes like the New Agers, whose very origins are based in Satanism.’