by Jeff Gulvin
Harrison looked up the road and saw the driver of the approaching truck flash his lights once. Three minutes later, the dust rose as a massive Ford 350 slowed to a halt. Harrison got to his feet. Two men got out of the cab and came over. The first one, bearded and wearing a cowboy hat, nodded to Sidetrack and looked at the packs.
‘That it?’
‘That’s it.’
‘Good.’ The man shifted a plug of tobacco to his other cheek and crouched down. ‘You don’t mind me taking a look, now do you?’
‘Go right ahead.’
Sidetrack shone the flashlight for him, as he fumbled with the rucksack drawstrings and opened the neck of each pack in turn. Harrison could not see properly from where he was, but the man stood up again, a smile playing across his lips.
‘Excellent,’ he said. ‘DeWitt, haul over those coolers.’
Harrison strode over to the pick-up where the younger of the two men was already in the back. ‘Here, I’ll give you a hand.’ He reached up and took down two giant Coleman coolers, which he set on the ground.
The cowboy bent to the packs again and began to lift out the rolls of grey C-4. He talked as he transferred them to the coolers. ‘When’s the next load coming in?’
Sidetrack leant against the door of the truck. ‘Whenever you want it.’
‘We want stuff as soon as you boys can deliver. And we need more M16 rounds. Those G-men sonsabitches are all over the fucking place.’ He looked up. ‘They took two gals the last time. And one of them was pregnant.’
‘They didn’t show up yet, huh?’
The cowboy shook his head. ‘When they do, they won’t be talking about it.’. Harrison watched him work until the packs were empty and the coolers were full, and then he helped him hoist them back up to his partner. The cowboy was a big man, much taller than Harrison, at well over six feet. ‘I ain’t seen you before,’ he said. Then he turned to Sidetrack. ‘I ain’t seen this guy before.’
‘He’s cool, Randy.’
The cowboy looked down his nose at Harrison and Harrison looked evenly back at him, but said nothing. Sidetrack stepped between them. ‘It’s OK, Randy. This guy is just outta Angola. He was in Vietnam, a Tunnel Rat like Whiskey Six. He’s one of us.’
He looked at Harrison. ‘Four-String, meet Randy Meades.’
Harrison looked at Meades and nodded. ‘Howdy, Randy,’ he said.
Meades looked a little doubtful. He turned to Sidetrack: ‘Tunnel Rat, you say?’
‘Yeah. Killed gooks hand to hand. Something, ain’t it?’
Meades looked back at Harrison again. ‘Don’t mean to be suspicious of you, partner, but these are dangerous times we’re living in. Government spooks are everywhere. They’ve killed Billy Bob, Dan Pataki and Tommy Anderson.’
Harrison shifted his shoulders. ‘I don’t read no newspapers.’
‘Well, you’re in the fight now, so you better start.’ Meades seemed to relax. ‘At least you chose the right side.’ He looked at Sidetrack again. ‘The people are coming round, Sidetrack,’ he said. ‘For years, they thought we all was just a buncha rednecks, but now they ain’t so sure. We got more and more of the regular people coming out on our side and they’re keeping their powder dry. Goddamn, I always knew it would come to this, but I never figured on it being this quick.’ He looked up and down the road, then back at Sidetrack once again. ‘We gotta get moving. There’s still some good cops in this country, but the state troopers ain’t among them.’
They climbed back in the truck, swung it round and headed off the way they came, raising a cloud of dust in their wake.
In London, the murder squad had put the picture of the man they had taken from the nightclub CCTV tape into the papers. They wanted to speak to the man so that they could eliminate him from their enquiries.
Webb was back at the embassy with Carragher from the FBI, and he was gradually working his way through the interviewees. ‘James,’ he said, ‘Kibibi Simpson had a fridge full of good food, a bottle of champagne and a wine rack fit for a decent cellar. The flat cost eight hundred and fifty pounds a month and she only earned a Marine Corps sergeant’s pay. Her bank balance was healthy and the clothes in her wardrobe all had designer labels on them. How d’you work that out?’
Carragher sat back and steepled his fingers under his chin. ‘Sugar daddy.’
‘We thought about that,’ Webb said. ‘But it only works so far. She was sleeping with the RSO before Dan Farrow got here. We spoke to him and he admitted that he helped her get the flat in the first place, but only with the deposit. After that, she paid for everything herself, including her clothes and stuff. The State Department investigated the RSO’s finances, but there’s no sign of any incoming money that shouldn’t be there and nothing regularly going out.’ He ran his fingers over his moustache.
‘Maybe she was a hooker,’ Carragher suggested. ‘You said the rent was paid in cash.’
‘We thought about that, too. If she was, then the flat would be a good place to take her punters, but she’s got one of those really nosy old neighbours and she told us that only a couple of men showed up at the place. We know one of them was the RSO, from the barmaids in the wine bar. According to the neighbour, he was the only white guy. She said that at least two different black guys visited now and again, but not what you would call regularly.’ Webb got up and wandered over to the door and stood with his back to it for a moment.
Carragher smiled at him. ‘George, if they wanted to eavesdrop, they wouldn’t have someone bent at the keyhole.’
Webb ignored him and put his hands in his pockets, crossing his legs at the ankle. ‘I don’t get it,’ he said. ‘Lots of cash and no apparent reason for it.’
‘What about her folks?’ Carragher asked.
Webb shook his head. ‘They’re just a normal working family from Mississippi. There’s no money there.’ He sat down once more at the desk and picked up the next interviewee’s résumé from the stack in front of him. Alton Patterson. Marine. His main occupation was guarding the naval building opposite the embassy. Picking up the phone, he dialled the extension for the police liaison officer and told her he was ready to talk to Patterson. Two minutes later, there was a knock at the door and Carragher got up to open it.
Patterson was black, very tall and lanky, wearing the standard grunt haircut. Webb looked up into his face even when he was sitting down. ‘You’re a big lad, aren’t you?’ he said.
Patterson’s smile was slightly lopsided. ‘I got a basketball scholarship to college,’ he said. ‘Coulda made the NBA, but I had a problem with my knee.’
‘That’s a shame,’ Webb said. ‘Is the knee OK now?’
‘Oh sure. They don’t let you in the Marine Corps if you got a busted knee.’
Webb nodded. ‘How long have you been over here, Mr Patterson?’
‘Just a year, sir.’
‘D’you like it?’
‘Yessir. London’s just fine.’
‘Where were you before?’
‘This is my first overseas posting. I was attached to a National Guard base at Wichita Falls, Texas, before coming here.’
‘You live at Eastcote?’
‘Yessir.’
Webb sat back, spreading his fingers across his stomach. ‘You know why we’re talking to everyone?’
‘Yessir. On account of Sergeant Simpson dying.’
‘Being murdered, actually.’
Patterson looked briefly at his feet. ‘That’s what I meant, sir.’
‘Of course.’ Webb glanced at Carragher, who was sitting at the other desk watching. ‘I’m going to caution you, Mr Patterson,’ Webb said. ‘And tape the interview. There’ll be two tapes, one of which you can have at the end. OK?’
Patterson looked doubtful. ‘I guess.’
Webb smiled at him. ‘It’s normal procedure. Just the way we do things over here.’ He nodded to Carragher. ‘Special Agent Carragher there is from the FBI. He’s listening to make sure I do it properly.’
Patterson glanced at Carragher. ‘OK,’ he said. ‘It’s no problem. I got nothing to hide.’
‘Good.’ Webb cautioned him, then checked his watch and switched on the tape. ‘So,’ he began. ‘Sergeant Kibibi Simpson. Did you know her?’
‘I knew who she was, sir. I didn’t exactly know her. We worked in different departments.’
‘I see. So you knew her just to talk to?’ Webb was looking at the answer sheet Patterson had sent in and he had put down much the same as he was saying now. Webb looked at him again. Patterson sat with rounded shoulders as if, like a lot of big men, he was self-conscious of his height. ‘Speaking terms, but not a lot else.’
‘Yessir. I mean, I knew who she was and all. I spoke to her. She was a gunnery sergeant.’
Webb was flicking through Simpson’s file as he spoke. He came to the page detailing her service record and he paused. ‘Did you ever see her socially?’
‘No, sir.’
‘You never visited her flat in Paddington?’
Patterson shook his head.
‘Did you remember her from Wichita Falls?’
Patterson looked at him then. ‘Excuse me?’
Webb smiled. ‘She was posted to Wichita Falls, too.’
‘I saw her there, yes, sir. But not for long. I think it was only about six weeks that we were there at the same time.’
‘I see.’ Webb was quiet for a moment. ‘But you didn’t hang out with her.’
‘She was a gunnery sergeant, sir. They don’t hang out with us.’
Webb nodded. ‘Who d’you room with, Mr Patterson?’
‘Excuse me?’
‘Your room mate. Who is it?’
‘Dylan Stoval, sir.’
‘Stoval.’ Webb flicked through the pages of responses and found Stoval’s name. He sat for a moment, then looked up at Patterson once more. ‘Well, Mr Patterson. Thank you for your assistance.’
Patterson looked at him a moment longer, then scraped back his chair. ‘That’s it, sir?’
‘That’s it.’
Patterson’s face broke open in a smile and he turned for the door. ‘Thank you, sir. Have a nice day.’
Webb smiled back at him. ‘You too, Mr Patterson.’
When he was gone, Carragher got up and closed the door. He looked over at Webb and frowned. ‘What’re you thinking, George?’
Webb did not reply right away. He sat and pondered for a moment, looking again at Patterson’s sheet. ‘It’s just something that a barman said.’ He looked up at Carragher. ‘Kibibi was seen in the wine bar in Southwick Street with a very tall black guy.’
They drove back to the incident room and found Frank Weir on the phone in his office. Webb left Carragher talking to a couple of the detectives and knocked on Weir’s door. Weir beckoned him in and Webb sat down opposite and yawned.
‘Are we keeping you up, George?’ Weir said, when he came off the phone.
‘You have been, sir. You have been.’
Weir rubbed a palm across his bristling scalp. ‘So, tell me some good news. It’s not as if I get much.’
Webb hunched forward in the seat. ‘I’ve just interviewed a marine called Alton Patterson,’ he said. ‘He told me he was on speaking terms with Kibibi, but no more than that.’
Weir was looking at him closely now. ‘Go on.’
‘Well, this could just be pure coincidence, but both he and Simpson served some duty time at Wichita Falls National Guard base in Texas.’
‘So?’
‘Like I said, probably just coincidence. Another thing bothers me more. Patterson is really very tall.’
‘Is he indeed?’ Weir sat more upright. ‘Didn’t the barman at the wine bar talk about a tall black bloke?’
‘He did, sir, yes. But Patterson told me he’d never been to the flat. Somehow, I doubt he would’ve gone to that bar without meeting her first at the flat. He also told me he never socialised with her.’
They sat for a long moment in silence, then Webb lifted his palms. ‘But there must be lots of tall black men in London. There’s nothing to say that either of the two visitors were marines.’
‘No.’
They looked at one another and Webb said: ‘Did the subject in the nightclub come forward yet?’
‘No.’
‘But we’ve got Kibibi leaving Camden Town tube on video.’
Weir nodded.
‘I hate to say this, sir, because the boredom will probably kill me, but I want to watch those tapes.’
‘George, be my guest.’
Webb and Carragher sat in front of the television and watched the tape made by the camera above the exit barriers in Camden Town underground station. It was boring, but the time Simpson had been seen had been confirmed and Webb worked the tape half an hour either side of that.
‘Are we looking for Patterson?’ Carragher asked.
‘Yes. He’ll stand out a mile, with his height.’ They watched the full hour, but there was no sign of him. Webb sat back and blew out his cheeks. ‘Well, that takes care of that little theory,’ he said.
Carragher was still watching the images. ‘Stop the tape,’ he said. ‘I mean freeze the frame.’
Webb snapped the remote at the screen.
‘No.’ Carragher shook his head. ‘Wind it back a bit.’ Webb did and Carragher pointed again. ‘There. Stop.’
Webb froze the frame and looked at the screen. Carragher was off his seat and looking very closely. ‘That guy’s American,’ he said. ‘I can spot them a mile away.’ He pointed to a black man collecting his ticket from the pop-up slot. ‘Look at his clothes, George.’
Webb looked more closely now and he could see that Carragher was right. ‘He’s got a grunt haircut, too,’ he said. He checked the time: eight minutes after Kibibi went through. ‘I’ll get hold of somebody technical,’ he said. ‘Get a still of this and take it back to the embassy.’
The still was ready at four-thirty that afternoon and Webb drove back to the embassy. Carragher was in the office on the telephone and two agents from the legal attache’s office were with him. Their expressions were very serious. Webb sat down and looked at them. ‘Did somebody die?’ he asked.
Carragher put down the phone. ‘As a matter of fact, they did.’ He looked at his colleagues, then back at Webb. ‘I was just on the phone to Washington,’ he said. ‘One of our agents has been shot dead in Jackson, Mississippi. The killer used military-grade rounds.’ He stood up and exhaled heavily. ‘That’s not all. Two more members of the Missouri Breakmen were gunned down in their beds last night. In two separate incidents; fully automatic fire and MP5 rifling on the shells.’ He glanced at his colleagues and then at Webb again. ‘The only people in the US with access to fully automatic MP5s are FBI SWAT teams.’
Swann lay in bed, holding Logan close to him. The room was on the eleventh floor of the Hyatt and faced across Jefferson Davis Highway. He held Logan very tightly. Earlier she had been crying, something he had never seen her do before. The murdered agent in Jackson had been a friend of hers from when she first joined the FBI. He had graduated from Quantico with her and they had been friends ever since. He was married with four children. She had fought her emotions all the time they were in the office, though the mood on 4th Street was as black as Swann had seen it. Nobody knew what was going on, and now an FBI agent had been gunned down.
When they got back to the hotel room, Logan had turned to him and said: ‘It’s war, Jack. That’s how they think of it. Nobody shoots an FBI agent very easily. They know if they do, we’ll hunt them to the ends of the earth.’
‘You’ll get the guy who did it, Chey.’
‘That’s not the point.’ And then she had broken down.
Now he held her in his arms, aware of the rhythm of her breathing. She was asleep and he was awake, thinking about Fachida Harada and the Tatenokai. Why bring that to the attention of the media? The obvious link with the militia, the connotations of the SS initials in the English translation. The FBI had put forward
their interpretation by way of counterbalance, and the demand made by Harada for the release of Shikomoto had also now been made public. Kovalski was making decisions on the hoof, in order to try and deal with the growing swell of public opinion. Then there had been the interview with Reece in Montana and his claim that he had indisputable proof that Harada was a government tool being used to blame the militia. Reece’s final point was that the militia groups did not start the killings, the government did. None of it made sense.
There was a correlation between Harada’s samurai posture and his homosexual relationship with Shikomoto, according to what Dr Habe had told them. But was that the only reason he was doing all this? The planning was reminiscent of an organised campaign, something that had been devised over a long period of time. Harada had a wife and family in Japan. Shikomoto had a wife and family. Could it just be the love between them that had sparked all this? If it was, why would Harada send the message about the Tatenokai to Carl Smylie? Swann could see how the militia would interpret Harada’s actions, given what was happening to their members. But how could they have their indisputable proof?
He slipped his arm out from under Logan’s shoulders and walked to the window. He wanted a cigarette, but the smell would only wake her. He was wide awake, though, and he got dressed and went downstairs. The bar was closed, but he sat in the lobby, smoked a cigarette and thought. Harada would attack again, that much he knew, but where? And where was he hiding? Again, he thought about the Tatenokai. Mishima obviously played a vital role in Harada’s psyche. Samurai. Mishima. Tatenokai. He tossed it around in his head. Perhaps the sokaiya were involved, but, as far as he knew, Japanese organised crime had never been involved in terrorism. If Harada’s sole reason for doing all this was to procure the release of Shikomoto, then why bring the Tatenokai into it? That just did not add up. If anything, it detracted from his purpose. He thought back to the beginning. Make your challenge, fight and protect your honour. That made sense. But then another thought struck him. The word samurai meant to serve. Was that just another coincidence? If not—who was Harada serving?
To Harrison’s surprise, the five of them split up after delivering the C-4. Sidetrack instructed them all to go their separate ways and meet in four days’ time, back at the Saratoga freight yard. Harrison grabbed his opportunity, jumped a train heading south-east and called Jean from a payphone in Corsicana. He then called the field office and instructed Penny and Swartz to run a check on Randy Meades and meet him at a diner he knew in De Ridder, Louisiana. When he was finished, he jumped another train and shared the car with a slim, silent hobo, with a multicoloured bandana tied round his neck. He seemed to be asleep and Harrison didn’t bother him. He jumped off the train and met Jean at Lufkin. She stared at his face and the fear showed in her eyes. Harrison frowned, then remembered the battering he had taken and realised he had not looked in a mirror since. He adjusted the door mirror on the pick-up. His eye was bruised where he had taken the blow on the right-hand side and his lower lip was puffy and blackened.