Nom de Guerre

by Gulvin, Jeff

  ‘You sure, Tom? I don’t know that I am.’

  ‘Don’t even think about it. What about Boese?’

  ‘He led us to the Jackal. He must’ve been hoping we’d lead him to Storm Crow. There’s been no sign of him so far, but we think he tried to contact Dubin.’

  ‘So he’s gonna try and kill him.’

  ‘Well, I guess he’s not going up for a lecture.’ Logan paused for a moment. ‘Dubin was in D.C. when Chucho Mannero bought it.’

  ‘You’re right. He was.’ Kovalski ran a hand through his hair. ‘You going along for the ride?’

  ‘Course I am. My boyfriend’s running the show.’

  Kovalski laughed. ‘Don’t you get any ideas about staying in England, Logan. I need your ass back here.’

  ‘Aye, aye, Captain.’ She put the phone down on him.

  28

  ANGIE BYRNE HAD A sickness deep in the pit of her stomach. Ghosts were haunting her; they were there when she fell asleep at night and there again in the morning. The night when her home had been invaded grew in intensity in her mind. The passing time had not served to diminish the experience—she relived it again and again. And now she was stalked by a new fear and she did not know what to do with it. She was having lunch in the partners’ dining room in the offices on New York Avenue, playing with the food she had been served, only half listening to the conversations going on around her. She watched Steve Nelson, one of the younger partners, directly across the table from her, as he cut his meat with his fork. His left hand was resting on the whiteness of the tablecloth, a thick, gold wedding band on his finger. Angie pushed her plate away and excused herself. Back in her office, she closed the door and leaned on it. Case files stood like mini-towers on her desk. She walked to the window, rested her forehead against the cool of the glass and looked out across the Federal Triangle. She could see the height of the clock tower on the old post office building, and the time seemed to be ticking away from her. She looked back at the desk, at the telephone, which almost seemed to beckon her. She bit her lip, pressed her hand against the glass and pushed herself away. Again she looked at the phone, then she cursed and picked it up. She dialled and waited.

  ‘FBI. Domestic Terrorism,’ a woman’s voice in her ear.

  The team that flew to Scotland consisted of the eight members of specialist firearms officer black team, plus Webb, Swann and Logan. Byrne was staying in London to liaise with Washington and clear up some outstanding issues with the leg-att. The helicopter took them from the roof of Scotland Yard, north-east across London. Logan sat next to Swann, looking down on the spires of the city. They swung low in an arc over the M25 motorway and settled on the landing pad at the SO19 training facility at Lippetts Hill. Quickly now, they transferred to the fixed-wing aircraft, which was already idling on the runway. The firearms officers, dressed in plain clothes, threw their black canvas kit bags ahead of them; weapons, ammunition, distraction devices and equipment for gaining entry. Neither Swann nor Webb was armed. Conversation was minimal, the adrenalin pumping as soon as the briefing was over. Swann thought long and hard about it all. Two situations to deal with: Boese, the man who attacked England and Rome with chemical weapons, and Dubin, the mastermind behind it.

  He let a little air escape his lips and glanced at Logan, sitting next to him. When this was over, she would be going back to the United States and the loneliness would overtake him once more. He looked forwards again, not wanting to confront that level of desperation, with both Boese and Storm Crow still at large. Maybe they would kill each other and save them all some trouble. He thought back to when Boese had been apprehended the previous May, the doubt that had fixed in his gut even then, a doubt that had proved to be right. He thought back to the past few weeks in the United States, with Boese leading them all over the country. Dubin could have struck at him earlier than Arlington, but to strike would be to explode his own myth. Better just to watch, and see if the FBI could get him.

  He glanced at the SFO team, who were relaxing now. There was enough time, when they hit Fort William and loaded up in the vehicles, for the adrenalin to flow again. They had telephoned Dubin’s hotel in advance, to try to get an idea of his whereabouts. The receptionist told them that he and his party of students had walked on to Ben Nevis that morning, and were intending to spend the night in the mountain hut just north of the observatory ruin. Swann had considered his options, given that information, and discussed them with Mick Rob, the SO19 team leader. The party was six in total—Dubin and, potentially, five hostages. Swann did not doubt that he would be armed. He would know that Boese was still out there, and would be taking no chances. Perhaps that was why he had chosen now to make such a trip, to draw Boese to him. As far as Swann was aware, winter walking was not one of his preferred hobbies. The students were the problem, though. Neither Dubin or Boese would baulk at taking them hostage.

  Swann left his seat and joined Mick Rob, whose winter jacket was unzipped and the butt of his Glock protruded from the quick-release holster under his arm. Swann had a map of the area with him and spread it on his lap. He indicated the mountain hut where Dubin and his party would be staying.

  ‘It’ll be dark if we go in today,’ he said. ‘We’ve got a long hike from the distillery car park.’

  Rob scratched his lip. ‘What’s the trail like?’

  ‘It’s OK. But no mountaineer or mountain rescue man would recommend walking round the Ben in the dark.’

  ‘What about Boese?’

  Swann didn’t reply for a moment. ‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘I don’t know for sure that he’ll have Dubin’s exact location, but we ought to assume he will.’

  ‘Given what you told us at the briefing, he’ll want to get the jump on us.’

  Swann nodded. ‘He may have back-up as well. Tal-Salem’s never been caught.’

  Rob studied the map. ‘The other option is to sit tight in the cars and attack at dawn.’

  ‘Be bloody cold,’ Swann said.

  ‘So what. We’ve done worse.’

  ‘It’s your call, Mick.’

  ‘Let’s see what the weather’s like when we get there. Any idea of the forecast?’

  ‘Snow and more snow.’

  ‘Why did I think you’d say that?’

  Swann moved back to his seat next to Logan. Webb was seated across the aisle and was chatting to her. ‘Really?’ he said.

  ‘Possibly, yeah.’

  ‘What’s that?’ Swann asked her.

  She laid her hand over his. ‘Nothing, hon. I’ll tell you about it later.’

  Swann leaned across her then and told Webb what he and Rob had discussed. ‘Suck it and see, then,’ Webb said. ‘It’ll be dark even before we load up in the cars. Boese isn’t going to attack in the dark.’

  ‘Isn’t he? We don’t know that.’

  ‘Jack,’ Webb said. ‘You and me are climbers. We wouldn’t walk in the dark.’

  They were quiet again then, the country slipping by underneath them, hidden by dark swathes of cloud. The weather had been foul in the north and Swann doubted very much whether they could make the mountain hut that night. They had brought plenty of gear with them. Before the briefing, he had raced home and collected ropes, boots, crampons and his ice axes, just in case. If nothing else they needed to look like a party of hikers.

  Boese drove north from Perth, two hours up the A9, then the A82 to Fort William. Time was on his side. The Antiterrorist Branch would send their own team up from London, he knew that much. Storm Crow was their prize and their arrogance would not allow the locals to interfere. He had phoned the hotel and had learned that El Kebir and his party of five were spending the night in a mountain hut near the old observatory ruin. That gave him options, although flurries of snow were already falling against the windscreen of the hire car. In the back, he had warm clothing and stout boots, a set of crampons and an ice axe. He had studied the map in some detail, and intended to walk in, kill El Kebir and walk back to his car, like any other hiker.
Contingencies were difficult; his only other option was to hike for miles to the north. He could do that if he had to: he was fit and strong and had spent many months sleeping on the cold floor of the prison for just such eventualities.

  Tal-Salem was on his way north right now, but he was flying and that would take time. He had waited in London long enough to see a helicopter first land, then take off from the roof of Scotland Yard. He had contacted Boese on the cloned mobile phone. The helicopter was all Boese needed to know. His plan had worked. They had got something from the Jackal. Probably they’d appealed to his vanity, that had always been his undoing. No doubt he bragged to them.

  Boese thought about Swann then, the stupid English policeman, who trailed in his wake like some broken shadow. He had watched him for many months before they put the plan for Jakob Salvesen into action. They had sucked him in well, but to his credit, he was fighting back now. A strange irony occurred to Boese then, and it was the one factor that disturbed him. Storm Crow had picked Swann out because of his weakness, his vulnerability emotionally, after the death of his climbing partner on the cliffs of Nanga Parbat. Here they were almost three years later, and heading for the mountains. He knew then that he had to get to Dubin first, tonight if at all possible. If this snow kept up, they would not send their team in till morning. Swann, with his mountain experience, would not allow it.

  But he would get there first; no matter the weather—if not tonight, then at first light in the morning. He glanced in the rearview mirror at the case on the back seat of the car, the broken-down sniper’s rifle inside it.

  He got to Fort William and stopped to buy coffee, which he poured into two Thermos flasks, and stowed them in the backpack he would carry. It was three-thirty now. It had stopped snowing, but the sky was still dulled white with the threat. Back in the car, he checked his food rations and sleeping-bag. Again he looked at the map, and noticed that there were a number of mountain huts dotted around the area. He might have company, but if he needed it, there was shelter. He sat in the car with the engine idling, his 9mm in the waistband holster, and the rifle that Tal-Salem had procured for him stowed safely in its case. That case would fit in his backpack, and he could dispose of it when the time came. He checked his appearance in the mirror and smiled. Swann would never recognize him. He engaged first gear again, and trundled up the main road until it crossed the river. Here he turned off, the River Nevis on his left, and took the minor road that would eventually bring him to the car park. No more than two miles north of that point, El Kebir was waiting, oblivious of his presence.

  Halfway along the minor road, just beyond the Glen Nevis Hotel, the snow began to fall again. Cloud settled like a stained bandage over the land and the sky grew dark, as if something old and long dead had been disturbed. The wind lifted, tossing at the branches of trees, and the snowfall became a blizzard. Boese scrunched his eyes and drove on.

  The arrest team landed at Inverness where the hire cars were waiting for them. Swann drove with Webb, Logan, and Rob, the SFO team leader. The snow was falling heavily and halfway down the A9, Rob looked over the seat at Swann. ‘Blizzard.’

  Swann looked at the sky. ‘Looks like it’s set for the night. Shit.’ He bit his lip and thought hard. Fort William was still half an hour away and the car park they wanted another half-hour beyond it, following the course of the river. ‘What d’you reckon, Webby?’

  ‘Is there anywhere we can spend the night other than in the car park?’ Webb asked him.

  Swann looked at the map. ‘No. Nothing’s marked till you get to the climbing club hut.’

  Webb hit the accelerator and the Range Rover lurched forward. ‘Let’s see what it’s like when we get to the distillery,’ he said. ‘You never know, the snow might stop.’

  The convoy of vehicles sped along the road to Fort William, then Webb turned sharp left, with the River Lochy coursing the valley on their right.

  ‘How far from here?’ he asked. The snow was banked on the side of the road, but patches of black still showed on the lower flanks of the mountains out to the east.

  ‘No distance.’ Swann looked at the darkening sky, the swirl of the blizzard cutting visibility in half. ‘Not much daylight left,’ he said. ‘It’s a two- to three-hour hike even in good conditions. And that only takes us as far as the hut.’

  Rob leaned against the glass, trying to see through the whirling clouds of snow. ‘We’ll bivouac at the distillery,’ he said. ‘Go in at first light.’

  Harrison parked his car in the half-empty parking lot of the Criminal Justice Information Services Division, in Clarksburg, West Virginia. He had decided to drive here in person rather than get them to send his answers over. He flipped away his cigarette, took some fresh chew from his tin and tucked it under his lip. He sucked and spat and tugged his hair where it was stuck in his collar. He showed his pass at reception and made his way to the Questioned Documents Section. He was deep in thought, for some reason remembering the tunnels under Jakob Salvesen’s property, and the boom of a 454 Casull tearing at his eardrums.

  He walked the length of the corridor to the technicians’ lab, and pressed the buzzer. An operative let him in, glancing at Harrison’s shield, which was flipped open in the pocket of his shirt. Harrison wanted to spit tobacco juice, but there was nothing to spit in. He swallowed, grimaced, and was shown to the technician’s desk.

  ‘What you got for me, bro?’ he asked.

  The technician took the file from the stack on his desk and opened it. ‘The bits of words photographed under the receipt you gave me,’ he said. ‘They’re difficult. There’s not enough of them really.’

  ‘So you can’t say?’ Harrison felt his heart sink in his chest.

  ‘No, I think I can say. But a defence lawyer would tear me to pieces in court.’

  ‘OK,’ Harrison said slowly. ‘We’ll worry about that when the time comes. Right now, I want to know what you think.’

  ‘I think the hand is the same.’ The man sat back. He was in his forties, balding, with a gold and black ring on the little finger of his right hand. ‘I’ve been checking documents for years, Harrison. I’d say the same hand wrote them. An accurate assessment for prosecution purposes would be “probable”.’

  ‘For all three samples?’

  ‘No. The other sample you gave me is, in my opinion, unquestionably the same as that on the bank transfer forms.’

  Harrison sat still for a moment, letting the information sink through him. He was cold and yet at the same time his blood burned like a slow fire. Deep inside, emotions were beginning to stir, the type of emotions he doubted he’d be able to keep a lid on.

  ‘Can I take this with me?’ He indicated the file.

  ‘Sure. I got copies.’

  ‘Thanks.’ They shook hands and Harrison walked back to his car. In the parking lot, he spat juice and wiped his mouth, a small pulse beginning to work at his temple. He took the cellphone from where it lay on the seat and called headquarters. He got Randy Shaeffer. ‘Randy,’ he said. ‘Give me the number of that secret service agent the Brits have been talking to.’

  Angie Byrne looked out of her bedroom window as Tom Kovalski pulled up in his car. He parallel parked, then got out on to the cobbles. The wind was whipping the street hard from the Potomac River, where little surf breakers chipped away at the road. She met him at the door, smiled and showed him inside.

  ‘What’s going on, Angie?’ he said. ‘You sounded real down on the phone.’

  She led the way into the living room and stood in front of the white marble fireplace. Kovalski sat on the red leather couch, the other side of the coffee table.

  ‘You wanna drink or anything, Tom?’

  ‘No, thank you. I’m fine.’ He sat forward, elbows on his knees, fingers entwined, and looked at her. Her face was pale, shadows etching the skin below her eyes. There was a light in her eyes, though, that flickered now and then, like an animal being hunted.

  ‘All this has got to you, huh,’ he said
gently.

  She sat down heavily in the armchair, then shifted herself to the edge, as if she could not get comfortable. ‘You could say that, yeah.’

  ‘I’m not surprised, Angie.’ He tried to offer encouragement with a smile. ‘Anyway, you called me. What’s up?’

  She looked at him now and her lower lip quivered; none of the toughness he normally associated with her was evident. She looked more like a frightened child and he had to fight the desire to hug her. ‘You said on the phone, you think two people are calling you,’ he said.

  ‘I do, yes.’

  Kovalski nodded slowly.

  ‘You don’t think so?’

  ‘I don’t know, Angie. It’s hard to tell from the tapes.’ He made an open-handed gesture. ‘But you were the recipient. Your emotions were played with. Only you can know for sure.’

  ‘I do know, Tom. I’m absolutely positive.’

  ‘OK. Then I accept what you say.’

  ‘There’s something else.’ She broke off, voice getting caught in her throat. ‘The person that broke in, got in, whatever. The one that paid me the visit …’ Again, her voice dribbled away from her.

  ‘Boese.’

  She shook her head. ‘No, Tom. Not Boese.’

  ‘You’re sure?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because there was no sign of forced entry. Because he took the gun I kept by my bed.’

  Kovalski was staring at her now. ‘What’re you saying, Angie?’

  ‘He leant against me, when he ran the gun over my body.’ She shivered violently as she said it, the moment of disgust coming over her again. ‘Something round and hard pressed against my shoulder. That’s happened to me since, Tom.’

  He shifted to the edge of his seat. ‘Since? What d’you mean?’

  ‘My husband wears his wedding ring round his neck.’

  Dubin watched with a certain amount of pleasure as one of the students got the fire crackling in the stove. The walk had been arduous, cutting a path between the mountains, with the splendour of the amphitheatre all around, and Ben Nevis itself to the south. They would return by the same route in the morning, making their way back to the distillery, north of Fort William. He sat on his sleeping-bag by the fire and watched as the students prepared the food.