by Jeff Gulvin
Patterson scooped a towel up from his bed. ‘I gotta take a shower,’ he said, and walked out of the room.
The Cub left the hotel in Kilburn High Road and crossed the recreation ground, walking with his hands in the pockets of his cotton sports jacket. He was wearing blue jeans and shoes without socks. His hair was neatly trimmed and combed back from his head, and he wore dark glasses against the brightness of the sun. He could see Haan reading a copy of the Daily Telegraph by the cricket pavilion. He scanned the rest of the park as he walked, looking for footpads—watchers who should not be there. He did not expect to see anyone: the Israelis were renowned for being thorough and his own side did not know he was here. All he could see were a few women with their children, a gardener driving a lawn mower and Haan seated on his own.
The Cub sat down on the bench next to him and rested his arms on the back. ‘Good morning,’ he said. ‘What news?’
Haan spoke without lifting his gaze from the newspaper. ‘The British are agitated. They’re running round like headless chickens.’
‘They know, then.’
‘They think they know, but they’re not certain.’ Haan flapped out the paper. ‘The Irish problem hasn’t gone away for good yet, and now they might have him somewhere in their midst.’
‘What’s he doing here?’
Haan lifted his shoulders. ‘That’s what worries them. Nobody seems to know.’
‘Have they located al-Bakhtar?’
‘No. But every feeler they’ve ever cultivated in the coloured community is out. MI5 are tripping over themselves to be nice to people they’ve not dealt with in years.’
‘Just the one sighting.’
‘So far.’
The Cub pursed his lips then. ‘Perhaps it wasn’t him.’
Haan laughed lightly. ‘You don’t know the man who made the sighting. He knew our friend in Lebanon. There’s no way he was mistaken.’
‘Where is he now, the sighter?’
‘In hiding. He’s convinced “the butcher” is in the UK for the sole purpose of finding and killing him. Apparently, that was the gist of their last conversation in Lebanon.’
The Cub took off his sunglasses and wiped them. ‘Have the Israelis come up with anything else?’
Haan smiled then. ‘Not yet, but they’re resourceful people.’
‘Fifty years at war. Does it surprise you?’
‘They’re watching your back. Have you noticed?’
The Cub smiled then. ‘No.’
‘You have a third eye, my friend. If the game changes, they will let you know.’ He folded the paper away then. ‘Which is very useful, because it means I’ve been free to look in other areas.’
The Cub sat back, and Haan took a packet of Gauloises from his pocket and lit one. ‘The British have a theory,’ he said. ‘Where would you hide a butcher?’
‘In a field of butchers.’
Haan pulled a face. ‘Not quite the answer I was looking for, but the sentiment is right.’ He looked directly at The Cub now. ‘In a butcher’s shop,’ he said. ‘The word is that the Butcher of Bekaa is doing what he does best.’
‘Preparing meat, you mean.’
‘Not just any meat. Halal meat.’ Haan gazed across the recreation ground. ‘The question is, where?’
Webb, Weir and James Carragher watched the video of the conversation between Patterson and Stoval. Weir sat back, legs crossed at the knee, and rubbed his jaw with a palm. They watched it through twice and then Weir switched off the tape.
‘So something must have happened at the National Guard base in Wichita Falls,’ he said.
Carragher glanced at him. ‘Like what?’
Weir shrugged. ‘I was hoping you could tell me. Simpson was only there for six weeks when Patterson and Stoval were posted at the base. What could have happened in six weeks?’
Webb was silent, sitting with his arms folded across his stomach and thinking. ‘Stoval killed her,’ he said. ‘Not Patterson. Patterson wasn’t there.’
‘You’re basing that on the conversation?’ Weir took a piece of chewing gum from his pocket.
Webb nodded. ‘He left nothing for us to find. No forensics, no clue that he was ever there. I think we should lean on Patterson again.’
‘So do I.’ Weir looked at his watch. ‘We could do it now, or pull him off watch again tomorrow.’
Webb made a face. ‘Let’s just pull him in properly, sir. Arrest him. That way, we’ll spook Stoval just enough.’
Weir thought for a moment and then nodded. ‘We’re going to want to search that room,’ he said to Carragher. ‘We’ll get the necessary warrants, but you need to inform your people.’
‘No problem.’
‘We’ll do it simultaneously,’ Weir said then. ‘Pull Patterson in and search the room.’
Patterson was back on duty at seven-thirty the following morning, looking as imposing as ever at his post at the doors of the naval building. Webb was supervising the search warrants with Dan Farrow, and Weir drove back to the embassy with another officer from the incident room. Carragher met him on the steps, and they drove round the block to the naval building and bumped up on to the pavement. They all got out, leaving the car with the passenger door open, and climbed the steps to where Patterson was standing guard. He saw the car, and he saw Weir and Carragher. Weir watched the fear light up his eyes. Another sentry stepped into his path. Weir held up his warrant card and kept his eyes on Patterson’s face. Carragher took the other sentry to one side, FBI shield flapped open.
‘Alton Patterson,’ Weir said. ‘I’m arresting you on suspicion of the murder of Gunnery Sergeant Simpson.’
Patterson gawped at him, mouth open, spittle spread on his lip.
Weir read him his rights. ‘You can come quietly, Mr Patterson,’ he said. ‘Or we can handcuff you.’
‘I haven’t done anything,’ Patterson stammered.
‘Which is it to be?’
Patterson looked at his colleague, who was staring wide-eyed at him, and then at Carragher. Weir held up a set of plastic handcuffs. Patterson shook his head and walked down the steps.
Webb, Farrow and two officers from the incident room searched the four-man billet. The three other occupants were summoned, and they stood by under Farrow’s supervision while the search was carried out. Dyer and Williams looked bemused. Neither of them had even been interviewed over the murder. Stoval tried to look impassive, but Webb sensed the tension in him. He whistled while he worked. It did not take long, as the room was pretty sparse—just the beds, the cupboards and the footlockers.
‘How come Alton ain’t here?’ Williams asked suddenly. ‘You got us three. Where’s Alton at?’
Webb looked up from Patterson’s footlocker, which Farrow had just opened with a set of pass keys. ‘Alton’s in custody.’
Williams stared wide-eyed at him, then glanced at Stoval, who was standing against the wall, watching Webb. Webb smiled without any mirth in his eyes. ‘Would you open your locker, please? My colleague would like to inspect it.’ He jerked a thumb at one of the incident room team who was standing by. Stoval fished in his pocket for keys.
Webb rummaged through Patterson’s locker: T-shirts, underwear, a couple of pairs of trainers. Under the clothing, he found a copy of Penthouse magazine and a badly printed journal of some kind. He picked it up and flicked through the pages.
Farrow stepped up to him. ‘What you got?’ he said.
Webb showed him the magazine. The Resister. spring issue, 1995. ‘Bit out of date, isn’t it?’
Farrow was squinting at it. ‘I don’t even know what it is.’
Webb flicked through the pages, and he came across one with the corner folded down and marked with a felt-tip pen. An open letter to the readers was printed on the page. It had also been marked in two places by an asterisk. He frowned and flicked back to the inside cover again. ‘Official publication of the Special Forces Underground.’ He looked at Farrow, who was frowning heavily now. Webb could feel St
oval’s eyes on him.
‘Recognise this, Dylan?’ he asked.
Stoval shook his head. The officer had been through his locker and closed it again.
‘Why would Alton have something this much out of date in his footlocker?’
‘Beats me. I don’t even know what it is.’
Williams came over then and looked at the journal. ‘That’s a military magazine aimed at people who support the militia,’ he said.
Farrow scratched his head. ‘I’ve never heard of it.’
‘Do a lot of military people support the militia?’ Webb asked.
Williams twisted his lip. ‘I guess. Enough to print a magazine, anyways.’
Weir was leaning across the table and staring into Alton Patterson’s face. The tape machine was running and James Carragher was seated next to him. Patterson was looking at the floor between his feet.
‘Where were you on Saturday the tenth, Alton?’ Weir was saying. ‘I don’t think you were in that pub with Stoval.’
‘Yes I was, sir. I was.’
‘Not all night.’
‘Yes, sir. All night.’
Weir hissed air through his teeth. ‘You know, you really ought to stop lying to me. I really hate people who lie to me.’
‘I’m not lying.’
Weir shook his head. ‘Yes, you are, Alton. I know you are. You see, I have proof that you were not with Stoval all that night.’
Patterson stared at him, bit his lip and shook his head. He looked at Carragher then, his compatriot, hoping to see some sort of support in his eyes. But Carragher was impassive, arms folded across his chest.
‘Tell me the truth, Alton.’ Weir got up and took off his jacket. ‘Sergeant Simpson was stabbed in the heart, one long thrust up through the ribs, as if somebody had bayoneted her. A big man like you, a trained man, he could’ve done that.’
‘I didn’t kill anybody.’
‘Didn’t you?’ Weir made a face. ‘Then how come you lied to us? And don’t tell me you didn’t, because I can prove that you did.’
Patterson did not say anything. He clasped his hands together and looked at the space between his feet.
Weir sat down and leaned across the table again. ‘Alton,’ he said more gently. ‘At this moment in time, you are my number one suspect for the murder of Kibibi Simpson. I’ve got a witness who can pick you out in an ID parade as having visited her flat on several occasions.’
Patterson looked sharply at him then. ‘I never went there but once.’ He closed his eyes and sat back.
Weir smiled and sighed. ‘Thank you. Now, maybe, you’ll tell me the truth.’
There was a knock on the door then and Weir looked up. Webb stuck his head round it and Weir glanced back at Patterson. ‘Time for a break,’ he said. ‘Give you something to think about.’ He stood up and nodded to the uniformed sergeant who stood behind Webb in the doorway. ‘Don’t get used to the cell, Alton. You’ll have to share in Brixton.’
Weir followed Webb down the corridor, with Carragher right behind him. Patterson was escorted back to the cells by the uniformed sergeant. Webb led the way to the incident room and sat down at a desk. Farrow was already there, sipping coffee.
‘We found this in his footlocker,’ Webb said. ‘There’s an open letter I think you should read.’ He handed Weir the journal and Carragher thinned his eyes.
‘The Resister,’ he said. ‘Patterson had this in his locker?’
Webb nodded. ‘You know what it is?’
‘I’ve seen a copy. It disturbs a lot of people back at the puzzle palace in Washington.’
‘I’m not surprised.’ Weir was scanning the letter marked with the asterisks. ‘“The co-ordinating staff of the Special Forces Underground believes that our current federal state and local government represent the antithesis of everything we hold true. The only secure way to communicate our beliefs within the military is by clandestine publishing. Thus, The Resister. One uncontrollable consequence of publishing The Resister was its spread outside the Special Forces into the patriot movement.”’
He read on to himself, scanning the lines, then read aloud again: ‘“You cannot reasonably expect to form a militia, voice your opposition to the federal government and its domestic policies, and expect to remain untargeted by its internal security apparatus.”’
Weir stopped reading and handed the magazine to Carragher. He looked over his shoulder at Webb. ‘George, wheel Patterson back to the interview room, will you?’
They both sat across from him now, with Farrow and Carragher seated against the wall. Patterson had declined any form of legal counsel, be it US military or UK civilian. Weir had the copy of The Resister laid out on the table before him.
‘What’s this, Alton? Why was it in your locker?’
‘In my locker?’ Patterson stared at it, then reached over and picked it up. He looked at the open letter and pushed out his lips.
‘Mr Patterson, that’s a very serious publication to be in possession of when you’re in the Marine Corps,’ Farrow told him. ‘I think you’ve got some explaining to do. The stuff they espouse isn’t far short of sedition.’
Patterson looked at him then and swallowed. ‘Sir, this isn’t mine.’
‘Then whose is it?’ Weir demanded.
Patterson did not reply. He licked his lips, laid the journal down and looked at the wall.
‘Whose is it?’ Weir was watching his face, the pronounced, angular muscle at his jawline.
‘It’s Dylan’s,’ Patterson said at last.
‘Dylan Stoval?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Why was it in your locker, then?’ Webb looked at him. ‘Are you saying that Dylan Stoval planted it there?’
‘I don’t know that, sir. But it’s not mine. It’s his. I ain’t never read it. I never cared to.’ Patterson sighed then. ‘I was only ever in it for the money. Dylan says the same now, but he was in way deeper than I ever was.’
‘Deeper in what?’ Weir said.
Patterson looked at Farrow then. ‘Into the whole thing—Special Forces Underground, their links with the militia. The group at Wichita Falls.’
‘What group?’
‘The Rambo group. The Texas State Guard boys that were shifting all the guns.’
Weir looked at Carragher then. ‘Mr Patterson, we’ll come to all this in a minute, but first I have a murder to solve.’
Patterson looked back at him. He glanced at the journal and nodded as if to himself. ‘You were right, sir. I did lie. I wasn’t with Dylan that whole evening.’
‘Go on.’
‘Dylan wasn’t with me is how I oughtta put it.’ Patterson leaned his elbows on the table. ‘He told me to say that he was, because he needed an alibi for the whole night, not just the early part.’ He paused then. ‘The early part he was in the Foxhole, then he took off after Kibibi. I don’t know why. I think he was gonna follow her, maybe frighten her a little bit.’
‘And then later he killed her?’ Weir said.
Patterson thought for a moment. ‘Williams and Dyer were working all that night, so there was only me and Dylan in the billet. He wanted me to stay behind and be the alibi, say that he had gone to bed and been there all night. Say that I got up to go to the toilet and saw him there at three o’clock, or whenever it was that he done her.’
‘He went to Kibibi’s apartment?’ Webb said.
Patterson nodded. ‘He had a key cut. She never knew it. Dylan’s cunning like that. I was there one time.’ He looked at Weir. ‘Just the one time and we were all talking, and Dylan took a print of the Chubb key in a piece of clay.’
‘Why did he kill her?’
Patterson looked at the floor again, then at Carragher and Farrow. ‘Wait a minute,’ he said. ‘I done nothing here, except tell a few lies to save his black ass. What am I looking at?’
Weir sat back. ‘There’re two ways of playing it,’ he said. ‘I can get a warrant from our Home Secretary and put you up before a British court to be
tried.’
‘For what?’
‘If you’re telling the truth, accessory to murder.’
Patterson sucked breath.
‘The other way of dealing with it is to hand you over to your own authorities and let them deal with you.’ Weir glanced at Farrow, who nodded.
Patterson was thinking hard. ‘It’s all to do with this.’ He tapped the copy of The Resister. ‘There’s stuff I can tell you about this. But you gotta cut me some kinda deal.’
Weir looked at Farrow. ‘I’m sure you’d like to try them, Mr Farrow. I know we’d like you to.’ He glanced at Patterson again. ‘Save the British taxpayer the bother.’
Farrow stood up and fisted his hands on his hips. ‘What’ve you got to say to us, mister? Tell me that first and maybe then we can talk.’
Patterson sighed. ‘Dylan killed her,’ he said. ‘Because Kibibi was blackmailing the both of us. She’s been doing it ever since Wichita Falls. We had enough money, so we paid her off for a while. But when we were all posted here, Kibibi got that snappy apartment and wanted a whole lot more money for clothes, rent and shit. Dylan got pissed off.’
‘Why was she blackmailing you?’ Webb cut in.
Patterson looked at Farrow then. ‘Because we were part of the scam that steals weapons from the government,’ he said. ‘Anything from M16 rounds to C-4. It’s stolen from all over the United States, but goes to Wichita Falls. Kibibi found out when we were all posted there at the same time.’ He looked at Farrow again. ‘The stolen munitions are stored there, sir, in an old dump away from the main Texas Guard base. I can give you names, places, the whole shooting match. But I ain’t doing it for nothing.’
24
HARRISON RODE SOUTH WITH Sidetrack and the others, crossing the Brazos before it ran into Possum Kingdom Lake. They rode in an open-topped car, the sun beating down without mercy, and Harrison sweated beneath his battered cowboy hat. He had much on his mind and much, he hoped, on tape. He had a nagging fear that Whiskey Six might be Ray Martinez, the Rat who pulled him out of his last hole in Vietnam. It made a terrible sense: the interest in his tattoo; how Martinez hated snakes. He had been a year older than Harrison when they were in Cu-Chi and was one of the meanest men Harrison had ever come across. He thought about what Spinelli had told him, how Whiskey Six was wanted for killing two security guards in Arkansas and Tennessee, when he was still running with the Hell’s Angels. He thought back to Vietnam: Martinez almost always worked alone. They had called him ‘the Probe’ because he just dived into a tunnel and kept going until he came across a VC and killed him, or came back up again so they could blow the hole. Martinez had been scared of no one and nothing, except those little black snakes. Everything else made sense too—the weapons, the Texas State Guard, that soldier they had just run into and the whole neo-Nazi attitude. Nobody hated gooks more than Ray Martinez. He even hated the South Vietnamese they had gone to help. Harrison thought of Jean then and her son, and realised that it was Martinez’s mentality that infected people like Southern Sidetrack.