Act of Vengeance

by Michael Jecks

  And the balls-ups began from then, in 2003.

  Too many recruits meant that HR could not weed out the mediocre – there wasn’t time. Instead, the political demand for humint meant that even when senior officers had concerns, it was hard to get staff assessed. There weren’t enough filters. The Service became over-loaded with untrained personnel, more than had ever been employed before, and the quality diminished as political considerations were allowed to dictate policy. No more were Oxford and Cambridge the favoured recruiting grounds; instead, any university with an Arabic Studies course was sufficient.

  Too late, Human Resources realised the paucity of their skills. And that although employing fluent Arabic and Pashtun speakers was desirable, the fact that they were young, idealistic and Muslim, made some less than perfect. There were too many who were utterly incapable of holding a pistol, and when they went live and had to defend themselves, things often went pear-shaped. More worrying were the ones who clearly knew how to handle firearms. In a country where all pistols were banned, that was enough to make them sources of deep suspicion.

  The Service was drowning – management and HR were overloaded with personnel – when the 2005 terrorist attacks blew away any residual complacency. Suddenly someone remembered Jack’s idea for Scavengers and the concept was dusted off. They had to avoid a repeat of 7/7 at all costs. To the surprise of many, his idea was accepted at last and Jack had his own small empire.

  When youngsters caused problems, Jack’s men would take away incriminating evidence. They would dispose of firearms, blood, bodies, and generally leave crime scenes looking less like battlefields and more like the after-effects of a tea party. That was why, after the usual bureaucratic bickering and delays, Jack’s Scavengers were finally formed in 2007 – to clean up the mess.

  It all ended a year ago when the body was found. Immediately all eyes in the Service fell on Jack. Scavengers had created their own fearsome reputation; it didn’t matter that he denied any part in the crime: the mere suspicion of guilt was enough. Scavengers were known to be ruthless. Their reputation for fierce determination only added to the cautious distrust with which he was viewed.

  Jack was put on gardening leave, unwanted. The breakdown of his marriage was common knowledge in Vauxhall Cross, and added credibility to the rumours. The murder was put down to an error of judgement brought on by his wife’s infidelity. Karen had spread that rumour, he was sure. She wanted the top job.

  *

  ‘I used to bring my agents in upstairs,’ Jack said to Paul Starck’s reflection.

  Starck looked back bleakly.

  The third floor was a general ops and meeting floor. ‘Upstairs’ meant the sixth and seventh, where senior staff worked. It made agents feel wanted to be allowed to tread the hallowed carpet of the DG and DDG.

  ‘So did I,’ Karen said. ‘There’s more security now. Some prick on the sixth, I think.’

  ‘It happens,’ he shrugged.

  ‘You realise who you’re dealing with, don’t you, Jacky?’ Starck said. ‘You are with one of the high priestesses of analysis. The blessed Karen here reports directly to the top. To the DDG himself.’

  ‘You are here by my permission,’ Karen said, glancing through notes, not looking at Starck. ‘You are here for the briefing, but only as an observer. You are not required to comment. Remember, you will be having your HR review shortly. Don’t make me have to be honest with my section.’

  ‘See, Jack? She’s superior to me, even. My boss. Direct to DDG, that’s where her reporting line goes. Bypasses HR, Legal, Information Systems, the lot. With Scavengers and her own Technical Ops unit, the pick of the data passes through her. She even has her own kings, her Liaison and Info teams with their grubby little fists clutching at everything they can grab from Langley and the NSA. Some say she has a direct line to the DG of the CIA. And the rest of us? We serve the priests and priestesses at their altar. Ours is not to reason why, you see.’

  ‘I think I can still hear you talking,’ Karen said shortly, and Starck was silenced.

  The briefing was short. Karen read him a summary; he pored through the files about Dan Lewin, studied the photos of the man before and after his tour of duty, and then Karen started on Jack’s profile. She sat opposite him, unsmiling, firm, earnest, and began to run him through his story and his objectives. He was to fly to Anchorage, view the body, check the cabin where Lewin had killed himself, find any written diaries or journals, and bring them back. He had cover as Lewin’s lawyer, which should serve to protect him from too many questions, but in the meantime, he had a full series of documents to read and learn. One set about Lewin himself and his record he had to learn now, the other about his own supposed business affairs with Lewin he could take with him. It had been arranged as a client file for a solicitor’s office.

  ‘Take your phone with you for normal emergencies, but if there’s anything you have to tell us, don’t use it. The Americans monitor all cell phones routinely. Get to Seattle and speak to our resident spook there.’

  ‘Who is he?’

  A man called Stephen Orme. Jack had met him once.

  They agreed on codes and systems for contact before moving back to discuss Lewin.

  ‘Did he have friends out there?’

  ‘Not before leaving,’ Karen answered. ‘He may have had some drinking buddies, but he wasn’t in Whittier long.’

  Starck interrupted. ‘He was hiding. Over here, he moved to Manchester, to get away from the enemy and us. He was very scared by the thought of a cell coming here to kill him.’

  ‘Why?’ Jack asked. ‘What’d make him think he was in more danger than the thousands who’d been there?’

  ‘He was involved in some harsh interrogations,’ Karen said. ‘And he questioned some important people.’

  ‘Important, Jack. You hear that? The sort of chaps the Americans wanted to learn a lot from. Not the sort to be lumped together with the Guantanamo proles. These were the tops. They got special treatment: multiple translators, their own cooks, the works. So, Lewin was the kind of man their friends would want to speak to.’

  Jack nodded.

  ‘To learn which beans had been spilled.’

  ‘And to reward him for his enthusiastic questioning techniques,’ Starck said.

  ‘But you wouldn’t help.’

  Karen took up the story, ‘We couldn’t. And then, when the police refused to provide him with twenty-four hour support, he went mad. Tried to buy a gun…’

  ‘I told him all that,’ Starck said.

  Karen spoke over him.

  ‘Then he ran abroad to the first place he could think of that was deserted and where he could buy himself a pistol: Alaska. Probably saw the pictures of Sarah Palin with a rifle and thought it’d be ideal, the prat.’

  ‘The Americans aren’t too supportive of immigrants without a job. How’d he get in?’

  ‘Probably on a holiday ticket. I don’t know.’

  Starck shrugged.

  ‘He had friends in the US military from his time in Iraq. Perhaps he was able to win someone over and get their help.’

  Karen continued, ‘Originally he took a room in Anchorage, but then moved to a quieter area, a cabin a mile from the town of Whittier. That place is weird enough. Only one road in, and that’s on a railway line.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Seriously. There’s the one tunnel to the town, and it’s shared by trains and cars – one lane wide. I don’t think he could have found a more deserted location if he’d tried.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Why there?’ Karen stood and went to a coffee machine, pouring them both a mug. She didn’t offer one to Starck. ‘He wanted seclusion, and he wanted protection. Like Paul said, protection he could get from a handgun, and in Alaska they’ve got pretty relaxed laws on guns. Over there he might feel he could protect himself.’

  ‘Instead he blew himself away.’

  She had pulled a face at that, but it was the thought that stayed in J
ack’s mind as he reached Anchorage. It was incomprehensible to him that a man should travel halfway around the globe for safety and, arriving there, kill himself. If he was going to do that, it would be easier here, in the UK. But Lewin didn’t strike him as a man seeking his own death. He was broken as an intelligence officer, true, but that didn’t make him suicidal. Rather, the fact he wanted a gun showed him as seeking to preserve his life. If he wanted death alone, he’d have rigged a rope from a rafter, or a hosepipe from the car’s exhaust. The pistol, to Jack, proved he wasn’t interested in ending his life.

  He was seeking to defend himself.

  *

  The taxi dropped him at the Hilton’s entrance. It was on the corner of the building, and he thought, at first, that he was being delivered to a petrol station as the car swept into a broad parking area. Inside, the foyer was a shiny, gleaming facsimile of Hiltons the world over, and he was soon checked in. He took his bags to his room, set his case on the bed, and methodically searched for bugs, but there was nothing apparent. Not that it meant anything. The listening devices used by the US were ever more sophisticated.

  Taking up his small rucksack, he returned to the ground floor and walked to the bar. At the top of the short flight of stairs to the bar were two glass cages. In one was a rearing grizzly bear, paws raised to display immense claws; in the other an even larger polar bear. Plaques stated when the bears had been shot, by whom, and with which guns. Jack stood staring at them for a while before walking down a short flight of steps into Bruins’ Bar. He took a seat on the left, his back to the wall and ordered a large bourbon from the smiling waitress before opening his folder.

  This should be a quick in-and-out job. Still, just in case, he had brought two spare identities. His day-rucksack had a plastic moulding inside, where the grab handle sat. Before leaving Devon, he had converted that into a space for two passports, some credit cards, and other ID. He was, at heart, a scavenger still. Best always to be safe.

  Occasionally, he shot a look at the TV screens. There was a baseball match playing, but as he watched there was a commentary about an explosion in a street in London, England. Apparently there had been a gas leak, and a family was killed. It meant nothing to him.

  *

  18.32 Pakistan; 13.32 London

  In Pakistan, in a small house four miles outside Hangu, a bearded Muslim knelt to pray with four of his sons at his side.

  Hangu was known for its beautiful countryside with hills and rivers, but there were few visitors now. As a region within the North West Frontier of Pakistan, it was a place tourists would avoid. Suicide bombers and terrorists were common, wandering at will; Talib fighters from over the border in Afghanistan came here to recover from their injuries; and even the locals were worried as the Pakistani military and police attempted to douse the flames of revolt. In the midst of the fighting and lawlessness, foreign Special Forces were rumoured to watch and occasionally assassinate the leaders of the Afghan freedom fighters. It was a time of terror.

  This place was safe. It was known to be the home of a most religious man.

  The murmur of the men’s voices inside the house rose and fell, and the oldest daughter, Sadiqah, could hear them as she played outside with her sisters. The twelve-year-old was proud today. There was a guest in their house, a great man, one of the leaders of a clan from inside Afghanistan, Maulana Fazlullah, a man noted for his passionate defence of his country. A warrior from his childhood, he had first taken up his rifle against the Russians when they invaded, and later won great renown for bringing down a helicopter with a missile. But the effort was almost too much for him. He had lost so many children; he had hardly any family left. Although he hated the Taliban, as any free-born Pashtun must, preferring always to rule his own lands in his own name and alone, he had accepted that they were the strongest force and submitted to their rule. But when the hated English and Americans invaded, he took up his rifle again. For no man may take an Afghan’s lands without suffering the consequences. No Afghan would tolerate a conqueror. Those who sought to overrun their lands and offend their faith must die.

  She knew this. It was the way of their tribe.

  At the call of her sister, Sadiqah was startled to see a trail of dust rising from beyond the sugarcane fields. Peering at it, she felt quickly anxious. There were very few here in Hangu who possessed a car – only the corrupt and the police could afford such luxury. She ran to the house, grabbed her father’s heavy AK-74 from where it stood by the rough table, and hurried outside, hefting it in her hands as the sound of the car grew louder.

  There was more than one. Large vehicles, all with dark windows against the intolerable heat. The first began to slow, and she watched with sullen suspicion as the dust billowed around it. And then there was the howl of a racing engine as the throttle was pushed wide.

  It was enough to make her frown, bend and jack a round into the breech, for the road here was very poor, and even carts would slow for the potholes.

  Sadiqah lifted the rifle, pointing it at the car, and that was when the first of many rounds hit her, and she was thrown back against the wall of the house as the four cars screamed to the house, stopping in clouds of yellowish dust, doors already open. Dark-green-camouflaged soldiers sprang out.

  Men ran to the doors, firing as they came, but the soldiers were prepared, and their submachine guns spurted flames. There was a wopwopwop from overhead, and a black helicopter sped around from behind the house. She could only gaze in wonder as her blood oozed. One of her brothers ran from the house, firing from the hip, hoping to hit the flying monster, but there was a loud hissing and crackling, and she saw fire from the open door of the machine, and her brother fell at her side, his face cut in half by a burst from the helicopter’s cannon. She stared at his pulsing brains.

  She was still alive as the men fired their grenades; she heard the double thud of their explosions; then the rapid crackle of submachine gun fire; the solid bark of pistols; and the hectic, haphazard sounds of a firefight, while her breathing grew more laboured and her sight darkened. And then there was a sudden peacefulness, a moment’s calm, and the helicopter seemed to float around in front of her. It settled, dangling in mid-air, dust billowing in all directions, and three spirals of white smoke erupted from a pod at the machine’s side, and she saw streaks of silver whistling past. Shortly after, the ground rocked and bucked. She heard nothing, but the detonations struck her like a fist, leaving her with mouth agape, desperate for air.

  Soon afterwards a soldier dressed in black saw Sadiqah. He walked to her, tested her pulse, and smiled down at her. She could make out his pale face, and thought she could see kindness in his eyes. He said something, gently. She didn’t understand his words – she had never learned American – but as he closed his eyes, urging her to do the same, she understood. She closed hers too.

  A moment later, the pistol bullet crashed through her temple and she was dead.

  *

  09.13 Anchorage; 18.13 London

  The air was chilly in Anchorage. Jack Case had glanced through the menu of the Hooper’s Bay café in the hotel, but preferred to take a walk. His mind still fuzzy from jetlag, he decided to take it easy for the morning – he would have work to do later.

  He picked up his rucksack and headed up E Street, until he came to the Paul Egan Centre, and along 5th Avenue. For all his time here in America his rucksack would remain near him. The spare passports and ID nestling under the grab handle were too important.

  Opposite a JC Penney there was a small café, and he stopped there for a mug of coffee and a plate of bacon and eggs with toast. While he sipped his coffee, he read through the reports again, and ran through his cover in his mind, checking the details of his life story.

  His Blackberry’s light flashed, and he pressed the select button. It was only a warning message to say that there was no signal. Strange. He turned the phone off and threw it into his bag before reaching in and pulling out his book. Whenever he travelled he always broug
ht a book. Other agents preferred their iPads and Kindles, but he still held to the fact that a machine with wifi or Internet access was a machine that would allow others to track him. A book with pages was safer. This time he’d brought Quintin Jardine’s A Rush of Blood, which would keep him entertained on the flight home, hopefully.

  For now, with time to kill, he opened it and began to read.

  *

  It was lunchtime when the taxi dropped Jack at the coroner’s building – a low, new block on South Boniface Parkway – and while he waited inside, he was struck by the way that St Boniface was remembered over here, in America. Boniface was a man born in Crediton in Devon, not far from Claire’s house, and was known for his work converting German tribes to Christianity. It seemed odd to meet with his name here in Alaska.

  A door opened behind him and a man called out, ‘Mr Hansen?’

  Jack turned to see a chubby, smiling man of about five feet seven, in a dark suit with glasses that reflected the strip lights of the ceiling. He wore a plain grey suit, but his tie was loose and his top button open. He shook hands with a smile.

  ‘Sorry to keep you so long, Mr Hansen. I know you’ll be in a hurry to get matters completed. You were Mr Lewin’s attorney?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Fine. So, if we can go through the ID, then I can release the body.’

  ‘There is no doubt? Of his suicide?’

  Jack felt cheated. He had been so certain that Lewin wouldn’t have killed himself, that this confirmation irritated him; he felt like a poker player who had misjudged an opponent’s hand.

  ‘No. He had bought himself a six-gun. Ruger GP100. Several people saw him with it. He used it out in the woods, and folks had seen him plinking occasionally.’

  ‘So you are sure he committed suicide?’

  ‘I’ve no doubt. He was a loner, and very nervous. I think things just got too much for him. Was he depressive?’

  ‘I am afraid so. He’d been in Afghanistan, you see.’

  ‘Oh, he was a soldier? So many of our boys are coming home traumatised. It’s a terrible war. You know it’s lasted longer than Vietnam already? The thought’s appalling,’ the coroner said, shaking his head.