by Gulvin, Jeff
26
SWANN SAT IN WITH them this time, a chair set back against the wall, while Byrne and Logan pressed themselves against the edge of the table. Valentin was weary, rubbing his eyes with the heel of his palm. Harrison brought them some coffee. Valentin stared at it.
‘I don’t want coffee,’ he said. ‘I want to go home. I do nothing. I see nothing. I don’t care who you say is looking for me. I am Puerto Rican. I have many friends. I don’t need FBI protection.’
‘Shut up, Henrique.’ Byrne’s eyes were grey ice. ‘You’ve fucked with us long enough. I could bust you right now for obstructing justice. You know damn well what we’re talking about. You know what went down with Chucho Mannero, because somebody paid you to take your place in the line. Come on, Henrique. Tell us about your experiences on Rikers Island.’
‘I don’t know what you talking about.’ Valentin rubbed his face again, shadows creeping now beneath his eyes.
‘Sure you do. Tell us about Jorge Vaczka, the Pole.’
Valentin stopped then and stared at Byrne. He half closed his eyes and then his body sagged and he let go a heavy breath.
‘Better,’ Byrne said. ‘A couple of words, Henrique, and you’re outta here.’ He sat forward, making a beckoning gesture. ‘Come on, amigo. Diga me.’
Valentin told them that before he was arrested, the leadership of the FALN had been in contact with various organizations throughout the world. They had been supported by some Middle Eastern states that were hoping to create a terrorist capability on US mainland soil. They were short of explosives and short of weapons, particularly at the beginning of the eighties, having suffered serious setbacks in 1976 when the Chicago PD discovered their bomb-making factory. Then, in 1978, they lost Willie Morales when his hands got blown off. Contact was made with Abu Nidal in Poland.
‘And Vaczka came over here,’ Logan said.
Valentin nodded. ‘He was the contact between us and the ANO. He was very young, too young, I think. But he speak with us about weapons, about bombs and blasting caps. We say, blasting caps we don’t need. But guns, we need a new supply of guns.’
‘Jorge Vaczka was arrested for being in possession of an unlicensed firearm,’ Byrne said. ‘He only served a short amount of time, but you met him on Rikers Island.’ He leaned forward then. ‘Didn’t you, Henrique?’
‘I speak to him, yes.’
‘And what happened then?’
Valentin pursed his lips, bit down and sighed again. ‘He contact me again when I get out of prison. He send me a little money and ask me to speak to Chucho Mannero, who I know from the Macheteros and from Ellis Island.’
‘And you did?’
‘Si. Yes, I did.’
‘What did you say?’
‘I tell him he must speak with Teniel Jefferson, who was once his guard.’
Byrne sat back. ‘And that’s all you know?’
‘Yes.’
Logan watched his face for a moment, then she scraped back her chair. ‘OK, Henrique. You can go,’ she said.
Valentin stood up. ‘You think this Boese really does look for me?’
Byrne stared for a moment, then slowly shook his head. ‘Not any more he doesn’t.’
Logan led Valentin out of the room, and Swann stood up with Byrne. ‘So that’s why Valentin is living?’ he said. ‘Boese got more than he needed from Mannero.’
‘Looks that way. But it doesn’t explain why he’s here in New York.’
Swann lifted his eyebrows. ‘No,’ he said. ‘But at least it explains where he’s going.’
What Boese could not know, or at least Swann hoped he couldn’t, was that Jorge Vaczka was right now in custody in London. He thought about it as he and Harrison had a quiet drink in the hotel bar, while Logan showered upstairs.
‘Why call us up here when he already had the information?’ Swann sipped cold beer from the bottle. ‘Why bother to come himself?’
Harrison leaned his elbows on the bar and drew a cigarette from his shirt pocket. ‘Maybe he just wanted to see what would happen,’ he said slowly.
‘What d’you mean?’
Harrison made a face. ‘Maybe he wanted to see who would show up?’
Swann was quiet for a moment. ‘Somebody tried to kill him in Arlington.’
Harrison nodded.
‘The real Storm Crow, maybe?’
‘Not personally. He hasn’t shown his face so far, Jack, why should he start now?’ Harrison sucked on his bottle of beer. ‘He’s got access to just about anybody he wants, let them do the dirty work.’
‘Right. But he would’ve known long ago what Boese was doing. Why wait till Arlington? Why not do something in Nevada?’ Swann looked over Harrison’s shoulder as Logan came into the bar. ‘He must’ve known what Boese was doing right from the start.’
Harrison crushed his half-smoked cigarette in the ashtray. ‘Maybe he’s waiting for us to get him, Jack.’
Swann made a face. ‘Meaning that the real Storm Crow can go back to his retirement plan? It’s too late for that now.’
Harrison shook his head. ‘He’ll have a contingency. Something you said one time, he doesn’t believe in the zero option.’
That night, Swann lay in bed with Logan, one hand resting on the warm skin of her stomach, and thinking that soon this would be over. The net was getting tighter and he knew that once he was back in the UK, he would not be coming back here for a long time. That thought disturbed him, and he gazed through the darkness at Logan’s face, and already he missed her. Lying back, he stared at the patterns cast in shadow on the ceiling. He thought of his children and Pia Grava, and the death of Stephen Brady. He thought of Boese, always one step ahead of them, playing his games, allowing them snippets of information here and there. The cryptic messages to Byrne’s wife, the jackal and the crow. Shape-shifting, being in two places at once. Who had he been expecting to come with them to New York?
Ismael Boese, dressed in the flowing robes of an Arab, passed through JFK International Airport and saw the FBI agents watching for him. He took a direct flight to Charles de Gaulle in Paris and was met by Tal-Salem, who was driving a stolen, replated Peugeot. His bags stowed in the boot, Boese settled into the seat next to him.
‘El Kebir?’ Tal-Salem said.
‘Close.’
‘How close?’
Boese looked sideways at him. ‘One more question to ask.’
Tal-Salem started the engine and they pulled out into the traffic. He knew Paris well, having worked there many times, and he drove them to the Latin Quarter and the little apartment he had rented. ‘Vaczka’s in prison in England,’ he said.
Boese stared through the windscreen. ‘That’s inconvenient.’
Tal-Salem nodded, then fished in his jacket pocket for a photograph. He passed it to Boese. An aging Catholic priest, grey-haired, with his neck hanging in folds over the white dog collar. ‘That is Anton Graucas,’ he said. ‘Jorge Vaczka’s priest. He will visit Vaczka the day after tomorrow at Paddington police station.’
Boese put the photograph in his pocket and smiled.
At the apartment, he rested and Tal-Salem prepared some food. Then Boese opened his case and took out the mirror and his latex moulds. He set the picture of Anton Graucas on the small table before him. He inspected the smooth dark lines of his own face, working his fingers over his jaw and massaging the tight skin under his chin. Again, he looked at the priest: blue eyes, they would not present any problems. He took the latex mix and then a mould, and set about his work.
The following morning, he drove from Paris to Calais and booked the Peugeot on the car ferry to Dover, England. He was Jean-Paul Giroux, area sales manager with Peugeot Europe, and going to England on business. His disguise was minimal, a slight hook to his nose and thick eyebrows. Heavy-lensed glasses finished it off. The security was lax at Calais and he drove on board, parked his car, and was soon on deck with the wind in his face, as the vessel slipped into the English Channel. He leaned on the rail,
gulls crying above him, grey against the more brittle grey of the sky. The last time he had been on such a boat had been five weeks previously, after making his escape from prison. He thought about that now: only forty-two paces in any one direction. He thought about the building, the dead space between the airlocked doors; the exercise yard with the wire-mesh top, like being locked in a chicken run.
In the restaurant, he chatted to the English waitress about the weather and the crossing and the usual kinds of things that English people talked about. His French accent was good and he told her about his aged mother in Lyons, and his sister and brother in Paris. She said she had never been to Paris, but one of these days she would go. Twenty minutes before they docked, he stood once more on the deck and watched the white cliffs approaching. Then, with a tingling in his veins, he went back to his car. Security was much tighter at Dover and he knew the English knew he was coming. The FBI must’ve got what they wanted from Valentin. He easily picked out the plain-clothes Special Branch officers at the dock; they were more visible and perhaps more vigilant than usual. His papers were checked, but the car not searched, and soon he was driving up the A2 towards London.
Tal-Salem took a flight from Paris to Amsterdam and then a connecting one to England. He flew into Stansted, north-east of London, carrying only hand luggage. It was searched and his papers checked. Negro, bearded, Dutchman; he was only here for a few days to visit some friends. Armed uniforms were everywhere. He smiled and was polite and calm with the immigration officials, and soon he was on a train to London. At Liverpool Street Station, he took the Underground Central line one stop to Bank, and then walked to Monument tube station and took the District and Circle line heading west. He got out at St James’s Park and checked into St Ermin’s Hotel, a fifth-floor room, overlooking the entrance to Scotland Yard. Diplomatic Protection Group officers, armed with handguns, stood on each corner, and the road was marked off with cordons to stop anyone from parking. Tal-Salem sat down on the bed and switched on the television news.
Across the road on the fifteenth floor, George Webb was reading the statement made to them by Fagin, third in command of The Regiment. Every member had been scooped up now, and the clubhouse taken to pieces. They had found more paperwork under the floorboards, coded details of other outstanding contracts, and their stock of motorcycles had been seized. Webb had given the financial information to Christine Harris and she had passed copies to the US Secret Service.
Swann was flying in this evening and everyone at the Branch was on edge, because sooner or later Ismael Boese would turn up. They knew he would try to see Vaczka, unless he knew something that they didn’t. Vaczka was still at Paddington Green and would remain there until Swann had interviewed him, before being remanded in custody somewhere else. The day before Boese phoned Louis Byrne from Spanish Harlem, Vaczka’s priest had contacted the custody suite at Paddington and requested to see him. He had been vetted and cleared and was due to visit tomorrow. Webb looked at the clock on the wall and checked it with his own watch. Swann’s flight was due to land at 6 p.m. and he was looking forward to seeing him.
Boese drove to Ravenscourt Park and the Church of St Peter and St Paul. He parked three streets away and walked back to the building. It was cool and dark inside, and he took a seat quietly in the second to last line of pews. The altar cloth was green, twin golden candles set at each end, with a gold crucifix as the centrepiece. He sat with his head bowed and his hands in his lap, the silenced pistol fixed in his waistband. Tal-Salem had done his work well, and right now Anton Graucas was terrified that his sister in Warsaw was about to be murdered. Tal-Salem had also made contact with the lower echelons of Vaczka’s now-defunct gang, and would be meeting with them about now.
The door to the vestibule opened and an old man in robes came out. His hands had liver spots and one foot shuffled slightly behind him as he made his way up the aisle. He saw Boese and the fear broke out in his eyes. He faltered, one hand on the rail, said something in Polish, then cleared his throat with a liquid rasp.
‘You people,’ he said, voice hoarse and sharp. ‘I don’t know who you are, but you should not threaten an old man’s family.’
Boese stood up, eyes black as night, and laid a hand on his shoulder. ‘Father,’ he said. ‘All men are sinners. There are a lot of things we should not do, and yet,’ he squeezed his fingers into the bony flesh, ‘we do them.’
He stayed the night at the priest’s house, first sitting across the sparse living room from him while they ate a frugal meal, and then locking him in his bedroom, after divesting him of black trousers, shirt and dog collar. Having seen him in the flesh now, he could put the final touches to the latex face and begin the process of whitening the skin of his hands. It would take a long time to get this right. The police had been sent a photograph, albeit a bad one, and he had to be very thorough. So he locked Graucas in for the night, took his car keys and set about his work. In the morning, he would drive to the same police station from where he had caused so much havoc in Rome.
Swann, Logan and Byrne flew directly to Heathrow from New York. Harrison remained behind; nothing for him to do in London. He stood with Swann in the bar at JFK and had a quiet word. ‘I may not see you in the flesh again, buddy, at least not for a while.’
Swann shook his hand and all at once he realized that he was going to miss this grizzled, tobacco-chewing long hair. ‘I’ll let you know what we get from Vaczka,’ he said. ‘And anything else we come up with.’
‘Likewise, duchess.’ Harrison cast a brief glance to where Logan and Byrne were both talking on mobile telephones. ‘I’m gonna talk to The Cub again,’ he said. ‘See if he can dig up anything else on Dubin.’
‘OK.’ Swann shook his hand again. ‘I’m going to miss you.’
‘Ah, you’ll see me again. You never know, one of these days I might just show up in England.’ Harrison glanced at Logan. ‘Besides,’ he said, ‘I kinda get the feeling I might be seeing you again over here.’
Swann looked where he looked and smiled. ‘I hope something works out.’
Harrison laid a hand on his shoulder. ‘Things work out, bubba. But only if you let them.’
‘Are you really going to quit the Bureau once we’ve sorted this thing?’ Swann asked him.
‘I don’t know.’ Harrison pressed a ball of tobacco into the well of his cheek. ‘There’s a lot of things I never done in my life, Jack. I reckon it might be time to start doing them.’
‘What, like get married, you mean?’
‘Oh yeah, right.’ Harrison shook his head. ‘No, I don’t mean that so much. Though you never know. Had me a gal up in Idaho. I don’t know. I still got family in upper Michigan, though not many. We’ll see what happens.’
The flight was called and Byrne and Logan came over. Swann shook hands with Harrison one last time and then made his way to the departure gate. Harrison stood and watched them go, then he turned and headed for his own gate and the flight to Washington.
Webb met them, parking his car right outside Terminal 3, with the Met warrant book stuck under the windscreen. Byrne had ordered a car from the embassy, which picked him up, diplomatic flags flying on the bonnet. Logan wanted to travel with Swann, however, and Webb stowed their cases in the boot, then drove them into London. ‘Have you seen my kids?’ Swann asked him.
‘A couple of times. Though your ex doesn’t like me checking up on her.’
‘You’re not checking up on her, you’re checking on them.’
‘Not as far as she’s concerned.’
Swann looked over his shoulder at Logan. ‘You want to meet them, Chey?’
‘Of course I do.’
Webb looked at him out of the corner of his eye. ‘You two an item now, then?’ Swann smiled and said nothing. Webb glanced back at Logan. ‘I warned you about him last year, remember?’
He dropped Logan at the Marriott Hotel, round the corner from the US Embassy, then drove Swann to his flat. Swann had been hoping that she would stay w
ith him, but she had a lot of calls to make to the SIOC in Washington. Webb parked the car and came upstairs with him. ‘I checked it once or twice for you,’ he said. ‘Nothing to report except the usual stack of bills on the mat.’
The flat felt musty and cold. The heating had been off and the windows shut, and the February weather had been damp and chill. Swann turned the heating on and took two bottles of beer from the fridge. He passed one to Webb, then sat down heavily on the settee.
‘So, what’s the story?’ he said.
‘You know most of it. We scooped up Vaczka and The Regiment, got a full confession from Fagin, and the financial investigation looks promising. In fact,’ he added, ‘the more they look, the further the trail seems to spread. I told you about the two payments to Vaczka.’
‘Ten thousand dollars. Yes.’
‘Well, that trail is proving interesting. The handwriting on both electronic transfer forms is the same. The US Secret Service are doing the legwork because it all involves this Mexican bank they’ve being trying to crack for years. They’ve now got access to other bank accounts that have dealt with the ones in Japan and Israel. Three more so far, and guess what, the handwriting on the forms is the same as the other two. Different directors in each case, different companies, different countries. But the handwriting is always the same.’
‘What about Dubin?’ Swann asked.
‘We had a little chat. Right now, he thinks we believe he’s Storm Crow.’
‘And is he?’
Webb lifted his hands. ‘You tell me, Jack.’
‘Did you talk about the CIA?’
‘No. The old man didn’t want to ruffle any diplomatic feathers just now.’
‘We can’t prove anything yet,’ Swann said. ‘All we know about Dubin is that he has access and that he was in Shrivenham.’ He paused. ‘But the biggest thing against him is what happened after he saw Boese.’ He paused again and made a face. ‘Byrne was in Shrivenham too. Tal-Salem was definitely telling us that somebody went from Shrivenham to Northumberland.’
‘But how does he know that? And why tell us?’