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Act of Vengeance

Page 15

by Michael Jecks


  Jack nodded, and Frank beckoned. Soon the girl was back with them, and Frank ordered himself a King Crab salad and Jack opted for a fresh Halibut sandwich.

  ‘So, what’s your plan?’ Frank asked as they waited.

  ‘I just want to get out of here.’

  ‘Understandable, but we may well have some questions for you.’

  ‘You can always contact me through my firm,’ Jack said. ‘You have my business card.’

  ‘Yeah.’ Frank Rand eyed him for a moment, before nodding. ‘And now?’

  ‘I’m planning on getting to Seattle and visiting the Consulate there. I reckon I ought to tell them what has happened.’

  ‘I see. You haven’t called them already, then?’

  ‘I didn’t think to do that, no,’ Jack said.

  Their food arrived, and the two men were silent. As soon as the waitress left them with a cheery, ‘Hope you enjoy your meal,’ Frank leaned closer.

  ‘You see, I’d have expected someone to call them in a hurry after being shot at and all.’

  Jack held his gaze and said nothing, but Frank Rand was clearly comfortable with the silence. He eyed Jack for a long moment.

  ‘Looks like you were perhaps a guy had been in danger before, maybe?’

  ‘Why d’you say that?’

  ‘Mister Hansen, you seem a man who’s on edge just a little all the time. I know it’s a shock to be in an explosion, and worse to learn that someone’s trying to kill you in a tunnel. That’s not good. But you seem to have taken it pretty much in your stride, that’s all.’

  ‘Perhaps I am a little more resilient than the sort of people you usually meet.’

  ‘Perhaps. Or perhaps there’s a little more to you. You see, I would seriously doubt that if one of the CIA’s best was suddenly found dead in a foreign country, the Agency wouldn’t send one or two of their own to see if all was well. Perhaps, if the guy had been involved in interrogation of possible terrorists, the Agency would want to know that the death was an accident, or at least natural. And if there was any chance incriminating papers or computer data was lying around, they’d prefer to get to it first. You see the way my mind’s working?’

  ‘I suppose I can understand.’

  ‘Well, let’s say there’s this hypothetical guy. He died abroad, but some in the Agency reckon he might have been killed. The Agency would have at least one guy out there in a hurry, searching for anything, wouldn’t they? And if there was something underhand, then he could be in danger. The bad guys may even try to blow him up, or failing that, shoot him.’

  ‘I wouldn’t know,’ Jack said.

  ‘Of course not, you being a lawyer and all. But if you ever reckon to talk to someone who could help, let me know, that’s all I’m saying.’

  ‘Yes, of course.’

  ‘You have to bear in mind, sir, that if this guy was interrogating Muslim terrorists, it’s just possible that some of them got to find out where he was living and took out their idea of revenge on him.’

  ‘Perhaps.’ A flare of bitterness made him add, ‘That’s what he feared. It was why he came here, I think. In England he wasn’t allowed to protect himself. No pistols, no Tasers, no mace or pepper spray. He was just left to hang around. He was a sitting duck.’

  ‘Right. We understand each other. So, I may have a couple of terrorists trying to kill off military guys involved in intelligence. Your Lewin may just be the first.’

  It was a thought, Jack admitted. A possibility. ‘If I learn anything more, I shall let you know.’

  ‘Good.’ Frank finished his meal, setting his fork on the plate and wiping his mouth with the napkin. ‘You leaving on the morning flight?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well, have a good flight. I may see you there. I’m taking a company jet early in the morning.’

  ‘That would be good,’ Jack said.

  Frank smiled, then reached into his pocket and pulled out a business card. ‘Call me if you need anything, Mister Hansen. I may just see you in Seattle.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  Frank Rand rose and nodded to him. He was about to turn away, when he appeared struck by a thought.

  ‘One last thing, before I forget. The man you shot in the tunnel? There’s been no reports of a man with a gunshot wound turning up at a hospital anywhere round here.’

  ‘You think he’s dead?’

  Rand sniffed, considering. ‘I think if he isn’t, he probably soon will be. He was hit well, from the look of the blood in the tunnel. If he doesn’t get plasma in him soon, I don’t reckon he’ll live very long.’

  ‘Good.’

  Jack watched Frank Rand walk away, and he looked down at the card in his hand. The number was easy to remember, but Jack had no intention of calling it. When he left Anchorage, he was going to get to the Consulate, and then disappear back home. In a couple of days he had been shot at and almost blown up. Someone was serious about killing him, and he wasn’t going to wait and give them a chance a third time.

  *

  20.54 Seattle; 05.54 London

  Roy was sitting back in the chair at the FBI office in Seattle. It wasn’t a bad one, this. Leather-faced, with a tilt mechanism, and the back could go wa-ay back, too. Meant he could get a doze every so often when he needed to, and tonight he was screwed. He’d been up early, and his eyes were raw from staring at the screens all the long day. There were times, like this, when he was alone in the office, when he was bored, when nothing was happening, when he really regretted joining the service at all.

  His thoughts wandered. Very Nice was there again. Her long, curling hair ran down her back as she turned to look at him over her shoulder with that sort of wanton look in her face. Jesus, she was gorgeous. He was lucky she’d picked him. Last time he’d been back home, she’d been all over him, giving him something to remember her by, so she’d said. She’d been like – well, a nympho, and it made him feel great, knowing she wanted him so much too. God, she was good…

  Why was he here in fuckin’ Seattle? He ought to be back there with her, rolling all over her before some other bastard got to her. She’d said that last time, that she hoped he’d soon be back because she couldn’t face things without him.

  She was there waiting for him, and he was here, with a boner like a lead pipe, and no way to get rid of it. He couldn’t keep on thinking about her. He had to try to concentrate.

  There were three files he’d opened just before eating some late supper, and he sat up now, and reopened the first and began to read the code, analysing the function as he went. Yeah, that looked good.

  It was when he was halfway through his editing that the red flash caught his attention. A flash, then the window opening, and the Echelon logo.

  ‘Shit!’ he muttered, all thoughts of Very Nice and his code evaporated as he grabbed for the phone and dialled.

  ‘Sir? It’s Roy Sandford, sir. Echelon has another hit. This time it’s your code “Maki-e”.’

  ‘Thank you, Sandford.’

  *

  06.23 London

  Karen Skoyles stood in her office, pacing in front of the window as she considered the implications of Case’s attacks. There was a churning anxiety in her belly that would not go away, and she was irritable from lack of sleep.

  In the beginning the whole game had been such fun. There were few risks to her. As an analyst in Vauxhall Cross, she had not been troubled by the risks of work in the field and getting shot or garrotted. They were the dangers presented to others, not her. And she could work on her career strategy.

  Some reckoned the most important work they could do was the stuff they did in the field. That was balls, and she knew it. The way to get up the chain of command was to show your face, do good work, and make sure it was presented well to the bosses. The more they saw of your competence, the more likely they were to promote you. It was certainly the case with her boss, Richard Gorman, Deputy Director General. It was he who had seen her ability and who had promoted her over Starck and even
Case. They had originally set up the first Scavenger unit, now called Squadron One, the first of the three Scavenger teams, and Karen had taken it from them, later adding two more and her own Research and Resources division. Later she had brought in the liaison unit as well, with one of her staff seconded to America based in the CIA offices at Langley. Her latest empire-building exercise should see her absorbing Broughton’s Bullies, after the cock-ups they’d had in recent months.

  Broughton was like Starck and Case: they were all dinosaurs. They’d had their day. It was time they were cleared out, time that younger folks took over. She was going to be head one day: Director General. Then she’d take early retirement and have a series of jobs with private companies who would each pay for her expertise. It was a golden future.

  And it was all at threat now, because of Case.

  Why hadn’t he just gone in and come back quietly? There wouldn’t have been any trouble, then. But she had to get that journal. She had to know what was inside it. Otherwise her career could be quickly finished.

  *

  21.36 Anchorage; 06.36 England

  Jack returned to his room a while after Frank Rand left him. He wanted to rest, and being here, in a public area, felt safer somehow than going back to a small room. He could not forget the faces of the two men in the tunnel: Ginger was still uninjured so far as he knew, even if the Hispanic had been wounded.

  But the games on TV bored him, and the couple were growing more affectionate by the minute. It was enough to make him feel slight disquiet – perhaps it was frustration at being so far from his woman. He had never known such a feeling before, but he hadn’t been shot at before. In Russia he made sure that he was safe. It was ironic that he had been in danger here, in America, in the country of allies.

  He opened the door, and slipped the metal loop over the ball at the doorframe to secure it, manually locking the handle as well. If someone wanted to break in, they could pick the lock, but breaking the security loop would make a lot of noise.

  About to walk to the bathroom, he paused and stared around the room. There was something that was not quite right. Not as he had left it. He sectioned the room, peering at specific items of furniture as he worked out what was wrong. His bag looked all right. The door to the bathroom was open, as he had left it. At the bed the covers looked fine… And then he noticed that the bedclothes had been moved slightly. As though someone had been feeling around under them, looking for something. He strode to the bed and lifted the sheets, but there was nothing to make him think that a weapon had been installed while he was down with Frank Rand.

  Someone had been in here. Either a colleague of Rand’s, or perhaps the man with the ginger hair. He had no way of telling, but Jack suddenly had a tingling sensation in his arms and back.

  He felt like a hunted animal.

  *

  08.13 London

  Karen was already convinced before she sat at her desk, preferring to pace her room. She delayed making a decision until she could review the whole matter, but in the back of her mind she knew that she would have to go into damage limitation as quickly as possible. Case was just too dangerous.

  The computer was the natural tool for her work. There were many, like Starck, who still preferred to keep everything to paper, but Karen had worked her way up from analysis clerk to manager by keeping her eyes open on the various resources available. Now she began to search for information on Alaska and the news channels on the web, looking for anything about the town of Whittier and the explosion in the police station. It didn’t take long. And then she saw another piece about a shooting in a railway tunnel.

  It was enough. That was the report that made her pick up the telephone.

  ‘Jessica, I would like see the DDG, please.’

  ‘Is that an urgent request, Karen? I’ve only just got to my desk.’

  ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘It is urgent.’

  The line clicked, then, ‘Five minutes, Karen.’

  She took the stairs, her files in her hand. It was rare that she would take the extreme measure of going to the DDG, but that meant that she had instant access when she needed it.

  The room on the second from top floor was immense. It took up the whole western corner overlooking the river, with a view over all the river traffic. Karen looked about her with the growing certainty that one day this could all be hers.

  But only if she controlled this problem quickly.

  ‘Sir, I am sorry to trouble you,’ she said, and quickly summarised events in Alaska over the last days.

  ‘You sent Case out there?’ Deputy Director Richard Gorman peered at her files expressionlessly.

  He was a details man, she knew. Never an active agent, he had, like her, worked as a research analyst for years and progressed through the levels of management on the basis of his ability to quickly assess an issue and dissect it into elements that could be individually countered. He had few skills with people, and always delegated responsibility for management, which was why Karen’s rise had been so swift. He trusted the brunette with the willing smile, incisive intellect, and reliably compliant analysis of problems. In contrast he tended to distrust those who had been agents on the ground. Their reports often were not detailed enough, their analysis too coloured by their feelings for their agents.

  ‘Well?’ he said, sitting back.

  Short, rotund, dark-haired and genial in appearance, he reminded her of a bank manager from the 1960s: bumptious, affable, but suburban and unimaginative.

  ‘Sir, I had to send an agent who was competent to look for the journal. Someone who had some knowledge of Lewin, and the only man available was Case. I can see now it was an error.’

  ‘Too damn right it was an error,’ Gorman said. He picked up the report of the shooting in the tunnel. ‘And this indicates that he is now in danger.’

  ‘He may have found the journal. If so, so much the better.’

  ‘Why do I sense that there could be a “but”?’

  ‘He has not reported in. There’s been no call yet. I’d have hoped he would have put in a call, if only to say he’s OK.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘It is possible he cannot call. It may be that the lines are too open and he feels it wouldn’t be secure enough. Perhaps he is waiting to get to Seattle. That is where he was supposed to deliver the journal if he found it.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘But just in case – I don’t want any risks to the Service – I’d like to have approval to ditch him.’

  Gorman looked at her. ‘Case has been in the service a good few years.’

  ‘Until he went rogue.’

  ‘He was on your staff at the time. I would probably have supported him if I were his line manager.’

  It was the first criticism she had heard from the DDG. He stared at her coolly without moving, waiting.

  ‘It was Jimmy McNeill he killed,’ she said firmly. ‘He killed one of our own.’

  ’Was that proved?’

  ’No, but …’

  ’McNeill was found drowned after falling from his horse, wasn’t he?’

  ‘Case was, is, a Scavenger. He’s an expert at killing without leaving evidence. We taught him. He learned McNeil was sleeping with his wife, and the conclusion was too obvious to ignore.’

  ‘Did you ever find any proof? I assume you would have removed him from post if there was real evidence found?’

  Karen took a series of sheets of paper from her manila file and passed them to him. ‘I didn’t want to show you these,’ she said. ‘It seemed better to let him go as natural wastage.’

  ‘While we’re recruiting,’ Gorman said. ‘So, these are phone records. And show he regularly travelled about the country. Dated last year.’

  ‘The ones dated second July are the relevant ones,’ she said. ‘You can see there that he went to Devon, to the cells that are located in northern Dartmoor around the eastern fringes of Okehampton. From analysis of the signal strength at the time, it’s clear he was around t
he Fatherford area.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘That is where Jimmy died, sir. On the second. And Case always said he was in London that day. All day.’

  Gorman put the papers to one side and steepled his fingers.

  ‘You have authority to remove him if he proves an embarrassment. We cannot afford to upset the Brothers. If the CIA gets to learn that he was ours, it would be very embarrassing. So create a cover ready to burn him if necessary.’

  ‘If the CIA realise he’s there on our business, I’ll have a cover story ready,’ Karen promised.

  ‘Good. And well done for spotting this, Karen,’ the DDG said, peering at her thoughtfully.

  She left his office filled with the warm certainty that what might have been a disaster for her career had been turned into an opportunity.

  *

  08.18 London

  Sara al Malik was to see how effective the media could be that morning. From the first call before seven thirty, she was on the go. Calls to her house phone, journalists demanding to speak with her, radio interviews, men and women appearing out in the road, all was loud, brash, confusing. She was used to a peaceful life, and this intrusion was appalling to her. The children were petrified, cowering upstairs at first. It was only when they heard that there was a film cameraman outside that they began to display a more confident enthusiasm for their situation.

  ‘Yes, I came here with my shopping, and saw them taking my husband away…’

  ‘What do you mean, did he surrender? Did they give him a chance to surrender? Look at my door. Look at how they destroyed my door. Look at this stain on the carpet! That is where they knocked him to the ground…

  ‘He was sitting here drinking a cup of tea, and they beat it from his mouth, smashed my cup…

  ‘Why did they take him? I don’t know! No one has told us anything, nothing! I don’t know why they took him, where they took him, nothing!

  ‘He didn’t break the rules. He maintained his curfew – he didn’t call anyone or anything! But we don’t know why they caught him in the first place, what he was accused of…

  ‘Do you know what it is like? To have been accused and declared guilty, to lose your bank account, your job, your phone, to lose internet access, to have your children’s friends vetted before they would be allowed to visit you? This is medieval, this is. It is torture!’

 

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