Storm Crow

by Jeff Gulvin

  They took the place apart, dismantling chairs, lifting carpets, checking the chimney. Cupboards were pulled out and beds turned inside out. The toilets were taken apart as was the bath. In the kitchen, Webb checked the usual places for hides: behind the kickboards of the fixed units, the back of the fridge for Semtex rolled flat. He found nothing.

  The basement could only be accessed from inside the house and appeared to have been used as an office. Webb and Tania Briggs went down after the kitchen had been taken apart. There they found a twin set of wall-mounted units, set at ground and eye level. Webb opened the doors of the middle cupboard and scanned. Books and papers piled high. He shifted them out and started flicking through them. Then he laid them aside. The back of the cupboard was unplastered. He stared at the brickwork, something odd about it, but he could not say what. Then three bricks caught his eye; the mortar around them was yellow and cracked. He traced the line of the cracks and measured them, running the length of two bricks and the height of three more. He called Tania over. She was standing over the desk with a set of thick fibre-tip pens in her hand. Setting them down on the desktop, she moved over to Webb.

  ‘See what I see?’ Webb asked her.

  Tania stared, then smiled and very carefully she reached inside and slid out the first loose brick. Webb was right, in total there were six, the mortar intact but not actually sticking to anything. In the space behind they found two boxes of Iraco detonators and two timing and power units. Webb lifted them out and laid them on the work surface.

  Plastic boxes, grey and black in colour. He measured them: 15 X 7 X 5cm. At one end of each box were two black plastic screw terminals with a red light-emitting diode set between them. On the left side there was a decade switch, ten positions, and next to it a small digital clock with a liquid-crystal display and separate alarm indicator. On the top edge four black microswitches were mounted. Webb looked closer. Sealed to the casing inside was a piece of brown perforated circuit board. It matched the section he had recovered from Soho. There were two integrated circuits on the board, two transistors and a miniature 6-volt relay. At the top end was a press stud-type battery connector which would take a PP3. The wiring was red and green.

  ‘Webby?’

  Webb heard Tania but was staring at the TPU. He had seen this before, not in a picture, but had had it described to him. He looked at the clock. Spanish—Plastia, the manufacturer.

  ‘Webby.’

  He now looked at Tania, who was holding a passport in her hands. It had been wrapped in clear plastic and placed in the alcove behind the detonators. She opened the pages and showed the photograph to Webb. ‘Not very good,’ she said. ‘But definitely Target One.’

  Webb took the passport from her. Syrian, in the name of Ibrahim Huella. He handed it back and looked again at the TPU. Then he glanced over the rest of the room and his gaze fell on the pack of pens that Tania had been holding. He lifted one eyebrow. ‘Where’d you find these?’ he asked as he picked them up.

  ‘Desk drawer.’

  He took one out and turned it over in his hand, then carefully he unscrewed the non-writing end. ‘Jesus Christ,’ he whispered.

  ‘What is it?’

  Webb held the pen like a piece of priceless crystal. ‘Tania, get everyone out of here now.’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Evacuate. Not just the house, the street. Get upstairs and do it now.’ He let go a breath. ‘Call the Yard and get an Expo here right away.’ Still she stood there. For a second Webb ignored her, as very, very carefully he laid the pen down on the desk.

  ‘What is it?’ she demanded.

  ‘TATP,’ he said, picking up the passport and TPU. ‘Triacetone triperoxide, about as deadly a base explosive as you can get. If you want a home-made grenade—throw a jam jar full of this.’

  Upstairs, he ordered everyone out and relayed the evacuation order to the local uniforms. Tania contacted the explosives officers and Webb got on the phone to the Defence Research Agency. They would have to deal with it, an oil drum full of acetone to separate the particles and render it safe. He was still sweating when he put down the phone. One of his colleagues had trodden on three tiny crystals of TATP after the Israeli Embassy was attacked. He was thrown halfway across the road.

  Beyond the cordon he wiped the moisture from his brow and looked again at the timing and power unit. Tania was at his elbow. ‘Arab,’ she said. ‘We had a batch like this before.’

  Webb shook his head. ‘These aren’t Arab. And they’re not Spanish either.’ His face clouded again. ‘Tania, if this is what I think it is, we have a very big problem.’

  7

  HARRISON TIED HIS HAIR in a ponytail and inspected the lines in his face. He grimaced, stepped out of his trailer and nipped away the Merit. Rodriguez was seated on the steps to his trailer. Harrison wiped the back of his neck under the black, sweat-stained baseball hat and walked to his ’66 Chevy pick-up. He carried his canvas bag of tools and tossed them into the back.

  ‘You go for a beer, amigo?’ Rodriguez tipped back his hat.

  Harrison shook his head. ‘Gonna see if Chief’s home.’

  ‘Ah. OK. See you later then.’

  ‘See ya, Rodriguez.’ Harrison climbed into the truck and twisted the key. The old V8 rumbled into life and shook a little around him. He put it in first, rolled the steering wheel under the palm of his hand and drove out of the park. At the top of the hill he headed south on 75. He knew Chief wasn’t at home.

  About a mile down the highway, he saw Jesse Tate pulling out of the entrance to Jake Salvesen’s ranch. Tate recognized the black Chevy and they nodded briefly to one another. Harrison watched Tate’s truck disappear in his rear-view mirror. He lit a Marlboro, unconscious movement, one hand snaking into the right breast pocket of his shirt and plucking the cigarette from the pack. He rolled it between forefinger and thumb before snapping open his Zippo.

  Tate had been coming from the compound or at least the ranch buildings that skirted the edge of the property. He’d be going into town, maybe to get a beer at Joe’s club or the Dollar. Harrison scratched his chin and hooked his ponytail back over his shoulder. He thought for a moment: he hadn’t banked on seeing Tate. The reservoir, if anybody asked. East Magic, to see if Chief was fishing.

  He drove the seven or so miles to the junction with Highway 20. It was seven-thirty now and he did not pass any other vehicles he knew. He pulled off into the rest area and went in to take a piss. There was no one else in the men’s room. Harrison spat, unzipped, urinated and washed up. Outside, the evening sunshine bounced in a glare off the roof of his truck. He glanced at the highway, then walked round the side of the men’s room and lifted the drainage-inspection cover. From inside his shirt he took a small plastic bag, sealed at the top and wrapped over. He dropped it down by the pipe and replaced the cover, then he dusted his hands on his jeans and got back in his truck. As he pulled on to the highway, he could see the back of Chief’s green Continental disappearing into the distance.

  Back in Passover, he followed Chief on to Lower Canford and across the Big Wood River, still high with snow-melt from the mountains. A few minutes later and they hit the dirt road and then the entrance to Lower Canford Ranch and the cabin that somehow Chief had rented for only four hundred dollars a month. Chief parked the Lincoln, reached in the back and pulled out the paintings, four of them about two foot square apiece. Harrison climbed out of his truck and took a cigarette from his pocket. Chief was six foot six and weighed 260 pounds. He looked down at Harrison, flicking long black hair from his eyes. ‘Hey, what’s up?’ he said.

  ‘I’m good, buddy.’ Harrison slapped him on the back and they walked into the yard.

  Inside, the house was cool, shaded for most of the day by the trees that grew in the yard. It was basically two rooms and actually not much bigger than Harrison’s trailer. High-ceilinged and wood-panelled, it comprised a front room with two couches, then a kitchen and sort of bedroom combined. Indian rugs, skins and painti
ngs hung on the walls, and some of the bone and bead chokers that Chief made lay on the table along with his Southwestern art books.

  ‘So how was Boise?’ Harrison asked him. Chief handed him a beer from the refrigerator.

  ‘Busy.’

  ‘They gonna display the pictures?’

  ‘Fucking A, man.’

  ‘Right on.’ They touched knuckles and Harrison raised his bottle in a toast.

  Chief sat down on the couch. ‘You seen Belinda?’

  ‘Think she might be up in Westlake. She didn’t leave you a note?’

  ‘Nope.’

  ‘Women for ya.’

  ‘Yep.’ Chief squinted at him. ‘You wanna smoke a bowl?’

  Harrison made a face. ‘Maybe later. Let’s go get a drink.’

  Jesse Tate’s truck was parked in front of the Silver Dollar. The bar was not overly full. Wednesday night, basketball on the TV. Charlie Love was at one end nursing a Bud draught. Harrison nodded to him. Chief touched him on the shoulder and they both sat down on bar stools. Jesse had his hat tipped back on his head and rested long, tanned arms on the bar, a bottle of Miller before him. Two Mexicans hogged the pool table.

  They drank a couple of beers. Jesse sat slightly away from them, chatting to Vicki, the bartender, and watching the TV. Every now and then he would ease a palm over the hairs on his forearm. A truck pulled up outside and Slusher came in, shook hands with Jesse and sat down. They talked for a while, then Jesse went out and climbed into his truck. He headed north in the direction of Westlake.

  Harrison and Chief talked about hunting. Chief was going to shoot elk in the season and he wanted Harrison’s company. ‘Bows or rifles?’ Harrison asked him.

  ‘Bow, Harrison. You don’t get a second shot with a rifle.’

  ‘I can shoot a bow.’ Harrison lit another cigarette and blew smoke from the side of his mouth. They sat for a moment in silence and then he swivelled off his stool and moved across to the open door of the bar. He carried his bottle in one hand and rested against the doorpost. The sun was low now, burning a last fiery path across the snow-block trails on the mountains. He felt movement beside him and Chief leaned a loose arm on his shoulder.

  ‘What you looking at, man?’

  Harrison thinned out his eyes against the direct glare of the sun. ‘Just watching the day close down.’

  ‘Thought there was some piece of ass out here you weren’t telling me about.’

  Harrison shook his head. ‘You’re so pussy-whipped, you couldn’t do nothing about it, anyways.’

  He looked north up the street again. Tate was a vet, Green Beret vet, and Harrison knew if he ever came up against the sonofabitch it had to be on his terms. At five foot ten he was not tall, lean and mean enough maybe, but Tate was a big mother, muscular and rangy. At forty-three he was in shape. Chief sat down on the step and bummed a cigarette. Harrison flipped his Zippo. Both he and Chief had been in Vietnam, though neither of them talked about it much. Thirty years since Harrison got back for the second time, almost that for Chief. He had done two tours as well: 101st Airborne Rangers, two-man teams flown in on Hueys to secure a hill or a clearing before the grunts hauled in. Dangerous work, only fit for Indians and blacks. Harrison let smoke drift from between his lips. He knew from both Chief himself and photographs at headquarters that when Chief left the service in ’72, he went home to Pine Ridge in South Dakota. There he stood with Banks and Means, when the American Indian Movement had their showdown with the FBI.

  ‘You wanna come up to my place and play some guitar?’ Chief said.

  Harrison did not answer him. Jesse’s truck was coming down again from Westlake. He had a passenger with him this time. Harrison sipped at his beer and watched. Jesse drove by and Harrison glimpsed the suited man sitting next to him.

  They drove back to the cabin. The sun was gone now and the light began to fade. The clutch of buildings that was Passover spread out in the valley, with mountains on either side. In winter, the snow piled up to the blacktop, then, with the thaw beginning in April, the river rushed full and brown, foaming with melted ice from the hills. Now the hills were bald, those closest to the highway grassy and smooth, with only the odd scattering of aspen across their flanks. Harrison was thoughtful: Jesse Tate’s Suburban on his mind, and the suited passenger, another unknown face in the county.

  Harrison poured peppermint schnapps while Chief took his boots off. From the heel of the left one, he lifted a little plastic package, then pulling the pipe from his shirt pocket he pressed a bowl of pot. They sat in silence, listening to the crickets in the grass outside. The darkness was falling fast now and Harrison was restless. He wasn’t in the mood to smoke, too much on his mind. Chief seemed to sense it. Harrison could tell by the way he slanted his eyes when he watched him. ‘Guffy working tonight?’ he said.

  ‘Up in Westlake, yeah.’

  ‘What time does she finish?’

  ‘I ain’t seeing her tonight.’

  ‘Wondered what was up with you.’

  The pot was good though and it smoothed a path through Harrison’s twisted veins as he eased back in the chair. Chief sat with his fingers spread across his stomach and watched the room out of half-closed eyes. They had been friends for a while now, good friends; and Harrison often wondered what would happen when, as he eventually must, Chief found out the truth. He sank the last of his schnapps, stretched and got up. ‘Gotta go,’ he said.

  Chief nodded. ‘Work again tomorrow.’

  ‘Yeah, work.’ Harrison twisted his lip, prized a Merit out of one pocket and stuck it in his mouth. He fumbled for his lighter, then realized Chief still had it and he bent to pick it up.

  ‘You look beat yourself,’ he said.

  Chief nodded. ‘One more hit and then bed.’

  Harrison pushed open the screen door and stepped into the yard. The sky was lit up with stars, crystal in velvet black. No cloud, the moon all but full, and he squinted as he climbed into his truck. He rolled down the track and out on to Canford Road, leaning into the window and driving with his hand on the gear stick because it liked to jump out of third. He went back to his trailer where he closed the door and pushed a path through the pile of junk on his bed just in case Guffy was here when he got back. He’d tell her he’d been fishing or something if she asked. It was risky going at this time of night, a lot of people about and he had to get down the road to the old mine and the edge of Salvesen’s property.

  Rodriguez was still out on his stoop with a bottle of Cuervo beside him and his hat tipped over his eyes. He wasn’t about to see anything. Harrison took his mountain bike from its housing on the back of the trailer and pushed his way down through the undergrowth to the road. Here he paused. Laying the bike on its side, he sat down in the bushes and waited. He needed to let his night sight get in some sort of shape before he could move. He sat and watched the road that wound between the houses, crossing the river twice before finally meeting up with the highway again by the airport in Westlake.

  When his eyes were accustomed fully he got back on the bike and began to cycle hard along the road running parallel with the dull height of the mountains. He crossed the river, could hear it tearing along, the water tumbling in choked waves over rocks and weed, carrying with it the weight of the snow from the mountains. He cycled in silence with no lights showing, past the affluent properties that bordered the Big Wood River. He saw the broken-down mine with the slag heap of rocks up ahead to his left, the far edge of Salvesen’s ranch on this side. Two thousand acres of prime Idaho grazing. Scattered about the outer fringes were the cabins he had built for those followers closest to him. Jesse Tate and his family had one just a little way off the mile-long track that led up to the compound itself.

  Harrison rode beyond the old mine workings and jumped off the bike a hundred yards further on, where a grove of cottonwoods swayed alongside the stream that fed off the river. He walked his bike into the brush and then hid it. Now he had to hike a mile up into the mountains to his
permanent equipment hide in Dugger’s Canyon. That meant up Little Mammoth Gulch, across the saddles of both Mammoth and Star and down to the old Magdalena mine that had been operated for forty years by Danny Dugger’s father. He waited for a few moments before he set off. He always did, enough time to let the ground settle, a few moments to watch and listen. All was quiet about him, no cloud, no wind; nothing save the crickets at his feet and the rustle of a crow’s wing overhead.

  He moved through the cottonwoods and quietly stepped over the fence on to the Forest Service land that bordered Jake Salvesen’s property. The old mine shack was directly above him now, with the heap of loose shale to his left and the ‘No Trespassing’ signs beyond that. Half a mile in was Bill Slusher’s cabin, the furthest outpost on this quarter of the property. Slusher lived there with his wife and four children, one of the inner circle. Harrison now scanned the same trail he had walked for eighteen months. Up past the cabin, keeping close to the hillside, and then higher still, climbing the gulch to the first break in the hills. Slusher’s cabin was set just beyond it.

  Tom Kovalski had contacted him personally. Harrison was undercover trained and working out of the Minneapolis field office. Kovalski was GS15, unit chief of the Domestic Terrorism Operations Unit at FBI headquarters in Washington D.C. They had known each other for years; Harrison a rookie, when Kovalski was the assistant special agent in charge at Indianapolis. He’d been an ASAC there for two years and he knew of Harrison’s history as a border agent in Arizona and New Mexico, and his upbringing in Marquette on Lake Superior. Kovalski had called him into headquarters with a proposition.

  ‘How’d you like to go undercover again, Johnny?’ He had sat at his desk with a hopeful expression on his face.

  Harrison bunched up his eyes. The last time he’d been a UCA was in the Florida Keys, trying to infiltrate a drugs gang. ‘It’s been a while, Tom.’