Storm Crow

by Jeff Gulvin

  ‘Very popular here,’ the agent told her. ‘None of these properties stay very long on the market. I’ve only got three on the books right now.’

  She looked at him and nodded. Dark glasses, long blonde hair and red painted fingernails. She walked to the window and looked out. From this height the view was spectacular. She could see the lakes and St Giles Church and the height of the buildings beyond it.

  ‘Who’s the property for, exactly?’ the agent asked her. He was a young man, with oiled hair and a heavy pinstripe in his suit.

  ‘Some Spanish bankers,’ she said. ‘Well, one, anyway. Raoul Mendez, but the lease will be taken in the company name. Señor Mendez is advising the government on British and Spanish business interests apropos the single currency.’

  The agent nodded. ‘That’s supposed to come in next year,’ he said.

  ‘Supposed to. The currency in your pocket won’t change until 2002. We need to be ready,’ she said, ‘whether the first phase goes ahead or not.’ She looked at him then. ‘The rent?’

  ‘Three hundred and fifty pounds per week, plus the service charges. There’s an underground car park with a lift straight up. The car park is secure and we have videotaped CCTV.’

  She nodded slowly. ‘We’ll take it. Prepare a lease and send it to our bankers.’ She handed him a card and then left.

  Ismael Boese flew into London from the United States and checked into the Stakis Hotel overlooking Hyde Park. He settled into a room on the fourth floor, with views all across the park and Kensington Gardens. He checked in as Raoul Mendez, an American citizen from Albuquerque, New Mexico. He was only going to stay a few nights, he told them, as he was here on business and would need to find something more permanent. He had a lengthy moustache and the thick, black hair of the Spanish. From his room he made two telephone calls, one to Birmingham and one to Manchester. When he was finished, he lay back on his bed and slept.

  In Birmingham, Tal-Salem sat on his bed in the small hotel where he rented a room on a weekly basis, and which was close enough to commute to the Indian restaurant where he had been working. He had just rolled a long slim cigarette, sprinkled with Moroccan black hashish. Now he smoked and as he did so his eyes glazed and he felt the ease of his diaphragm, moving up and down in his chest. He stared at the tear in the wallpaper on the wall facing his bed. He had been working at the restaurant for six months now and he missed the beach and the girls in Spain. Pretty soon, he would have all the time he needed just to kick back and relax.

  In Manchester, Pier-Luigi Ramas packed his case for the morning. He would take the train to London and check into the Stakis Hotel in Regent’s Park. He stared at his reflection in the mirror, not him at all to look at: bearded, long hair, tied behind his head in a ponytail. And the glasses—little John Lennon’s. It was amazing how just a small change in your appearance was all you needed to deceive the casual, even not so casual, observer. When he saw himself on television, he didn’t recognize the pictures.

  In the morning, Boese got up and ate a leisurely breakfast before making his way to the tube station. He took the Piccadilly line as far as South Kensington and then changed for Victoria. From there he walked to Westminster Cathedral, just another Spanish tourist paying his respects. He smiled at the woman as he always did, only she didn’t recognize him as the Greek Orthodox priest, and then he wandered amid the magnificence, crossed himself under the great crucifix and made his way to the Lady Chapel, where he found a young woman with blonde hair already seated in front of him.

  ‘The candles are lit,’ he said quietly, as he sat down behind her.

  ‘No,’ she replied. ‘The candles are alight.’

  He leaned forward as if in prayer and she passed a package underneath her chair. ‘The agent’s name is Franklin Rees & Co, you’ll find them in Long Lane on the right-hand side, as you go down towards the meat market from the Barbican station. The details are all in there and everything has been settled. Make yourself known to the concierge. He will have the key.’

  ‘Are they aware of the others?’

  ‘Your two colleagues from the bank? Of course. They know that time is short and you will be working from home as well as the office.’

  ‘And the papers—the money?’

  ‘Everything you need is in the package. You even have membership of the health club.’

  He smiled then and, bending forward, he pressed his face into her hair. She stiffened and he delighted in her sudden revulsion. When she looked round, he was gone.

  The Foreign Emergency Search Team came back to London for the third time in March. After they had positively identified Ibrahim Huella as Ismael Boese, Louis Byrne and his colleagues, now knowing that Storm Crow was a US citizen, had gone back and forth to Washington, to follow their own inquiries. Within two days of their return, the Antiterrorist Branch was contacted by a glass supplier. After the incident in Northumberland, they had been in touch with every supplier of toughened glass in London and insisted they be contacted confidentially if anyone bought a similar quantity to what they had found before. Anyone who was not known, any non-account holder, and anyone paying in cash. Rayburn’s of Sutton called them.

  Swann and Webb went down to see them right away. Cheyenne Logan went with them.

  ‘You find anything out in the States, Chey?’ Webb asked her, leaning his arm over the back of the seat. Swann was driving, quickly, pushing his way through the traffic.

  Logan shrugged. ‘Not a lot. Louis thought we had a sighting of Boese in Las Vegas, but it turned out to be nothing. I don’t think he was in the States at all.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘I don’t know. Instinct, I guess.’

  Webb nodded. ‘He was probably here all the time.’

  They pulled into the glass-supply depot. A young lad of about sixteen was serving.

  ‘We’re police officers,’ Swann said to him. ‘Is your Mr Matthews in?’

  ‘I’ll get him.’ The boy ducked away and Webb had a look outside. There was a loading bay backing on to the trade counter and a number of vans were parked against the burnt red of the wall.

  ‘Good afternoon.’

  They turned and the manager, Mr Matthews, the man who had phoned them, opened the hatch in the counter. He was small and slightly lopsided, a beer belly hanging over the waistband of his trousers. ‘Come through. Won’t you?’ he said.

  They followed him to a small office at the back and he sat down. ‘Glass purchase,’ he began. ‘You sent us a circular asking us to report any strange purchases of armoured glass.’

  ‘That’s right,’ Webb said. ‘We did.’

  ‘Here we are.’ Matthews took the letter from his desk drawer. ‘All purchases that are not known trade customers or are made with cash.’

  Swann rolled his eyes to the ceiling. ‘You had one today,’ he said, ‘why you called us.’

  Matthews looked up at him. ‘No, not today. That’s somebody’s error. It was yesterday, I’m afraid.’

  Swann bit his teeth together. ‘Yesterday?’

  ‘That’s right.’ Matthews flicked through the ledger on his desk. ‘Afternoon, four sheets four by six, Pro-Max glass. Not armoured but very tough.’

  Swann went back to the counter and looked up at the ceiling. He came back through again. ‘Your CCTV, do you tape it?’

  ‘Oh, yes. We’re very careful like that.’

  ‘We’ll need yesterday’s tape.’

  ‘Yes, of course. I’ll get it for you.’

  Webb looked at Matthews as he scrabbled in the box under his desk and came up with an assortment of video cassette cases. ‘Who served the buyer?’

  ‘Let’s see.’ Matthews checked the receipt book. ‘Mark did, that young lad out there.’

  ‘I’d like a word with him,’ Swann said.

  ‘Be my guest. Sorry we didn’t tell you sooner. If I’d been here, I would’ve done it. You can’t trust the staff to remember anything.’

  Swann went back to the counter again
and took Mark to one side. ‘I’m Jack Swann, Mark,’ he said. ‘Scotland Yard. Yesterday you sold some glass.’

  ‘I sell a lot of glass.’

  Swann nodded. ‘I know you do. This was four sheets of four by six toughened glass. Max-plus or something. It was a cash purchase. Yesterday afternoon.’

  Mark still looked doubtful, then he nodded. ‘I remember, bloke on his own. Paid cash, told me he was building an aquarium somewhere. Worcester, I think he said.’

  ‘Can you remember what he looked like?’

  ‘Just normal.’ He pointed to the video cameras above the counter. ‘We’ll have him on tape, though.’

  ‘Thanks, Mark. What did he load it into—the glass I mean?’

  ‘Van, I think. Somebody else collected it.’

  Swann narrowed his eyes. ‘You mean he didn’t take it there and then?’

  ‘No. I think someone else picked it up later on.’

  ‘What did he look like?’

  ‘I don’t know. He would’ve gone straight to the yard.’

  ‘D’you remember the colour of the van?’

  Mark shook his head. ‘Ask the lads outside. They do the loading.’

  Swann did ask them. They couldn’t agree. It could’ve been white. It could’ve been blue. One thing they did remember, however, was that the driver wore a woollen hat with no bobble and an old Harrington jacket.

  Matthews had a video recorder set up in his office and Swann, Webb and Logan sat down to watch with Mark.

  ‘Your boss said it was in the afternoon.’ Logan looked at the timer on the screen.

  Mark squinted at her. ‘You a copper as well?’ he said.

  ‘Sort of.’

  ‘How come you’re American, then?’

  ‘I work for the FBI.’

  His eyes widened. ‘What, like Mulder and Scully?’

  ‘Not quite. No.’

  They wound the tape through to the afternoon and then played it more slowly. They watched for a few minutes, then Swann wound it on again. ‘That’s him.’ Mark pointed and Swann froze the image, rewound and played it again. A man in a bomber jacket, maybe blue or black, the image was not good enough to tell. He was bare-headed and dark-skinned. As they watched, he slowly lifted his head and stared into the lens of the camera. Ismael Boese, the Storm Crow.

  Swann stared at the screen and Boese stared at him: face cold, eyes the black of a shark. Nobody spoke. Swann looked at Webb and then at Logan. Still none of them said anything, but they could all feel it, the sudden ice in the air.

  ‘Thanks, Mark,’ Swann said. He left them then and Swann wound the frame back and froze it once again.

  ‘Son-of-a-bitch,’ Logan said softly.

  ‘Taking the piss, Chey,’ Swann muttered. ‘Bastard’s taking the piss.’

  On the way back to the Yard, Webb phoned in and spoke to Campbell McCulloch. ‘We need a van, Macca,’ he said. ‘Nicked or hired in the last few days. The bastard’s here again.’

  When they got back, they showed the tape to the whole team. Nobody said anything at first and then Colson shook his head. ‘Who the hell does he think he is?’

  Byrne stared at the screen. ‘The baddest man on the planet.’

  Colson shot him a glance. ‘You think so? Well, I’m going to put him away. I’ll have him in Paddington Green so fast, his feet won’t touch the ground.’ He stood up and looked at the troops. ‘We need a van,’ he said. ‘And you know what—we need it now. So get out there and find it.’

  Harrison went back to the tunnels the night following their discovery. He hiked back over the saddle in snow-shoes to Dugger’s Canyon and spent the day sleeping in the hogan that Chief had built. He locked the door from the inside and curled up in one of the sleeping bags they stowed there. He woke up just before dark and went out to his keep hide. The Magdalena portal seemed to yawn at him, hung with broken timbers like the jaws of some silent beast on the hillside. From his hide, he took his infrared video camera with the macrozoom lens he needed for close-up work.

  He was still disturbed by what he had seen, rattled by both the huge amount of arms, but mostly by the execution chamber. What was that—a throwback to his Posse days? Then he recalled the sign on Salvesen’s gate about federal trespassers being tried and hanged. The other room, the first one he had gone into. He knew now it was a mock courtroom. He desperately wanted to get in touch with his contact agent in Salt Lake City, but he also wanted to get into Salvesen’s den before he got back from his speaking tour.

  He hiked back to the culvert through light flurries of snow, which enabled him to move that bit more quickly. It didn’t matter that the tracks were deeper, they would be covered almost as soon as he passed and there was no way in the world that anyone would be abroad tonight. He moved swiftly, aware of a tightness in his chest as he got closer to the culvert. Today his sleep had been fitful as it always was in the daytime, but the dreams were dark, dreams he had not had in a long time and he woke up in a sweat. He was shaky. For the first time since coming here almost two years ago, he was genuinely concerned. So many memories now: the irony of it, the only way to gain entry was from tunnels underground.

  He lay up under the rock on the hill until midnight and then he made his way down. It was still snowing and the goon tower lights were on around the compound. He could see movement as he drew closer and slowed his pace accordingly. At his final lay-up point he halted and sat in his gilly suit against a mound of snow for half an hour, then he made his way back to the tunnel entrance again. Somehow it seemed colder tonight. The hike from the canyon should have warmed his blood, but it hadn’t. He was shivering as he entered the darkness for the second time in two days. The iron trap door seemed stiffer than it had done and Harrison’s fingers were chill against the metal.

  He slid back the portal and prised himself up on to concrete. Again he squatted, Glock in his right hand, flashlight as yet unused in his left. He listened, head high, slightly to one side, and waited. He could hear the water dripping, but he could not hear anything else. On his way through the mini-labyrinth yesterday night, he had noticed that at certain points along the way the tunnels had passing areas. Salvesen had obviously anticipated activity underground. Harrison crawled and thought about the weapons. He thought about the men and women that were flown in and then shipped out to the compound’s mock town for training. Defensive, that had been what he noted, the training was defensive rather than offensive. Hell, he thought, they all believed that federal agents were coming to take their guns.

  He moved cautiously, not using the flashlight. He had mapped the tunnels well in his head the previous night and could roughly gauge the distance to the first trap door. Tonight there was no need to go anywhere except straight for Salvesen’s office. No need for the light except to count the trap doors he passed. He got to the first junction, turned right and pressed on. Halfway along the tunnel, he heard something moving towards him. Harrison froze. Somebody breathing and then the bob of a flashlight. He lay flat and tried to recall where the passing place was. The light moved nearer. Carefully, soundlessly, he began to move backwards, facing the oncoming light with his gun in his hand. The urge to fire was intense; a light ahead was Vietcong.

  Why would anyone be in the tunnels tonight unless they had spotted him entering? Impossible, he had been too careful. He moved backwards, never turning away, moving quickly enough to keep out of the fall of the light. Whoever it was was also moving quickly; he could hear the laboured rush of their breathing. The irregularity of the light told him that they were using both hands on the floor. The beam bounced off the walls and the ceiling instead of illuminating the expanse of the tunnel ahead.

  He felt the pressure of the concrete, the ice in his knees and the palms of his hands. At the junction he paused. Which way? Where were they going? Instinct told him that they must be heading outside; why else use the tunnels? Maybe Jesse had some kind of exercise going. Harrison thought about the culvert and knew that his lay-up point would be secure. He m
oved round the corner to his left, backing all the way, and then pressed himself against the wall with his gun across his chest.

  The man grunted as he got nearer. Harrison could hear him cursing under his breath. The light played all across the junction wall and Harrison pressed himself even closer into the darkness. He had the Glock in his belt now and his hunting knife in his hand.

  ‘Fucking Jesse Tate.’

  Wingo. Harrison twisted his mouth down at the edges; all his senses tingled, the desire to kill in his chest. That’s what you did underground. Whoever you met you killed, because if you didn’t—he killed you. He was back there now in the heat and the dirt, in singlet and jungle fatigues, with moisture in his eyes and dirt spilling on to his head from the runs in the tunnel roof. The flashlight was the enemy with an AK47 and grenades and a wire for your throat, as you moved from one level up to the next.

  ‘Fucking Jesse. Thinks he’s fucking Rambo. Middle of the fucking night.’ Wingo got to the junction and Harrison tensed. Look this way, motherfucker … the thought dulled into the thud of blood that lifted against his temple. Wingo did not look, he turned left and headed off into the darkness.

  Harrison’s head ached, the sudden heart-stopping tension. He sat a moment to gather himself, sweating through the cold in his cam’ suit. Clearly, Jesse did have some kind of exercise running, the kind of night-time thing that would appeal to his sense of power with Salvesen being away. Harrison knew he had to be doubly careful. He considered getting out there and then, but could not for fear of meeting Wingo coming back. He steeled himself, rubbed the sweat from his palms and gathered up his pistol and knife. He was here, he had to get into that office and he had to do it now.

  He met no one else. Maybe Wingo had pissed Jesse off and was on some kind of punishment mission of his own. Harrison paused under the next trap door and listened, but all was quiet above. And then he was under the house and above him was the bevelled wooden door that led to Jakob Salvesen’s den.