by Hugh Miller
‘Improvisation is supposed to be one of our talents.’
‘Sure. But we don’t know the score with these people, do we? An improvisation has to fit or it’s not worth doing.’
‘We’ll soon know the score. Whatever Mike and Sabrina uncover, whether it’s connected or un-connected with Harold Gibson’s cohorts, we can adjust our approach accordingly. Meanwhile, we will be wasting no time getting the first-hand low-down on the Texas connection.’
‘Assuming there is one.’
‘I’m sure there’s one,’ Philpott said. ‘And if there isn’t, I have to tell you it won’t matter. Last night I thought over the whole nasty, sprawling picture you painted from the notes in the bigot book. It’s time something positive was done about the Patriots, wouldn’t you say?’
‘If you mean do I think passive surveillance is no way to curtail the activities of thugs, well yes, I think a new tack would be in order.’
‘And there’s just enough of the agitator left in me to fight them with their own weapon.’
‘Which is?’
‘Bullying. Dressed to look like something else, of course. But.’ Philpott slapped the armrest. ‘I don’t want to muddle our thinking at this stage. My gut feeling is, there’s a connection between Gibson’s crowd, Emily Selby’s murder and Emily’s German hit-list. If the connection is there, we need to discover its nature and its dimensions. And, as I already pointed out, there may well be some advantage in getting to Texas in time for Gibson’s funeral.’
Whitlock smiled. ‘You’re really set on doing serious harm to these people, aren’t you?’
‘What makes you think that?’
‘The speed. The way you got up and running. You hardly stopped to plan this trip.’
‘I’ll admit to a certain grim enthusiasm for the project.’ Philpott looked out of the window, seeing the matrix of New York City below them. ‘I have the conviction, too, that this is a job for men who are not entirely conditioned to a politically structured way of doing things.’
Seven years as a detective chief superintendent, and another six as joint chief of Scotland Yard’s Special Branch, had given Philpott a firm point of view on the operational limitations of government security services. The G-men were better at gathering and analysing intelligence, and better at presenting their results. But they lacked a policeman’s understanding of criminals and a soldier’s iron discipline in putting his duty above every other consideration. Cops and soldiers were better at keeping in mind the rigorous requirements of the law, especially in the way evidence had to be gathered. They were unequalled, also, at handing out punishment of their own devising when the authorities’ hands were tied.
‘The idea of Nazism is a particular pain for me,’ Philpott said. ‘I lost members of my family in the Blitz, and later I grew up through a period when my country had to recover from the most appalling setbacks - industrial, social, domestic. People had to rebuild their lives against a backdrop of unrelieved dreariness and hardship. That was all down to the Nazis. Then when I was older I visited Belsen and Auschwitz-Birkenau and I learned about the true scale and scope of what they did.’ He looked at Whitlock. ‘Any day I do something to damage a Nazi-sympathizer has got to be a day well spent.’
They landed at Dallas-Fort Worth at noon. Philpott took a cab straight to his hotel. Whitlock rented a Ford sedan at the Hertz desk and drove out to the Comfort Inn on West Kingsley.
When he had checked in he changed into a sports shirt and lightweight slacks and took a drink out to the balcony. There was a heated pool and for a while he sat in the hazy sunlight watching people swim. The drink and the warm air relaxed him. He had another drink, and by the time it was gone he was ready to call Carmen.
He tapped button 4 on his mobile, her office number. After two rings the answering machine told him she would not be in the office until tomorrow. He tried calling home, but she wasn’t there either. He was still trying to decide what to do next when the telephone in his room warbled. He went in and picked it up.
‘Tait speaking,’ he said.
‘You liar.’
Whitlock waited, then once again he identified himself as Tait.
‘And I said that’s a lie.’ The man at the other end laughed. ‘How’re you doing, C.W.?’
Suddenly Whitlock recognized the voice. ‘Grundy? Is that Russ Grundy?’
‘Yep.’
Grundy was a senior UNACO multi-tasker, an agent with a range of skills and hardware at his disposal that enabled him to provide short-notice auxiliary services for Task Force personnel in the field. Grundy’s services included night-time surveillance photography, ad hoc telecommunications, wire-tapping, hi-tech burglary and sabotage. Like UNACO’s four other multi-taskers, Russ Grundy was permanently in the field. Over the years he and Whitlock had collaborated on dozens of assignments.
‘How did you know I was here?’ Whitlock said.
‘The eyes of Texas are upon you. I saw you and Mr Philpott at the airport.’
‘And we thought nobody would notice.’
‘There’s always somebody, C.W. What are you doing in Dallas?’
‘I was going to ask you that.’
‘I’m shadowing a money-laundering outfit on behalf of the Fraud Commission at the Security Council. It’s international stuff - yen turning into dollars, dollars being transformed to pounds and marks…’
‘Interesting,’ Whitlock said.
‘Well, no, actually. It’s dull. These guys are so predictable. And right now they’re lying low, or they think they are, so nothing is happening. Are you going to tell me now why you’re here?’
‘I’m afraid I can’t tell you, Russ. It’s up to the boss to do that. If he wants to.’
‘Well, why not suggest to him we all three have a drink together tonight,’ Grundy said. ‘I know a couple of really discreet spots. Then Philpott can tell me what you’re doing, if he wants to, and I can remind him I always enjoy getting roped into a tasty caper. That way, my stay in Dallas might turn out interesting after all.’
‘Consider it done. I’ll call the old man now. How do I get back to you?’
‘Try waving from the balcony. I’m sitting by the pool.’
17
‘I take it your friend doesn’t speak English,’ Mike said, addressing the woman in the duffel coat. He assumed she had come back in response to the phone call.
‘He only has a few words.’ Her German accent was very slight. ‘But he does tend to assume other people speak Russian. I, on the other hand, probably speak English better than you do.’
She was standing in the sitting-room doorway, removing the coat. She was a handsome woman with small, firmly defined features. Her lipstick looked even brighter in artificial light.
‘You’ll be Erika Stramm,’ Mike said.
Pain sliced through his jaw when he moved it. He checked his teeth with his tongue. They were all there. He tried to smile.
‘You have me at a disadvantage,’ she said.
‘It doesn’t feel that way.’
‘I gather your restraints were necessary.’ She came into the room and walked once round the chair, stopping in front of Mike. ‘You don’t look like a fascist.’
‘That’s because I’m not one. My name is Desmond Miles. I’m a US citizen and I’m in the same business you are.’
‘What business is that?’
‘Journalism. I’m a political stringer for three West Coast papers.’
‘You’re not a journalist.’ Erika pointed to the assimilator where it lay on the sideboard with his other belongings. ‘Journalists don’t know about things like that.’
‘You seem to.’
‘I’m different.’ She smiled coldly. ‘Why did you break into my apartment?’
‘I wanted to find out about you.’
‘You’ll have to enlarge on that.’ Erika glanced at the other man. ‘If you don’t, I’ll set Gregor on you again. He’s from Sverdlovsk, you know. They’re savages, if they have to be.�
�
‘I came here,’ Mike said, ‘because I needed to know about your connection to an outfit that calls itself JZ.’ He watched her face but she didn’t waver. ‘It’s very important. I think it could be a matter of life or death.’
‘Whose death?’
‘Yours,’ Mike said.
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
‘You never heard of JZ?’
‘Never. It sounds like another lame made-up yarn.’
‘You never heard of Emily Selby?’
Erika’s smile shrank. ‘What about her?’
‘You admit you know her?’
‘Look…’ Suddenly she was edgy. ‘Say what you have to say. Stop all this screwing around.’
‘Emily Selby is dead. Did you know that?’
She stared at him. ‘You’re a liar!’
He had wondered how much truth leaked through the published facts. Hardly any, it seemed. The English papers reported that an American visitor had been shot. No name was given. By the following day diplomatic pressure had put the story into two inches on an inside page, and into limbo the day after that.
‘Emily was shot dead several days ago in London,’ Mike said. ‘The gunman was Arabic. He killed himself shortly after.’
An interesting thing happened then. For no apparent reason Erika looked across the room; it was only for a moment, but to do it she turned her head at right angles to the spot where she stood. It was an awkward thing to do, yet it appeared involuntary. Mike guessed she was looking at something related to what he had told her. He looked too, but he saw only a compact hi-fi speaker, fixed to the wall, and a plain black chair beneath it.
‘It would be easy to check this,’ Erika said.
‘Go ahead.’
She marched out of the room. Gregor stayed where he was, scowling at Mike. From another room there was the sound of a modem making a connection. After a couple of minutes Erika came back. She looked ill.
‘Emily is dead,’ she said quietly. ‘I hadn’t heard a thing about it.’ She looked at Mike. ‘You said he was an Arab?’
‘Apparently.’
‘How did you make the connection between me and Emily?’
‘Sources. I can’t divulge.’
‘I could make you divulge,’ Erika said, but she sounded too dispirited to try. ‘Why did you ask about the initials thing?’
‘JZ. There was a picture of a group of people in front of a banner with JZ on it. It was in Emily’s bag.’
‘How could you know that?’ she demanded.
‘I just know. How did you come to know her?’
‘We were friends, she and I.’
Erika massaged her temples. She muttered something in Russian to Gregor. He stood away from the couch, gave Mike a hard look, then left the room.
‘So you came here looking for a story,’ Erika said.
‘Your story. I want to know about you, your connections, your possible connection to the fact Emily was murdered.’
Erika stood staring at the floor for a minute. She looked up at Mike. ‘I could have you minced in a garbage truck within the hour. By tonight you’d be gull food.’
‘I believe you.’
She came to the chair and stood before him. ‘There could have been many worse ways for me to learn of Emily’s death.’ She began untying the rope that held Mike’s arms. ‘I don’t forgive you for the break-in, I simply don’t feel vindictive now.’ Her hands paused. ‘Take warning, please - that is not like me. I don’t forgive you for the matter-of-life-and-death bullshit, either.’
‘That could be true,’ Mike said.
‘Whether it is or not, you don’t care. The story is your only concern. I checked your credentials. You have the pedigree of a seasoned vulture.’
For a moment he was puzzled, then it clicked. The modem. She had done an Internet check on his listing. UNACO kept it updated and always in the appropriate place, complete with a photograph. His medical credentials were up there too, so was his accreditation as a lawyer, his status as an inspector with the Department of the Treasury and four other finely detailed aliases.
‘There.’ Erika uncoiled the rope and let him stand up. ‘Count yourself incredibly lucky, Mr Miles.’ She picked up his torch, the key kit and the sound assimilator. ‘I’ve purged my door’s frequency code from your little machine, but I haven’t damaged it. I respect nice technology, even when it’s used against me.’
‘Thanks.’
Erika walked with Mike to the door. ‘There is no story here. Not the one you were hoping to find.’
‘You could still be in danger,’ he said as she opened the door. ‘I know you don’t believe I’m concerned, but I promise you I get very troubled when Arabs with guns arrive on the scene.’
‘Whatever the truth of Emily’s murder, it doesn’t have anything to do with me. I’m sure of that.’ Erika was trying to sound detached, but she still looked pale and shaken. ‘Good luck with your next story, and take serious warning: if you ever interfere in my affairs again, you won’t get off so lightly. In fact, you won’t get off at all.’
Mike went down the steps. At the side of the road he looked back. She was still there. He waved and began walking.
When he had covered half a kilometre he crossed the road and went into the park again. Keeping to the far side of the trees and bushes he walked back towards Scharweber Strasse. He located the cane where he had left it sticking in the ground and re-mounted the assimilator, positioning its viewfinder on the lock plate of the door at number 17a. Then he sat down to wait.
At 5.00 a.m. Central time, C.W. Whitlock rose, showered and shaved, then got dressed. Breakfast came to his room at 5.45.
When he had eaten he set up his Macintosh PowerBook on a writing table by the balcony window. He plugged the cord from the internal communications card into the telephone socket on the wall. When he had dialled the UN server number and tapped in the UNACO password for Mailbox Access, the screen showed him a picture of a padlocked box. He put in his personal access code and the lid of the box opened. An information balloon appeared and told him there were two messages. He opened the first one. A facsimile of a note on FBI notepaper came up on the screen. It was from Special Agent Tim Webster, confirming that business and social links between Harold Gibson, Don Chadwick and Emerett Pearce were being exhaustively researched as a matter of priority; all relevant information would be posted to that address no later than forty-eight hours from the date and time of the note.
The second note was from ICON Administration in Zürich, Switzerland. It was addressed to All Agencies Concerned:
A third breach of ICON data protection has been reported. Clocked records show that a break-in occurred at 4.17 p.m. Mid-European time on 21st March, 1996. The files were uncloaked for only a microsecond before alternative encryption routines cut in. It is clear that although the unprotected period is small, it is possible for an intruder to make substantial transfers of data with the aid of ultra-speed electronic-capture apparatus recently developed and soon to be marketed by Preceptor Systems of California.
It is estimated that Andreas Wolff will complete testing of the new generation of safeguard modules for ICON within a few days, a week at most. When the new safeguards are in place, the system will be secure for the foreseeable future.
Whitlock picked up his mobile, switched on the scrambler circuit and called Philpott at the Fairmont. He came on the line at once.
‘You sound fresh for the time of day,’ Whitlock said.
‘Texas air. It’s full of fizz. I could never live out here full time. I’d burn myself out in a year. What’s up?’
Whitlock read him the note from Zürich.
‘We do have a responsibility there,’ Philpott said. ‘I can’t begin to imagine the ramifications if ICON falls down. Can you get a signal to Mike?’
‘If he’s operational his phone will be off. I could leave something for him in the skyhigh mailbox. He checks it twice a day, when he can get to a t
erminal.’
‘Let him know what’s happened. Tell him that when he’s finished in Berlin he’s to go to Vienna, post haste, and make a personal evaluation of Andreas Wolff’s security.’
‘Vienna?’
‘Wolff’s staying there to work on the ICON software. It’s a superstitious thing - Vienna is where he devised the secure systems in the first place. The address is on my Rolodex. Call my office and they’ll give it to you.’
‘Who’s laying on Wolff’s security?’
‘The Austrian police, of all people.’ Philpott sighed. ‘He’s an Austrian national, he’s one of their treasures, and what with one thing and another, they insist it’s their duty as well as their privilege to look after him. The thing is, they’re not too hot on anti-terrorist stuff, although they seem to think they are.’
‘We could override them.’
‘I know, but we should try diplomacy first. I don’t want to tread on any Austrian feet unless there’s a clear indication that Wolff is at serious risk. So get Mike on to it. Tell him he has carte blanche to sniff around, and if there’s any comeback I’ll handle it.’ He paused. ‘Or you will, if I’m otherwise engaged.’
‘Very good.’
‘Anything else to report?’
‘Nothing important. The FBI have prioritized a detailed search on Gibson, Chadwick and Pearce. And I have a headache. I think it was the beer in that place Russ Grundy took us last night.’
‘Can’t say I feel a thing. Take an aspirin, do all the little things you have to do, then get yourself ready for the big performance.’
Whitlock thought for a moment. ‘The funeral,’ he said. ‘I was up so early, I was thinking it was tomorrow.’
‘You haven’t forgotten what to do?’
‘Of course not.’ Whitlock looked at his black tie and Nikon camera hanging on a chairback by the balcony door. ‘I’ve got the props, I’ve got the motivation. If I need anything else I’ll let you know.’
‘Jolly good. I’ll catch up with you later in the day. Best of luck.’
‘Thanks,’ Whitlock said. ‘Pray I don’t get lynched, won’t you?’