Angel City

by Jon Steele

  Harper shrugged.

  “Would’ve thought if it looks like a terrorist and kills like a terrorist, it’s a terrorist,” Harper said.

  The judge waved the mouthpiece of his pipe over the dead goons.

  “Monsieur, you and I both know these men were not terrorists. These killers were only posing as terrorists.”

  Harper read the man’s eyes. Pale blue, normal luminance levels in the irises, clear of dead black. The man was human, nothing more. How in the hell can he know?

  “Not sure I follow you, gov.”

  “Non?”

  The judge pulled a series of photos from the next file, laid them on the desk. They’d been blown up ten times. Grainy as hell, but clear enough. Harper with the bomb wrapped in his coat, jumping for the railings to escape the Manon like a crook on the lam; then returning. A white grease pencil circled Harper raising the palm of his right hand before the eyes of the survivors, then the little girl. Another circle targeted Harper leaning over the dead man.

  “At first, I was ready to accept the supposition of the Interior Ministry that you are a paid assassin working for a foreign government. The Israeli Mossad, most probably, as they have recently been quite active in assassinating members of Muqatileen Lillah. In line with that supposition, I assumed this dead man with the little girl was part of the plot. Someone evil enough to sacrifice his own child to achieve his ends. And I thought you had returned to the Manon to be assured he was dead. But this man is identifiable, and he has fingerprints. His name is Abu Jad, a cardiac physician from Beirut. He was taking his daughter on a birthday cruise.”

  “So?”

  “Monsieur. You are a highly skilled killer. I am very sure your mission was to escape with the bomb so that it would not fall into the hands of men in search of more efficient ways of destroying one another. Yet you gave up your one chance of escape to offer comfort to a little girl and a dead man.”

  Harper stared at the judge. “So?”

  The judge tapped the photos of the dead goons. “We both know these terrorists are not human. We both know they are evil made flesh, hiding among men as they have done through the ages.”

  “Is that a fact?”

  “Oui, monsieur, and it is a fact that has revealed to me who, and what, you are. And I have been waiting for your return to Paris many, many years.”

  The clock chimed three thirty. Harper listened to the sound circle the room like it was looking for a way out. Then he noticed the lack of windows in the place, then the carefully fitted acoustic panels in the walls. And getting into the office was like breaking into a bank vault. The office had to be a shell within a shell, with phase cancellation frequencies blasting between the walls maybe. Harper added it up: By accident or design, the inspector’s time mechanics couldn’t get a track on him. Harper leaned forward in his chair, trying to lock his eyes on the judge; trying to figure if the setup was an accident, or if the elderly gent in bedroom slippers knew what he was doing.

  “Listen to me, gov; whoever, or whatever, you think I am, you’ve got the wrong man.”

  Harper watched the judge pull the last file to the center of the desk. It was thick and yellowed with age. It was bound with blue ribbon, and the ribbon was secured with a red wax seal. The judge blew away a layer of dust and opened the file, slowly sorted through the onionskin pages. Harper saw the words were handwritten with a fine script. When the judge found the page he was looking for, he began to read aloud.

  “Your name is Jay Michael Harper. Your father was a lawyer at Gray’s Inn who paid his way through law school working as a bartender in the West End. It was during that time that your father met your mother, the daughter of a member of the board of Coutts and Company. She was an only child. Your parents fell in love, and you were conceived early on in the relationship. They planned to marry. Your mother’s parents did not approve of the match and disowned her. Your parents married in a civil court and lived above a grocer’s shop on Tottenham Court Road. You were born seven months later at University College London Hospital. The following Christmas your mother’s parents saw you, and as it often happens upon seeing a grandchild for the first time, they reconciled with your mother. They bought a house for your parents on Carlingford Road, very close to Hampstead Heath. This is where you were raised . . .”

  Harper saw a little boy running up three flights of stairs, then climbing the ladder to the attic. Building a fortress of crates and cardboard boxes to hold off Mau Mau attackers. Harper could smell the dust, see the boy standing on the boxes, wooden stick as a righteous sword in hand and rallying his imaginary army: “To the last for Queen and Country!”

  He blinked, the judge still reading.

  “You were educated at Highgate School, where you distinguished yourself as a rugby left wing. You went on to the University of St. Andrews, where you distinguished yourself at right wing and geography studies. During your graduate year, your parents were killed when a gasoline delivery truck plowed headlong into their car. Your maternal grandparents died of cancer within six months of each other in your fourteenth year. You had no siblings, no aunts, no uncles or cousins. You quit university and traveled through Europe. You were left a sizable inheritance, so money was not a problem. But you sensed your life to be in need of direction and you obtained a commission in the Coldstream Guards through Brigadier Sir Malcolm Holloway, a close friend of your parents. You began your military career with No. 7 Company, but had yourself transferred to 1st Battalion. You distinguished yourself in reconnaissance skills. You were also rated as an exceptionally good shot. In April of 2004, you were tapped by the director of Special Forces to join the newly formed Special Reconnaissance Regiment as an intelligence officer. You were involved with the Jean Charles de Menezes shooting at Stockwell tube station in 2005 from the standpoint that it was you who warned your superiors the Metropolitan Police had misidentified the target. Unfortunately, your warnings were not acted upon and an innocent man was shot dead. You were kept from testifying before an inquiry and you resigned your commission in protest. Your resignation was not accepted. In the following month you were seconded to a top secret search-and-destroy unit known as Foxtrot 9. The unit was based at Al Minhad Air Base in the United Arab Emirates and referred to in all communications as the Gulf Institute for Agricultural Security and Sustainability.”

  The judge looked at Harper.

  “Une histoire intéressante, non?”

  Harper stared at the judge, trying not to give away the fact that he was bloody well gobsmacked. He’d just heard more about Captain Jay Michael Harper than he’d ever been allowed to know since he was awakened in the dead man’s form. And hearing it, Harper knew it was all true, not because he could remember it, but because he could feel the weight of the dead man’s flesh and blood press down on his eternal being. He tried to shake it off. Christ, what’s keeping the inspector’s lads?

  “Rather run-of-the-mill tale for an English schoolboy,” Harper said.

  “Then you will not be surprised to hear what happens next?”

  “What’s that, then?”

  “You die.”

  The weight pressed down.

  “A misprint, I’m sure.”

  “Let me see . . . a été tué . . . Non, c’est très clair, you are quite dead. You were killed in the northwest tribal regions of Pakistan.”

  A burst of images rushed through Harper’s eyes: Lights out on a chopper. Take off from Bagram Airfield, Kabul, Afghanistan. Night mission to infil target, ten klicks west of Af-Pak border. Dismount. Chopper breaks off. Quiet. Double-time it up and over the mountain, cross the border into Pakistan.

  The judge’s voice:

  “You and three men from Foxtrot 9 were involved in a covert mission with orders to track and eliminate Taliban assets in the Parachinar Valley . . .”

  Skirt the villages, crawl through farms, find an abandoned farmhouse before
dawn. Five hundred meters south of Burgi, fifty meters off Boarki Road. Place stocked with food, gas, local dress. There is a gassed-up Toyota pickup truck hidden under a tarp. The mission is go.

  “What you did not know was that the mission was doomed from the start, betrayed by a high-level member of ISI, Pakistan intelligence . . .”

  Waiting for the contact to show. Pak spook assigned to drive and translate. Men changing into salwar kameez and sandals, then cleaning their weapons. One of them, ginger-haired lad from Cardiff. Ellis is his name, checking the five-round magazine of his L115 sniper rifle. Looks silly as hell with a taqiyah cap on his head. Good lad. Wasn’t going to take Ellis this time because of his hair, till Ellis said, “Beggin’ your fuckin’ pardon, sir, but there’s plenty of ginger heads in Pakland courtesy of the Raj. Your bloody lot couldn’t keep it zipped around all those dark-eyed beauties.”

  Just now, Ellis singing a Welsh lullaby: “Huna blentyn ar fy Mynwes . . .” Hear a racket outside . . . fifteen pickup trucks packed with heavily armed Hajis. But instead of continuing along Boarki Road, they turn up the dirt track, head straight for the farmhouse.

  Captain Jay Michael Harper: “We’ve got company, lads.”

  Hajis circle the house, blast away. One Haji with a video camera, standing on the back of a truck, filming the action. The assault is overpowering. Two of his men dead in the first five minutes. Ellis takes a shot in the chest. Cease-fire. Haji, with very proper Brit accent, calling over a bullhorn: “Surrender, we will not harm you. You have three minutes to decide. Live or die.”

  Captain Harper crawls to Ellis. The lad’s life slipping away . . . “Don’t want my mum to see my body tied to the back of a truck and dragged through the streets, Captain.” Then he’s gone.

  Captain Jay Michael Harper: “No worries, mate.”

  Pulls the dead men together. Covers them with their uniforms and boots, blankets and mattresses. Dumps two cans of gasoline over the lot, sets it alight. Flash of fire, room fills with smoke. Voice with the bullhorn still calling: “You have one minute. Will you live or will you die?”

  Grabs the L115, crawls to the next room, aims through a glass window, and drills an 8.59-caliber round through the bullhorn and into the loudmouth’s head. Drops the rifle, crawls to the back of the house as the Hajis open up again. Sits in the corner, watches the fire down the hall. Pulls his sidearm, sets the death end in his mouth, points it to his brain . . . Almost laughs remembering a little boy atop a cardboard fortress in the attic of Carlingford Road . . . To the last for Queen and Country!

  The judge’s voice coming around again . . .

  “Two days later, a Taliban website posted video of what it claimed to be a firefight with British forces on the sovereign soil of Pakistan. The house was consumed by fire in the battle. So much so that all the Taliban had for proof were the charred remains of humans and British weapons. Upon analysis of the tape, British intelligence realized one of their soldiers had escaped the fire . . .”

  Finger on the trigger.

  Captain Jay Michael Harper: “Do it, boyo! Do it!”

  RPG crashes through the window, explodes, knocks the gun from Harper’s hands. Door at the back of the house breaks open. Hajis charge in, grab Captain Harper, drag him outside, throw him in the back of a pickup, and speed away.

  “There was a mystery as to what happened to the fourth man . . .”

  Beatings. Sleep deprivation. Grinding out cigarettes in his flesh. Screams. Holding him, keeping his existence secret, waiting for the Holy One of God to come from Rawalpindi to torture and slay the infidel personally. Video camera already set to film the slaughter. Can’t take much more. Hajis go to pray, leave one guard. Pretend to sleep . . . Lone guard sets his AK-47 on the ground, kneels to pray. Gather what strength is left, jump and snap the fucker’s neck. Grab the AK, crawl into the dark.

  The judge’s voice again:

  “Six weeks later, a farmer found a shallow grave containing human remains, burned beyond recognition. In a gesture of cooperation, the ISI of Pakistan notified the British Embassy of the discovery and invited their council. DNA tests were inconclusive, but the MOD judged the remains to be yours and declared you dead.”

  Harper blinked, found himself back in the judge’s office. He tried to lift himself from the chair, couldn’t move. The weight . . . crushing down . . . the judge staring at him.

  “But here you are, alive and well and killing in Paris.”

  Harper felt the phantom of a dead man begin to stir.

  He looked down at his hands.

  They were shaking.

  How the hell can he know this, any of it? Every trace of the man should have been destroyed. Slowly, like a dead man rising, he lifted his eyes to the judge.

  “Who the hell are you, and what the fuck do you want?”

  The judge closed the file. Puffed from his pipe before laying it in the ashtray.

  “Mon nom est Bruno Silvestre. Je suis le juge d’instruction spéciale pour la Brigade Criminelle. And what I want, monsieur, is to help you.”

  The clock chimed four a.m. Then came the sound of both doors opening at once. Whoosh, thunk, clunk . . . Four French GIGN police marched in, dressed for a riot. Two with submachine guns pointed at Harper, one with plastic ties and a black hood in his hands. The last one laid an official document on the judge’s desk. A set of gloved hands grabbed Harper’s shoulders and pulled him to his feet. Two seconds later, Harper’s own hands were bound at his back. The copper began to pull the black bag over Harper’s head, but Harper shook him off. The copper rammed a Taser into Harper’s back and let go with fifty thousand volts. Harper’s muscles seized up and he dropped to his knees. The copper grabbed him and hauled him to his feet again. Took Harper a few seconds to get his mouth working.

  “This your idea of offering help?”

  The judge looked up from the document. “I regret we could not understand each other earlier. Any help I may have been able to offer has been superseded by a development, monsieur.”

  “What sort of development?”

  “Pandora’s fucking box has disappeared.”

  “The bomb?”

  “When the containment unit arrived at its destination and was opened, the bomb from the Manon was gone. You are suspected of knowing how such a thing could happen.”

  So that was the order of battle, Harper thought. The inspector’s lads went for the WMD first, leaving him holding the shit end of the stick. Leaving Harper to wonder how shitty it could get.

  “And what happens to me?”

  The judge read from the paper in his hand.

  “By order of the president of the French Republic, you are hereby denied due process under the Code of Criminal Procedure, and all rights guaranteed under Article Nine of the Declaration of the Rights of Man and of the Citizen are rescinded. You will be transferred, without delay, to La Santé Prison to be subjected to enhanced interrogation at the hands of the Direction Centrale du Renseignement Intérieur.”

  “Sounds like a place where the screws punch first, ask questions later.”

  The judge looked at Harper.

  “I’m afraid, monsieur, you will find the conditions at La Santé extremely difficult.”

  “How hard can it be, gov, if you’re already dead?”

  The black bag came down on Harper’s head.

  THREE

  MAX WAS SLEEPING. THOUGH EVERY ONCE IN A WHILE HE’D SUCK at the sippy cup and the milk would leak onto his lips. Katherine eased away the cup, dabbed runaway drops from Max’s chin. She carried him to the crib, laid him down for a nap. He shuddered, then settled. She covered him with a blanket, blew out the candle, and turned on the crib monitor. She left the room, pulled close the door. A fat ball of gray fur was waiting in the hall, its tail plopping from side to side, blocking the way forward.

  “Hello, fuzzface. Suppose you’re
hungry, too?”

  Mew.

  “C’mon.”

  Monsieur Booty followed at Katherine’s ankles as she walked down the hall. She passed Officer Jannsen’s room. She was sitting on her bed, tapping the keys of a laptop. A Glock pistol was strapped to her hip. Katherine stepped into the room. She caught the scent of Chanel and gun grease.

  “Chatting with your boyfriend?”

  “Filing today’s stat report with Berne.”

  “I hope you’re telling the inspector I’ve been a good girl.”

  “Bien sûr. I also told him you qualified on the firing range. How was the shop this morning?”

  “Making more candles than I’m selling, but who cares?”

  “Max asleep?”

  “Yeah, he’ll be out for a couple hours. I’m going to have a hot bath.”

  Officer Jannsen checked her watch. Katherine shrugged and walked off. Their voices chased each other back and forth down the hall.

  “I know, tea before bath.”

  “See, you are a good girl.”

  “This must-be-punctual-in-all-things stuff makes me want to scream sometimes.”

  “It’s good for you. Builds character.”

  “You say that about everything I hate doing.”

  “I know. It’s the best part of my job.”

  Katherine walked down the stairs and into the sitting room. It was a large open space with a high timbered ceiling, floor-to-ceiling windows looking out to the edge of a forest. Mount Hood, across the river in Oregon, peaked above the trees and pointed to that glowing spot in the clouds where the sun was hiding. It was a nice view. Sometimes she’d see a deer walking through the trees. Sometimes a small black bear or a fox; sometimes it’d be one of the Swiss Guards patrolling the perimeter with a Brügger & Thomet submachine gun in his hands. But now, there were only the trees.

  She picked up a copy of The New Yorker from the sofa. She thumbed through the pages on her way to the kitchen, checking if there were any cartoons she’d missed. Monsieur Booty was already sitting by his food dish. If the beast had fingers instead of claws, they’d be tapping the floor.