Trigger Point (The Gabriel Wolfe Thrillers Book 1)

by Andy Maslen

  “No, no,” Maitland sighed. “Or not at the moment, anyway”. He winked at Gabriel.

  “We’re going to be landing soon,” Gabriel said. “Should we discuss what we’re doing here? You haven’t really told me anything.”

  “I have a couple of meetings in Chicago tonight and tomorrow morning, then we’re going for a little drive out to the country. There’s a car that’s come up for sale that will complement my collection rather well.”

  “A car,” Gabriel said. This was the acquisition? He’d been brought across the Atlantic to go car shopping?

  “Not just any car. This is a Jaguar D-Type.”

  “What’s so special about this particular D-Type? There are always a few for sale in the UK.”

  “Two words, for you, Gabriel. Steve. McQueen. He raced it at Laguna Seca in ‘67. It’s been in the hands of a private collector – a rather famous private collector – for the last fifteen years but now he’s selling it. So aggravating when the tax authorities audit you and discover some funds squirrelled away where poor old Uncle Sam can’t get at them.”

  Somehow Gabriel couldn’t help but wonder whether the tax audit had been prompted by a tip-off from the very rich man sitting next to him.

  As Maitland carried on talking, Gabriel noticed the Sky Marshal coming over to speak to him.

  “That was some smart work you did on that gentleman, Sir,” he said to Gabriel. “Law enforcement?”

  Maitland spoke, cutting across Gabriel.

  “No, officer, he’s just a concerned citizen doing his duty.”

  The Marshal ignored Maitland and continued speaking to Gabriel directly.

  “Well, he’s not going to give us any trouble now, at any rate. They may want to speak to you at O’Hare though. Get your side of the story. In case the guy tries to sue or something.”

  Gabriel said, “That’s fine. There were plenty of people here who saw what was going on. He needed calming down, that’s all.”

  “One thing, officer,” Maitland said, nodding at the holstered pistol visible on the man’s belt. “Isn’t that a rather powerful weapon to be firing on an aeroplane?”

  The man couldn’t ignore a direct question.

  “Once we’re airborne, it’s mainly for show. I like to try and talk ’em down first.”

  “But what if they won’t be talked down? Then what?”

  “Then I have other techniques. Like your friend here. Now, I have to leave, but as I said, please don’t leave the terminal building without seeing my colleagues first. I’ve radioed ahead. You can collect your bags but you’ll meet them in the arrivals lounge. There’s a Starbucks opposite the American Airlines desks. They’ll be waiting for you there.”

  With that, the Marshal threaded his way between the seats and descended the stairs. Maitland spoke.

  “That’s perfect! Now I have to hang around while the FBI or whoever interview you at length about something any fool could tell was self-inflicted.”

  “Not necessarily. You could go on to your meeting, I’ll talk to whoever it is I have to talk to, check in at the hotel than call you.”

  “Yes, that might work. But listen, you were asking me about the car. That’s the cover story for our trip out here.” He lowered his voice to a whisper, inaudible to anyone further than six inches away from his mouth. Gabriel leaned a little closer. “We have another purchase to make, upstate. Something that will help us achieve our broader goals. A farm in northern Michigan, outside a little town called Roscommon.”

  “What kind of purchase?”

  “Er, let’s call it a harvester, shall we? Very powerful, US-made and perfect for Rokeby Manor. Don’t worry Gabriel, all will be revealed. Including the reason I wanted you on my team in the first place, and along for this trip.”

  At that point, the Captain’s voice crackled over the intercom into the cabin. He spoke with the same breezy, cultured tones all British pilots used: everything is fine, even though you are sealed with 275 other souls in a metal tube powered by tons of exploding gas, 30,000 feet above the Earth’s surface. What he said out loud was the same mixture of weather information and routine customer service platitudes mixed with the single relevant fact that they would be landing in Chicago in fifteen minutes. As they waited by the top of the stairs to leave the aircraft, the businesswoman who’d offered her ironic applause touched Gabriel on the shoulder.

  “That was very impressive. If you fancy a drink later, here’s my card. Give me a call.”

  It was a standard business card, nothing fancy. No creamy thickness to the paper stock, no fancy typography. It read, simply,

  Lauren Klimczak-Stevens

  CEO, Corvair Security

  There was a mobile number, an email address and a PO Box in Chicago. And a logo: an old-time pirate ship done in some clever digital style he guessed used Photoshop or Illustrator. He turned it over – you never knew what else you might learn about someone – but it was blank.

  “I’ll do that. I could do with some company.”

  “Me too. It’s such fun talking to a Brit from time to time.”

  He jerked his head up. She’d pronounced Brit as “Britta” and was giving him a direct stare so he couldn’t miss the implication.

  Then it was time to “deplane” as the airline jargon had it. They became separated as buses arrived to cart the passengers off to the mundane sequence of immigration control, baggage claim, customs and the arrivals hall. The fat guy manning the little glass cubicle at the head of Gabriel’s line at Immigration looked up as he handed over his passport and landing card. The extra poundage he was carrying was making him sweat and his neck rolled over the grimy shirt collar like an uncooked pastry.

  The officer said, “What is the purpose of your stay here in Chicago, Sir?”

  “Business. I’m with my employer. That’s him over there.”

  Gabriel pointed to the next line over, where Maitland stood, answering the same litany of pre-scripted questions but with a deepening scowl and repeated looks at his watch.

  “And where are you staying, Sir?”

  “The University Club on South Michigan Avenue.”

  “For how many days?”

  “One night, then we’re heading upstate.”

  The man scrutinised Gabriel’s passport, flipping back and forth over the pages marked with the colourful entry and exit stamps of a dozen other countries’ border control services. He looked up again at Gabriel and paused.

  “Enjoy your stay, Mr Wolfe, Sir. Have a nice day.”

  Why was it, Gabriel wondered, even when you’d done nothing wrong, you felt trapped? Those moments waiting while some minor functionary of the state enjoyed exercising the power he’d been granted felt like waiting for a jury’s “guilty” verdict.

  As he waited for Maitland, he checked out the peacekeepers scattered through the marble-floored space. There were regular Chicago city cops with Glock 17s and SIG Sauer P226s holstered at their bulging waists; also black-uniformed airport cops – male and female, he noticed – with sidearms like the regular cops but also cradling stubby Remington submachine guns across their Kevlar-armoured torsos. Even the Immigration guy had a Colt .45 pistol on his belt, digging into his corpulent waist. Would the airport cops open up with their Remingtons in a crowded space like this? There’d be a bloodbath. No doubt they had rules like every fighting force for when, where and in what circumstances you could discharge your weapon. A crazy guy with a dynamite corset and his thumb on a detonator? Sure, you’d have a green light from some manual or protocol to minimise casualties. A few stray 9 mm rounds hitting civilians compared to hundreds dead or mutilated by nails and ball bearings? No contest.

  Maitland came up on his left side, pocketing his passport and complaining about the Immigration officer he’d had to show it to.

  “Anyone would think I was some kind of Muslim terrorist instead of a legitimate businessman.”

  Gabriel marvelled at his employer’s obliviousness to the irony. Legitimate?


  He gestured instead to the group of three people – two men and a woman – standing just to the side of the entrance to the Starbucks opposite them. They might as well have had FBI tattooed across their foreheads. Navy suits for all three of them, the woman’s a skirt and jacket; white shirts, with dark narrow ties for the male agents; short, businesslike haircuts all round; and a watchful, alert gaze. That was all Gabriel needed to recognise the Quantico “look”.

  “There’s my welcome committee,” Gabriel said. “Shall we meet up at later?”

  “Yes, of course. I don’t know how long my meeting will take though. I’ll text you if we’re running late.”

  With that, Maitland turned and strode off towards the taxi rank, while Gabriel strolled towards the trio of Feds.

  “Can you tell us, in your own words, what went down in First Class, please?” It was the female agent who spoke. They were sitting round a high table on bar stools, sipping coffee: lattes for the agents, a plain black coffee for Gabriel, who was feeling the jet lag start to kick in and wanted to stay alert. Her long, elegant fingers were curled around the mug of coffee, short nails painted a deep shade of orange that contrasted with her pale brown skin.

  “There was a noise, I looked up, the guy was making a nuisance of himself. I went to suggest he calmed down and he took a swing at me. I … subdued him. Then I strapped him down and that’s just about when the Sky Marshal arrived.”

  One of the two male agents spoke next.

  “You understand, Gabriel, isn’t it? We need to be sure who did what to who and why. Uncle Sam doesn’t like brawling foreigners coming to stay on the ranch. He likes to know who’s under his roof, is all. When you say you subdued him, how exactly did you do that? He’s, what, twice your size? Roughly?”

  “OK, look. I know a few things. I was in the British Army. I have training. Nothing serious but I know how to put a guy down and in my judgment he needed putting down. He’s fine now, isn’t he?”

  The woman answered.

  “Oh, sure. Fine as fine can be. He’s talking lawyers, assault, lawsuits, compensation. Don’t worry,” she continued, as Gabriel’s eyes widened. “It’s all machismo. When he comes to his senses, he’ll back off. They always do. We just need to know where we can find you if we need any more answers. For now, we’re done. Between you, me and the gatepost? He’s an asshole. I would have loved to’ve done what you did. But, hey! It is what it is, right?”

  The agents took a note of his contact information: mobile number, email and address in Chicago. Then, after handshakes all round, the agents departed. He watched their receding backs as they walked in lockstep back towards the airport security office. No doubt to file a report to the Bureau chief or one of their underlings somewhere in City Hall.

  Enough excitement for one day, Gabriel thought. He shouldered his suit-carrier, pulled the handle up on the wheeled case with his clothes for the stay and headed towards the exit. Fifteen minutes later Gabriel was sitting in a slow-moving cab heading into Chicago thinking about the businesswoman and her casual reference to “Britta”. To Britta? Had he really heard her say that?

  He calculated the tip as the cab rolled to a stop outside the University Club, a ten-storey sandstone building that looked like someone had craned an Oxford college into the middle of a modern shopping street. He paid the driver, retrieved his bags from the boot – trunk, he corrected himself – and headed for the revolving door. The humidity and heat were stifling. Gabriel was sweating by the time he gained the relief of the Club’s air-conditioned interior.

  As he pushed his way through the revolving door, taking care not to get wedged between its wood and glass partitions and his luggage, he sucked in a lungful of machine-chilled air. An elderly black man with close-cropped white hair stepped forward.

  “Welcome to the University Club, Sir. May I help you with your bags?”

  Gabriel shrugged the suit carrier off his shoulder. The porter picked up the bag and took the handle of the wheeled suitcase from Gabriel’s unprotesting hand. “Let me bring you over to Hannah,” he said. “She can get you checked in and we’ll have your luggage upstairs to your room right away.”

  Once he’d showered and changed, Gabriel lay back on the bed and picked up his phone and the card from Lauren the Corvair Security CEO. There was a text from Maitland.

  Having dinner with friends. Suggest you shift for yourself. See you in a.m. T

  He dialled the number and waited while cell towers routed his call. After three long rings, she picked up.

  Chapter 14

  “Hi Gabriel.”

  “Hi, Lauren. How did you know it was me?”

  “Simple. Unrecognised number. People who have my cell, I have theirs. You’re the outlier. I don’t have your number. Plus it’s a 44 code on number display. Britain, right? That kind of narrowed it down to, well, to you. So, you want to get a drink somewhere downtown?”

  “Sure, I’d like that. Where do you suggest? I don’t know this town.”

  “OK, one thing? Can you shake off your boss for a couple of hours?”

  “He’s not here. He’s out with friends.”

  “Great. You like blues music?”

  “Sure. Jazz, blues. Whatever.”

  “Great! I’m going to take you somewhere the tourists never see. It’s a little bar called Popeye’s Bar and Grill. There’s a new band in town with the best singer you’re ever going to hear. I’ll text you the address. Meet me there at eight. Don’t be late, gotta skate!”

  With Lauren’s Midwestern tones still echoing round his head, Gabriel lay back against the pillow and decided he could afford an hour’s sleep to recharge. He set his phone’s alarm for 7.30 p.m. and began to clear his mind. He breathed in and out: slowly, deliberately, focusing inward.

  Gabriel woke just as the alarm sounded and was heading out to find a cab five minutes later. He emerged onto the sidewalk enveloped in a perfect wedge of cool, dry air, and for a moment he thought the humidity had dropped to something more bearable. Then the heat reared up at him from the sidewalk and the air like hot soup that even native Chicagoans can only learn to bear pressed in against his body. Gabriel ditched his plan to walk to the bar and hailed the first yellow cab he saw. This dented and scuffed example had seen better days. Inside, the Crown Vic smelled of pine and cigarettes. Smoking had been banned in cabs for years – the harsh tarry smell was coming from the driver.

  “Where to, bud?” the driver said, looking at Gabriel in the rearview mirror.

  “Popeye’s Bar and Grill, please. It’s on—”

  “Yeah, yeah, I know where Popeye’s is. Great place. Bit off the tourist track though, ain’t it?”

  “I’m meeting someone,” Gabriel said. He hated talking to taxi drivers, although he’d never mastered the art of asking for silence. This one was gabby though, and either he didn’t notice or didn’t care about Gabriel’s monotone.

  “Yeah? I hope she’s worth it!” The cab driver guffawed at his own wit, a raucous bubbling sound in which Gabriel thought he could detect decades of cigarette-smoking as the man’s lungs struggled to eject enough air to produce the laugh. Wheezing now, the driver leaned round at a stoplight to get a proper look at his passenger.

  “So, am I right in thinking you are from the British Commonwealth?” he asked, his formal phrasing in complete contrast to his blue-collar accent.

  “Yes. England.”

  “I knew it!” The cabbie slapped the back of the passenger seat as he said this. Whenever he traveled to the US Gabriel was always asked at least once whether he was ‘Briddish’ or a ‘Brit’. On one memorable trip to rural Georgia, researching a peach farm for a client, the bottle-blonde receptionist at his motel had asked him, wide-eyed, if, “y’all are from England?” She’d even got one of her colleagues to take a picture of the two of them, side by side outside the motel, then shook his hand as if he were a minor celebrity, which maybe he was when the usual clientele were sales reps and people drifting through looking for wo
rk.

  The cab behind them honked. Gabriel’s driver turned back to face front.

  “Yeah, yeah, buddy, relax. This ain’t New York.”

  They moved off, heading west along the lakefront, Lake Michigan sparkling in the evening sun. There were small yachts and dinghies scudding about close in to shore and the vast inland sea swallowed them like a whale consuming krill. Far out towards the horizon, Gabriel could make out bigger yachts, their crews enjoying the sun but also the cooler air out where the convection currents and temperature inversions off the lake water kept things down to a more comfortable sixty or seventy degrees.

  By the time they arrived at Popeye’s, Gabriel was grateful to be leaving the cab and its voluble driver. He over-tipped not because of the good service but because it made it a round ten and he could leave faster. Once again, as he left the cab, the thick summer air of the Midwest boiled over him and he headed inside, anticipating a cold glass of wine and the mercy of America’s ever-present air conditioning.

  The bar had a plain, brick frontage with six windows, three each side of the door. The windows were smoked glass so you couldn’t see in, painted with the bar’s name and a well-executed cartoon Popeye figure, playing an electric guitar. And the evening sun was bouncing straight off them in any case, turning them into mirrors. Gabriel pulled the door open and stepped inside. It was hotter than the street. The place was crowded with sensibly-dressed office types enjoying after-work beers. The women all wore tights; their legs looked bare but shimmered in the bar’s lighting. Why cover your legs with flesh-coloured hosiery? America could be as sinful a place as anywhere, but deep down he reckoned the pleasure principle warred with an undiminished Puritan suspicion of sex, drink and having a good time.

  Though the band tuning up on the tiny triangular stage in the far left corner of the room were all black, the bar’s customers were overwhelmingly white. One of the few African-Americans in the place was Lauren Klimczak-Stevens. She waved him over to her table. She’d got a small booth hugging the side of the room, in a corner. He picked his way through the crowd and slid in opposite her.