by Jeff Gulvin
The convoy got closer and closer. Three miles behind Boese, they eased back on their speed and switched off sirens and lights. Further up the motorway, the local traffic officers were setting rolling roadblocks at the entrance to the access roads. Nobody would be joining the carriageway north until the surveillance cars were beyond them. People would get irate, drivers always did, but the designated cars would hog the three lanes and gradually slow their speed to forty. That way, a gap would open between the assault cars and those following, allowing enough time for Graves to put the attack in and stop Boese’s Mondeo. They got further and further north, and gradually the traffic eased behind the Gunships. A sterile arrest car joined them, with three SO13 officers on board. They wanted Boese clean and uncontaminated.
Graves was constantly on the radio, controlling the movement of vehicles. The lead Gunship, the black Range Rover, now had the target in sight. They passed the motorcyclist on the left and he nodded to them. Above them, the helicopter confirmed everything. The traffic continued ahead, but behind them the road was empty. Graves wanted five miles between the Gunships and the surveillance cars to stop one almighty pile-up. That would give the attack team seven and a half minutes to complete the arrest and get any damaged vehicles to the side of the road. The surveillance cars called in their positions and the helicopter monitored the distance. When they hit the five-mile mark, the call came in to Graves.
‘Confirmed,’ Graves said. ‘Attack cars, one, two and three. Move up.’
The Range Rover accelerated ahead of them. Boese was now in the outside lane doing eighty-five miles an hour. He was talking on a mobile phone. The Range Rover came alongside him, the driver keeping his eyes forward. If Boese looked left, the driver did not notice. He accelerated hard and pulled out into the outside lane, perhaps twenty yards ahead. The second car pulled alongside and the third entered the outside lane behind the Mondeo. The lead Range Rover slowed just a fraction and a gap opened between the attack team and the traffic travelling in front. Boese was boxed in.
Graves watched, eyes sharp, microphone to his lips. ‘Stand by,’ he murmured. ‘Stand by. Stand by.’ His eyes flicked ahead, then briefly over his shoulder, only empty tarmac behind them. ‘Stand by. Stand by.’ He paused. Then, ‘ATTACK.’
Simultaneously, the drivers of the three Gunships hit their brakes. The Mondeo braked and ploughed into the back of the Range Rover. The inside Omega pulled hard right and forced Boese into the central reservation. The last one braked and brushed the Mondeo’s bumper. Within seconds, nine armed officers hit the tarmac. Boese watched them coming: no means of escape, the driver’s door was all but against the crash barrier. Nine MP5 carbines were levelled at his windows. Slowly, he raised his hands.
Swann was out of the car. The SFOs had Boese prostrate on the tarmac now, his discarded mobile phone lying beside him. They searched him and found nothing. Then they twisted plasti-cuffs over his wrists and dragged him to his feet. Jack Swann stood facing him. He had his own mobile in his hand and he pressed in the number on Pia’s bill: 0385 902754. He stared in Boese’s eyes. Boese stared back. On the tarmac, the phone started ringing.
Tom Kovalski found Harrison in the parking lot outside the field office in Salt Lake City, packing his gear into the back of his truck.
‘Johnny Buck,’ he called, and Harrison looked up, a Marlboro sticking out of his mouth.
‘Louis Byrne just called me from the leg-att’s office in London.’
‘Yeah?’
‘Scotland Yard arrested the Storm Crow.’
Harrison sucked on the cigarette and let smoke drift from his nostrils. ‘No kidding,’ he said.
Kovalski shook his hand. ‘It’s a great day, John,’ he said. ‘A really great day.’
‘Yeah. Right.’
‘Another thing I wanted to tell you. Louis Freeh wants to see you when we get back to D.C. He heard what a great job you did in Idaho.’
Harrison smiled then. ‘The director? No shit.’ He ran his fingers over the doorhandle of his truck. ‘D’you think he’ll mind waiting for a little bit? I’m gonna take some time off, Tom,’ he said. ‘Get my head together.’
‘Good idea. You deserve it. Where you gonna go?’
‘Passover, Idaho.’
Kovalski looked at him then, with his head slightly to one side. ‘That a good idea?’
‘I don’t know yet. I had a bit of a life there, Tom. I wanna see if I can get some of it back.’
‘Never go back, John. You know the game.’
‘Normally I do.’ Harrison flipped away his cigarette. ‘This time it’s different, though.’
Kovalski nodded. ‘OK. When you get done, call me in Washington. Let me know when you’re coming in.’
Harrison drove back to Idaho: it took him five hours; dark when he got there. He cruised slowly through Passover, but nobody was on the street. He drove three miles further and passed the airport in Westlake where Salvesen had flown in all the militia leaders. Salvesen was in chains now and he would stay that way. He thought about his face though, when they had tried to interrogate him. The Abomination that causes desolation, the Beast. When there are sixteen nations in the European Union, you will see him rise. Israel reformed as a nation. The age of the Gentiles over in 1967. All would come to pass within one generation. He felt a shiver trickle down his spine. What if Salvesen was right?
He stopped the truck in Westlake and lit a cigarette. Cars and motorcycles were parked up outside the hotel and from the look of things it was busy. Harrison sat a while in the darkness, and the sheriff passed him on his way south. He could see Danny Dugger’s battered truck and he thought about Magdalena’s tunnels. There, he had killed Jesse Tate, and got back what he lost.
The hotel bar was crowded and noisy. Nobody noticed him at first. Sula-Mae was bartending. Harrison slipped on to a stool and gradually the noise subsided. Lisa Guffy was sitting with her home girl round the other side. Their eyes met and she looked away. Harrison sat there looking at the bar top, and then a bottle of Bud was set down in front of him. He looked up into Sula’s brown eyes. ‘Buck seventy-five,’ she said.
He felt in his pocket for dollars and caught sight of Don, the owner, watching him from his seat by the tape machine. He had not put Frank Sinatra on yet, but he would. Harrison sipped the beer and lit a Merit. He watched Guffy and she ignored him. Cecil moved alongside him, dark-eyed man and gentle. ‘So you’re a Fed, Harrison,’ he said.
‘Yes, Cecil. I am.’
Cecil scraped fingers over his moustache. Harrison moved his shoulders.
‘I’m sorry I lied to you, man. But there was no other way. Jake Salvesen tried to bomb London. Somebody had to get him.’
Cecil looked thoughtful for a moment, finished his drink and glanced sideways at him.
‘You wanna shot?’ he said.
Cecil bought him a Jack Daniel’s and he knocked it back, the liquor harsh in his throat. Still he looked at Guffy and still she ignored him. Tracy was talking to her and motioning in his direction. Harrison caught Danny Dugger’s eye and Danny inclined his head. He looked up and found Chief towering above him, left arm in a sling. ‘Never thought we’d see you again,’ he said.
‘Got business to finish up. How’s the shoulder?’
‘It’ll work.’
Harrison finished his beer and bought another one. Sula-Mae served him without speaking. Nobody else spoke to him. Cecil went off to play pool with Jimmy the Limey, who eyed Harrison cautiously. He nursed his beer, smoked another cigarette and thought about pulling out. He knew where he was going, but didn’t want to go alone. He felt somebody move alongside him and smelled Guffy’s perfume. Very slowly he looked up.
‘You came back,’ she said quietly.
‘I did.’
‘Why?’
‘Things to say.’
‘So say them.’
People were watching them now. Harrison straightened on his stool. Wayne Olson vacated his and Guffy sat down next to him.
> ‘I only ever lied to you about what I did,’ he told her.
Lisa lit a cigarette and blew smoke at the ceiling. ‘What does that mean?’
‘Exactly what it says. Everything else I said was true.’
‘Everything?’
He looked in her eyes. ‘You think I’d drive for five hours back to a town full of people who hate me, if it wasn’t?’
She looked away. Harrison could feel himself trembling.
‘What you gonna do now?’ she asked him.
‘Go back to D.C. and finish up. Then I guess they’ll assign me to another field office.’
‘Where?’
He shrugged. ‘New Orleans, New Mexico, maybe. I don’t know, honey. I’ll have to wait and see.’
‘You going right away?’
‘No,’ he said. ‘I’m due some vacation time.’
‘What you gonna do with it?’
‘I’m gonna drive to Marquette and fish the big lake.’ He paused then and put out his cigarette. ‘You wanna come with me, Miss Lady Mam?’
For a moment she sat very still, staring into space across the bar. Then she slipped her hand into his where it rested in his lap. She looked him hard in the eyes. ‘You fuck me over again, Harrison—I’ll kill you.’
The SO13 team were in Los Remos with the Americans. Beer was flowing. Boese was in custody and in the morning Swann was going to interview him. Everyone was in high spirits. The press knew nothing yet. The commander was keeping it quiet until they had the results of the swabbing and fibres. He was going to savour the moment, before personally calling the Prime Minister in Rome.
The moment was bittersweet for Swann; he wondered if the word had got round to Pia yet that Storm Crow was in custody. Or at least Boese was. The others, Webb included, reckoned they had their man. Swann harboured doubts. But hell, he might as well enjoy it along with everyone else, and he was looking forward to tomorrow. Byrne put an arm round his shoulders. ‘Quiet, Jack. I thought this’d be your night?’
‘Yeah, well. You know how it is, Louis.’
‘Listen, you’re a good police officer. You got chewed a bit. It happens.’
Swann took out his cigarettes. He caught Cheyenne’s pretty, black eyes and she smiled at him. Byrne slapped him on the back and accepted another beer from Webb.
Cheyenne came over to Swann. ‘You know, honey,’ she said. ‘You look like the little boy lost.’ Swann laughed then. ‘Really?’
‘I guess it’s mixed feelings for you tonight.’
‘I’m a bit pissed off, Chey. But I’ll get over it.’
‘Let me buy you a shot.’ She bought him a single malt and he sipped it. ‘When’re you going back to the States?’ he asked her.
‘Couple of days.’ She touched his arm. ‘You ever get over there, you give me a call, y’hear.’ Swann nodded. ‘You think Boese’s the man?’
‘Yes, I do. He’s very bright, Jack. You’ve said that yourself. He hung out with Carlos. He must’ve learned something.’
‘We don’t know that was Boese for definite.’
‘We’re pretty sure. Louis’s checked him out with the Jonathan Institute. He’s pretty certain.’
Swann looked up then and caught Byrne’s eye. For a while they looked at one another. Neither of them smiled.
The following morning, Swann and Clements wheeled Ismael Boese into the interview room at Paddington Green. Ramas was dead, the foot soldiers were in custody, only Tal-Salem was at large. Boese, dressed in a paper suit and somebody else’s shoes, was seated across the table from them. He said nothing, merely folded his arms and looked directly between them. His face showed no hint of emotion, but his eyes were dark and strong. He looked like a man totally at peace with himself. Since he had been arrested on the Ml motorway the previous afternoon, he had not said a single word.
‘You’re allowed to make a phone call,’ Swann said to him. ‘Do you want to call a solicitor or shall we appoint one for you?’
‘I have one.’ His voice was soft and firm.
‘James Ingram’s in custody.’
Boese looked at him. ‘I have one,’ he repeated.
Swann got a telephone and plugged it in. ‘What’s the number?’
‘0181 405 1719.’
‘Name of the firm?’
‘Reeves & Company.’
‘Solicitor’s name?’
‘Reeves.’
Swann picked up the Yellow Pages and looked under ‘Solicitors’. He found Reeves & Co, checked the number and dialled.
Mr Reeves lay in the corner of his office with a bullet hole in his head. Twenty minutes earlier, Tal-Salem had walked into the outer office and quietly locked the door.
‘Excuse me,’ the middle-aged receptionist said. ‘What do you think you’re doing?’
Tal-Salem turned and screwed the silencer into the barrel of his Beretta. He put a finger to his lips and smiled, then beckoned for her to get up. Her face had drained of all colour—wan and pale despite the layers of make-up. She was shaking and her red mouth wavered as she spoke. ‘What—what do you want? We don’t keep any money here.’
Tal-Salem pointed to Reeves’s nameplate on the door. ‘I have an appointment,’ he said.
She showed him in and Reeves looked up from across the desk; a bald-headed man of about forty, large spectacles sitting low on his nose. He half rose and Tal-Salem shot him. The receptionist fainted and he had to slap hard to wake her.
Now he sat across Reeves’s desk, with her in Reeves’s chair, and he rested his gun hand on his thigh. The telephone rang and he motioned to it. ‘Normal,’ he said, ‘or I’ll shoot you.’
She picked it up with a hand that trembled. ‘Reeves & Company,’ she said.
Swann glanced at Boese. ‘This is Detective Sergeant Swann of the Antiterrorist Branch, Metropolitan Police. We have a client of yours in custody, one Ismael Boese. He would like to speak to Mr Reeves.’
‘One moment, please.’ The receptionist handed the phone to Tal-Salem.
‘Reeves here,’ he said.
‘Paddington Green police station. I have Ismael Boese for you.’
‘Put him on.’
Swann passed the phone across to Boese.
Boese took it and raised it slowly to his ear. He stared at Swann, eyes penetrating, deep and suddenly very dark. ‘Go to work,’ he said, and put the phone down.
Swann stared at him, sweat on the palms of his hands. For the first time since this investigation began, he believed he was looking at the Storm Crow.
Tal-Salem put the phone down, sighed, then shot the receptionist in the middle of the forehead. For a second she stared at him in surprise, and then slumped back in the chair. He laid the gun on the desk, picked up the phone and dialled.
Giancarlo Pasquali sat in his tiny Rome apartment and looked at his watch. The phone rang on the table.
‘Si?’
‘OK.’
‘OK? Si. Ciao.’ Pasquali put the phone down again, scratched his head and smiled. He opened his wallet, ran a finger over the crisp, stuffed notes and put it back in his pocket. Downstairs, he got into his ageing diesel taxi and headed down to St Peter’s Square. He hummed as he drove, thinking this was the easiest money he had ever earned.
In London, Tal-Salem sat on the desk and looked at the two dead bodies. He took a pre-rolled joint from his shirt pocket, lit it and drew the smoke in deeply. He thought about poor Pasquali and the second tank under the diesel one in his cab. He looked at his watch and smiled. In about ten minutes’ time, the aerosol would start to work.
Pasquali got to a set of red lights and let the engine idle. A man tied his dog to a lamppost and went into a kiosk for cigarettes. Thick, black fumes coughed from Pasquali’s exhaust pipe. The man came out of the kiosk. The lights were green, but the taxi wasn’t moving. He moved over to it: car drivers backed up behind were honking their horns as only frustrated Romans can do. The driver was rigid in the seat, vomit on his chest, eyes balling and very, very red. His whole body
was shaking. The man stared, then suddenly he coughed, coughed again and looked at the blood in his hand.
John Garrod sat at his desk and swivelled back and forth in his chair. He had just come off the phone to the Prime Minister, who was at the Capitol Chambers in Rome. He allowed himself a smile of self-congratulation and glanced at the American-Indian pictures that hung on the walls of his office. One of them caught his eye: the thin-lipped Apache, Geronimo. Master of illusion.
Tony Blair came off the telephone and walked back into the council chamber. They had broken for coffee, and the other fourteen heads of Europe were standing and chatting together. It was in this very room that, forty-one years previously, the original six nations had signed the Treaty of Rome. Blair cleared his throat. ‘Gentlemen,’ he said. ‘I have an announcement to make. The British government is delighted to be able to tell you that not only did our security forces successfully disable the chemical threat in London, but I have just been informed by the commander of the Antiterrorist Branch, that yesterday we apprehended Ismael Boese.’ He smiled widely. ‘The Storm Crow is in custody.’
They burst into applause and one by one they shook his hand. He moved to the window and allowed himself a moment of quiet contemplation. Chancellor Kohl stepped alongside and patted him on the back. ‘Congratulations,’ he said.
‘Thank you.’ The Prime Minister looked out of the window. Storm clouds were gathering over the city.
Acknowledgments
The author would like to thank:
The Domestic Terrorism Operations Unit and Fugitive Publicity Office, FBI Headquarters, Washington D.C. without whom this novel could not have been written.