Act of Vengeance

by Michael Jecks

  The Mirage was another massive, imposing resort and casino complex like the Bellagio. In front of the huge buildings there was a simulation of a massive volcano, and it was beginning to erupt as Jack walked past to the entrance. He did not look as it rumbled and lava appeared to roll down the sides. His eyes were on the two wings of the vast casino in front and above him.

  He had brought five hundred dollars rolled into a tube in his trouser pocket, and, as he entered the front entrance, he paused and took his bearings.

  The whole hotel was based on the idea of a Polynesian paradise, but the decorations were of no interest to him. He walked through, taking no notice of the aquarium behind the reception desk, and made his way straight to the gaming area beyond the atrium. There were rows of the omnipresent slot machines and, as he wandered about the room, he found the tables. He stood watching the players for a while, his hand playing with the notes in his pocket. Soon he had the measure of the nearer tables, he reckoned, and he walked to the casino’s cage in the middle of the room. There he changed all his dollars into chips and two rolls of coins. Then he returned to the tables, where he sat playing Blackjack.

  A waitress appeared and offered him a complimentary drink, and Jack looked up, blinking and smiling with his best American accent.

  ‘Sorry, honey?’

  ‘You want a drink, sir?’

  ‘I’d surely love that. A bourbon, please.’

  She smiled and was soon back with the drink. Jack took it with a smile and returned to studying the play of the others around the table until at last he saw Peter Sorensen.

  *

  21.38 Las Vegas; 05.38 London

  Frank Rand was beginning to feel that he was getting somewhere. As Debbie walked into his borrowed office on the fourth floor of the LVPD building, he looked up hopefully.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Yes!’ she grinned. ‘Got him.’

  ‘Let me see,’ he said, reaching for her legal pad.

  ‘Oh, no! You got to wait until I present it properly,’ she said slyly.

  ‘OK, just give.’

  ‘Mr Ian McDowell was, as you were told, in the army. I checked with the army, and they said “Nope” he wasn’t nothin’ to do with them. So I looked at the Pentagon and drew a blank. So I checked with Veterans and…’

  ‘Do you mind cutting to the chase, Miss?’ Frank said sarcastically.

  ‘Gettin’ there, Frank. So I went to the NSA, to Home Land Security, to the CIA, hell, I even double-checked with our own records teams in case the SOB had joined us too, but nothing. No record of him exists. I went back to criminal records, nothin’. Went to the army CRC, Crime Records Centre, but nothing there either. Absolutely nothing. This guy didn’t exist.’

  ‘Fine. So let’s get on to something else.’

  Her grin broadened.

  ‘So, I thought, these assholes are just testing this little girl, and I thought I was sick of taking bullshit. First, I reckoned maybe we were all wrong, so I looked in the army records to see if I had his name wrong. There’s the Scots way to spell it, you know, with a second “I”, like “Iain”?’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘But that was no good. So then I started thinking about trying to get another name. Like his first name wasn’t actually “Ian”, but was something else.’

  ‘Debbie, for Christ’s sake get on with it!’

  ‘Just a little longer, boss. So then I went back and tried that. Again, still no matches. So that’s when I got clever.’

  ‘Debbie!’

  She saw his mood and quickly decided to obey.

  ‘OK, boss. I went the other way and looked at all the records to do with Abu Ghraib, and there, in the middle of all those reports, I found him.’

  ‘What?’

  Frank was already out of his seat and reaching for her notes.

  ‘He was a WO1. That’s as high as you get before you start getting keys to the officer’s mess. Senior Warrant Officer in charge of some intelligence group at the prison. Couldn’t learn too much about exactly what he was doin’ there, but I reckon it was something to do with screening the prisoners. They must have had a whole load of problems trying to learn who was what down there.’

  Frank’s face was screwed up in consternation as he read her notes.

  ‘But who’d erase his records? What the fuck was he doing?’

  ‘Look down there, boss. You’re missing the best bit,’ she said, pointing.

  ‘He is dead? We know that already, Debbie. His head got stove in by Case hitting him on a truck.’

  ‘Look there, boss,’ she said, jabbing with her finger. ‘The date of his death. There were riots in Abu Ghraib because of the food. Prisoners were given rancid food with cockroaches in it, and rat droppings, the lot. And there wasn’t enough, according to the reports from the Pentagon. One thing led to another, the prisoners rioted, and some guards were injured. One, apparently, was a certain WO1 McDonnell. Afterwards, Pentagon officials said, he should be given a posthumous medal for his defence. Said he stood up to a group of seven Iraqis when he’d run out of ammo. Another report said he was beaten up pretty bad, and died later in hospital.’

  ‘So he’s a hero and his records got trashed?’

  ‘I don’t think so! Look here.’

  She brought out a photocopied sheet and passed it to him. It showed a photo.

  ‘What’s this?’

  ‘Found it on the web with the stuff from Wikileaks. Yeah, I know, they’re not nice people, but hey – maybe this time they’re doing some good. And what they show is, this picture. And the caption reads: “Dick Farrer, Jimmy Borner, Ian McDowell, F. Peter Sorensen, and Stan Dewer”.’

  ‘Intelligence?’ he read.

  ‘I think that means he was paid to help interrogate prisoners, boss, and that the records are bullshit. This guy was still alive until yesterday when Case killed him. Which also leads me to question just why it was that the guy was after Case in the first place.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I mean, I can only assume this guy was on an agency payroll of some kind. How else would he get clearance for a new life, with his past wiped clean from all the US government computers?’

  ‘That means an agency has an interest in seeing Case killed.’

  ‘Yeah. And a powerful one, too,’ Debbie agreed.

  *

  21.40 Las Vegas; 05.40 London

  He was still there at the Blackjack table when Jack finally saw Sorensen.

  It was easy to recognise the man. He walked in as though he owned the place. Standing at the top of a small flight of stairs from whence he could view most of the tables, he eyed each of the dealers and punters with wide-set hazel eyes that missed nothing. Jack saw them flick to him, and then away, as though considering Jack to be of little interest – just another semi-drunk who was here to lose a few hundred bucks.

  Peter Sorensen did have a heavy build, just as Sumner said. His shoulders were so wide that he could have scraped along both walls in a corridor. In his pale cream jacket of some light material, he looked even bigger. His muscles were so pronounced that his arms swung well away from his torso as he walked. His neck was thick, and although he appeared to have little spare flesh on his belly, there was a good roll of fat around his collar, which made his head looked oddly small in comparison, even with his square jaw which was perpetually chewing gum. He had fair-ish hair, but it was less because of the sun and more to do with his age, Jack estimated. He was wearing a white shirt with a blue and red striped tie, and was smart in his dark slacks and black shoes.

  Looking at him, Sumner’s words came back to him. ‘Indoors he always has a jacket on, just a lightweight thing, but enough to cover his pistol. He isn’t dressed without his gun.’

  Jack looked over the jacket. With men who walked like that, their arms swinging about their body, never scraping the hips, he often assumed that there was a gun in a shoulder holster. In this case, he reckoned the man’s gun was on his hip, or just behind
it, rather than under the shoulder. As he walked, it was obvious that Sorensen had weight in the right outer pocket of his jacket. From Jack’s experience, that would mean a gunman who might need to draw his pistol quickly, flicking the jacket away before reaching beneath to grab the gun.

  His gait was slow and deliberate, but watching him Jack saw that he was very precise too. This was not a man who was ponderously heavy, but a man who was light on his feet like a boxer – or a martial artist. He’d be tough to take down if he wanted to fight. And the fact that he had a gun on his belt too didn’t bode well for Jack’s chances. It was enough to make Jack scowl ungraciously at his cards. He asked for another, then a fourth, and declared himself ‘Bust!’ with an expression of self-disgust. He rose, drained his drink, and moved off idly towards the high pay-out slots behind the cage.

  He took his seat at the end of a row, leaning on an elbow while he studied the machine. Beyond the flashing lights and spinning wheels, he could see Sorensen standing at the cage, talking to two cashiers. The big man moved on, and Jack saw his hand go to his cheek, scratching it, as he strolled. He turned his back to Jack, and Jack watched with narrowed eyes.

  Too late he realised that Sorensen had a microphone in his sleeve or held in his hand. His ear had a coiled, clear plastic tube running down beneath his jacket, and he was in constant contact with the men who sat in a room somewhere near watching the TV screens that studied the people down in the gambling room all the time.

  Jack was about to rise when two men appeared beside him.

  ‘Sir, we would like you to come with us,’ one said.

  Neither was openly carrying a weapon, but there was no doubt that they could fight if pushed. Jack maintained his slightly baffled demeanour, smiling, saying, ‘Sure. Lemme just get my…’ He grabbed his money from the top of the slot machine, which included one roll of coins unused, and dropped them all in his pocket. ‘I’ve not had much luck, anyway,’ he grumbled to himself as the two led him through to the elevator lobby. There he was taken to a small door beside the elevators marked ‘Staff Only’, where a swipe card opened the door.

  ‘What do you want, anyhow?’ he asked.

  ‘You were being watched,’ one of the men said.

  ‘So you saw me losing? Is that a crime? I thought it was the whole idea.’

  ‘Funny,’ said the man and then, noticing that Jack was falling away slightly added, ‘Hey, come on!’

  Jack was over towards the wall now, glancing up at the ceiling all around, and the guard frowned, reaching for him. Jack allowed him to take his arm, and he was pulled onwards. The man propelled him slightly forward, pushing him in the small of the back, and Jack stumbled.

  ‘Ah, shit,’ one said.

  Jack fell forward, both hands supporting his weight, and jackknifed. He bent his arms, his legs, his back, and then straightened explosively. His feet caught the nearer guard on the chin and nose, and the man’s head snapped back as he was thrown to the floor. His companion swore and grabbed for Jack, but Jack was already on his feet, and his left foot snapped out and caught the guard in the belly. His breath left his body with an explosive grunt. Jack quickly chopped the first guy over the back of the neck, who collapsed to the ground. The second was gasping for air as Jack ripped the radio transmitter from his back pocket, tugging the wires free. The wrist mic came away easily, but he had to pull the coiled plastic tube free from the man’s ear.

  The man tried to grab Jack by the leg, and he kicked out, hitting the man on the throat. He fell away again, clasping his throat, desperate for air.

  Jack walked back the way they had come. He took off his jacket on the way and bundled it, throwing it quickly over his left shoulder. At the door, he looked out through the small spyhole before pressing the door release button and walking out into the elevator hall. He passed through it quickly, and on to the casino, his head down. There was no chance of speaking to Sorensen here, he reasoned, not now. Better to find out where Sorensen lived and question him there. First, he had to escape this place. He screwed the headphone into his ear as he walked on past the slots and tables of green and red baize, under the bright yellowish lighting out to the entranceway. He didn’t see Sorensen in the main gambling floor, and he prayed that his jacket would prevent people from seeing his face.

  He was almost at the door, when he saw Sorensen again. He was out near the entrance itself, walking back to the casino with an equally big companion. Jack turned right, towards the south entrance, and into the California Pizza Kitchen, where he stood for a second gazing about him blankly, before turning back and walking out from the casino. He began to walk along the pavement, staring at the volcano, joining other partygoers who were waiting for the next eruption. Lots of men and women were there, leaning against railings, and he became a part of the happy throng as he unobtrusively covered the bud in his ear and listened to the radio.

  The static was bad out here, but he could make out voices calling commands, the sound of angry men shouting, orders to check the main hall, the cage, the high rolling tables, everywhere until they caught ‘That son of a bitch!’

  Smiling, he watched the volcano as it began its theatrics, and afterwards he slowly moved away.

  He needed a computer or local directory. There should be something he could use at the Bellagio.

  *

  21.46 Las Vegas; 05.46 London

  Frank Rand’s call to Houlican had not been pleasant.

  ‘What the fuck are you talking about, the guy could have been an agency man? He was a hood, Frank.’

  ‘He was dressed up like an agent. Think about it, the haircut, the suit – all the marks of an agent, Bill.’

  He could imagine his boss standing at that. His finger would jab at the desktop – short, stubby gestures that demonstrated his temper.

  ‘No, Frank! You listen to me! You’ve been dragging your sorry ass around after a series of bodies, man – first the one you say died after he was shot in the tunnel at Whittier, then the two at Seattle with the Englishman, now three, no, four more in Vegas, and you have no answer to the question: where’s the fucker responsible? We know it was this Brit, this guy Jack Case, but you’re fannying about with theories about others…’

  ‘The dead Brit in Seattle was attacked by the two agents. We have evidence; we have witnesses. Case acted in self-defence,’ Frank protested.

  ‘What about the others, uh? The Brit, Sumner? What about the old man whose only crime was, he was at the house when Case wanted Sumner? And those youngsters he beat up on? Come on, Frank, you’re losing perspective here.’

  ‘Sir, with respect, I think you’ve lost the big picture. This guy Case seems more likely to be the victim here, far as I can see. And I am seriously worried that the guys trying to kill him are with a US government agency. For Christ’s sake, Bill, give me some help here, will you?’

  ‘I will report your concerns, if you are serious and can send me your comments. One page at first. A summary, right? And then, a full and comprehensive document that will give me the full story. Why you don’t think he was responsible, why he’s innocent, and why you reckon an agency could be involved. Who, why, when and where and how. Got that? Until I’ve got that lot, I am running with the other possibility, which is we have a crazy running around and killing people.’

  ‘Sir, I…’ Frank saw Debbie walk in waving sheets of photocopied paper. ‘Can you hold just a minute, sir?’

  Debbie was blank-faced.

  ‘They questioned the barista at the coffee shop. She is definite: Sumner was there with Case.’

  ‘Shit!’ Frank groaned.

  ‘Wait! Sumner left and she saw him go to the John. Case was still there, up till the moment our boys turned up, and then he walked away, back to the main hotel.’

  ‘Not towards Sumner and the toilets?’

  ‘Nope. He went away. Coupl’a minutes later, all hell broke loose, she says, and she missed the rest of her shift. Not Case. No way.’

  Rand took a deep breath.


  ‘Sir? We just had confirmation that the Brit, Sumner, couldn’t have been killed by Case. Very definite, very positive ID of Case still being around when Sumner walked off. He’s innocent.’

  ‘Then who killed the prick?’

  ‘Sir, all I’m asking is, just don’t make this a manhunt for Case yet. That’s all I’m asking. You do that, some trigger-happy cop will blow him away and that’ll wreck our chances of getting to the truth.’

  ‘I couldn’t give a good Goddam about the truth. I just want this crap off my desk, Agent Rand. Got that?’

  ‘Yes, sir. But the truth is that if he gets shot, we’ll end up with more paperwork than a publisher. He’s a Brit. If the papers hear we shot a Brit and he was innocent, we’d all be in the shit.’

  ‘They wouldn’t find out.’

  Rand tilted his head.

  ‘Did Rodney King get out? Did…’

  ‘All right. You made your point.’

  Rand listened as the line went quiet for a minute.

  ‘OK, Rand. Find him. Question him. But at least fucking find him. We can listen to his story then.’

  Rand put the receiver down. Debbie looked at him enquiringly.

  ‘Well?’

  ‘We are now supposed to find this guy – Case – and arrest him. Quietly, without fuss, so that we can question him.’

  ‘Oh. So, what, we’ve been sitting on our fannys all day waiting for his command to find Case? What an asshole!’

  ‘Debbie, that’s fine. You use all the invective you want against him, and I won’t stop you. But the main thing just now is that we still don’t know what he’s up to, or why these other guys are after him. And I am beginning to think I haven’t the faintest idea how to.’

  She rubbed the back of her neck.

  ‘This guy Sumner. Case was talking to him a lot over coffee, according to the Barista.’

  ‘Angry? Aggressive talks?’

  ‘Nope. Like old buddies.’

  Frank nodded.

  ‘If that’s so, maybe they used to work together? We think Case was probably a spy of some sort, so maybe Sumner was too. Case may be trying to figure out who killed Danny Lewin, and that may mean the link is there. Lewin, Sumner, Case. Lewin was military intelligence. Could Sumner have been?’