Act of Vengeance

by Michael Jecks

  ‘Hello? Ah, Karen. Yes, it’s me. Paul.’

  ‘I was expecting you to call a long time ago.’

  He leaned back in his chair.

  ‘I’ve spent most of the day with Claire. Busy, busy, busy.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘She appeared to have no idea that her beloved could have had anything to do with Jimmy’s death.’

  ‘And now?’

  ‘I think it’s fair to say that now she has a different opinion.’

  ‘Good.’

  ‘Are the Brothers aware of our man over there?’

  ‘There have been no comments so far,’ Karen said. ‘I find that strange. I’d have expected them to recognise him against the video of him killing those men. They’d surely have realised he was with us by now?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Starck said. He rubbed a hand over his face, suddenly tired. He had been up too long. ‘She will do what you want, I think.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘You want her to try to call him, don’t you. So that she will help flush him from his telephone silence. That way, the Americans will be able to find him. Soon as he turns on his phone, he’ll receive her call and he’ll be nailed. Well, I’ve done your dirty deed for you, Karen, my dear.’

  ‘Don’t patronize me, Paul.’

  ‘I don’t think it’s me doing the patronizing, Karen.’

  He put the phone down and stubbed out the last cigarette before swinging the safe door shut and spinning the dial. Standing, he carried his glass and bottle upstairs, where he opened the two Banhams and climbed up to the next level, and sat at his table with the brandy before him. Grunting to himself deep in his throat, he shrugged and lit a last cigarette before bed.

  There was one thing she had said that surprised him. She was right – it was curious that the Americans hadn’t kept a closer eye on Jack since the attack in the tunnel. Not only was it surprising that they hadn’t kept track of him, it was still more odd that she had allowed Jack to go, knowing the possible risk of discovery.

  It was almost as though she wanted him discovered from the outset.

  *

  05.45 Langley; 10.45 London

  Roy Sandford was very glad to be home again. Very Nice was at home, and when he arrived, the first thing he did was ask her if she wanted to go find a bar. His call from the deputy had implied he wasn’t needed until the next morning, and after a few days in Seattle he deserved a little rest and relaxation, he reckoned.

  Now, when the alarm went off, he woke with a lurch, half expecting to see Frank Rand standing over him accusingly. It was a moment or two before his brain became alive to the fact that he was in his own apartment again. Very Nice wasn’t with him. After making love last night, with her long hair cool and silken against his breast and her little silver necklace cold on his chest as she lifted and sank against his groin, she had refused to remain. ‘I have to get up early too, Roy.’

  ‘All the more reason to stay.’

  ‘Do these look like my work clothes?’ she said, as she pulled on the vest-top and skirt.

  He had to admit they didn’t, but then he didn’t worry too much about that. ‘You look good enough to eat whatever you wear,’ he said.

  ‘Thanks,’ she said, ‘but I want to keep my job.’

  She threw him a quick smile, and the sight of it warmed him in a way he hadn’t known for a long time, and then she was gone, and he had soon fallen into a contented doze.

  Today, though, he had a new job, and he wondered what it might be. He was up and dressed by six, and drinking coffee, and it was as he put the coffee mug down by the sink that his mobile rang.

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘Roy, it’s Peter Amiss. I should like to see you this morning when you get in.’

  ‘Sure, sir. I’ll be in in a half hour.’

  ‘Come straight up.’

  Peter put the phone down and smiled to himself. He had a feeling that he was growing more indispensable to the deputy director, and that was all to the good, he reckoned. Maybe soon he’d get a promotion, something with a raise, and be able to afford a house. That’d be good. He was on his way up.

  *

  04.21 Seattle; 12.21 London

  The rumble of traffic here was loud, and Jack woke with a feeling of deep muscle soreness throughout his back and legs. He was getting too old for this crap. He rolled over, trying to find sleep, but it proved too elusive, and within half an hour he rose and boiled water to make some foul instant coffee from the room’s kettle as he mused over the events of the previous day.

  It had not taken him long to find his way back to the downtown area of Seattle, and in the middle of the huge Northgate mall he found a telephone kiosk where he could buy another sim card and telephone to replace the one he had left in the cab. He wouldn’t chuck out his Blackberry. That he could use again back in England, if he ever returned, but he dare not now. He could be traced too easily. Someone in England had decided to throw him to the wolves, and that meant his number must have been given to the FBI, surely, along with any other details that could help them find him.

  Who, though? Why would someone want to ditch him in this way?

  Nearby there was a JC Penny store, and he wandered inside. He couldn’t return to the hotel for his old clothes now. The hotel would be watched.

  Soon he had clean T shirts, spare trousers, underwear, a beanie hat, a warm jacket filled with down, a light jacket, and a small suitcase with roller wheels and an extending handle, into which he threw everything. Nearby, he found a drug store, in which he bought hair dye and a pack of razors. In a toilet, he transferred the Browning and bullets to the new bag. Then he took a cab and rode over to the south and east, watching for anyone following. He had the cabbie drop him off a few blocks away and spent half an hour in a café considering his next move, watching for anyone who could have tailed him.

  First, a room to sleep the night, then he would have to leave this city. Those were his priorities.

  He paid and left the café, and as he wandered along the sidewalk, he saw what looked like Frank Rand in a black sedan. Without thinking, he slipped in through a large entrance, and found himself in the coach station.

  Cops: there were two he could see, and he decided he had little choice other than to continue inside the station to allay suspicions.

  The first was loitering near the ticket booth, chatting to the ticket seller; the second was out by the stairs that led down to the coach park below. On the wall there was a small map that showed where everything was in the building, and Jack saw that the stairs leading to the coach park itself travelled along a tunnel. There was a second entrance to the tunnel. The officer by the ticket booth paused and turned to frown at him.

  It was enough for Jack. He pulled off his down jacket and shoved it into his new bag. His decision had been made. He needed to win some time to plan his next move. Wearing the same clothes now as in the boat, he reasoned that he must have already been marked. He left the bag at the door and, with his rucksack at his side, strode out quickly with his head down.

  He walked out to the steps, ignoring the ticket sellers. He almost made it when there was a sudden shout from the ticketing office and, as the cry came, the agent at the stairs turned and saw Jack.

  Jack had little time to cover the distance. Already the agent at the stairs was grabbing for his pistol. Jack leaped forward, hurled his backpack, and dived, legs foremost, scissoring. The cop saw the bag hurtling toward him, and tried to draw his sidearm while avoiding it, but couldn’t avoid Jack as well. He got his gun clear of the leather just as Jack’s legs caught his knees, and his feet slid on the smooth concrete floor. He went down, his gun hand hitting the concrete to break his fall, but Jack was already there, counting on the fact that the other agent wouldn’t fire in case he hit his companion. Jack grabbed the officer’s gun, but the agent was strong, and he reached up to Jack’s throat. Jack twisted, both hands on the gun, rolling, but couldn’t wrestle it from the man, so he stop
ped trying. He gripped the pistol as tightly as he could, and slammed it against the floor. The man grunted, but his hand was on Jack’s neck now and, as both sucked in the air from between their clenched jaws, Jack knew he wouldn’t last long if his windpipe was gripped.

  He heard the bellow to ‘Freeze! Hands in the air, Asshole!’ but neither man was listening. Jack head-butted twice, hard, felt the crunch as the man’s nose was smashed, and rolled the two of them away, aiming for the stairs. He felt himself falling. He and the agent fell down two or three steps. Then Jack could shift – he bunched up his legs, waited, and then shoved hard. The agent was flung away, and Jack was straight after him, grabbing the pistol with his left hand, and chopping down at his throat with his right. The man gave an agonised, hissing gurgle and clutched at his throat, desperately trying to breathe. Jack wrenched his pistol away, and snatched the radio from the man’s pocket, before running along the corridor. He glanced around as he went, raised the pistol to the ceiling, and fired two shots quickly in a double-tap, then a third to deter the man chasing him.

  *

  The second cop had reached his comrade when the three shots rang out; he ran to the wall, slamming against it, his gun ready. He tensed himself, keyed up with adrenaline, and snapped a quick look round the corner. Out and back. At the far side there was a series of stairs rising to the main hall again, which led down to the coach park below.

  He risked another look. No sign of the Brit. He took a breath, and was out in the corridor, his gun up and ready. With a one step at a time shuffle, he began to make his way along the wall, sidling with his eye committed to the sight picture over his handgun. No one there. No one there. The first staircase approached. On the left, no one visible. On the right, a gaping maw where the stairs led down. He hesitated, turned and span… No one there. Back, to rest against the wall, and…There was a barrel at his ear. Jack’s hand snaked around and took the pistol from his unresisting hand.

  ‘The stairs at the far end go back up top again, you know,’ Jack said conversationally. ‘Now, I don’t know who you are, and I’m really sorry, but I don’t have time for this shit.’

  He clubbed the man once behind his ear, and he fell like a pole-axed steer.

  Jack took his radio, and strode fast to the entrance steps. He hurried up the stairs, took his case and exited quickly. The ticket officer had disappeared. He dropped one handgun into the trash bin by the entrance, dropped a radio on the ground and stamped on it hard, before picking up the second and pressing the send button on the radio. ‘Two officers down, gunman in shooting at the—’ he looked up at the signs ‘King County Metro Bus station. All units respond.’ He lifted the pistol and fired twice into the air near the radio, then tossed both away and strode outside.

  A taxi was passing down Yesler. He hailed it and climbed in as the sound of police sirens came to his ears. By the time the cops arrived at the bus station, black-clad officers with riot guns and rifles at the ready, he was already driving past the Qwest stadium. He took the cab up to the docks, and left it there.

  *

  That was last night. Mission accomplished. Now his clothes, his features, his hair, would all be sought. He had changed his clothes behind some old hoardings. He discarded the old ones under a manhole cover in a car park, and he pulled on a beanie hat to conceal his hair before walking five blocks to catch a fresh taxi in his new clothes.

  He found a hotel near Eastgate, and used the spare passport and ID that he already had, not the ones Orme had given him that day in the restaurant. This morning he had carefully shaved his hair into a high widow’s peak and dyed it a pale blonde. He felt a different man. With his new hairstyle he reckoned he could probably pass by the two police from last night without them recognising him. The photo in this new passport matched his changed appearance.

  The rumble continued, a never-ending thundering, and when he stared out through the grimy window, he could see the 405 interstate with trucks and cars shooting past all the time. It was mesmerising, or maybe it was just attractive for him to see such a proof of normalcy. Either way, he stood there, bare-chested, staring at all the vehicles, his mind blank except for the dream of running from here, catching a plane, and hurrying back home. There had to be a way to escape all this, he thought.

  He could call in to Vauxhall. That’s what he ought to do, he knew. Get back there. Phone them to demand help.

  With that thought he had a picture in his mind of Starck, baring those yellow fangs of his as he screwed his face into the semblance of regret as he denied knowing Jack’s name, denied knowing anything about him.

  Jack knew that he was disposable. And Starck would surely take pleasure in dropping him. Jack was damaged goods. He could see Karen’s sad, slightly ashamed smile as she agreed with Starck that Jack should be ditched. He was expendable.

  Sod them. Jack knew enough to make more embarrassment than those two could possibly imagine.

  But he was lonely. He stared at his old Blackberry, then at the new throw-away.

  No. He must wait before using a phone. It was too dangerous still right now.

  *

  07.24 Langley; 12.24 London

  The office was as dark and quiet as before, but this time there was another man with the deputy director.

  ‘Sandford,’ he said, nodding to him as Roy walked into the room.

  He was a small man in his early sixties, clad in a dark blue suit, short and scrawny, with the look of a professor about him. Pale brown eyes blinked quickly behind his rimless spectacles and he put Roy in mind of a vulture, with his large nose and thin frame, the way his head was held low on his shoulders. He had thinning white hair, and there were age freckles on his hands as he held them clasped before him, his chin touching them.

  Roy Sandford knew him. It was the deputy director’s opposite number, Frank Tullman, from the NSA. Tullman was in charge of all the skeletons, Roy had heard. Even at his pay grade, the names of men like Tullman stood out. It was said that he had originally cut his teeth as a junior communications operator with the Watergate recordings. He was lucky that time not to have been caught, and his boss had covered Frank’s traces to protect his protégé. Now rumour had it that Tullman was the man with all the skeletons. He was the man with access to all the dirty secrets that senators and congressmen wanted kept hidden. When a president needed to be reassured about a man, he would ask Tullman. And when Tullman said a party official should be avoided, the official’s career was over.

  ‘Sir,’ he said, and now there was a feeling of sick nervousness in his belly.

  ‘This is Mister Tullman. You know him,’ Amiss said. There was no question in his voice, only that quiet conviction that Roy remembered from his last meeting. ‘You can speak in front of him with absolute freedom. You have just returned from the operation in Seattle. Correct?’

  ‘Sir. Yes, sir.’

  ‘How’s the operation progressing?’ Tullman said.

  ‘Sir, I think that the team is performing well. It’s difficult there. The target is very… um… hard to track.’

  ‘We know that. It’s why the FBI put some of their best agents in there,’ Amiss said. ‘And we put you with them.’

  ‘Well, the FBI guys are good. I’m sure that they’ll…’

  Tullman interrupted, ‘Frank Rand is effective?’

  ‘Yes, sir. From what I saw.’

  ‘The man they are tracking has killed two more men,’ Tullman said. ‘He is a danger to us and our country. We need you to help bring him down.’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘From here, Sandford,’ Amiss interrupted. ‘You can monitor all the information which the team amasses, I assume?’

  ‘Well, yes, I guess so.’

  ‘Good. That is enough. I will have you allocated the room at the end of this hall. You may go.’

  Tullman watched as Sandford left the room and the door closed behind him, before asking, ‘You think he is safe enough?’

  ‘He is,’ Amiss said. ‘I have a close
watch kept on him. He’s a loner, as are so many of these computer whizz-kids. No family, and only one lover, who happens to be one of us as well. He’s safe enough.’

  ‘What about his affiliations? Is he with us?’

  ‘I think he may be. I will approach him.’ Amiss nodded to himself. ‘He would be invaluable.’

  ‘So long as you’re sure.’

  ‘If he becomes dangerous, we can deal with him.’

  *

  06.18 Seattle; 14.18 London

  Jack was at the window for a long time. In his mind’s eye he saw the walk along the river down at Fatherford with the two dogs, he saw the house, Claire, and even as he was trying to hold a picture of Claire in his mind, he saw again Lewin’s face – the white, fearful face as he cupped a cigarette in his hands and stared up at Jack, a young man who had seen and done so much more than his mind could accept. Jack saw him, and then Jack’s agents replaced Lewin’s face: all those whom his Service had betrayed when they decided the Russian informers weren’t needed any more. The agents he had betrayed by not helping them.

  He left the window with the scene of endless vehicles and showered, then packed away the evidence of his hair dressing, stuffing the empty dye into a plastic bag long with his shaved hair. Last, he shoved it with his rucksack into the larger, wheeled case with all his clothes. With a clean shirt and pants, he felt refreshed.

  Walking down to the street, he hefted his bag and set off westwards. When he found a small café, he sat down and ate a plate of eggs and toast with coffee.

  He had a lot to do today.

  *

  06.23 Seattle; 14.23 London

  Frank Rand was up early that morning, his eyes scratchy from sleeplessness, and his temper was not good as he sat at his desk and read through the reports. ‘Debbie?’ he shouted, and a moment or two later she appeared in the doorway, her hair tied up loosely. It made her look like she’d just fallen out of bed, and Frank saw that her eyes too were red-rimmed from lack of sleep.