Prime Target u-10

by Hugh Miller

  ‘Civet. It’s a kind of cat. The brotherhood are sworn to do harm to Jews in any way they can, which doesn’t make them unique, but they are customized. They have a tattoo of a civet’s head in the right armpit. The animal’s supposed to be lucky and to ward off danger.’

  ‘Every day,’ Philpott said, ‘I learn a little more…’

  ‘In June 1994 the Israelis bombed a Hezbollah training camp in southern Lebanon and killed forty guerrillas. Six people survived. Yaqub Hisham was one of them.’

  ‘He was with Hezbollah?’

  ‘The Israelis believe he was training them. For a while after the bombing he was treated like a living martyr, and he made a public declaration that he would double his efforts against Jews. Three weeks after that he ambushed three officers of Shin Bet at a checkpoint in the Bekáa Valley and butchered them. Mossad’s been on his tail ever since. He was believed to be holed-up in Tetuán, Morocco, which isn’t an easy place for Israelis to go looking for somebody. Mossad are very surprised that he showed up in England.’

  ‘Indeed. What was he doing in London, shooting a political analyst from the White House? I mean, why him? Why a seasoned, Jew-hating Middle Eastern terrorist?’

  ‘Emily Selby was Jewish.’

  ‘Not the kind of Jew that Arab terrorists travel all the way to Europe to assassinate, surely?’

  ‘If we knew the link between Emily and the other woman in the picture, Erika Stramm, I’m sure we would be standing in a brighter light.’

  Philpott looked at the screens. ‘What’s the loose end you’re chasing?’

  ‘Yaqub’s gun. I checked the serial number with the makers at Deutsch-Wagram, and they say it’s from a batch of fifty bought in Vienna last July for export to the USA. Buyer’s name was Albert Torrance of Denver, Colorado, which turns out to be a fake ID. But the guns did clear US Customs. I have the other weapon numbers from the consignment and I’ve been flagging law-enforcement nodes on ICON, but nobody has a thing on Glock 17s.’

  ‘Am I right in thinking the Glock 17 is the gun people were making so much noise about at one time? The gun that panic-merchants thought could escape airport X-ray detection?’

  Mike nodded. ‘There’s a lot of plastic in its construction. But there’s enough steel to show up on X-rays. What really grabs the enthusiasts is the seventeen-shot magazine.’

  Mike tapped a picture of the Glock 17 up on to a screen.

  ‘There’s a lot going for it. It’s hefty, it’s accurate, and it’s got enough rounds to let you do shot-clustering if that’s what a job calls for.’ Mike looked at Philpott. ‘I’m just intrigued to know how the weapon got from the States to Yaqub Hisham.’

  ‘And I’m intrigued to know why he shoved it in his mouth and took the back off his head just because four London bobbies were chasing him.’

  ‘He probably didn’t want to be arrested,’ Mike said. ‘Superstition and obsession are primary components of a fanatic’s mental structure. They’re also the elements that can undermine him. In my experience, a terrorist’s superstition and fear often take the form of an abhorrence of being captured, of being contained on somebody else’s terms. Remember in Rome, three years ago? I cornered a bullion hijacker, a Lebanese guy — ’

  ‘Shofar,’ Philpott said.

  ‘Shofar. I had the drop on him, he could do nothing but submit and get taken away. Except he was a fanatic. He didn’t want to be arrested, not at any price. So before I knew it he’d shoved his wristwatch in his mouth and rammed it into his gullet. A heavy-duty Seiko with a steel bracelet and a casing four centimetres across. And boy did it wedge. He went blue and he was dead in less than a minute. All because somebody wanted to restrict his movement.’

  Mike stood up slowly, rubbing his eyes.

  ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘I think I should get out of here soon. I’m starting to like the cloistered feel of the place, and I’m getting sleepy.’

  ‘A refreshment break, that’s the thing.’ Philpott took a tiny cellular phone from his pocket and tapped a button. ‘Then you can get on with tracking that gun. I’m sure it’s important.’ He put the phone to his ear. ‘Miss Wellington? I wonder if you could bring something to sustain Mr Graham and myself? We’re in SCS-One. Thank you.’ Five minutes later, as Philpott was pouring coffee, he noticed a strip of surgical tape across Mike Graham’s knuckles.

  ‘Have you been punching something harder than yourself?’

  Mike flexed the hand. ‘I took a corner too fast and had to correct in a hurry. My hand brushed a projecting stone.’

  ‘You really shouldn’t go tearing about on motorbikes the way you do.’

  It was something appropriate to say, and it was said with little enough emphasis to be easily ignored, if Mike chose.

  ‘I don’t tear about, sir. You know that.’

  ‘Do I? I must have forgotten.’

  ‘Even when I’m in a race I strive for the spiritual dimension,’ Mike said, deadpan.

  ‘Ah…’

  ‘My goal is oneness with the machine, so that I can be part of the transcendental fact of its speed.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘It’s art. What’s a little lost skin in pursuit of art? I mean, let’s face it, when I’m on my bike I’m expressing my deepest urges and polishing my karma at the same time.’

  ‘Michael. It was foolish of me not to realize all that.’

  They laughed. Philpott handed Mike his coffee. For just a moment an edge of stiffness intruded. At sociable moments silences between them were awkward, because matters which stayed unmentioned were nevertheless always there.

  ‘Still enjoying the serenity of Vermont on the weekends?’

  ‘More and more,’ Mike said.

  ‘And you still like being on your own?’

  ‘Yep. Just me, my TV for company, my pickup for transport, and my bike for death-defying art.’

  Some years before, Mike’s wife and son had been murdered by terrorists. He had been devastated, and the grief of his loss damaged him brutally. For a long time he was beyond consolation. Finally, when grief had run its course, he moved from New York to Vermont, and there he took up the solitary domestic life. With time he had gained a measure of tranquillity, though some women liked to think they still saw pain in those dark blue eyes.

  The agony of Mike’s loss was now a thing entirely of the past, but he was changed, and serious risk-taking was a feature of that change. Philpott privately believed that it was therapy: any ex-policeman knew that jeopardy wiped out restlessness.

  ‘What’s your instinct on this case?’ Mike pointed at the screens. ‘Do you get think we could see some action?’

  ‘Paperwork action, maybe. A ground-covering investigation, with plenty of interviews, then a long, detailed report to tidy the whole thing up.’

  Mike stared at him. ‘You certainly know how to lift a guy’s spirits.’

  ‘On the other hand it could be a thrill-a-minute caper.’ Philpott sipped his coffee. ‘Let’s see what Sabrina turns up. I just have a gut feeling this might be much bigger than we realize.’

  4

  The receptionist had the kind of relentless smile that would weather any opposition. ‘I assure you, Madame Reverdy, there is not a problem.’ She pushed a registration card and a pen across the mahogany desktop. ‘If you would care to fill this in, I’ll get a porter to take your bag.’

  Where the card asked for the guest’s name Sabrina wrote Louise Reverdy, the maiden name of her maternal grandmother. She put her address as 28 Rue de la Grand Armée, Paris 75017, France.

  The receptionist came back with a small, thin, green-uniformed man who took up a protective stance beside Sabrina’s suitcase. He smiled and bowed.

  Sabrina pushed back the registration card and took the key from the receptionist.

  ‘Thank you so much,’ she said, revelling in the way she could impersonate her mother’s accent, ‘and let me say again, although you insist it is no trouble, I am deeply grateful for the way
you have accommodated me at such short notice.’

  ‘Not at all, Madame. I hope everything is to your satisfaction.’

  The porter took Sabrina up in the lift to the third floor. He led the way along a passage carpeted in deep green Wilton. Outside her room he made a flourish with the key, turned it smoothly in the lock and pushed the door open.

  ‘Après vous, Madame,’ he said.

  Sabrina looked surprised. ‘Vous-êtes Français, m’sieur?’

  ‘No,’ he said, following her into the room, “fraid not. But I was good at French at school, and now and again I can’t help trying it out. Sounded authentic, did it?’

  ‘Absolument! Top marks.’

  He beamed with pleasure. Sabrina handed him a five-pound note and watched one small pleasure overlap another. Priming him had been easier than she imagined.

  ‘Tell me,’ she said as he turned to go, ‘yesterday a friend passed this way in a taxi, and she tells me she saw police officers. Has there been trouble?’

  The little man’s features seemed to clench as he came back, head tilted confidentially. ‘One of the guests,’ he said, pointing upward. ‘An American lady. She was the victim of a shooting. Nasty business.’

  ‘She was shot here?’ Sabrina managed a note of alarm without having to screech. ‘In this hotel?’

  ‘Oh no, no, ma’am, it happened over in Mayfair. But she was a guest here at the time.’

  ‘Oh, how terrible. There will not be police marching about the place all night, I hope? I am such a light sleeper…’

  ‘Not to worry,’ the porter said, ‘they’ve sealed the room and for the time being everything’s quiet.’ He made his little bow again. ‘Have a peaceful night.’

  ‘Thank you so much.’

  When he had gone she kicked off her shoes and sat on the edge of the bed. She checked her watch: 10.28.

  The minibar looked tempting, but she decided to wait until work was over.

  Getting here had been a struggle. Nobody had warned her the last operational day at Hounslow could run into the evening. She had come out of a hostage-taking scenario at eight o’clock and got back to her room at the hostel a few minutes before nine. Since then it had been breakneck all the way. First she had transformed herself from tousled squalor to the simulation of a chic Frenchwoman visiting London. In the circumstances a disguise had not been strictly necessary, but she enjoyed changes of personality, and tried always to conduct herself according to Philpott’s Rule One of Subterfuge, which he confided to her one tipsy evening at a UN reception: ‘Be somebody else whenever you can, my dear, and always tell a lie even if the truth would sound better.’

  Transformed to her own liking, she drove across town, put the car in an all-night car park, hailed a cab and presented herself at the hotel, looking as if the most strenuous thing she had done all day was sign Amex slips.

  She looked around her. This was a nice place. And it should be, since the tariff for one night was the same as a week’s rent for a cottage in the Cotswolds. She had called the hotel before leaving Hounslow — delayed flight, staying one more night — and the receptionist promised to hold the one remaining room until eleven at the latest. It happened also to be a double room and there was no concession for single occupancy. Philpott would bleat about that.

  She patted the mattress. What she wanted to do, more than anything, was sleep for eight hours solid. But she was here to work. She yawned and made herself stand up.

  By the wardrobe she slipped off her dark blue jacket and hipsters, put them on a hanger and opened the suitcase. Inside was one other change of clothes, her NYPD worksuit and three bath towels to make up the weight. She put on the worksuit and a pair of black Nikes.

  From the lid pocket of the suitcase she took a tool roll, a fibre optic torch, a plastic box with FIELD KEYMAKER stamped on the side, a Polaroid camera and a pair of thin latex gloves. She put the tool roll, the box and the camera on the bedside table and slipped the torch and gloves into her pocket. She closed the suitcase.

  ‘Two hours twenty,’ she said aloud as she lay down on the bed. She put her arms straight by her sides and let her hands lie open, palm upwards. She closed her eyes. ‘Two hours twenty,’ she said again, then fell asleep almost at once.

  She woke up in rapid stages, first clambering out of a dream about being pawed by a policeman with sugar on his fingers; then she was entering an ante room just behind her own eyelids. Consciousness came and she was aware of pink translucence. She opened her eyes and brought up her wrist, peering at her watch. Five minutes to one. Not bad.

  In the bathroom she splashed water on her face, patted it dry and went back to the bedroom. She put the tool roll and the box in her side pockets and looped the thong of the torch around her wrist.

  Before she opened the door she put out the light. She stood for a minute just inside the doorway, listening. The place was quiet and dark. This was a hotel with a special reputation, an establishment where ladies could stay on their own. By now all the guests would be in bed; when Sabrina arrived, she noticed the bar was already deserted.

  She closed her room door and walked soundlessly to the staircase at the end of the passage. The porter had pointed upwards when he talked about the shooting; there were six floors so she only had two to reconnoitre, at most. That was one blessing. The other was the kind of door locks they used.

  The sealed room was on the sixth floor, and the sealing was figurative. There was a strip of yellow-and-black adhesive tape across the top of the door, another at the bottom, and a notice warning it would be a criminal offence for anyone to open the door, or attempt to open it, without the express permission of the Commissioner of the Metropolitan Police.

  Sabrina went to the switchbox by the stairs and turned off the dim night lights along the passage. If she was disturbed and had to run for it, at least no one would see her face. She went back to the sealed room and shone the narrow torch beam on the lock. It was exactly like the others, a straightforward Yale, and the police had added no locks of their own.

  She unfurled her tool roll on the carpet and took out a tiny pick and a torque wrench. The key-making kit in the box might still be needed if the dead woman’s luggage turned out to have fancy locking arrangements.

  Sabrina pocketed the tool roll and stood close to the door. She slid the torque wrench into the bottom of the key slot and with the other hand she inserted the pick, prong upwards, sliding it all the way to the back of the lock. She slowly withdrew it again, getting the feel of resistance from the springs pressing down on the pins.

  Now she turned the wrench a fraction to the right and put the pick back in the lock, pushing it in all the way, not letting it touch the pins. Then she began pulling it out, applying steady upward force to the pins. The correct pressure had to be only a shade greater than the minimum needed to overcome the force of each spring. She stroked the pick over the farthest of the five pins, increasing the pressure on the wrench until the pin stuck. She brought the pick forward to the next pin and did the same. She repeated the manoeuvre with the third pin.

  There was a sound along the corridor, a creak like boot leather. Or like an old door shrinking in the night air. Or like a million possible things. Sabrina remained frozen by the door, counting to a hundred before she moved again.

  The next pin would not stay up when she probed it. This was not unusual: the pins at the front of a lock were often bevelled at the edges from simple wear. Sabrina kept the torque pressure fixed and began sliding the pick back and forward over the remaining two pins, scrubbing, as professionals called it. As the pick moved over the pins Sabrina gradually increased the upward pressure of the prong. Suddenly both pins slid upwards and stuck. She turned the wrench another fraction and the door slid open, tearing softly away from the adhesive tape.

  Sabrina pulled out the picking tools and pocketed them as she stepped into the room. She made sure the door was locked behind her, then she closed the heavy curtains and put on the overhead light.

>   There was always an eeriness about a room a person had planned to return to, but never did. Clothes had been laid out for the evening, bottles and jars were lined up in the bathroom, shoes stood in a row in the bottom of an open closet.

  Sabrina assumed the police had touched nothing. It was also safe to assume they knew where everything was. She took out the Polaroid camera and photographed the room from several angles. She took close-ups of the distribution of items on the dressing table, the bathroom ledge and the closet shelves.

  When she had leaned the pictures in a row along the top of the washbasin to dry, she pulled on the latex gloves and set to work.

  Any search, to be effective, had to be strictly methodical, and no improbability had to be rejected. Sabrina had trained with an FBI Search Unit, people so skilled and so downright suspicious of human deviancy that nothing could be hidden from them. She began at the front of the room, by the door, and worked backwards to an imagined three-dimensional grid pattern.

  In the course of an hour she learned several things about Emily Selby. For a start, she had had a mild but distinct case of obsessional neurosis. Her shoes in the closet were not only lined up neatly, they were positioned with their toes a precise distance from the back of the closet. Prior to noticing this, Sabrina had found a small cut-off piece of a plastic ruler carefully wrapped in tissue. It was 10 millimetres long, the precise distance of each well-polished toe from the wooden back panel of the closet.

  Emily had also been an enthusiastic botanist, and in her notebook she had prepared a detailed itinerary for herself around Kew Gardens, which she had planned to visit on Friday.

  Most fascinating of all, for Sabrina, was the fact Emily had been writing a traveller’s guide to Israel. Two hundred pages of the hand-written manuscript were in her suitcase, together with working notes and a letter of encouragement from her publisher.

  For ten minutes Sabrina speed-read the pages, looking for further insights on Emily. She picked up interesting facts about places like Ashdod, Gedera, Giv’atayim, Migdal and Nazareth, but none of it was likely to throw light on why the bookish, seemingly repressed political analyst had been murdered.