Storm Crow

by Jeff Gulvin

‘Today we received three photographs at the Yard. Hand-delivered by the target from Queen’s House Mews.’

  ‘Oh my God.’

  ‘Pictures of me, Webb and Colson, you know, the operational commander. Three holes in the faces, as if someone had shot them.’

  Pia sat down and then got up again and went to the window. ‘Jesus Christ, Jack.’ She hugged herself, staring over the street. Swann touched her lightly on the shoulder. ‘Nothing’ll come of it, love. This guy likes to play games, that’s all.’

  ‘Does Caroline know?’

  He looked at his watch. ‘She will by now.’

  They made love on the floor, naked; with the children asleep in their beds downstairs and the prospect of Annika bursting in on them at any moment. Pia gripped him with long fingernails, his back, arms, shoulders, raking herself against him as if she couldn’t quite get close enough. She straddled him, working him deeper and deeper inside her. Sweat broke out on Swann’s body and cries stopped in his throat. Afterwards they lay together in the bath and still she held him tightly, while he kissed wet hair where it was cropped close at her neck.

  Harrison bought a case of Budweiser from the Valley Market at the far end of Passover. He was just off work and there was nothing in the fridge. He also bought a pack of Marlboro reds and a pack of Merit menthols and paid for them and the beer. The Mexican kid, Rico, served him and grinned at the twin packs. ‘How come you smoke two types, Harrison? You never did tell me.’

  ‘Well, the thing of it is, Rico,’ Harrison said, ‘when I was in ’Nam, before I went down the holes, I was caught up in a firefight with Charlie that lasted two whole weeks. The landing zone was so hot it was smoking and there was no way in even for the dust-off. We had but the one medic and his arm got shot off. Anyways, those chopper pilots buzzed in and out, but they just couldn’t land. Old Charlie had us buttoned flatter than a squashed rattler in a wagon rut. They dropped us C-rations and cigarettes, but they only had these.’ He picked up the soft pack of Merits and flipped them over in his hand. ‘After two weeks I was hooked on the menthol and just couldn’t give ’em up.’ He chuckled then as he picked up the Marlboro reds. ‘Trouble was, I couldn’t give these up neither.’

  He drove back to the trailer park and took his beer inside. He flipped the top off a bottle and stacked the rest in the refrigerator. The trailer was hot, the tiny windows hardly opened at all and there was no air conditioning. He squatted on the couch and flipped through the latest bunch of pictures he had taken. The man Jesse had picked up the other night was still about. On Saturday, Harrison had spent the entire day in his observation point on the hillside at the back of the compound. Salvesen had built it well, on a mini plateau above the canyon with mountains rising behind, the tallest one with snow still clutching its flanks. Harrison had placed his lowest lay-up point just outside the grove of aspen that scattered the belly of the hill at the edge of Salvesen’s land.

  The security was weakest at the rear of the compound, which housed the Southern-style mansion complete with pillars and a small place of worship where Salvesen sought inspiration. Not only was he founder of the Omega Foundation, dedicated to the pursuit of divine inspiration and biblical prophecy, he was the self-styled pastor of the Church of God’s Prophecy. He preached regularly on his own AM radio station, called Network of the Lord, and he took services in the churches he had built along the Salmon River. Five in all, stretching from Passover north over Galena Summit, up to Stanley and Challis. He rotated every fifth Sunday. Harrison wondered what he would do when he fulfilled his dream and had them clear to Coeur D’Alene.

  He sipped beer and looked through the pictures. The man he had seen riding into town was BobCat Reece, leader of the West Montana Minutemen. Reece was the third known ‘patriot’ leader that Harrison had seen in the last four months. Kovalski had told him that Salvesen was not officially linked to any unorganized militia, but he had dabbled with the ‘Posse’ in the eighties and they had written about hanging government officials for committing unconstitutional acts. Reece, for one, would go along with that. He stowed the photographs in the padded envelope and wrapped it in rolls of sandwich wrap. Then he placed it under the flooring until he could get it to Max Scheller, his contact agent.

  He took a shower and drove up to Westlake to see Lisa. She had her back to him when he walked into Grumpy’s diner, and he slid on to a swivel stool at the counter.

  ‘Hey, Miss Lady Mam,’ he whispered.

  Lisa turned, looked at him and smiled. She pushed her hair back from her face, one hand on her hip. ‘Hey, honey. What’s up?’ At thirty-eight, she was ten years his junior; slim-faced with high cheekbones and hazel eyes. In her younger days she had modelled swimwear and adorned the pages of the Harley Davidson calendar. She leaned over the counter and kissed him. ‘What can I get you?’

  ‘Corned beef on rye, half and half onion rings and French fries.’ Harrison patted his stomach. ‘Got to watch my waistline.’ On the TV above the counter, the NBA final was being played out between the Bulls and the Utah Jazz. Most people favoured the Jazz as Utah was a neighbouring state.

  It was a warm evening and Harrison wore only his jeans and a tank top. Lisa poured coffee and he scratched the image of a grinning rat holding a whisky bottle and a pistol, tattooed on his upper arm.

  ‘Been busy today, hon’?’ he asked her.

  ‘So so. I guess.’

  The door opened and Jesse Tate walked in with Wingo and BobCat Reece from Montana. Harrison stirred sugar into his coffee. They sat at a table by the window and Jesse snapped his fingers at Lisa. Harrison felt the hackles begin to rise. He said nothing though, but squinted at Reece from one eye. He remembered the face now, thin black hair and quick darting eyes. Reece had been arrested for shooting a forest ranger way up by the Canadian border. Harrison had seen those eyes on FBI pictures back in D.C. There were no witnesses, however, and Reece had claimed self-defence. The ranger’s gun had been fired and they could not prove whether it was after he was killed or not, so Reece walked away.

  Lisa served his dinner, but he had suddenly lost his appetite. He picked at the food with his fork.

  ‘Not hungry, honey?’

  He looked up into her eyes and smiled. ‘I was. Not so sure any more.’

  ‘That the food or the company?’ She looked over his shoulder.

  ‘Hey, what about a little service round here?’ Jesse snapped his fingers again.

  Harrison bristled and swivelled round on his seat. ‘Mind your manners, Jesse. The lady was serving me.’

  Jesse stared coldly at him. ‘I don’t see no lady.’

  Harrison felt Lisa’s hand on his arm. ‘Leave it, honey. White trash is all.’

  She served Jesse and his friends. Harrison pushed his plate away and got up off the stool.

  ‘I’m going to the hotel for a drink,’ he said. ‘They give you any trouble, you call me.’

  She smiled at him and cupped his face with a palm. ‘I can handle those motherfuckers, honey.’

  At the door Harrison paused and looked back. Jesse was still watching him. ‘Hey, Harrison,’ he said.

  ‘What?’

  Jesse nodded to his arm. ‘Real tunnel rats wouldn’t broadcast it.’

  Harrison held his eye, one hand on the door. ‘Is that a fact,’ he said.

  Swann was looking for Ibrahim Huella, alias James Morton, alias Ramon Jimenez. He, Webb and Colson carried side arms for two weeks before reviewing the situation.

  The forensic team had located which room Huella had rented in the hotel in Queen’s House Mews and gone through it with a fine toothcomb. Webb gave them an update at the afternoon briefing. ‘We’re making some progress,’ he said. ‘At least forensically. SO3 have identified only one clear set of prints, although we’ve got a reasonable flange mark which the UV light sensor picked up. We’re assuming he wore gloves when he was inside the house. Hell of a thing to keep up for that length of time. The fingerprints came from the door handle. Remember, Box and S
B confirmed that when he went out he wasn’t wearing gloves. He closed and opened the front door and he could hardly wipe it in broad daylight, especially given that we now believe he knew we were watching him. We’ve also picked up some prints from inside the house.

  ‘We’ve done ESLA lifts all over the house and the hotel room. We’ve got fibres from both and at the moment Lambeth are looking for a match. One thing we do know is that the rug used to cover the second TPU in the Cortina was in contact with the carpet in the basement study at number four. Fibre persistence is pretty good with the two types of synthetic involved, and we can say for definite that at some point the rug was in that house.’

  Colson nodded his appreciation.

  ‘Footprints,’ Webb went on. ‘We’ve got them from the kitchen floor. He may have worn gloves inside, but he still put the kettle on in his bare feet first thing in the morning. We’ve got a clear set from both the kitchen and the bathroom.’

  ‘What about the RDX trace?’ McCulloch asked him.

  Webb made a face. ‘Not so clear. It’s in the car all right. We’ve also got some firearms residue. Since the initial search at Queen’s House Mews we’ve come up with a bulb and wire, so we can pretty much prove he was circuit testing.’ He paused and looked at Colson. ‘I’m going to swab the inside of the Mondeo tonight, sir, and then we’ll put a tracker on it and leave it. I don’t see anyone coming back for it in the short term.’

  ‘He’ll forget about it,’ Swann put in. ‘If he knows we were watching him, he’ll know we know about the car. He won’t go anywhere near it and neither will anyone else.’

  ‘Tow it in?’ Tania suggested.

  ‘No.’ Webb looked again at Colson. ‘I think we should leave it, sir. If it’s got a tracker we don’t have to worry.’

  ‘I agree.’ Colson got up. ‘Jack, what about the glass?’

  Swann got up. ‘CapScan Glass Supply in Bermondsey Wall,’ he said. ‘On the twenty-fourth of March they sold four sheets, eight by four. Also base plates and hinges to fit.’

  ‘A room,’ Webb said. ‘What would he want with a glass room?’

  Colson half closed his eyes. ‘Let’s not even think about that.’

  ‘They do remember the purchaser,’ Swann continued. ‘Most of their customers are builders with accounts, trade sales, that sort of thing. They do have a retail counter though, and this guy bought it from there.’

  ‘Description?’ Clements asked him.

  ‘Cropped hair and earrings, that’s all they can tell us. The glass was loaded on to an unmarked flatbed lorry. The warehouseman couldn’t remember the colour.’

  ‘So, we’re looking for another skinhead, driving a lorry this time,’ Webb said. ‘What—a couple of thousand in London.’

  ‘Have we found out any more about the company that rented the house in the first place?’ Colson asked Swann.

  ‘Medicourt.’ Swann sat down and flicked through the notes he had. ‘Not really. We know about the London end and Belfast. That was for show I reckon. There’s nothing Irish about this. We’ve been trying to unravel what’s further up the ladder, but it’s a nightmare. Companies here, there and everywhere, investments, share dealings. The trail splits a hundred different ways.’

  That night Webb went back to the car park where Huella had left the Mondeo. He was backed up by plainclothes men from SO19, and Jack Swann accompanied him. They got to the location in Wandsworth and the surveillance team confirmed that the area was quartered and secure. One of the Gunships moved into the car park first and settled its position. The other remained outside. Swann drove down the ramp to the lower levels and parked in a space opposite the Mondeo. They could see the Gunship from here and Swann scanned the area before he and Webb got out.

  Webb moved round to the left-hand side. He peered at the nearside window and decided that best access was gained from there. Once inside, the swabbing would take about an hour. Meanwhile, Swann would fit the tracker. Webb slid his wire down the window to get to the lock, and then he heard something tinkle, a metallic sound at the back of the car. He looked at Swann. Swann looked at him, then they moved to the back of the car. It was pitch-black now, and Swann bent to his haunches and briefly shone his pencil light. Lying under the nearside rear wheel was a small tube of metal no more than a quarter of an inch across and three inches in length. He looked up at Webb. ‘Canny bastard, isn’t he.’ A fine layer of dust coated the bumper, and Swann probed with his pencil light until he saw a tiny circle imprinted at the nearside end. He grimaced at Webb, upended the metal tube and replaced it in exactly the same spot.

  ‘Wasn’t there when I did the boot,’ Webb hissed at him.

  Swann nodded and placed the tube back on the ground. ‘I’ll put it back when we’re done.’

  They opened the passenger door and Webb set about swabbing the car. All at once his headset crackled in his ear. ‘Underground from Pater. Possible X-ray. Repeat, possible X-ray. Stand by.’

  He froze and looked at Swann. Somebody moving above ground. Swann forced the tightness from his chest and looked across the car park where one of the firearms officers had opened the car door.

  ‘Stand by.’ Again the call in their ears. ‘Two males, walking towards the entrance. Still moving, still moving. Stand by.’ Swann stared at the sloping entrance to the lower levels where thin light drifted.

  The radio crackled again. ‘Negative, Underground. Repeat. X-ray negative.’

  Webb let breath slip audibly from his lips. ‘Let’s do the tracker and go,’ he said. ‘This geezer’s got a picture of me with a hole punched in my head.’

  9

  AUGUST 4 DAWNED HOT and sticky in central London. The sun lifted at 5 a.m. with no hint of cloud in the sky. By 9.30 the temperature was in the eighties and tempers frayed on the congested streets in and around Victoria. Cab drivers sat in their steaming black diesels, with their frustrated fares sweating it out in the back. Three men moved from separate directions towards the Roman Catholic cathedral in Westminster.

  Tal-Salem flew in to Gatwick and took the Express straight to Victoria. He had been to London many times before, although the authorities, for all their vigilance at airports, never knew he was there. Pier-Luigi Ramas took a flight from Rome to Heathrow, and looked on in mockery as armed uniforms patrolled with Heckler & Koch carbines, sweating under the weight of their Kevlar body armour. Ibrahim Huella, dressed in the flowing black of a Greek Orthodox priest, took a taxi. He carried a brown leather briefcase and toyed with the crucifix that hung to his breastbone.

  He arrived first, walking along the concourse that led to the steps of the cathedral, Scotland Yard only minutes away. He had glimpsed the armed officers of the Diplomatic Protection Group as he made his way up from Parliament Square. An armed police car funnelled a route slowly through the traffic, two white-shirted officers in the front and one in the rear. Huella had seen these cars before, as they blocked the entrance to Queen’s House Mews when he made his quiet escape. Twin aerials and a yellow spot on the roof so they could be identified by helicopters. Each car carried two MP5 carbines in addition to the handguns of the officers inside, but he knew that at any one time there were only six of them on the street.

  He walked into the cool of the cathedral and smiled at the elderly woman behind the desk. ‘Good morning,’ he said. ‘Such a beautiful day.’

  ‘Lovely, isn’t it. Are you here for a holiday, Father?’

  ‘Conference. I’ve just come to pay my respects.’

  ‘I suppose you must be used to the heat.’ Again he smiled. ‘Oh yes. I’m from a little town called Olympus on the island of Karpathos. Do you know it?’

  ‘I’ve only been to Greece once,’ she replied. ‘Corfu.’

  ‘To the north. Very beautiful. Very green.’

  ‘Where is Karpathos exactly?’

  ‘To the south, between Rhodes and Crete.’

  ‘Ah. I’ve not been there.’

  ‘You must visit. It is equally beautiful.’ He smiled again
and left her, wandering down the aisle. At the altar he paused, whispered a blessing then made his way to the Lady Chapel.

  Ramas arrived next, wiping the moisture from his brow, in a collarless white shirt and faded Levis, a pair of dark brown Sebago Docksides on his feet. He paused to pick up a visitor’s guide from the woman. ‘The organ is tuned every Monday afternoon,’ she told him. ‘I shall avoid that time then.’

  ‘Best,’ she said, wrinkling her nose. ‘Awfully noisy.’ Ramas moved down the aisle and took in the magnificence of the altar. He crossed himself and then wandered back, before moving to the Lady Chapel. In front of him an Orthodox priest sat in prayer. Ramas leaned forward. ‘The candles are lit,’ he said.

  ‘No, my son, the candles are alight.’ Huella sat upright again.

  Within minutes they were joined by Tal-Salem, who took the chair in the row behind Ramas, two seats to the side. Salem carried a briefcase similar to the one that now rested against Huella’s chair leg. Salem passed his case to Ramas, who laid it on the floor beside Huella’s. They sat there the three of them for two minutes or more and then Huella bowed his head a final time, reached back for the second case and walked out of the chapel. Tal-Salem picked up the other case. It was heavier than the one he had been carrying.

  Tommy Cairns sat in the pub with his brother and watched the television screen above the bar. The lunch-time news was on. Earlier in the day he had received another phone call.

  ‘We need a black taxi and a driver,’ the woman had told him.

  ‘Do you?’ Cairns had been in bed at the time, his girlfriend lying next to him.

  The caller was silent for a moment. ‘Do I detect a note of hesitancy?’

  ‘Did I say that?’

  ‘Did you need to?’

  ‘I want to meet with you.’

  ‘Impossible.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘It’s not safe—either for me or for you.’

  ‘What’re you trying to achieve?’

  ‘Why should that matter? You and I are on the same side, Mr Cairns. You have concerns about the future as do we.’