by Paul Bishop
I looked blank, waiting for Ethan to get to the point in his own good time. I had him pegged as some type of intelligence officer, and I'd dealt with his kind before in Ireland. The best of them were mavericks with their own way of doing things, and it was difficult to rush them.
"We deal with terrorism as it relates to the city of Los Angeles," he continued. "Domestic. International. Narco-terrorism—that's the current catchphrase which has everyone's bowels in an uproar—and all kinds of other think tank issues. We're analysts from hell. We watch. We track. We investigate. We try not to violate anybody's rights under the Constitution, and we abide by the most convoluted set of manual guidelines this side of Satan's deal with God."
I was only a little less perplexed, but I thought I could see what was coming. "And suddenly you're interested in the supposed mugging murder of a professional goalkeeper."
"Yeah. Isn't it great, the fun you can have when you aren't expecting it?"
I chuckled slightly, but I doubt Pasqual Maddox would have found any hilarity in the dark humor.
"What is it about the Maddox case that interests you?"
"You tell me."
I stood up and turned to leave.
"Where are you going?" Ethan asked, reaching out and putting a hand on my sleeve.
In actuality, I hoped I wasn't going anywhere. What I was trying to do was cut through the surface flack he was firing at me.
"I don't have time for larking about," I said, playing my hand out. "I'd rather deal with down-to-earth cynics like Gill and Briggs than trade bon-mots with a naked emperor's emissary who wants to screw around with word games."
Ethan tugged harder at my sleeve and waved his free hand at me. "Sit down," he said with a smile. "Sir Adam said you could be prickly."
Since he gave ground by acknowledging Sir Adam's influence, I turned back and sat.
"I'm sorry," said Ethan. "Sir Adam, through my boss, asked that we extend to you all the help we can, and I intend to do so. Intelligence work, however, even on a local level, tends to get you into the habit of talking in circles. If I start doing it again, you can call me on it, okay? Truce?"
I nodded and waited.
"Great!" His face reanimated with a smile. "Your Sir Adam, who my boss seems to hold in Godlike awe, has led us to believe this whole thing with Maddox might have something to do with the IRA. He told us about this Liam Donovan character, and we've opened an investigation on him and the Sons of Erin. ..."
I interrupted. "I saw Donovan yesterday."
Ethan looked alarmed. "When? Where?"
I told him about the run-in Bekka and I had had with Donovan in the Acropolis parking lot.
He didn't take notes of any kind. I doubted he ever did. If the need arose ten years down the line, he would probably be able to quote our conversation verbatim. True intelligence types aren't made, they're born.
When I was done, he left to make a phone call. He was gone about five minutes before he returned carrying two cups of abysmal coffee.
"Right," he said, and I detected a slight accent somewhere in his voice. "I've let our crew know Donovan is around and they'll do what they can to locate him. There'll be questions asked in high places about how he got into the country, but that's not our worry. We have to find out why he's here."
"Are you English?" I asked.
He looked genuinely surprised. "Who's been telling tales out of school?"
"You still have a slight accent on some words. And your speech is peppered with English idiom."
"You never get it out of your blood, do you?" he said rhetorically. "Not that I want to, mind," he added quickly. "I came here with my parents when I was eight. It was an age where all the other kids make fun of you if you talk funny, so I lost my accent as best I could. However, I get home every couple of years and the second I step off the plane my English accent rushes back."
"You still consider England home?" If he had come here when he was eight, I judged that he'd been in America for over three quarters of his life.
He nodded. "I love America. This country has been very good to me, but for some reason England is still 'home. ' You can't deny your roots. But I guess I'm on safe ground ...at least until the Prime Minister decides it's time to declare war on the Yanks."
"Does your English background have any bearing on why you're working the IRA investigation?"
He nodded. "Typical, isn't it. The English haven't been able to figure out the Irish since the island separated from the mother country during the primordial ooze, so they give the only Englishman on the terrorism squad the chance to continue screwing things up."
"I like it. It has a certain warped logic."
Ethan turned serious again. "So, do you have any ideas what the hell is going on?"
He was still trying to get something from me without giving anything up, but two could play that game. "Why don't we start with you telling me what you have on Maddox's murder?"
He had apparently tired of the game because he settled back in his chair, downed the dregs of his coffee, and made a face. "A couple of homeless alcoholics found Maddox's body near the Acropolis's dumpsters. They were looking for a place to doss down and split a short-dog. When they saw the body, they thought it was one of their buddies sleeping off a drunk. Then they saw the blood. I'm actually surprised they bothered to call it in. Most of their type are very wary of dealing with the police—often with good cause. The first uniformed coppers on the scene secured the area and all the usual homicide procedures were followed, but we didn't come up with diddly." The crossing of English and American in Ethan's speech was unique.
"The coroner's report," he continued, "stated Maddox was kicked to death by at least three assailants. From the marks on the body, the coroner could definitely identify two brands of American-made soccer cleats and an unidentified pair of steel-toed boots. It was the boots that did the final damage to Maddox's head, face, and throat."
"What made Briggs and Gill think it was a routine mugging? I would have thought being kicked to death by soccer boots was a little unusual."
Ethan shrugged. "Briggs and Gill are currently working thirty-five murder cases in various stages of investigation and prosecution. If there was any way they could have proved Maddox committed suicide by kicking himself to death, they would have done. Anything to clear the books and get the stats down." He gave an eloquent shrug. "That isn't to say they are absolutely wrong in this case. In homicide, the easiest answer is almost always the right one. Maddox's wallet was missing, and there has been a string of muggings around the Acropolis area committed by a group of soccer hooligans—an English import, like punk music and skinheads, which should be immediately eradicated from the face of the earth."
Soccer hooligans are the curse of English soccer. They are fans who came to games strictly to fight and cause aggravation. They are rabid supporters of the teams they choose to align themselves with. They dress in team colors, travel in packs, and destroy everything in their wake. Their joy is not in the game, but in the violence they themselves bring to the sport.
Soccer violence in England has become so bad that the phenomenon is referred to as "the English disease" and is considered fodder for study in many major British universities. Soccer hooliganism has been responsible for over three hundred deaths and uncountable injuries at games both in England and in Europe, where English teams often travel to play games. Things became so bad at one point that English teams were banned from European competition.
To combat the violence, sixty million dollars was allotted by the English government to form the National Football Intelligence Unit within the English police force. With the cooperation of the courts, the NFIU uses every trick in the book to identify and prosecute the perpetrators of soccer violence. Crowds at games are constantly scanned by remote control cameras for the first signs of trouble or for known soccer hooligans. Once an individual or a concerted action has been located, mounted police officers and other officers with dogs, or on free foot-patrol
, move in to take charge of the situation and either evict or arrest the troublemakers.
Other stringent methods are also employed by the police. Prior to entering a soccer stadium to watch a match, fans from the visiting team are herded into a human crocodile to be searched for weapons and identified. If anyone steps out of the crocodile, they don't get in the stadium. The true fan has to suffer these indignities the same as the troublemakers, which causes debates in the House of Parliament regarding the infringement of human rights. But the bottom line is that soccer violence has to be stopped—at any cost.
"I didn't think Americans were fired up enough about soccer to be fanatics like the English soccer hooligans."
"For the most part they aren't, but you know as well as I do that the game is only an excuse for the violence. The loyalty to the soccer teams is fanatical, but it is the thirst for fighting and blood that binds the soccer hooligans together."
I thought about that statement and couldn't find fault with it. Soccer hooligans would delight in stopping a game by running onto the field to attack a player from an opposing team—even if it would cause the team they supported to forfeit the game.
"Does this firm of local soccer hooligans have a name?" I asked.
In response to my question, Ethan dug into his back pocket and produced a piece of cardboard about the size of a business card. He flipped it onto the table between us. Displayed in the middle of the card was a crude drawing of a raven sitting on top of a soccer ball. A German SS-style dagger ran at an angle through the ball. Above the logo was the statement: la ravens rule—ok. Beneath the logo was the firm's chosen name: The Hardbirds, the sexual innuendo was juvenile and typical.
"These cards have been found scattered on the floors of stadiums where the Ravens have played, and fights have broken out between groups of fans."
"The cards indicate the Hardbirds were the cause of the violence," I told Ethan. "In England the hooligan firms leave them behind to let everyone know who was in town. It's the same as your gangs writing graffiti on the walls on another gang's turf."
"I figured as much," Ethan said. "As far as we can tell, the Hardbirds' leader is a kid named Archer. The most we've been able to find out about him is he is the twenty-year-old black-sheep son of a titled English family, and he's in this country on an expired visitor's visa."
"How about the rest of the firm? How large do you figure it is? The firms back home have ranking structure with a general leading the group. In this case that sounds like Archer, but in the English firms they have transport captains, armorers, intelligence officers, and the like."
"There's probably only three or four other core members in the Hardbirds, so it wouldn't be as big as most of the English firms." Ethan's expression was one of detached cynicism. "But we still believe they are responsible for the violence which has been occurring in the crowds during the Ravens games, both at home and away, as well as for the series of muggings in the Acropolis area. It seems the Hardbirds aren't adverse to a little fag-bashing, or to the extorting of protection money from the local merchants."
I picked up my coffee cup, looked at the remaining contents, and set it back down on the scarred table. I was a bit puzzled and gave voice to my misgivings. "This still sounds like normal crime. Nothing beyond the experiences of Briggs and Gill, and certainly nothing for any sort of terrorist intelligence division to be interested in."
Ethan nodded his head in agreement, but also raised his right hand and index finger as if to make a point. "All too true if it wasn't for the fact of Terrance Brisbane's connections to the Acropolis and the IRA."
"You're investigating Brisbane?"
"I'm going to have to play semantics with you again to stay within the department's legal guidelines. We are investigating a new source of money which is making the IRA coffers overflow. International terrorist sources tell us the money is coming from Los Angeles.
"Locally, Terrance Brisbane is one of the most vocal supporters of the Irish Republican Army, and he is a major fund-raiser for IRA front groups in America. He is high profile in a time when the support of terrorists is unpopular. However, many people still do not see the IRA as terrorists. Instead, they are viewed in many quarters as freedom fighters, and they are not of concern to most Americans because they have never attacked American targets."
"Some people never learn, do they?" I said.
"Especially Terrance Brisbane. After what happened to his daughter, you would think the last thing he would do is continued to support the IRA. But his self-image is too important to him to ever admit he's wrong, so he has rationalized the whole incident to relieve his own guilt. He even openly maintains a defense fund for Duncan Finlas."
"Who is Finlas?"
"The triggerman who destroyed Nina Brisbane's face and murdered a whole family. Terrance Brisbane is trying to get Finlas' status changed to that of a political prisoner instead of the murdering scum he is." Ethan sounded angry.
"There has to be more."
"There is. I'm convinced Terrance Brisbane is the source of the new IRA money. It is flowing from somewhere in his sports empire, and I'm determined to stop it. I don't have any hardcore evidence yet, but I believe Archer's firm of soccer hooligans is part of Brisbane's team. I think they've graduated from violent yobs to terrorists. There is precedent in the case of the Chicago street gang, the El Rukans, who were convicted a couple of years ago of receiving money from Libyan sources to commit terrorist acts on American soil."
"And Maddox's connection?"
"I've been through everything in his personal effects and everything in the investigative evidence, and I'm still running on gut instinct alone. But I'm telling you that Maddox wasn't mugged for a couple of bucks in his wallet. He saw something or heard something that made him a liability to Brisbane, so Brisbane turned Archer loose. Maybe Maddox was trying to blackmail Brisbane with what he found out. I don't know yet. But I will, and that's where you come in."
"Me?"
"Our division is still going to be continuing the police investigation from the outside, but Sir Adam has convinced us of your qualifications ..."
Damn that man!
"...and we want to use you as an agent in place. I want you to be my eyes and ears inside the Acropolis. Anything you can come up with on Archer, Donovan, or Brisbane, I want to know about. If Maddox found out something while playing for the Ravens, then maybe you can still discover what it was."
I was not a happy camper. "From journalist, to goalkeeper, to investigator, to spy in one easy lesson." I shook my head. "No, it's too much."
"What are you talking about?"
"Look, here. If...and it's a big if. If I discover anything to do with Brisbane and the IRA, I'll pass it along. My brief from Sir Adam is to get the Ravens through the play-offs and try and maintain the integrity of the team and keep the sport of soccer as unsullied as possible. I've got more than I can handle doing just that.
“I came to see Briggs and Gill more out of courtesy and curiosity than any belief that they were going to be able to do anything for me. Now I'm here, and you're laying some kind of James Bond trip on me." I stood up. "I'm a goalkeeper, not an agent in place. If something happens that I think will interest you, I'll get in touch."
A slow smile spread across Ethan's face like an expanding oil slick.
"What are you grinning at?" I asked.
"That was a pretty speech. But I'm not convinced. You'll figure this caper out. You can't help yourself. I can see it in your eyes."
Before walking out of the office, I gave a wry grin of my own back to Ethan and told him not to hold his breath. But, damn it, the man was probably right. The suspicions he'd planted would roam around in my subconscious, seeking confirmation and driving me mad until I had everything in its place. It is one of the curses of my nature not to be able to leave anything undone.
I had come to the police station in the hopes of eliminating or confirming one of the possible motivations for Maddox's murder. I'd hoped to a
t least put into place the pieces which outlined the puzzle. What I had done was discover that the puzzle was far larger than I had imagined, and 1 didn't even have a picture on the top of a box to guide me.
Chapter 14
As I drove the sweet-riding Laverda to the practice session at the Acropolis, my mind was filled with murder and motives. It should have been filled with what side of the road I was driving on. Twice, car horns sent terrifying surges of adrenaline coursing through my body as I almost drifted into oncoming lanes of traffic. My body might be in Los Angeles, but my subconscious driving habits were still back in England.
I parked by the player's entrance to the Acropolis and hopped off the bike. There were several advertising flyers scurrying around on the ground in the warm breeze, and I noticed there were copies of the same flyer stuck under the windshield wipers of all the cars in the parking lot. Normally, I would have ignored the advertising except that I recognized one of the black-and-white photos on the front of the flyer. It was a portrait of Terranee Brisbane. I put my foot down on a copy to secure it and then bent down to pick it up.
As I stood up, I heard a noise and turned to see Pat Devlin coming up behind me. He was carrying a sports bag with a Nike logo in one hand. Hanging from his other hand was a pair of indoor soccer boots tied together by the laces. He was short with a slender build. Thin legs with knobby knees protruded out through a pair of tan shorts like the appendages of a stick man drawing. It was hard to believe those sparrow's legs had carried him to the position of the league's MVP.
He looked over my shoulder at the flyer.
"That bastard gives Irishmen a bad name," he said, nodding down at Brisbane's photo. "The troubles will never end as long as men like him support the IRA scum back home."
I was startled at the venom in Devlin's voice, and I quickly took a closer look at the paper in my hand to see what he was talking about.