‘And I’d like the rest of you to think about that too,’ continued Kipper. ’We have better things to be doing than fighting among each other.’
Here it comes, thought Sofia. The weekly sermon about everybody just getting on together. She could take no more of it. She was tired from the effort of sneaking herself out of Temple and into Killeen. If only she’d been able to take Cindy’s advice and catch the shuttle bus that ran between the two settlements, but little Mexican girls toting survival packs and their own artillery support were better off making their transport arrangements privately.
Camped now on the western edge of town, she couldn’t see the military base, but she knew it to be only ten minutes past the empty school over the road, and the golf course behind it. The golf links had grown wild in the years since the Wave and were surrounded by a high chain-link fence, from which signs hung promising that the course would reopen by the end of 2010. That was years away yet and Sofia was grateful for the lack of progress towards the goal. The wild grass and thick stands of trees would provide her with ample cover for when she needed to approach the fort.
She turned off the radio and returned the little unit to her main backpack. It was late now, and she had rested through part of today already, but she knew from having stood the midnight watch so many times on the trail that it was best to take whatever rest one could when the chance came along.
After readying the smaller backpack and checking her weapons, Sofia retired to the main bedroom, where she had already drawn the heavy curtains. There was no linen for the bed, but she had her sleeping bag and the blanket she’d salvaged from the motel back in Temple. Crawling into the bag and tenting the blanket above her head, she used a small torch to take a few minutes to study her map of the town and army base yet again. Once confident of the route, she flicked off the torch and laid her head down, saying a prayer for the souls of her family and of all those friends she had lost.
*
‘So, I’m just asking Governor Blackstone to put aside any personal ill feeling he might have towards me, and to ask himself whether he thinks that constantly butting heads is what’s best for the country. We have our differences. Very serious differences. But I hope that in the end we can put them aside. There’s just too much work to do.’
Kipper turned off the radio with the remote. His appealing glance towards Barbara and Jed brought forth two very different responses. His wife smiled, almost apologetically. The White House Chief of Staff struggled to rein in his frustration.
‘Too soft, Jed?’
Culver placed his empty brandy balloon on the mantelpiece. He folded his arms, chewed his lip and invested a few moments staring at the rug in front of the hearth.
‘Well, you know my view, sir. We should be muscling up to Mad Jack, knocking him off balance. Not giving him a chance to set his defences.’
‘Spoken like an old college wrestler,’ said Barb, smiling a little.
‘Maybe so,’ he conceded. ‘But you know, Mr President, that we have to do something about this guy, and sometime soon. Do you really want to be cosying up to a guy you’re about to punch in the back of the head?’
Kip smiled. ‘That’d have to be the best place to be, wouldn’t it, Jed? Nice and close, so I can hit him even harder.’
Culver ignored the rhetorical fend and paced over to the drinks cabinet with exaggerated care to fix himself a bourbon. He was drinking a little heavily of late, thought Kip. Even during the worst days of the fighting in New York, Jed had restricted himself to two drinks of an evening, and only after clocking off. Not that any of them ever really went off duty.
‘You’re surely not going to fall for this bait and switch with Morales, are you?’ Culver asked.
Kipper stole a glance at his wife. The First Lady had been vetted for her own security clearance, but she knew nothing yet about the Federation’s special forces personnel they’d caught down in St Teresa, Florida. Or rather, that Blackstone had caught. As for Kip, he didn’t know which of those recent revelations from Tusk Musso angered him more. Roberto Morales’s pissant little colonisation scam, or the fact that yet again Blackstone had let his imperial ego get the better of him, this time by pushing his forces into parts of the country they had absolutely no right to be in.
Barbara tilted her head inquisitively. ‘Is this one of those conversations where I should discreetly leave the room?’
Jed answered for his boss. ‘Nah, Barb. You’re going to be hearing all about it soon enough anyway.’ He threw down the bourbon in one hit, before topping up the glass once more.
The President could see the gears in the other man’s mind clanking and grinding together as he forced himself to walk away from the drinks bar. Kip worried about him. His weight was getting out of hand, and he was normally much better than this at handling pressure. Since taking on the jihadi prisoners last week as a special project, however, his Chief of Staff seemed moodier and more irascible than ever. He even disappeared at times, absenting himself from the routine of Dearborn House for a whole day just recently, without explanation, beyond muttering ‘Fucking Vancouver’ when asked. Kip wondered if he was leaning on him too much.
‘Mad Jack had some long-range patrols scouting around in northern Florida,’ he explained to his wife.
‘That’s a long way from Texas,’ she replied, cocking one eyebrow.
‘Oh yeah,’ said Culver.
Kipper frowned at him before continuing. ‘Well, that’s par for the course, with the Governor. He’s got his fingers stuck into cookie jars he shouldn’t all over the place. This is just the latest. But for once, I’m not much fussed about it, because it might turn out to be helpful. TDF grabbed up a small squad of Federation special ops guys who were looking to become a giant pain in the ass somewhere down the line. Forewarned is forearmed, as Grandma used to say, and I think for once we might actually owe Blackstone a thank-you. It’s still early enough in the story for us to respond without having to start throwing around aircraft carriers and army groups. Neither of which, you might’ve noticed, we can spare.’
Jed left his bourbon on the mantelpiece, untouched, and dropped himself into an armchair with an audible grunt.
‘So you’re not going to be giving him what he wants then? We’re not gearing up for a war down there?’
‘I’m going to pay him the courtesy of taking his paranoia seriously,’ said Kipper. ‘Because, at least in this instance, it’s paid off for us. But no, I don’t see that we need to be pulling very limited resources out of the Pacific or the Atlantic, or even out of the heartland, for that matter. I agree with Tusk and this air force colonel - what’s her name, the one he’s got down there with him. We let Roberto know that we’re awake to him, and that if we catch them doing it again, we’ll send a cruise missile through his bedroom window one night. A gangster like him, he’ll understand that. Respect it too.’
Jed Culver appeared to be discomfited by the conversation, which Kip thought unusual. After all, he was actually agreeing with his Chief of Staff. Most days of the week, Jed had to be restrained from throwing cruise missiles through people’s bedroom windows. Maybe it was the drink. He hadn’t volunteered the name of Musso’s USAF analyst when Kipper couldn’t recall it, and it was staying across those little details that the former attorney prided himself on. The man was a supercomputer in a three-piece suit. It was how he’d caught the link between Blackstone and the Turkish businessman, Ozal, and from there to Baumer.
‘Better knock off the drinks, buddy. It’s slowing you down,’ said Kip, trying for a light tone.
‘Yeah, you’re right … I’m sorry, Kip. I don’t like to admit it, but sometimes it just all piles up on top of me.’
It was Barbara who stood up and fetched him his bourbon from the mantelpiece.
‘Oh Jed,’ she said. ‘Finish your drink, get yourself home to Marilyn and have a proper rest. You can start all over again tomorrow. Even Machiavelli took a break every now and then. I think Kip forgets sometimes how
much you do for him.’ She levelled a severely disapproving look at her husband. ‘I think he forgets just how much work you put into protecting him from Jack Blackstone, for one.’
Kipper was about to protest, but Culver beat him to it.
‘Don’t be too hard on him, Barb,’ he replied. ‘He’s got me to protect him from Blackstone, but nobody to protect him from me.’
And with that, he threw down his drink, mumbled goodnight, and took himself off to find a car and driver.
‘Jed really needs a day off,’ said Kip once they were alone. ‘D’you think he’d like to come and do a bit of trail walking with me?’
Barbara Kipper didn’t need to answer. The look on her face told him exactly how stupid a question that had been.
49
DARWIN, NORTHERN TERRITORY
She had never seen the man before. He wasn’t even vaguely familiar - and he was the sort of chap you would’ve noticed. All elbows, knees and awkward angularity, this man looked like he’d stand about six and a half foot. Had he been standing.
When Jules first saw him, he was slumped in a chair, his hands secured behind his back, and his feet fastened to the legs with plastic zip ties. One of Shah’s young Gurkhas - Baran, if she remembered correctly - stood behind him with a drawn kukri dagger. The shining silver blade remained free of blood, so far. But she knew that Baran would not return it to his scabbard without a few drops to taste. She wondered if the man in the chair knew that.
‘Miss Julianne, I would like you to meet Norman Parmenter,’ said Shah, handing her the captive’s wallet.
She ignored the man’s murderous glare. The wallet was thick with plastic and paper, some of it quite old and faded. Dockets, receipts, a few handwritten notes, all of it the sort of thing one found in any man’s wallet when he didn’t clean it out very often. It lent credence to the notion that this might well be Norman Parmenter. Whoever the fuck he was.
Of course, that credence could have been very carefully constructed. But she thought not. Commando Barbie, back in New York, she was the sort of person you might expect to lob into your life with an artfully constructed false identity. Even Nick Pappas, she thought, might have had a passing acquaintance with such things. But there was something about Parmenter’s old, battered wallet, with a couple of faded photographs of him posing with some woman at the seaside, that suggested authenticity.
Downstairs, the rock concert, dogfight, mixed martial arts tournament, or whatever, was rolling along at high volume, the punters seemingly unconcerned with a brief outbreak of gunplay on the upper floors. The room in which they were enjoying a chat with Parmenter appeared to be an unused office. An old metal desk, some plastic chairs and the 2007 Pirelli calendar - the first published after a three-year hiatus - constituted the sum of its furnishings.
Jules hobbled over to sit herself up on the desk next to Shah, feeling her bruises and strained muscles every inch of the way. Her neck was so stiff and sore, she had to turn her whole body rather than just moving her head. She needed a long hot bath, a cold G and T, and some answers. She needed to know the Rhino was going to pull through, and that Cesky was going to leave off. She didn’t need him brought to justice, or anything so fucking infantile. She just wanted to be left alone. Perhaps, with one of his hirelings now in her possession, they could come to an understanding: he could give up his vengeance kick, and she could keep her mouth shut about it. She was about to speak, to ask their prisoner why he was trying to kill her and her friends, when somebody wrapped gently on the office door.
Shah bid whoever it was to enter, and Nick Pappas appeared. He smiled at Jules and said, somewhat cryptically, ‘We’ve got fifteen minutes.’
Shah seemed to understand what he meant.
‘This the last of the Mohicans, is it?’ Pappas said, pointing at Parmenter, who still hadn’t spoken.
The Australian was holding a phone, identical to the one he’d given her at the cafe yesterday morning. Unlike Julianne, Pappas knew exactly what he was doing. The screen lit up as his fingers danced over it, and after a few seconds he held up the mobile to compare their prisoner with an image that appeared on screen.
‘What do you reckon?’ he asked, passing the phone to Shah. The old soldier took it and spent a few moments considering the likeness. He nodded at the young Gurkha, fluttering his fingers under his chin. Grabbing a handful of Parmenter’s lanky grey hair, Baran pulled his head back with brute force, so that they could all get a look at his face.
‘Fuck you,’ he growled in a recognisably American accent. He sounded as though he hailed from the north-east, like the Rhino. Jules wondered how he’d got into this line of work. Ex-military? Mafia? He didn’t look the type. Creepy rather than hard.
Shah passed the phone to Julianne. She couldn’t immediately make out what she was looking at, but the meaning of the image soon resolved itself. It was a still, taken from security footage at the Gonzales Road Marina. A man was walking away from the Rhino’s mooring. A long-billed baseball cap hid his face, but there was no mistaking the unusually tall frame nor the stiff, inelegant gait of a man who was all knees and elbows.
‘Well, it wouldn’t stand up in court,’ said Jules, ‘but you can say fuckity bye-bye to any legal recourse, Norman. You’re well out of luck. So unless you’re interested in finding out what it feels like to have a kukri dagger inside your windpipe, I’d suggest you entertain us with a little story.’
Shah inclined his head, almost imperceptibly, at the young man carrying the cruel blade. Baran was still holding Parmenter’s head back by his hair, but the blade flashed up now and described a short transition across the man’s brow. The fighting knife had been sharpened to such a fine edge that there was probably no pain. At first. Just a cold burning sensation, followed by shock. Blood began pouring from a long gash, blinding the captive, who squealed at the unexpected violation.
‘Jeez, mate,’ said Pappas. ‘You’d better watch out with that thing. It’s sharp. You’ll end up scalping the bloke.’
Parmenter began to gobble for air as though he was drowning. Panic took over. Shah came off the desk in one fluid movement and drove a spear-hand strike into his solar plexus. It would have knocked the American onto his back had Baran not braced himself for the impact. Instead, it drove all the air from Parmenter’s body, without doubling him up. The restraints kept him secured.
‘Mr Parmenter will require a minute to compose himself,’ Shah declared.
Julianne took the chance to squeeze Pappas’s arm in greeting. She’d been so surprised when he walked in, yet his appearance was not really unexpected. Not when she thought about it. Shah obviously relied on him as a conduit to the local power structure, and the shadow state that was the real power in the city.
‘Do we have time for this? I mean, here?’ she asked waving her hand around the room.
‘We’ve got about ten minutes,’ Nick replied. ‘Then we’ll have to move him.’ He didn’t explain any further, but nor did he give the impression that further explanation was necessary.
‘Deep breaths, Mr Parmenter,’ said Shah. ‘That’s right. You’ll feel better in no time, as soon as you’ve told us everything we need to know. I’m sure you understand the alternative. It would be overly dramatic to go into details.’
Parmenter struggled to fill his lungs and blink away the blood that was blinding him.
Julianne turned back to him. ‘Who’s paying you?’ she demanded to know. ‘I don’t care how much. I just want to know who sent you, and who else is on your list.’
Baran pulled Parmenter’s head back again, slowly this time, lest he actually remove the man’s scalp. Jules blanched at the sight of bone inside the gaping, lipless maw the kukri dagger had opened up. The Gurkha laid the edge of his knife hard up against Parmenter’s nose. It had a salutary effect.
‘Rubin,’ the prisoner rasped, as if fearful that he might not get the information out quickly enough. ‘His name is Sam Rubin.’
She had been so sure he woul
d say Henry Cesky’s name that she was momentarily knocked sideways. And then she laughed. A short, joyless sound.
‘What a wanker,’ she said.‘Rubin was the cut-out Cesky used to get the Rhino and me to Manhattan. He was the guy we were supposed to get the papers for, the deeds to the Sonoma gas field.’
A smile broke out over her face like the first dawn of spring. Pappas was still frowning, but Shah understood. His head bobbed up and down as he folded his arms.
‘The useless bastard has been using the same cover, the same cut-out, to organise his contractors,’ Jules continued. ‘It was probably a good idea at the time. He’s probably using some dead guy as a patsy. Nick, I’m sure if you look into this Samuel Rubin, of the California Bar, or whatever, you’ll find he ceased to exist shortly after morning teatime on 14 March 2003. He’s a black box. Cesky can use him to hide all his bloody villainy, or at least this villainy. There’s probably other stuff he’s done that he’s hidden elsewhere. But Rubin is the contact point for this fucking teddy bear’s picnic. He was our contact for New York, and he was this loser’s contact when New York didn’t work out. It’s London to a fucking brick that if we’d been able to shake down the other hitters they’d have given us the same information: they were working for Samuel Rubin. The name that ties Henry Cesky to our friend Norman, here, by way of the idiots he sent after us in Manhattan.’
Shah remembered now. ‘Mr Cesky sends his regards,’ he quoted. He was nodding like Pappas. But he wasn’t finished.
A raised eyebrow was all it took for the knife to dig into the side of Parmenter’s nose. Blood flowed immediately and the erstwhile contract killer made a desperate gurgling sound as he tried to push himself away from the blade. Shah’s man held him fast.
‘I’m afraid we’re not done yet, Mr Parmenter,’ said the older Gurkha. ‘Am I right to assume you were in charge of this operation locally?’
Parmenter replied with a guttural grunting noise that sounded like assent.
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