Prime Target u-10

by Hugh Miller

  ‘She’s Emily Selby,’ Gilbert said.

  Philpott thought for a moment. ‘Political analyst on the White House press team. Yes?’

  Gilbert nodded. ‘Her areas of expertise are listed as Central and South-west Asia.’

  ‘God almighty, I believe I spoke to her at a reception not long ago.’ Philpott groaned. ‘Maybe I’m losing it.’ He read the details again. ‘So, yesterday afternoon, right in front of the Lancer Gallery in Mayfair, Emily was shot through the spine and the back of the head with bullets from a Glock 17, identified as the gun found on the dead man. What was she doing in London?’

  ‘According to a Reuter’s bulletin, she was taking a month of her annual leave in Europe.’

  ‘Do we know who this other woman is?’

  ‘Yes, I got her identity on FaceBase.’

  ‘Did you, indeed. How long did that take?’

  ‘Three minutes.’ FaceBase was a feature-comparator capable of identifying photographs from a database of three million images. ‘It never takes much longer than that,’ Gilbert added.

  Philpott stared at him. ‘Do I detect a certain smugness?’

  ‘Well, it does seem to work every time, and I did argue strenuously for the installation of the system, even though certain people — ’

  ‘Certain people. You mean even though I, alone, reckoned it was going to be a waste of money and floor space.’ Philpott shrugged. ‘I was wrong.’

  ‘It’s magnanimous of you to say so, sir.’

  ‘Tom, when you’re right as often as I am, you have to be wrong some of the time or you start to look infallible. That would never do.’

  ‘The woman’s name is Erika Stramm,’ Gilbert said. ‘She’s German, a freelance political journalist with vague terrorist affiliations. She’s twice been refused a US visa.’

  ‘But we can’t define the link between her and Emily Selby.’

  ‘Not yet.’

  Philpott got up and stood by the window, looking down at the array of national flags fluttering on their masts in front of the complex. The office was on the twenty-second floor. From that height everything looked reassuringly tidy.

  ‘So,’ Philpott said, ‘the bald fact is that a man of Middle Eastern origin has murdered a US government employee in the heart of London. I think that until we know more about the gunman and his motive, we should regard this as a matter for low-level UNACO involvement. I’ll have the Political Intelligence office hunt for possible leads.’ He turned from the window and smiled tightly. ‘Thanks for bringing this to my attention.’

  Gilbert caught the dismissal. He stood up and drained his coffee cup.

  ‘What about the dead man’s fingerprints?’

  ‘They were transmitted on the ICON file, sir. Did you want to have them?’

  ‘Pass them to Mike Graham, with the rest of the stuff. Tell him I’d like a detailed work-up as soon as he can manage one. You’ll find him in the Interview Suite writing case notes. He’ll be glad of the diversion.’

  When Gilbert had gone, Philpott picked up the phone and told the UNACO operator to find the number for Riot City in Hounslow, England, and to give them a call.

  ‘Sounds like a fun place,’ Ms Redway said.

  ‘If you don’t find it listed as that, its real name is the Public Order Training Centre,’ Philpott told her, ‘and its bureaucratic handle is TO18. It’s a fantasy violence environment for police officers. I’m not sure I entirely approve, but their crowd-control training is the best.’

  ‘They probably won’t be open for business for three hours yet.’

  ‘I know. Tell the security person who answers the phone that Sabrina Carver should call her uncle as soon as she gets to Hounslow.’

  * * *

  The six o’clock forecast had said it would be a cold day, but sunny. On the drive out through Chiswick and Brentford it was still foggy, and on the approach to Hounslow the fog thickened. Slowing down to negotiate the narrow streets on the outskirts of town, Sabrina Carver switched on the car radio to catch the 8.30 news bulletin.

  The announcer was annoyingly upbeat for the time of day. He reported that Sinn Fein were to be promised seats at peace talks if they could persuade the IRA to renew their recently-ended ceasefire; a woman shot dead in Mayfair was believed to be an American tourist, but no details of her identity had yet been released; five students had died in a car crash at Milton Keynes; a serial killer had been given three life sentences at a Crown Court in Yorkshire; a British-led team of scientists was on its way to Pisa to help stop the tilt of the leaning tower.

  That was it. No news from the States. For the third or fourth time since she arrived in England, Sabrina promised herself she would try again to tune her Sony to Voice of America. Some weird signal-screening in her quarters at the police hostel played hell with shortwave reception.

  She stopped by the Riot City barrier and smiled at the constable in the security box, He waved as usual, but this morning it was different. Sabrina realized he was beckoning her. She got out and put her head inside the tiny office.

  ‘Morning, Terry. What’s up?’

  ‘You’ve to phone your uncle,’ he told her. ‘Soon as possible.’

  ‘Yeah. Right.’ It took a second to sink in. Until two weeks ago, the alias had been Cousin Malcolm.

  ‘You can use this phone if you want.’

  Sabrina knew that would be breaking Riot City rules. She also knew Terry was happy to make that kind of gesture if it would gain him points with a hard-bodied blonde his own height. Over tea and biscuits in the canteen, he had told her she was wasting her time being a cop; she should be in pictures.

  ‘It’s OK,’ Sabrina said now, ‘I’ll get to him later. I don’t want to be late. If Uncle rings again, would you tell him I’ll call back as soon as I can?’

  Terry said he would. Sabrina got back in the car, drove on until she was behind the administration block and stopped. She took her cellular phone from her bag and tapped in three digits. There was a scattering of satellite noise, then a ringing tone. Philpott answered on the fourth ring.

  ‘I got your message, sir.’

  ‘Fine. It’s nice to hear your voice, my dear. I’ve been looking over your team leader’s evaluation of your progress over there. He believes his notes are for the eyes of his London chief alone, of course, so there are one or two racist, sexist comments about pushy Yank feminist tactics and so on, but on the whole you’ve impressed him. He says that your, er, what is it now…’ paper rustled, ‘your capacity for total focus in a Level One TSG situation was especially to be commended. I assume that’s good?’

  ‘Level One is the ultimate stage of public order training, sir. A TSG is a Territorial Support Group.’

  ‘So what have you been doing in your TSG?’

  ‘All kinds of things connected with crowd handling and public order control. Yesterday we did gasoline-bomb training on a simulated Battersea street. At one stage I caught fire, but a couple of nice Inspectors patted the flames out.’

  ‘And do they buy your cover?’

  ‘Sure, they think I’m a New York cop. I chew plenty of gum and I swear a lot. It’s not the hardest cover to maintain. But I’m sure you didn’t get me to call just so we could engage in chit-chat.’

  ‘No, indeed. There’s a little job I want you to do, while you’re in the area.’ Philpott explained about the Emily Selby shooting and the possibility of the case being taken up by UNACO. ‘You know the kinds of fears a case like this can raise. Apart from the possibility that Emily Selby was a spy, there are other worries. The gunman could have been an irate Palestinian.’

  ‘Was Emily Jewish?’

  ‘She was. Think of the possibilities: a Jewish employee of the US government gunned down by a man of Arabic appearance.’

  ‘It raises a lot of scenarios.’

  ‘Well, for the moment it’s enough to be aware of them,’ Philpott said. ‘Emily had a small suite at the Knightsbridge Lawn Hotel, and unless intergovernmental procedure
has changed wildly in the past year or two, the rooms will be sealed off for a few days until it’s decided who has the right to nose around in the dead woman’s property.’

  ‘You want me to pre-empt the search.’

  ‘If you would.’

  ‘Any idea what I might be looking for?’

  ‘A journal, perhaps, cryptic notes, any item in her possessions that doesn’t chime with the rest. Try to find out if Emily was less of a credit to her job than anyone suspected.’

  Sabrina looked at the clock on the side of the main building. If she was going to get coffee before people started throwing bricks at her, she would have to go now.

  ‘Should I do the job tonight, sir?’

  ‘Not any later.’

  ‘In that case I’ll have to do some manoeuvring.’

  ‘Why so?’

  ‘There’s a full-scale military-style kit inspection tomorrow morning. My stuff’s in a foul state. Getting it ready will be a three-hour job, at the tightest.’

  ‘You’re an agent of UNACO, my dear, which means you count resourcefulness among your many qualities. I’m sure you’ll manage. How much longer will you be at Hounslow?’

  ‘I finish tomorrow.’

  ‘Lord, time flies.’

  ‘I hope to be back in New York Saturday.’

  ‘By which time, I’ve no doubt, you’ll be an even more finely-honed and efficient emissary of justice than you were before you left us.’

  ‘Are you being serious, sir?’

  ‘Not particularly,’ Philpott said. ‘Take care, Sabrina.’

  ‘As ever,’ she promised.

  When she walked into the canteen three minutes later, the usual silence fell. It was momentary, a one-beat cessation of talk and rattling as the sixty-two men and four women in the place stopped everything to register her arrival.

  Sabrina was not embarrassed or discomfited. She had been attracting overt interest since a few months past puberty; also, at Hounslow there was the added professional factor. The blonde was an American cop — or so they believed — and since all dreams of slick law enforcement centre on the US police image, Sabrina realized she was as much a focus of envy as anything else.

  ‘It’s coffee, black, no sugar, right?’ Plump Inspector Lowther was on his feet, pointing to the chair opposite his own at the table nearest the door. ‘I was on my way to get seconds anyway. Sit down, I’ll only be a minute.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  As she pulled out the chair a young officer at the next table said, ‘Hey, settle an argument, will you?’ He pointed to her black cotton coverall suit. ‘You had that made special, didn’t you?’

  ‘Nope.’ Sabrina patted the gold-and-blue embroidered badge on her sleeve. ‘It’s standard NYPD issue.’

  ‘Really? Has it got special deep pockets for the bribes?’

  Sabrina smiled back. ‘You must watch an awful lot of bad movies. Get out more often in the real world. Bribe a girl to go with you.’

  He blushed, and the jeering laughter of his companions obviously stung. He looked away and said no more.

  ‘Here we go…’ Inspector Lowther put a cup of coffee in front of her and sat down with his tea and a jam doughnut. ‘I hope it’s hot enough.’

  ‘It’s fine, thank you.’

  He was a sweet soul, and even though he was on the make Sabrina found the attentiveness endearing. He had latched on to her from the start and had helped her over the early hurdles without once making a move on her. But she could tell the hope was there. When she left England she would not miss Lowther, but at least she wouldn’t remember him with distaste.

  ‘So,’ she said, making small talk, ‘today’s the grand finale, huh?’

  He nodded. ‘Rocks, bottles, firebombs, burning buildings, the lot. Nervous?’

  ‘Very,’ she lied. ‘How about you? Have you ever been in a real-life situation like this one? People throwing stuff, hating you, too far gone to hear reason?’

  ‘I got a taste of it in 1990, at the Poll Tax riot in Trafalgar Square. A man with a broken chair leg and a hatred of the police put me in hospital for ten days.’

  ‘Wow.’

  ‘But you must get into some vicious scrapes in New York.’

  ‘I never faced a mob.’

  ‘Ever had to shoot anyone?’

  ‘No,’ she lied again, thinking, More people than you’d believe. ‘Up to now I’ve dealt mostly with traffic violations.’

  ‘Well, at least you have an exciting working environment.’

  ‘I wouldn’t say that. Frantic’s a better word.’

  And then, without any lead-up or warning, Lowther leaned forward and said, ‘Would you have dinner with me tonight, Sabrina?’

  That look, she thought: the wistful smile, the eyes telling her he’d be devastated if she said no. It never worked, she always saw it as emotional blackmail, something else about men to despise. On this man, however, it simply looked pathetic.

  ‘I have an engagement already this evening,’ she said, simultaneously spotting an opportunity.

  ‘Oh.’ He shrugged.

  ‘But I’ll tell you what — we finish at noon tomorrow, right? How about lunch somewhere in the West End? My treat. I’d have loved to make it dinner, but I have to catch an overnight flight to New York.’

  She watched the flicker of changes in his expression, all desperately transparent. This was less than he’d had in mind; she had side-stepped the proposition, but it was better than rejection; what she suggested still wasn’t dinner, it was unromantic daytime stuff, but it still wasn’t rejection…

  ‘Well, that would be great,’ he said. ‘But I can’t let you pay.’

  ‘NYPD pays,’ Sabrina said. ‘They’re covering me for two goodwill entertainments and I haven’t done one yet, so we can have a splash.’ She gave him her friendliest smile. ‘Is it a date?’

  He nodded, thoroughly charmed.

  ‘Oh, and by the way, I was going to ask you, it’s presumptuous of me, I know…’

  “Go ahead,’ he said generously, ‘anything at all.’

  ‘Well.’ She made an uneasy face. ‘It’s the passing-out kit inspection tomorrow morning. It’s obvious they take it seriously. I wouldn’t want to lose the points, but I’ll be squeezed for time, because I have to go to this woman’s place — ’

  ‘You want me to get your kit ready?’

  ‘Oh, no! God, no, I wouldn’t dream of imposing. I thought maybe you could find me somebody who would take on the job for a consideration.’

  ‘I’ll do it for you myself.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Consider it done.’

  ‘But that’s so — ’

  ‘Look, Sabrina, don’t mention it. It’ll be a pleasure.’

  She touched his hand. ‘You’re a real friend.’ His gratitude was something to see.

  3

  When Philpott stepped into the semi-darkness of the Secure Communications Suite he found Mike Graham hunched in front of six computer screens, three on three.

  ‘I know you said another hour.’ The padded walls and ceiling muffled Philpott’s voice. ‘But I got fidgety.’

  ‘I’m antsy myself, now,’ Mike said. ‘One damned detail has bugged me for twenty minutes. I’m getting nowhere with it.’

  He leaned back and stretched. He was a lithe man, conventionally handsome with even features and an easy way of smiling. Philpott, never keen to admit that anything or anyone was without major flaw, often remarked that Mike’s hair was too long.

  ‘When will you have results worth examining?’

  ‘I’ve got them now.’

  ‘Excellent.’ Philpott took the swivel chair next to Mike’s. ‘Do you have a tentative verdict?’

  ‘Well this could certainly be UNACO’s kind of case, because the dead man had a terrorist pedigree. His real name was Yaqub Hisham, and he was Arabic, as everybody thought. He was registered with the Department of Social Security in London as Kamul Haidar, twenty-six years old, living in rented
accommodation in Chelsea, with a home address in Morocco. He’d been in London a month, allegedly studying history and English at the Monkfield Institute.’

  ‘Never heard of it.’

  ‘Scotland Yard’s SO11 gave it the once-over. It’s a couple of rented rooms off the Edgware Road, run as a school by a retired teacher. Plenty of students are registered with the Institute, but nobody seems to show up for classes.’

  ‘Another dismal racket,’ Philpott sighed. ‘Something in the atmosphere of England nurtures seedy hustlers.’

  ‘Aside from his scholastic work, our man was a part-time porter at the Wimcote House Hotel in Paddington.’

  ‘But in spite of that, he could afford digs in Chelsea. All of this was a cover, I presume.’

  ‘Oh sure.’ Mike tapped a button on the console and a Mossad Criminal Data card appeared on the third screen of the top row. The Arab’s picture was at the left with his fingerprints at right and a summary of his criminal record below. ‘No information at Scotland Yard or Interpol, but the Israelis have the goods on him. The picture was taken a month after he had his face changed. His prints were altered too, acid and pumice powder they reckon. Mossad’s fingerprint boys used a latency comparator on smudgy dabs they picked up in Hebron, and the comparator turned up this guy’s original set of prints.’

  Philpott peered at the text on the screen. ‘It’s in Hebrew.’

  ‘I got a translation.’ Mike held up a printout sheet. ‘Courtesy of Mossad Criminal Records.’

  ‘I’m impressed. You have better connections every time I see you.’

  Mike ran a finger down the sheet. ‘Hisham had sixteen listed aliases and was a known terrorist from the age of eleven. During his middle and late teen years he managed to study history as well as sedition and anarchy. He was a prominent graduate of the Jezzine terrorist movement in Lebanon. Known to be energetic, technically skilled, resourceful and, unusually, the guy was multi-lingual. He wasn’t strong on ideology, but he got by on plain hatred of the Jews. He was made an honorary member of the Brotherhood of the Civet when he was eighteen.’

  ‘Brotherhood of the what?’