Storm Crow

by Jeff Gulvin

  ‘So how was Israel?’ he asked.

  She stood with the wine glass in one hand, the other cupping her elbow, dressed in white shorts and a pink, skintight top. ‘OK. Not as good as I hoped. I thought I’d get the client for sure.’

  Swann spooned chicken bhuna on to rice. ‘You didn’t?’

  ‘Not yet.’ She threw out a hand. ‘It’s how it goes. You get all the introductions. It was a dinner party as well, so I suppose I could only expect so much.’

  ‘But you will get him?’

  She made a face. ‘I hope so. There’s a lot of competition though, Jack.’

  ‘Other banks?’

  ‘He’s a player, very much in demand.’

  It had taken Swann a little bit of time to establish exactly what it was that Pia did. She worked as an international private banker in Upper Grosvenor Street. The bank was Luxembourg-based, but she worked with a UK team in the international office. London was a better base than the Continent, and they enjoyed the same access to places such as Bermuda and the Cayman Islands as did the British banks. Pia had come to England from Italy in the late eighties. She got a degree in economics from the LSE and then studied for a Master’s at Berkeley, California, after first completing a management training course with NatWest. From there, she had moved to Luxembourg Directe and worked as a trainee under the eye of her present boss Paul Ellis.

  Ellis had guided her at first. Her Israeli contacts, derived she had said through her late father’s business, had been attractive. Ellis had thought he could bolt her on to his department without actually treading on the toes of his Arab clientele. She was officially part of the African/Asian arm and worked out of the adjoining building, so protocol was not tested by Arabs and Israelis arriving for meetings at the same time.

  They ate dinner and afterwards went up to the roof garden to enjoy the relative cool of the evening. Swann lit two cigarettes and passed one to her. The stars were out, sky hazy and pink from the light thrown up by the city. Cars rumbled over Waterloo Bridge and voices lifted in laughter from the street below. Swann sat on the bench facing the old MI5 building and smoked. ‘Your job’s getting you down, isn’t it,’ he said gently.

  Pia looked at him, standing with one arm hooked round her waist, flicking the ash from her cigarette.

  ‘I suppose.’

  ‘Paris,’ he said. ‘Now Israel. A lot of pressure.’

  She sighed. ‘Too much. Sometimes I think I’d like to do something else.’

  Swann gently drifted an arm round her shoulders. ‘Like what?’

  ‘I don’t know, Jack. Something a bit more worthwhile.’

  He stared across at the buildings over the street. ‘Worthwhile wouldn’t pay so much.’

  ‘Money isn’t everything, is it.’ She tasted her lips with her tongue. ‘I’m sick of the travelling as well. Always away. I’ve got to go to the States again next month.’ She looked through the darkness at him, then tossed her cigarette over the parapet and for a moment they sat in silence. ‘Take me to bed,’ she said.

  He undressed her, sitting on the edge of the bed while she stood before him, peeling her top over her head. She was naked underneath, breasts rising, nipples bunching into curling points of flesh under a smattering of goose bumps. Swann felt his breath tighten and he drew her towards him, arms gentle about her narrow waist, until one nipple was between his teeth, and he tugged, softening it and then licking it stiff again. She rested her forearms on his shoulders, fingers entwined in his hair, and kissed the top of his head. Swann sucked her breast into his mouth, burying his face deeper and deeper into flesh. She let go a little moan and he eased her shorts down over her thighs. Her knickers came with them and pubic hair brushed against him. He eased himself lower, moving her round so she lay back, naked in the moonlight against the white of the sheet. He traced little circles on her skin with the tip of his tongue, then moving between her legs he tasted her.

  Pia arched her back, Swann watching the contortions of her features as she pressed the points of her fingers deeper into his scalp, holding him between her legs. He felt her shiver and her legs lifted, knees clutching his ears. She pushed him back and rolled him on to the bed before dragging his shorts away. She took his penis in the palm of her hand, smoothing the skin with her fingers; and then she took him in her mouth, softly at first and then deeper. Swann groaned, twisting the sheet into knots with his fists. She moved up his body, breasts over his groin, then belly and chest, until she lowered herself on to him with the tiniest of gasps in her throat. Swann watched her face as she rotated her hips, eyes closed and broken up at the edges as if she were silently crying.

  He lay with her later, just the sheet over them, the room close and airless even with the windows wide open. She half rested her head on his shoulder and he could feel the moisture gathering deep in her hair. ‘I love you,’ she whispered.

  He felt the squall of emotion in his breast and held her very close to him. Lightly he stroked her hair. ‘I want to take care of you.’ She didn’t answer. He stroked the down of her cheeks, so soft under his fingers.

  They lay in silence for a while, then Pia said, ‘Will you stay with me tomorrow night?’

  ‘I can’t. I’m working.’

  She eased back on the pillow, the sheet falling away from her breasts. ‘What’re you doing?’

  ‘Scooping somebody up.’

  ‘IRA?’

  ‘No. Somebody else.’

  ‘OK. Wednesday, then.’

  ‘Wednesday and Thursday and Friday.’

  6

  THE FOLLOWING AFTERNOON, JAMES Morton took the plastic bin liner from the flip-top bin in the kitchen and walked to the front door. He opened it wide, stepped out into the sunshine and placed the bag carefully on the step. He yawned and stretched and for a second glanced up at the third-floor window in the house across from his. He glimpsed the tiny silver disc that had been there for four weeks now.

  In the observation point, Christine Harris watched Morton place the bin bag outside. Next to her Julian Moore, the surveillance operative from MI5, chewed on a sandwich. He swallowed and picked up his cup of coffee.

  ‘Doesn’t look like he’s going out today,’ Christine muttered.

  ‘Oh well, that’ll make the last day that much easier.’

  She sat back in her chair. ‘We won’t be up here when they hit.’

  ‘No.’ Julian looked at the remainder of the sandwich and decided against it. ‘Pity,’ he said. ‘I’ve never seen them put the stick in before.’

  Twenty minutes later, a car drew up at the far end of the road and a young man in a suit got out. Christine glanced briefly at him and then looked away again. The car was a red Escort cabriolet with the roof folded away. She looked across at the target premises, then back up the road. The man was still there, standing on the corner and looking at his watch. He carried what looked like a clipboard under one arm. A second man came round the corner. He wore a grey suit with the jacket over his shoulder. The two men shook hands and then the first one led the way up the steps.

  ‘A buyer for number thirteen,’ Christine said.

  ‘What?’

  She pointed along the road. ‘The agent’s showing someone around.’

  She lit a cigarette and sat back. Julian moved into the forward chair and scanned the street through the zoom lens of the camera. Five minutes later, the front door to number 4 opened and Morton appeared for the second time that day. This time he came out, wearing a running top with the hood pulled up. Julian clicked the shutter on the camera. Christine lifted the radio. ‘All units from Control. X3. Target moving, walking, Glenthorne Road, turning left towards the Broadway.’

  Morton walked as far as the Broadway station and then went inside. He was followed as far as the newsstand, where he bought a copy of the Evening Standard. Five minutes later, he was back inside the house again. They watched from the observation point, but he did not come out again. Further down the road, the estate agent came out with his client.
They meandered down the steps, the client looking back up at the building and pointing. On the pavement they held a discussion for a few minutes, then they shook hands and the estate agent got back in his car. The two spotters in the observation point took bets on how long it would be before the ‘SOLD’ board went up.

  One a.m., and the SO13 investigation squad were gathered at Shepherd’s Bush police station for the SO19 briefing. Swann arrived with Webb a little later than the others. They had done a final drive-by along the Glenthorne Road end of Queen’s House Mews. The operational commander was there, as was Clements and the rest of 4 Squad. The arrest team were present, standing apart from the SFOs in order that no firearms contamination could be passed on. Out in the car park they had a sterile car prepared—swabbed, papered and the seats covered with plastic.

  Swann nodded to Mumbles and Twelve Hits. Most of blue team had worked with the Branch at some point. They liked the work: it was exacting and also highly lucrative in terms of overtime. At 1.15, the briefing began in earnest. The scene had been photographed and videoed from above, as well as covertly from street level by the bogus telephone engineers who had been working on Sunday and Monday mornings. The area was mapped in pen on Sasco whiteboards which were placed round the tables at the front of the room.

  Graves spoke at length with Colson and DI Clements, a black Glock 17 nuzzling against his hip. Clements was giving him the updated information from Box and SB. Morton was safely put to bed and the house was in darkness. They had seen the lights go off in the front room on the first floor, which they knew to be his bedroom. When he was satisfied, Graves moved to the front of the room and cleared his throat. ‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ he began, his voice soft yet very firm. ‘If we can begin.’

  The hubbub hushed and those who hadn’t already done so took their seats; plain-clothed officers from the Branch and the men with many pockets: SO19, dressed like Ninjas apart from their black respirators. The briefing followed the normal pattern: information; intention; method; administration and communications. Graves introduced himself and DSU Colson formally. ‘We’re here to assist SO13 in detaining a suspect who’s currently residing at number four, Queen’s House Mews in Hammersmith,’ he said. ‘Mr Colson will fill you in on the details and update us on the surveillance log.’

  When Colson sat down again, Graves indicated the maps blown up on the boards behind him. ‘The property is a three-storeyed Victorian terrace with a basement,’ he said. ‘No basement access from the street. This building has not been converted. We are not—repeat not, looking at a flat within it. It’s one building with one occupier. The bedrooms are located on the first and second floors.’ He stopped talking again and checked his notes. ‘There’s a garden at the back with no way out except over a six-foot-high breeze-block wall.’ He indicated the position on the map. ‘Beyond that is a yard where taxis are repaired. We can gain access from the first wall at the junction of Queen’s House Mews and Adie Road. It’s a possible escape route, so I want two guys covering.’ He nodded to two officers seated directly in front of him. ‘Phil D and Eddie. You’ve been tasked on the black.’

  He picked up a plastic coffee cup and sipped from it. ‘The intention is to detain James Morton,’ he said. ‘We’ll safely secure and surround the premises—or rather on the white and black in this case—breach the door quietly and move upstairs. We’ll have assault ladders ready for the windows. The stick will go upstairs and attack from the landing. Stealth, gentlemen, stealth. Mumbles is MOE man. We’ll use the ramp and open the door quietly. Rob’s shield man. Long shield, Rob?’

  MacGregor nodded and adjusted the MP5 carbine in the sling across his chest. Graves continued. ‘Phil Gibson, MP5 cover on the white.’ He went on to confirm the other tasks finalized in the basement at Old Street earlier in the day. ‘When this briefing’s over, we’ll load up the vehicles and assemble in convoy order. The rendezvous point is the junction between Adie Road and Queen’s House Mews. The cordons will be in at either end of Glenthorne Road and at the Adie Road junction. The arrest car will wait at the form-up point at the top of Queen’s House Mews itself. The team will move forward on foot to the final assault positions. Phil and Eddie on the black—you two will have to get over the wall and take up positions in the taxi yard.’ He looked then at the duty officer from Shepherd’s Bush who would put in the cordons. ‘Assuming a successful outcome, the cordons will remain in place till the team withdraws. Control will be the Special Branch observation point across the road.

  ‘Right,’ he went on. ‘Contingencies. If there is a shooting, SO19 will control the situation. There will be no other intervention unless specifically invited by me. In that event, the armed officers involved will go to Ealing police station and I’ll ask Mr Colson to nominate a liaison officer for CIB. If the target is non-compliant, we’ll drop into siege mode and negotiate. If he gets out, jumps, gets down the stairs, whatever—SO19 will deal with it. If he runs, the dogs will deal. The debrief is back here. Comms will be back to back—and secure cougars only.’ He looked again at Colson. ‘Any tension indicators we need to know about—late-night drinkers, street activity, etc.?’

  Colson looked at his team and slowly shook his head.

  ‘Good,’ Graves went on. ‘Now, is everything clear?’

  ‘One thing, Nick.’ It was George Webb who spoke. ‘Forensics.’ He stood up and looked at the gathering. ‘You’ve all been to the fat detective’s lectures,’ he said. ‘Clearly, safety and securing the situation is paramount, but, remember, only touch what you have to.’

  Graves nodded. ‘Good point,’ he said. ‘No point in nicking him if we fuck up the forensics. The armed operation number is 13-B/24. We assemble in forty-five minutes.’

  In the small hotel overlooking Queen’s House Mews, a man with a black beard and horn-rimmed glasses sat at his window, reading a book. He yawned, glanced at the flickering but silent TV screen and then at the illuminated hands of the clock beside his bed. Three-thirty in the morning. He leaned closer to the window and looked out. No movement, a meagre light falling across dirty pavement from streetlamps. Across the way, a light burned in the upstairs flat next door to the house for sale. Further down the road, number 4 was in darkness.

  The convoy rolled. The lead vehicle driven by Graves with Colson next to him and Swann and Webb in the back. After that, the dark green Leyland DAF SFO kit vans. Two benches inside, men cramped together with MP5s and Kevlar shields, blankets and respirators. On the floor were two black plastic suitcases. On the front of one was written the word Distraction and on the other Bang. The convoy moved as one, overtaking what little traffic was on the road. They moved along the agreed route at speed. No sirens, no blue lights. When they reached the rendezvous point, the vehicles formed up, then rolled slowly to the top of Queen’s House Mews.

  At the window of the hotel room, the bearded man stirred where he had dozed in his seat. He sat up, rubbed his eyes under his fine-lensed spectacles and hunched himself further forward. He heard the faint hum of idling engines and then silence. Seconds later, car doors opened and he moved still closer to the window. The curtains were drawn, but did not fully cover the glass. The man stiffened, watched closely, and as he did so he saw darkened figures begin to make their way along the opposite side of the street. One of them, the lead man, seemed to be carrying something very heavy. He counted six of them and then saw two more moving along Adie Road and out of sight. If he craned his neck far enough, he could see number 4 quite clearly.

  Graves, carrying a sniper’s rifle, left Colson, Webb and Swann in the lead vehicle, then made his way ahead of the team to the house where the joint surveillance operation had been taken over by an observation team from the Antiterrorist Branch. He climbed the fence at the back and walked up to the door, which opened as his foot reached the top step. Upstairs at the window, he moved between the observers, holding twin radios in his hands. He set a mobile phone on the windowsill in front of him, then he spoke quietly into the radio. ‘Mumbles f
rom Graves, confirm you’re in position.’

  He was answered by three clicks on the radio.

  ‘Phil G. Twelve Hits, confirm.’

  Three more clicks. ‘Rob?’ And so it went on until every member of the team had called in. They were ready—two on the black, four on the white, with two on the roof above.

  Graves watched as Mumbles bent his weight to the hydraulic ramp and moved towards the steps at the front of the house. The darkness was good but not total; the lamp outside number 4 appeared to be overbright.

  ‘Go,’ Graves said very quietly.

  The massive figure of Mumbles moved forward and placed the hydraulic ramp in position. Two slabs of metal at either end of an extendable boom, fed by compressed air. He placed the ends carefully against the doorposts, just below the height of the Chubb lock, and began to feed the air. Slowly, the ramps tightened against the wood. Mumbles fed more air and still more. Now the ramps bit and the wood began to hiss. A groaning sound as it fractured and he grimaced under his respirator. Behind him, MacGregor bent and flexed his arm in the slings of the long-faced Kevlar shield. He had his MP5 strapped over his other shoulder, Glock loosened in its holster. Mumbles fed more air. The wood moaned again, cracked and splintered, then it gave and the door moved in its housing. He released the pressure, hauled back the ramp and moved up to the door. He bent low, Glock in his right hand now. MacGregor was with him. Gibson, at the bottom of the steps, snapped his MP5 the length of its sling.

  Mumbles pressed the fingers of his gloved hand against the front door. As he did so he crouched ready to enter. The door swung open and the first thing he saw was a gaping hole in the floorboards. They’d been ripped up three feet back in the hall. He half rose, then felt a sudden rush of air, and his eyes balled in their sockets. What looked like a lawn mower swung down the stairs and almost crashed into him. Someone started firing. Three shots. Three more. Rapid fire. Mumbles leapt back. Gibson returned fire, rattling off half a dozen rounds in quick succession. Graves watched from the window. ‘Pull back,’ he commanded. ‘Covering positions. Now.’