by Roger Pearce
As they turned left, high over Scotland, Kerr switched on his BlackBerry to flight safe mode and pulled his thoughts back to the Yard. On Monday morning, exactly one week after the attacks, he would sit his selection board for detective superintendent, sponsored by Bill Ritchie. To assist with his preparation Donna had forwarded him three apps with bullet points for the current crop of Met policies. ‘All he needs now is a miracle,’ Ritchie had evidently told Donna as she pressed Send.
Kerr scrolled through the material in bewilderment. Deliverables, core competencies, diversity strategies, paradigm shifts and missions critical tumbled through his brain and had him on the lookout for the cabin crew again. The final program described a smug world of dignity at work and respect for employees, a Shangri-la of integrity, equality and fairness beneath a pagoda of self-satisfaction. It was half-truth posing as Total Policing, as if the scandals of phone hacking, Plebgate, leaks, cock-ups and bullying had never happened. Kerr tossed the BlackBerry onto the vacant seat beside him, opened his novel and asked for a gin and tonic, scarcely recognising his own organisation.
They were over an hour late into Washington Dulles International, the delay in London exacerbated by strong headwinds in mid-Atlantic. Directed by the same flight attendant who had welcomed him on board, Kerr was the first to leave the aircraft, the day’s stack of emails from London buzzing inside his pocket as he eased to the door. Waiting at the end of the ramp was a woman clutching a laminated ID badge who also addressed him by name as they shook hands. She was wearing a dark suit, court heels and a business smile. ‘Hope you had a comfortable flight.’ She gave a lift to the last word but walked off before he could answer, escorting him to Arrivals in polite silence.
The queue at Border Protection seemed to snake for miles but she diverted him to a corner station marked Flight Crews and Diplomatic. Waiting landside while the Homeland Security officer took his prints and photograph, she led him through Customs to an unmarked door opening onto the concourse behind Starbucks, ten metres clear of the waiting crowds. The slim hand stretched out again as a man appeared at Kerr’s right shoulder. ‘Sam will take it from here,’ she said, melting away before he could thank her.
His new escort had the look of limousine chauffeurs the world over, fiftyish, deferential, suited and booted, with a paunch over thin legs, Bluetooth in his ear and hair greying from decades spent in city traffic. Nonplussed by Kerr’s lack of luggage, Sam led him to a black Cadillac XTS sedan parked in a Strictly No Waiting zone beyond the airport’s sweeping roof and opened the rear door for him. Interstate 66 was clear and the driver fast, a giant rhinestone wedding ring pulsing to some silent melody as they flashed across the Capital Beltway interchange.
They covered the twenty-five miles to Washington’s outskirts in less than half an hour, a few minutes longer than it took Kerr to scroll through his mail. Though well into the evening at home, emails were still filtering through. He checked the senders first, alert for tipoffs from Donna or recriminations from the commander, then separated operational team updates from the clutter of meeting requests, spam, trash and calendar reminders. There was a bunch of missed calls from his team and an alert from HR confirming Monday’s selection board, set for eight-thirty in Room 407, Victoria Block. Meanwhile, the afternoon sun was shining over Washington, so he relaxed and watched the capital’s iconic buildings drift into view.
Chapter Nineteen
Thursday, 13 October, 15.06 (GMT minus 5), Department of State, Washington DC
Rich Malone called when they were three minutes away, speeding across Theodore Roosevelt Bridge and down towards Foggy Bottom. Renamed the Harry S Truman Building at the turn of the century, the State Department was a sprawling, asymmetrical monolith of reinforced concrete and limestone cladding. Despite the courtyards and classical horizontal columns, it had never shaken off the forbidding look of a monument to the Cold War. Ignoring the main forecourt, Sam parked in a loading bay outside a steel door marked Strictly No Access. He locked the car and personally escorted Kerr inside, collecting his Visitor pass from the security station. Kerr checked his watch: he had touched down exactly an hour ago.
Rich Malone’s office was on the east side of the fifth floor corridor, within reach of the executive offices. ‘Hey, fit and ugly as ever,’ he yelled, loping round his light wood desk. Somehow he managed to deliver Kerr a playful punch in the stomach, grab his hand and yank a chair away at the same time, all without losing eye contact. In private they had been on hugging terms, European style, during Malone’s final months in London, but those days had evidently gone. ‘Things go smooth at the airport, yeah?’
‘Rich, everyone’s been brilliant,’ smiled Kerr, folding his jacket onto the back of the chair.
‘And Sam made it without wrapping you round a fucking bridge,’ said Malone with a wink at Kerr’s driver, as if the road from the airport was machine gun alley. He had just covered all this on the phone, though repetition opened up a few minutes of goodol’-boy backchat with Sam. Malone was a sharp diplomat who had qualified for the Bar at night school, but he loved reprising his night detective role in Boston’s Drug Control Unit. In London such banter had been a regular act, what Jack Langton billed as Malone’s ‘Irish American Brit Shtick.’
Kerr took a look around. The room and its furniture were almost a replica of Malone’s office at the embassy in Grosvenor Square, minus the Union Jack, British police helmet and a couple of square metres of grey carpeted floor space. In the corner by the window the Stars and Stripes stood beside a glass table crowded with the framed invitation to a Buckingham Palace garden party, letters of thanks from the White House and shots of Malone shaking hands with smiling Administration officials. The Bureau of Diplomatic Security seal occupied the opposite wall above the logo of the International Law Enforcement Academy office in San Salvador.
‘As it comes, right?’ With the driver dismissed, Malone was pouring coffee at a console behind his desk as Kerr sank into a black leather sofa. ‘Sam’s a great guy,’ chuckled Malone. ‘Got shunted by a taxi outside Watergate last week and we’re not letting it go.’
Malone took the opposite sofa and slid a mug bearing the blue US Senate emblem across the low table between them. Since departing for Washington seven months earlier he had gained around twenty pounds and a buzz cut that accentuated the greyish scar above his left eye. A fawn roll neck sweater with matching chinos and moccasins replaced the sharp suit and black tasselled shoes, as if he had taken time out from vacation. ‘Great to see you, buddy.’ He sprawled back and stretched his legs.
‘What is it?’ said Kerr. ‘Dress down Thursday?’
Malone beamed and made a gun of his fingers. ‘Couple of hours on the range first thing. Hey, I can’t believe you made it,’ he said, as Kerr smiled and held his arms wide. ‘And you’re pissed that I dragged you here, right?’
‘You’ll have a good reason,’ smiled Kerr, trying the coffee.
‘Fucking right,’ said Malone. ‘You want to get straight to work?’
‘Unless you want to talk on the way back to the airport.’
‘Excellent,’ said Malone, sitting forward on the sofa. ‘Like I said yesterday, this is intel for your ears only.’
‘Who from?’
‘The Drug Enforcement Administration.’ He leaned further towards Kerr, shins pressing against the table, the sweater tight as lycra around his paunch. ‘As it happens the guy is a personal contact working out of San Salvador,’ he said, gesturing to the emblem on the wall.
‘What’s the grading?’
‘Secret and reliable. You think I’d have asked you here otherwise, with all that shit raining down in England?’ He paused, as if he had thrown Kerr a challenge, waiting for his nod. ‘Do you remember a guy called Sean Brogan? Ex-Real IRA from the nineties? He’s classified as a fugitive in the US but you say “on the run,” right?’
‘OTR,’ agreed Kerr, ducking the first question, his eyes unwavering from Malone’s. ‘You want me to run a check with London?’
‘Not necessary,’ said Malone. ‘You ever heard of the Revolutionary Armed Forces of Columbia?’
‘FARC. Yes,’ said Kerr, frowning at the recollection. ‘The IRA trained them in bomb making, weaponry, urban warfare etcetera. Three got arrested at Bogota airport in, I dunno, two thousand?’
‘And two.’
‘Then escaped back to Ireland?’ said Kerr.
‘Eventually, correct. And we now find that Brogan carried on the good work where they left off.’
‘Without getting nicked?’
‘Ancient history. We’re looking into it,’ said Malone, making a face. ‘The new intel is that Mister Brogan has reinvented himself as FARC’s link man for their cocaine smuggling operations into Europe.’
‘Okay. What’s the route?’
‘West Africa. Lagos, Nigeria. Mostly in container ships, but also swallowers on flights from Bogota. The stomach can take two kilos, would you believe? Anyway, FARC have been striking deals with Islamic State, Hamas and Boko Haram to fund terrorism. Plus, Hizbollah has been laundering drugs money through them for years. But the angle for you is Europe. A lot of the powder is smuggled across the Med from Morocco and Algeria.’
‘Into?’
‘Spain, Holland and Italy. Plus England, obviously. Ships to Southampton, aircraft to London, Liverpool, Birmingham. The mules at Lagos hold onto their guts a bit longer and fly into Heathrow direct. But I guess you know most of this stuff, yeah?’ he said quickly. ‘The supply routes, I mean, not Brogan.’
Kerr looked quizzical. ‘We’ve just had two bombs in the centre of London. Why am I sitting here listening to this?’
‘But do you know who paid for them?’ said Malone calmly.
Kerr studied him for a few moments. ‘You’re saying West African drugs dealers are behind this?’
‘No. Money launderers in Western Europe. But it’s still narcoterrorism.’
Kerr blew out his cheeks. ‘So why couldn’t you send me this on the wire?’
Abruptly, Malone bounced off the sofa and returned to his desk. ‘I’ll tell you, my friend. But let’s take a break.’ He checked his phone and tapped his keyboard. ‘Can I get you anything? Some pasta? A beer?’ The armrest jerked up and down and couple of times, a Malone habit from London that showed he was worked up.
‘Rich, are you telling me Sean Brogan is involved in London?’
‘Later. It’s a nice day and I’ve logged out.’ Malone rounded the desk again and handed Kerr his jacket. ‘How about we stretch our legs?’
They left the building by the same door and walked quickly south to Constitution Gardens, heading past the Vietnam Veterans’ Memorial towards the Reflecting Pool. The air was still warm beneath a clear sky and Kerr slung his jacket over his shoulder. On the way, Malone pressed him for every detail of the investigation in London. Having witnessed one of Derek Finch’s blustering performances on CNN, he was hungry for Kerr’s take on the significance of the threat calls, code words, suspects and the resemblance to previous IRA attacks. But his real interest was Kerr’s take on the probability of further attacks: was Victoria a one-off or the start of a campaign?
In less than fifteen minutes they found themselves at the very edge of the pool, between the Abraham Lincoln Memorial and the Washington Monument, its obelisk a brilliant white against the pale blue sky.
Kerr looked around but the nearest potential eavesdroppers were a couple of dawdling kids holding hands and drifting away from them. He stood square on to Malone, the late afternoon sun tapering their shadows across the water. ‘So what is it you couldn’t tell me back there?’
‘I don’t know if Brogan is involved in this or not. But I have other information from my DEA contact about a possible… possible…terrorist attack in London.’
‘Another one, you mean.’
Malone shrugged. ‘I have a potential target, and that’s about all.’
‘And this is State covering its back.’
‘It’s friendship protecting yours,’ said Malone sharply. ‘The intel belongs to DEA and they’ve buried it with an embargo. No third party disclosure, especially to the Brits. I only know because my pal thinks like you and me. I’m out on a limb here, John.’
Kerr held his palms wide. ‘I apologise.’
‘So here’s what I know. Source is a Columbian male, code name Goldhawk.’
‘A member of FARC?’
‘Enforcer,’ nodded Malone, ‘with drugs and money laundering on the side. DEA recruited him recently under duress. Early hours of Tuesday Goldhawk was at a meeting in Bogota between Brogan and a John Doe. Caucasian in his late thirties. We’re urgently working on the ID.’
‘What nationality?’
‘European.’
‘Irish? Is this an IRA meeting, Rich?’
Malone sunk his hands in his pockets. ‘The conversation was in Spanish but the JD was not fluent. Goldhawk was there for security only, and they kept him outside the door.’
‘What type of premises?’
‘A brothel in Santa Fe, off Carrera Septima. It was noisy on the landing so he only caught bits and pieces. The location was set up at the last moment so no photographic. And the context is… problematic.’
‘He was wired, yeah?’
‘Except the DEA’s state of the art fucking equipment malfunctioned. My contact debriefed him from memory. We’re left with what Goldhawk says he heard, and that’s my problem. The John Doe was doing most of the talking and it was about a hit in London.’
‘But this conversation is…what…twenty hours after Victoria? Perhaps he was talking about that?’
‘No. The JD mentioned a target. Corona. Used the word two or three times.’
‘And?’
‘Goldhawk says this refers to an attack on the Royals. That’s the context. You think I’m overreacting?’
Kerr shook his head.
‘Untried source, no corroboration,’ said Malone. ‘DEA are hoping they can rescue some of the recording. But in the meantime…well, you can see why they won’t disseminate this right now. It’s a reputational issue and they’re embarrassed. Imagine the shitstorm from your side. John, this might be nothing. For all I know this Goldhawk guy heard the word wrong, or perhaps he’s playing games. But there could be a link, right?’
‘You’re telling me this John Doe is my prime suspect?’
‘Who knows? If Monday was the opening shot the next attack could be imminent.’ Malone scanned the route they had just walked, as if checking for surveillance. There was the usual scattering of tourists and joggers. An elderly couple with a little dog in a winter coat walked slowly past, the man stooped like a question mark. ‘That’s why I called you. If my Director ever finds out we’ve had this conversation…’
‘She won’t,’ said Kerr, naturally suspicious, also taking in his surroundings. Further to the east, the late afternoon sunshine draped itself around the dome of the Capitol Building, smooth and brilliant white, the icing on Washington’s cake. Uneasy, Kerr looked his friend in the eye. ‘Can you introduce me to Goldhawk’s handler?’
‘Not possible, bud,’ said Malone quickly,
‘So can I have a copy of the debrief? There must be a written record?’
Malone slowly shook his head. ‘Sorry. But if they rescue the recording and make the ID you’ll be the first to know.’ He checked his watch. ‘Look, I have a scrum down with the arms control guys in thirty minutes.’
‘What’s the coverage of Brogan?’
‘The guy is…difficult,’ said Malone, suddenly hesitant. ‘Lives his life off the grid.’
‘That’s not what I asked,’ said Kerr.
‘John, I’ve told you all I can.’
‘Can I brief Bill Ritchie?’
‘Are you fucking kidding?’
‘So what am I supposed to do with this?’
Malone scratched the back of his head as ripples from a fallen leaf corrugated their reflections. ‘I dunno. Check the family’s movements, beef up the security d
etail. It’s precautionary, John, just for a couple of days.’ He looked awkward, as if he was having a change of heart. ‘Fact is I never wanted to burden you with this.’
‘It’s okay. I appreciate it,’ said Kerr, wondering why the Americans were holding out on him.
‘When’s your flight again?’
‘Plenty of time,’ said Kerr, but Malone already had his mobile ready, swinging round to check the build-up of traffic alongside the park.
‘It’s getting busy,’ he said quietly. ‘Better give Sam a call.’
Kerr never made it back to Malone’s office. Fifteen minutes later the driver greeted him with a turkey pastrami sandwich in a side street off Constitution Avenue, close to the US Institute of Peace and handy for the Interstate 66. And by the time he ushered Kerr into the back seat of the Cadillac Malone was his old self again, all handshakes and smiles. ‘Be good, buddy, and stay in touch, yeah?’
The return journey to Dulles took over an hour in heavy traffic but Kerr made it to check-in with time to spare before the eight-twenty departure on BA264. He had spent less than five hours on US soil. In the car a voicemail from Melanie sent him a pulse of concern: ‘Hi John. I’m getting the international dial tone. Everything alright? Can you give me a call when you get back? Something’s come up about Justin. Anyway…yeah, that’s it. Thanks. Bye.’
They were calling the flight by the time he cleared security and found a quiet corner to make his own call. The number was filed in his contacts under Zero, a work name that featured nowhere in Dodge’s agent records. He let it ring for thirty seconds, then redialled before giving up and heading to the gate.
Chapter Twenty
Friday 14 October, 09.32, safe house, Finsbury Park
For their second assault the older brother, Fin, wore a dark suit with frayed cuffs, a slight tear inside the left leg and the musty whiff of a charity shop. The Englishman delivered the suit personally, unpacking it from his battered wheelie case with a faded white shirt, black woollen scarf and down-at-heel black shoes a size too small. They had to unpick the seams in the turnups to cover Fin’s long legs, but he looked authentic enough to slip in and out of the City’s Ring of Steel with its edgy cops, surveillance choke points and forest of security cameras.
