by Gulvin, Jeff
‘You sit there, Ben,’ one of the girls told him. ‘You’re getting a little old for this, aren’t you.’
Dubin smiled at her, a light in his eyes. ‘You should speak to my wife,’ he said. ‘She’ll tell you if I’m getting old.’
Outside, the snow fell against the walls of the hut and lay thick on the ground like a fresh white carpet. Dubin stood and looked out into the gathering darkness; another half an hour and it would be fully dark. There would be no moon tonight. He looked back at his students, some of whom would go into industry when their course was completed; some the military and a few of them the security services. The odd one might plump for a Ph.D. and enter academia, but he would not recommend that.
Tina handed him a bowl of soup. ‘There you go, Ben. Just what the doctor ordered.’
Boese parked in the empty car park at the bottom of the Glen Nevis road. From here he could make the quickest entry to the Coire Leis, where Dubin would be walking tomorrow. But the route was also the steepest and most treacherous. He considered the snow and waited, engine off, his breath coming as steam. El Kebir was in the shelter north of the observatory ruin, but there was another hut to the north of that, on the ridge of Carn Mor Dearg. In good visibility it would take him two hours. He was fit and fast and strong. But there was no visibility and he considered his options. The team from London would not make their approach this way, he was sure of that. Few people did; only seasoned climbers who wanted to abseil from the Carn Mor Dearg Arete into the Coire Leis. He had no need to abseil: what he wanted was height, and he could traverse the ridge as far as he desired to find a suitable place to settle. Once it was over, he could go north on foot or back along the ridge to his car. They would be on the valley floor and could never overtake him. They would not even see him. Taking his sleeping-bag from the back seat, he worked his legs inside, and poured hot coffee from the Thermos flask.
Fifteen miles north-east as the crow flies, Swann lay huddled with Logan in the back of the Range Rover. Rob and Webb had settled themselves in the front, passing back coffee and sandwiches. The windows misted with condensation and they could no longer see any movement from the other cars. Logan talked softly to Swann through the darkness. No moon and no stars. They could not see if the snow was still falling. Webb was reminiscing with Rob, about the many times they had lain up in vehicles in the dead of night, waiting for the 4 a.m. takeout.
‘Jack, there’s something I want to talk to you about.’
Logan’s voice was low, her head on his shoulder, the warmth of her breath against his neck.
He sipped coffee and passed the cup to her. ‘What?’
‘I need to ask you something.’
‘So ask.’
‘It’s difficult.’ Her voice was almost a whisper now. Swann nestled down more closely, so her lips brushed his ear. ‘I need to know how you feel about me.’
He was silent for a moment, his children’s faces in his mind all at once. He felt the snow outside, thought of Pia and betrayal and slipping deeper into the abyss. He sighed heavily and twisted his face to hers. ‘Chey,’ he said. ‘I think I love you. But I’m fucked up in the head. I’ve been burned as badly as I think it can get, and to tell you the truth I’m scared.’
‘Why?’
‘Because this has happened to us and after tomorrow you’re going back to Washington.’
‘And that scares you?’
‘Of course it does. I might never see you again.’
She kissed him then and sought out his hand with hers. ‘Let me tell you something, Jack. I was attracted to you the first time I came over here. I wasn’t about to tell you then—you were with Pia. But she’s gone, so now I can tell you.’
He squeezed her fingers, smelling the scent of her close to him. They slouched like high-school lovers on the back seat of a bus. ‘Jack,’ she went on, ‘there’s an opening in the London embassy for a deputy legal attaché. One of the guys there, right now, is going back to Washington.’
Swann was stunned. ‘You mean you want to apply?’
‘I could.’
‘Would you get it?’
‘I’ve already spoken to Bill Matheson, the current leg-att, and he’s keen. He knows my work. I don’t think Tom Kovalski would stand in my way either. There’d be other applicants, sure. But, honey, I think the work I’ve done over here ahead of time has got to give me the edge.’
‘Jesus, Chey. You mean this?’
‘Jack, all I’ve got in the States, apart from my blood family, is the FBI. If I get this posting, I can still have the FBI, but I can do my job over here, with you.’
‘How long’s the posting?’
‘Who cares.’ Again, she kissed his cheek. ‘A day at a time, baby. That’s all we can do.’
‘Take it. Apply. I’ll help you write the letter.’ Swann clutched her to him and whispered in her ear. ‘I love you, Cheyenne Logan. I don’t want you to leave.’ He was suddenly aware that the conversation up front had stilled to nothing. ‘You earwigging, Webby?’ he said.
‘What do you think, Flash? I was trained in surveillance, remember.’
Kovalski sat in his office with Harrison, the door firmly closed, neither of them saying anything. The information Harrison had got from CJIS lay on Kovalski’s desk, next to the ever-present copy of the constitution. Kovalski fisted his knuckles against his chin and looked over the ridges at Harrison. He sat holding an empty Coke can, a lump of tobacco in his cheek. ‘Our secret service,’ Kovalski said.
‘Yeah. They were looking at the US accounts for the British and came up with two five-thousand-dollar payments. They looked further and further and pretty soon they find bank accounts all over the world for companies that don’t exist. The directors are all different, but every time an electronic transfer’s requested, the handwriting on the form is the same.’ He pointed to the Winthrop directions from Salvesen’s study. ‘The fella over at CJIS hasn’t got enough there to get a conviction, but his guts tell him it’s the same.’ He broke off for a moment, rolling the chew in his mouth.
Kovalski snaked his tongue across his lips and frowned. ‘OK,’ he said. ‘Make the call. See what you can find out.’
Harrison nodded and got up. In the outer office, he sat down at Schaeffer’s empty desk and called the ordnance museum in Baltimore. Colonel Atwood answered.
‘Bill? Johnny Buck again. The Cub told me he was duck hunting. I need to know where he’s at.’
The first strands of light played across the snow-covered car park and Boese moved in his sleeping-bag. He was stiff and sore, but his eyes were sharp. He kicked his booted feet out of the sleeping-bag and checked his handgun. Then he climbed out of the car and stamped his feet, flapping his arms against his sides in the cold. He was alone; nothing save himself, the sudden height of the mountains and the crows that circled the trees. From the back seat, he took the rifle case and checked it, wiping the thin layer of condensation from the barrel, before sliding the case into his backpack. He fitted his crampons, then swung the pack between his shoulder blades. His breath steamed, warm against the cold of the day. He pulled on military issue gloves and studied the guidebook he had bought. The sun lifted above the mountain and he raised a hand to shade his eyes, studying the line of the horizon. He would take the diagonal route up the side of the hill to where the saddle lay between Meall Cumhann and Ben Nevis itself.
He started walking, using the lengthy axe to gauge the depth of the snow, his boots sinking at first in the spindrift, until he hit higher ground where the ice lay in slabs. His calves ached with the sudden exertion, having been immobile for twelve hours. If the police were also moving, he knew he was ahead of them, because their three-hour walk would only take them as far as the climbing club hut. El Kebir was well back from there, on the Observatory Ridge. When he started back, he would either traverse the ridge for a while and drop into the coire from there, or, more likely, use the hard-packed snow to angle a path down the easier slopes. Boese climbed on; the fullness of
his plan now stretched across his mind. Whichever option El Kebir took, he would be waiting. No need for open confrontation—too risky with Swann and his team of firearms officers making their own approach. Just get the job done with the minimum of fuss, then head back to the car. Tal-Salem would have passports and plane tickets, and within a few more hours, they would both be history.
At the saddle, he headed north-west, following the line of the ridge. An hour from here it merged into angled slopes, and he would turn north-east on to the Carn Mor Dearg Arete, where the climbers abseiled in.
SFO team leader Mick Rob woke everyone an hour before dawn. The night air was freezing, but still, and the cloud cover had been replaced by an inky-black sky patterned with slivers of ice. Half a moon winked weakly over the hillside and the snow bounced back in reflection. ‘What d’you think, Jack?’ he said.
Swann was out of the car and standing with gloved hands in his jacket pockets.
‘Visibility is good. The first section is easy enough, so long as you can see. It’s going to take us a good three hours, though, Mick.’
‘That’s why I wanted to move now. If Boese is here and he’s got the drop on us, we might make up the time.’ They checked their equipment: PX back-to-back radio sets; no contact with the outside, except a hand-held Cougar that linked them with the local police. So far, they had made no contact other than to confirm their presence. When Dubin, and hopefully Boese, were arrested, they would be flown straight back to London.
They set out, eleven of them, Swann leading the way; boots on his feet, three-quarter shank in leather, with gaiters over the top. If he needed to, the crampons he had stowed with rope and axes in his pack could be strapped on to them. The snow was packed hard along the line of the railway. They crossed the main line and then negotiated half a mile of heathland that was always boggy after the spring thaw, but now served as no great obstacle, other than having deeper snow. The walked in single file, the SO19 officers carrying MP5 carbines, which were shoulder-slung under their coats. Swann wished he was armed. Logan walked behind him, her hood down and her face very black against the snow.
Beyond the heathland they struck another disused railway line, and headed north a few hundred yards to a small bridge over the burn, which burbled quietly through the trough, its passage set in the snow. At the bridge, Swann stopped and looked back. The team were fit and strong and moved quickly despite the conditions. He checked his map and watched the line of the path creep between the trees, gradually climbing the hill. Where the hill browed, the Allt a’Mhuillinn was dammed, and from there they would work their way up the glen on the track. He stared at the summit of Ben Nevis lifting to scratch the sky in the south. Ahead, the amphitheatre rose in a circle of ice-crusted crags. He could smell the snow in the air, the crispness of mountain air, and for a moment he was back on the Himalayan glacier with the Mummery Rib above him. He felt colder than he should have done and Webb came up beside him. ‘Penny for them, Jack,’ he said.
Swann glanced at him. ‘What? Oh, nothing, Webby. Ignore me.’ He set out again, matching Mick Rob stride for stride, their breath coursing in clouds.
Webb, and Logan followed, along with the rest of the SFO team.
Boese had twisted north-east now, following the line of the ridge, like a lone Indian in bygone American days. The hut where El Kebir was staying was behind him now, and he would walk for another two hours before settling down to wait. He considered the movement of the police and asked himself how early they had set off. If it was earlier than him, which it might have been, they would hit the climbing hut before he was in position. But he would see them, a group no doubt, making their way up the Coire Leis, long before they saw him. They would be looking to take El Kebir out with the least possible fuss, because he had five potential hostages with him. Boese sharpened his pace, eyes on the ridge, mapping out the steps he would take. One slip and he would fall: it was not sheer, but he would roll all the way to the bottom, fifteen hundred feet below. He gauged the distance in his mind, working out the skinny line of the track deep in the valley. He needed to get lower, within six hundred yards for his best shot. He looked back at the easier slopes that led from El Kebir’s hut to the Coire Leis below. He might make a shot from here, but the path was blocked by buttress and gully alike. He looked ahead again and decided he needed to be north of Carn Mor Dearg, somewhere on the lower slopes, a thousand feet or so above the valley.
An hour after dawn, Dubin led his group of students from the observatory ruin hut. He checked his compass and map, plotting the safest route along the ridge, then down the lesser slopes, when they would use their axes as both stick and brake. Once in the coire, the track was easy and they would be back at the hotel for a late lunch. The sky was blue crystal, no hint of yesterday’s cloud, but he had been here enough times to know that the weather could change in the time it took to walk off the mountain. He checked their equipment and then they set off in single file, roped together for safety.
Swann led the team along the track, three miles now from the dam and the sun getting hot overhead. They had crossed the burn where it joined the main flow of the stream and he bent to drink some water. They all stopped to rest, the climbing hut almost in sight at the end of the track. Rob called the firearms officers together. ‘We’ll deploy at the hut,’ he said, holding the map so all of them could see. ‘It’s where the track ends or begins, depending if you’re going in or coming out. Dubin will bring his party down the easy slopes to join it. We need to be at that hut and in position before he gets into view.’ He looked the length and breadth of the valley. ‘We haven’t seen Boese,’ he said to Swann. ‘No car, no hikers, nothing.’
Swann half closed one eye and considered the map. ‘He could have come from the south,’ he said slowly, then bunched his eyes. ‘I doubt it, though. That ridge is treacherous in these conditions.’ He lifted his shoulders. ‘Maybe he’s not coming at all.’
Webb looked doubtful.
‘Keep alert,’ Rob said to his men. ‘Watch each other’s backs. We have to assume he’ll come.’
Boese settled in a lay-up point, one thousand feet above the valley floor. He was protected from the sun by a rocky overhang above his head, and could rest his elbow in a patch of loose snow. He sat on his haunches and watched as the group of tiny specks made their way along the broken line of the track. Within twenty minutes, they would be there and deploy. That was the obvious place. It’s what he would do. Taking the gun case from his pack, he laid it in the snow, and, working slowly, began to piece the weapon together. A 7.62mm Magnum hunting rifle. He had practised with it many times. He pressed his tongue against his teeth; eyes glassy, like doll’s eyes, soulless holes in his face. His hat was pulled low over his ears and his breath steamed as he screwed the barrel into the stock. He looked below again and then to his left, and he paused. A party of six people moved down the snowy foothills to the valley floor and the track. They were converging on one another, neither knowing the other was there.
The gun complete, he screwed on the 10 power scope and sighted, adjusted and sighted once again. He watched each party through the scope. El Kebir’s was still too far distant to get off a decent shot. The police, however, were closer. At the hut now. He lay prostrate in the snow and thought about his escape route. There would be no hurry. If he was lucky, he would get the shot off, lie low, and they would not even know where it came from. He could pick his way carefully along the ridge and be back at his car in four hours. They would be below, and if a helicopter flew in, he was just another walker traversing the Ben. By now, cars would be arriving in both car parks, and the more people around the better. He watched the firearms team deploy, taking up positions around the climbing hut—in the trees, and behind the rocks and scrub heather on either side of the track.
Swann and Webb took up their position with Logan, to the north-west side of the hut. Rob had deployed his team in twos along the line of the track, taking advantage of the best cover they could find. Swann wa
tched them now, backs to him, out of sight of the main track. They would secure Dubin and then he would read him his rights. The students still worried him, however. Surprise would be all. If Dubin got in a position to take a hostage, things could go very wrong indeed. His heart thumped, the old adrenalin twisting round in his veins. Webb’s eyes were wide and bright. Logan watched the track.
They waited, ten minutes, fifteen, and then they heard voices in the distance. Swann crouched on his haunches, aware of the desire to urinate. It was always the same in takeouts—the moment they were over, you either had to piss or shit. He glanced at Logan and smiled. The voices were growing louder. He could see the party now, and his eyes searched for Dubin.
Boese had the party in his sights now, and a new thought made him smile. He lay as still as the grave, his finger already crooked round the trigger, applying the faintest pressure. The barrel of the gun lay on a ledge of snow he had fashioned to act as a tripod, and his breathing had stilled to something so shallow it barely existed. El Kebir in his sights, he could feel the tingling in his veins, the spider’s walk on his spine. The police were deployed, well hidden. El Kebir walked the track, ahead of his students. Boese could make him out now, so small of stature, but with eyes that betrayed his past. El Kebir who had arranged to assassinate the Jackal, only to write a book about him twenty years later. He walked into not one but two traps: one would surprise him, the other he wouldn’t even know about till he looked on the face of the devil.
Swann saw Dubin crest the path in front of his students. His manner was relaxed, but his gait brisk, just another hiker enjoying a cold winter’s morning. He was almost level with the attack team. Swann could feel his pulse thicken against the side of his head. Webb shifted in the snow alongside him. And then the first SFO was up, MP5 at shoulder height, aimed at Dubin’s head.