by Jeff Gulvin
‘Phosphorus,’ he said. ‘That’s my initial opinion, Logan. Lotta smoke, but not much else. Looks like an amateur to me.’
She nodded. ‘You’re saying, a lot of fuss about nothing.’
Callio lifted his eyebrows. ‘Well, we don’t know that now, do we?’ He looked across the empty cemetery, then down on to Memorial Drive where the media were camped en masse. ‘He sure drew some attention to himself, whoever he was.’ He went round to the back of the van then and opened the doors. ‘I’m gonna send in the robot,’ he said. ‘Check the area out through the drive cameras. No sense risking my neck till things are a little clearer.’
Logan reported back to Kovalski and watched as Callio sent in the Wheelbarrow, armed with disrupters for controlled explosions. He could sit in the back of his truck and monitor exactly what the drive cameras told him, and when he neared the crisis site he could search, using the attack camera on the extendable boom. ‘I might be wrong, Tom,’ she said. ‘But my bones tell me the fireworks are over.’
‘I think you’re right, baby. He told us it was there and it was. Depending on what he’s trying to achieve, it didn’t need to be very big.’
‘Callio said phosphorus. Just designed to burn.’
‘Wait till he gives the all-clear, then hand over to the ERTs.’ Kovalski paused for a moment. ‘Tell you what, Chey. Leave McKensie in charge. It’ll be good for her training. As soon as Callio gives the OK, let her take over. I want you back here.’
Swann landed at the National Airport at seven-thirty that evening and Logan checked him into the Hyatt on Jefferson Davis Highway. The FBI explosives officer had given the all-clear, and the evidence response teams and the specialists from the Bomb Data Center began zoning the area for evidence. The section of ground around Kennedy’s grave was completely sealed off and scaffolding poles and sterilised tarpaulins were erected to ensure there could be no evidence contamination. Sample swabs of the area were taken for explosive residue, RDX or PETN, and then forensic teams went to work. Logan and Swann drove in to the field office.
Kovalski was in the command post, together with the FBI Director and the heads of both the domestic and international terrorism sections, based at the Hoover building. The senior members of the task force were also present, and Kovalski introduced Swann.
‘He’s been with the UK’s Antiterrorism Branch for seven years and, as he’s in the country, I want some consultative help.’ His face darkened then. ‘OK. So far, we’ve got few details. The device was small and it was effectively only an incendiary—phosphorus—causing minimal damage. The bang was minor, but it was exactly where he said it would be and it went off exactly when he said it would.’ He paused. ‘We had a phone call telling us his name was Fachida Harada, but we don’t know who he is or what he’s playing at.’
Swann spoke for the first time. ‘I might be able to help there. I made some phone calls from the plane on the way up from New Orleans. We’ve got a specialist Japanese crime unit back in London, with a former Hong Kong cop who infiltrated the Yamaguchi-gumi, the largest yakuza gang in the world, three years ago.’
‘Are you saying Harada is yakuza?’ the ATF agent seated at the end of the table asked him.
‘After a fashion, he is. Although I’m not sure what that’s got to do with this situation. The yakuza is a three-hundred-year-old organisation, which is supposedly descended from the ancient samurai warriors. It’s claimed they’re the last upholders of the ancient virtues of giri and ninjo: that’s the obligation to repay favours and show compassion for the weak. These are things the samurai undertook in the past, and the yakuza claim to undertake them now. I think you have to take the latter with a huge pinch of salt, mind you.’
‘Jack,’ Logan interrupted him. ‘Why would a yakuza want to bomb Washington?’
Swann made a face. ‘I don’t know.’ He opened his briefcase and spread a sheet of paper on the table in front of him. ‘You might want to get these copied,’ he said. ‘It’s the scant bit of information we’ve got on him.’ He passed the single sheet to Logan. ‘Fachida Harada. He’s about forty-five and he has got connections to the yakuza, but I’m not sure how strong they are. We think he might have been sokaiya—that’s their business investment arm.’
Kovalski nodded. ‘Gangsters buying stock and taking seats on company boards.’
‘Exactly. We think Harada did that in Hong Kong for a while, till we handed it back to China.’
‘What’s he doing over here?’
Swann shook his head. ‘I don’t know.’ He looked at Logan. ‘He contacted you, didn’t he?’
Logan gestured to Kovalski. ‘He sent a tape in to Tom.’
‘Addressed to you personally?’ Swann asked him.
‘Not by name, but addressed to the ASAC, which amounts to the same thing.’
Swann nodded then. ‘And he told you his name, his father’s name, his grandfather’s, where the family came from and stuff like that?’
‘Yes.’
‘That is samurai. It’s part of their challenge.’ He broke off for a moment and sifted his notes. ‘When a samurai warrior went into battle in the past, it was one to one, man against man, sword fighting. It ended in death for one warrior, generally involving beheading.’
Logan lifted an eyebrow.
‘Before battle commenced, each warrior would announce his pedigree so that his opponent would know the value of who he was fighting. Killing an opposing warrior in samurai combat was a big thing in Japan. It was all about honour, skill and bravery.’
‘So what exactly are you saying?’ asked the district police chief.
‘I’m saying he’s announced himself in battle. I suppose to the FBI. He’s personified that in you, Tom.’ He gestured at Kovalski. ‘I don’t know why, but he’s probably researched you and discovered you’re the main man against terrorism over here.’
Kovalski stared at him across the table. ‘You’re telling me this asshole wants to fight me?’
‘Metaphorically speaking, yes.’
Swann and Logan left the field office at ten and drove back to Crystal City and the hotel. Harada intrigued Swann. He had never come across anything vaguely similar in the past, and the thought of helping the FBI track him down was far more appealing than teaching a class of deputy sheriffs what to do at a bomb scene. They parked in the lot to the left of the main hotel building and went to the bar. A man seated on a stool at the far end spotted them and came over. He was in his early thirties, wearing chinos and loafers, with longish brown hair and gold-rimmed glasses. Logan saw him and groaned.
‘Agent Logan. We meet again.’ He looked at Swann and offered his hand. ‘Carl Smylie, news and current affairs. You another Fed?’
Swann did not shake his hand.
‘No, Carl, he’s not.’
‘Gotta be personal, then.’ Smylie winked at Swann. ‘Hey, Logan. I saw you in Hope Heights. Checking on the covert action were you?’
‘Carl, I’m busy right now.’
‘Sorry.’ He grinned boyishly again. ‘Was kinda strange, though, huh. Three government types and then boom bang.’ He snapped his fingers under her nose. ‘Billy Bob goes off the mountain road. I wanted to talk to you in Oregon, but I guess you were ignoring me. Sure talked to Cameron, though. That state cop’s got some opinions of his own. Mind you, so does Sheriff Riggins.’
Logan sighed heavily. ‘Carl, leave us alone, will you. It’s been a real long day.’
‘You’re not kidding. I was in Oregon this morning and only came back by chance. CNN wanted to do a special with me on the militia thing, but it’s gonna have to wait till tomorrow now.’ He looked at Swann. ‘Helluva thing today out at the cemetery, wasn’t it. Militia, you figure, Logan, getting their own back?’
‘Hey.’ Swann stepped in front of him. ‘The lady asked you to leave us alone. Now why don’t you do that.’
‘Aha. A British accent.’ Smylie cocked his head to one side. ‘Are you a UK cop or something?’ He took a step back and
Swann guided Logan past him to a table with four low-backed chairs. He signalled to the barman, but Smylie sidled alongside him. ‘How come you’re in town? Is it business or personal?’
‘I tell you what,’ Swann said. ‘If you don’t stop bugging us, it’ll become intensely personal.’
‘My God. Attitude.’ Smylie moved towards the open lobby area. ‘I like him, Logan. A Brit with style. That’s a first for ya.’ He turned, flapped his hand over his shoulder at them and walked across the lobby.
‘Who the hell is he?’ Swann took a beer from the barman and passed it to Logan.
‘He’s a freelance reporter and he’s right. He knows more about what’s going on with the militia movement than just about anyone else. He makes good money out of peddling conspiracy theory stories, but he does have his finger on the pulse. He knows all the big guns. He’s the only reporter in America to interview BobCat Reece from Montana.’
‘Reece,’ Swann said. ‘He’s the guy with the compound.’
‘Yeah. The one that trains SPIKE teams and claims they’re only Minutemen looking to protect their families.’
‘SPIKE?’
‘Specialist integrated killing entities. It’s his own acronym, something he no doubt bastardised from his days with the Green Berets.’ She sipped beer. ‘The militia trust Smylie to tell their side of the story and he likes nothing better than mixing it up for the media. He earns a good living at it. All the major networks come to him when they want the lowdown on some new group or a slant on things. You watch the papers tomorrow. This bomb will be down to the militia.’
She was not wrong. Swann got up first and found a copy of the Washington Post outside their door. He flapped open the first page and narrowed his eyes, FBI BAFFLED BY GRAVEYARD BOMBER. He read how the FBI was at a loss to know what the motive behind the attack on Arlington Cemetery had been and who indeed was behind it. Various groups were hinted at, and then he read Smylie’s name, the connection with the mysterious deaths of Daniel Pataki and Billy Bob Lafitte. The murder of the park ranger was also cited, and there was an exclusive quote given to Smylie from a man described as ‘millennial presidential candidate’ Robert Reece of Montana. Logan was drinking coffee in bed, the sheet falling just below her chocolate-coloured breasts. Swann gazed at her: dreadlocked hair loose about her shoulders like strips of black rain. Her face was smooth as silk, eyes dark and wide.
‘BobCat Reece is running for President,’ he said. ‘You were right. There’s a comment in here from Smylie. Reece is linking this incident with what went on in Missouri and Oregon. He says: “If the government insist on subjugating the people with taxes, federal laws and now murder, they cannot reasonably complain if a few concerned citizens decide to hit back in order to protect the integrity of the Bill of Rights.”’
‘Bill of Rights—bullshit.’ Logan threw off the sheet and got up.
‘He says the presence of three Asian G-men in Hope Heights, Oregon, is proof of what they’ve been saying. The New World Order is being ushered in and the use of Hong Kong troops, first mooted by the militias as far back as 1992, is becoming a reality.’
‘What an asshole.’ Logan went into the bathroom, turned on the shower and came out again, still naked. ‘If we were using them, we’d hardly send them into a place like Hope Heights, Oregon.’
‘Reece has thought of that,’ Swann went on. ‘He claims that for years this was on a covert basis, along with gangs like the Crips and the Bloods taking away citizens’ guns. He says the last covert display of action by the government was the federally organised Los Angeles riot in 1992, when the only people whose property was not harmed by marauding black people were the ones who openly displayed their weapons. He says the government has finally decided to enact the plans drawn up by the Bildebergers, the Trilateral Commission and the United Nations. From now on, he will be wearing his gun whenever he ventures from his property.’
‘Good,’ Logan said. ‘Maybe a state trooper will arrest him.’
‘Maybe that’s what he wants.’
She pulled a face and took the paper from him. ‘What I don’t understand is why an incendiary device planted in Arlington Cemetery gives BobCat Reece so much newspaper time.’
They drove back to 4th Street, joined Kovalski in his car and went with him over the bridge to Arlington. Swann wanted to look at the crime scene, which was still sectioned off and being searched for evidence. They had zoned carefully and created a swept path in and out, leaving all other areas uncontaminated. ‘Why send us a coded warning, Jack?’ Kovalski asked. ‘We’ve never had one before. The militia or the Priesthood—or any of the other groups—just plants the IED and bucks outta there. Why a phone call now?’
‘The Provisional IRA are the only group to consistently phone in coded warnings,’ Swann told him. ‘Their plan was to disrupt as much as they could. Civilian deaths never did anyone’s cause much good. The question is, what’s Harada’s cause?’
‘And why choose Kennedy’s grave?’ Logan put in.
‘Maybe it’s the memorial factor,’ Kovalski said. ‘Kennedy still symbolises the United States.’
Swann nodded slowly. ‘Maybe it’s some kind of cementation of what he’s already told you. Maybe he’s proclaiming that he really is a warrior and therefore to be taken seriously.’ He thought about it for a moment. ‘That would fit. The device was phosphorus, yet there was very little to burn. The samurai honour thing. They didn’t want to desecrate, and they would not want to harm civilians. The samurai didn’t kill noncombatants in battle.’
‘I guess that makes a sort of sense.’ Kovalski pulled up at the outer cordon line and they got out.
One of the evidence response agents from the field office spotted Logan and beckoned them over. She introduced Swann. ‘This is Matt Bremner, Jack. He heads up the 4th Street ERT.’
‘I got something for you, Cheyenne. Boss,’ he added to Kovalski. Fishing in a plastic evidence bin, he brought out a ziplock-sealed envelope and laid it flat on the table before them. ‘What d’ya think of that?’
They all looked at it and Swann frowned. Like a piece of Plasticine, only the colour of putty and shaped into a flower. Kovalski was staring coldly. ‘That’s a lump of shaped C-4.’
‘That’s exactly what it is. I found it at the back of the memorial, in the bush, right there.’
Bremner pointed off to the left of where he had set up the automatic debris-sifter and table. Kovalski was still looking at the polythene envelope. ‘What’s the betting that’s the shape of cherry blossom,’ he said.
They sat round the conference table in his office, the three of them and McKensie.
‘Learning fast, huh?’ Kovalski said to her.
‘Very.’
‘You did a good job when you took over as on-scene commander yesterday.’
McKensie glowed a little under the ears and Swann smiled at her. ‘Why would he plant a grenade when he’s got C-4?’ he murmured. Bremner had told them that the Bomb Data Center had localised the seat of the explosion and recovered fragments of the device. It was enough to tell them that the bomber had used a phosphorus RD6 military-issue grenade. He had pulled the pin and set up a relatively primitive single-circuit timing and power unit. They had recovered a section of melted wiring and a burned piece of a lunch box. Swann had seen many similar things with the IRA. Over the years, they had perfected their home-made timing and power units up to a Mark 17. Harada must have left the device with a safety-arming switch in operation, to set off the forty-five-minute delay once the pin was removed. Crude it might be, but it had been extremely effective.
Kovalski was looking at Swann. ‘Not only why, Jack. But where the hell did he get the C-4?’
‘And why leave an unexploded shaped charge?’ McKensie added.
‘To tell us that he has it?’ Logan suggested.
The red phone rang on Kovalski’s desk and he sighed. ‘Give me some space, people. That’s the privacy channel.’
‘Privacy channel?’ Swann
asked as they trooped out and Logan shut Kovalski’s door.
‘Yeah. He’s the Washington ASAC, Jack. This office is responsible for counter-intelligence.’
Kovalski held the phone to his ear. ‘Cyrus Birch,’ he said. ‘Why’re you calling me on the division chief’s phone? I thought your interest was held in other parts of the world.’
‘It is, Tom. But I’m a man of many interests, believe me. And Washington’s where my heart is.’
Kovalski knew Birch of old. They were allegedly on the same side, but had sparred a few times, and even crossed swords once or twice when Kovalski thought the CIA went too far, as sometimes they were wont to do. They did not like the FBI because of their jurisdiction, plus the fact that the Bureau had got Aldrich Ames and made them look very silly for a while. ‘I saw your little problem in Arlington. Anything we can help you with?’
‘Right now, I don’t think so. Unless you were behind it?’
‘Ha ha, Tom. You gotta stop watching Mel Gibson movies.’
‘So what d’you want, Cyrus? What made you call over this one? It’s been a while since I heard from you.’
‘Just keeping tabs on things, Tom. It’s a personal thing with me. Important when a man has my ambitions.’
‘The DCI’s an external appointment these days, Cyrus, same as the Director is here. Unless you’re on real good terms with the President, I wouldn’t stick your house on it.’
‘Houses, Tom. I’m Ivy League, remember? With us, it’s houses. No, but you’re right. The DCI is way out of my league.’
‘Cyrus,’ Kovalski said. ‘I’m running a bomb-scene investigation this morning. Is there something I can help you with, or were you just fishing?’
‘Who was it, Tom?’
Kovalski smiled. ‘That was direct. Unexpected from you.’ He sat forward. ‘Right now, I can’t tell you. It’s the morning after the night before. We’ve still got the hangover.’