Covenant

by Jeff Gulvin

  But all at once he realised that he had nothing now and he would still have nothing in seven years’ time, except be seven years older if the cigarettes did not kill him first. He stared at the haze of white and silver buildings that dominated Poydras Street and the business district. He had no family save a sister, who he never saw. He had no wife or child or anything other than this. He thought of Jean Carey and her loss and in a funny kind of way he identified with her. His life: the army, Vietnam, Tunnel Rat, the INS border patrol in New Mexico and then this—the FBI. That was it and he was fifty years old. He flipped away the cigarette and walked back inside. Kirk Fitzpatrick was talking to Charlie Mayer, the special agent in charge. They both looked up.

  ‘Hey, Johnny Buck.’

  Harrison ignored Kirkpatrick and looked at Mayer. ‘Boss, have you got a minute?’

  ‘Now?’

  ‘If you can do it. Yeah.’

  Mayer squinted at him and then nodded. ‘Step into my office.’

  Harrison followed him into the airy, spacious room on the twenty-second floor. The view was towards downtown and the crescent of river beyond the World Trade Center and the old Jax Brewery. Mayer indicated the leather chesterfield couch and Harrison sat down.

  ‘What’s on your mind?’

  ‘Boss, I’m due a whole buncha vacation time and I wanna take it now.’

  Mayer furrowed his brow. ‘Right now?’

  ‘Yep. Right now.’

  ‘You’re working with the gang squad, aren’t you?’

  Harrison nodded. ‘I’m sitting in a cookoven of a van with Dave Cimino. Any fucker can sit in a van. Boss, I need the time, and I really need it now.’

  Detective Inspector Jack Swann sat in the Antiterrorist Branch offices on the fifteenth floor of Scotland Yard. He looked at his watch, drumming his fingers on the desk as he listened to the whirr and click of the phone connection in his ear. Then all at once he heard his fiancée’s voice. ‘Hi, honey. I’m sorry. They must’ve put you on hold or something.’

  ‘Or something, Cheyenne. God knows how long I’ve been listening to that music.’

  She laughed then and Swann relaxed. But he missed her. She had been back in Washington for only a week and yet it felt like a lifetime. ‘Any news on the leg-att’s job?’

  ‘Deputy leg-att.’

  ‘Whatever, Chey. Is there any news?’

  ‘Jack, the job is mine. I’ve just got to complete this assignment for the Washington field office and I’ll be back in the UK.’

  Swann sighed heavily. ‘How long’s the assignment?’

  ‘Six weeks tops. Alls I gotta do is break in the new terrorism response co-ordinator for Tom Kovalski. It’s no big deal, and I’m in limbo till they post me to London, anyway.’

  ‘Kovalski wants you particularly, does he?’

  ‘Yes. Honey, he’s been up to his neck ever since Bin Laden hit us in Africa. Not only that, he’s still responsible for militia activity, which is on the increase again. He knows I can do the job without him even having to think about it.’

  ‘OK.’ Swann held up a palm, as if she was there across the desk from him. He knew better than to argue with her over things like this. Cheyenne was as good an FBI agent as any he had met, notwithstanding his bias. ‘It’s not a problem, love,’ he said. ‘I’m flying to Louisiana on Monday, anyway. It should be three weeks, but maybe I can spin it out to a month. We can get together at weekends.’

  ‘Then there’s no problem, is there.’ That tone of voice again. Not quite admonishment, but something very close. Swann felt suitably chastened.

  After she had put the phone down, he sat for a moment and stared at the wall charts. Activity here and there: the Serbian threat was still with them, and with the stalemate over decommissioning weapons in Ulster dragging on and on, there was always a danger of one of the ceasefires breaking down. Word had already come down from MI5 that fresh weapons had been stockpiled at three separate hides in different parts of the country. Swann could feel that familiar tingling sensation deep in the pit of his stomach. The last time the IRA broke a ceasefire they blew up Canary Wharf. He stood up and looked at the Commissioner’s commendation plaque on the desk before him. He had received it for shooting Ismael Boese, one of the worst terrorists the world had ever come across. He had meant to take the plaque home, but had not got round to it yet. He had met Cheyenne while working that case jointly with the Americans. They had got together and she now was in line for the deputy legal attaché’s post at the US Embassy in London.

  Swann had been a sergeant until only two months previously, and then got the surprise of his life when the Commissioner broke all the protocols by promoting him to inspector in the field. Only the third man in the history of the Metropolitan Police ever to hold such an honour. He felt pretty good about it all.

  In the corridor he bought bad coffee from the machine and bumped into Christine Harris from Special Branch. ‘Hello, Jack. You’re not supposed to be here, are you?’

  ‘Next week, Chrissie.’

  ‘The Deep South, eh. What is it—Baton Rouge?’

  ‘Well actually, no. It was, but it’s been changed.’ Harris acted as liaison officer between the Antiterrorist Branch and Special Branch and had dealings with the MI5 operatives that worked with them. MI5 and Special Branch did most of the intelligence work to combat the threat of terrorism, and the Antiterrorist Branch got involved when it came to the sharp end of things. Swann had been unofficially approached to join Special Branch on more than one occasion and, with his recent promotion, he was now seriously considering it. He had worked with them for a six-month secondment when the yakuza threat was growing, but had returned to the Antiterrorist Branch after that. He was doing nothing permanently, however, until Cheyenne had her London embassy posting in the bag and he was helping her unpack in his flat. He told Harris that his counter-terrorism lectures had been moved to New Orleans because he had been involved in dealing with a tanker hijack on the Mississippi River the previous year. The FBI headed up the joint task force and it was agreed that New Orleans, with its special logistical problems, would be a good place to run the course. So now he was headed for the FBI field office and he was looking forward to sinking a few beers with Harrison, his old sparring partner.

  Back at his desk he set the coffee down and was sifting through some court papers when the phone rang. He picked it up. ‘Swann.’

  ‘Congratulations, limey. I heard you got promoted.’

  Swann sat back and lifted one foot to the edge of the desk. ‘Harrison. I was just thinking about you.’

  ‘All bad, I trust.’

  ‘How could it be any other way?’

  ‘Touché, duchess. How’s it going over there?’

  ‘Not bad. I’ll be over there next week.’

  ‘I know. It’s why I’m calling, bubba. I ain’t gonna be around, not for the first week or two at least.’

  Swann sat upright again. ‘Why? What’s happened?’

  ‘Nothing’s happened, Jack. I got some vacation coming to me, is all. I might be in D.C., though, if you get your butt up there to see Logan.’

  ‘That’s what I plan to do.’

  ‘I could always check on her for you.’

  ‘Yeah. Right.’

  Harrison’s tone quietened then. ‘Listen, Jack. I normally wouldn’t call you up about my holidays, but when you hit town there’s something I want you to do for me.’

  ‘In New Orleans?’

  ‘Yeah. Where you staying?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Well, there’s a lady I want you to look out for. Her name’s Jean Carey and she’s staying at the Provincial on Chartres Street.’

  Swann looked up as Christine Harris opened the door. ‘Who’s Jean Carey?’ he asked Harrison.

  ‘She’s an English Vietnamese lady. Her son’s a cold-case homicide over with the dicks in St Charles Parish. Joe Kinsella, the chief of deputies, is gonna be attending your stuff on counter-terrorism.’ Harrison pau
sed. ‘I don’t know why I’m calling you up, Jack. I don’t even know how long the lady is planning on staying in New Orleans, but she’s a little lost. You know what I’m saying?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘I figured you were a Brit and she’s a Brit, so if you can, try and look out for her. She’s got no friends here, and I think she figures she can do something about her son’s murder herself. She’s gonna get hurt or disappointed.’

  Swann frowned. ‘Are you seeing her or something, John?’

  ‘Naw, nothing like that. I happened to talk to her one night in Nu Nus Café, is all. She’s a nice lady, Jack. If you get a chance to speak to Kinsella about the murder, do so, will ya? If she thinks people are concerned, it’ll help some, maybe.’

  ‘OK.’

  ‘Gotta run, bro. I’m leaving town this morning. See you when I see you, duchess.’

  Harrison hung up and Swann looked over at Christine Harris.

  2

  BILLY BOB LAFITTE RAN the gun store in Hope Heights, Oregon. He did not just sell guns, but knives, survival gear and fishing rods as well, and a little bit of pawned stuff when the opportunity presented itself. He was a tall man with jet-black hair cut above his ears and a trimmed black beard. His face was burned by the sun. Mid-June and the small coastal town was heaving: every motel room in the place was taken, mainly with ‘Californicators’ coming up for the surf. Lafitte did very well in the summer, which made up for the lack of custom come wintertime.

  He heard the phone ringing out front as he was doing the books and checking the stock ledger in his back office, a chore he did every Monday afternoon. The extension through to his office was switched off and he did not allow anyone to disturb him till after the figures were done. The knock on the frosted glass door made him look up, bunch his eyes and clench a fist on the desk. ‘This had better be damn good,’ he said as he got up from his chair.

  Tommy Brindle stood on the other side of the glass. Lafitte could make out the set of his hat, and the way his shoulders sort of hunched up to his neck. His frown deepened and he opened the door. Brindle’s eyes were shining, a mix of fear and excitement. Lafitte looked squarely at him. ‘What’s up, Tommy?’

  Brindle glanced over his shoulder and nodded to the office. Lafitte moved out of his way and closed the door behind them. Brindle was standing at the desk now, clenching and unclenching a fist. ‘I’ve just seen a black Chevy Suburban drive through town real slow.’ He pushed out a cheek, with his tongue feeding the chewing tobacco round the inside of his mouth. ‘You ain’t gonna believe this, Billy Bob. But they stopped for gas.’

  Lafitte was busy and irritable. ‘What’re you on about, Tommy?’

  ‘Three gooks got out. Dark suits all of them. Sunglasses.’

  Lafitte stared at him.

  ‘One pumped gas, while the other two snooped around. Real short haircuts, Billy Bob. And I mean grunt short.’

  Lafitte leaned against the door for a moment and drew breath audibly through his nostrils. He stared at Brindle, then through him, and then he walked to the window which overlooked the vacant lot they used for additional parking to the side of the gun store. He could see a stretch of Pacific highway, hear the thunder of the surf, whipped high today by the wind. ‘You’re absolutely positive,’ he said, aware of the sweat moistening his palms.

  ‘I saw them with my own two eyes. It weren’t no mistake.’

  ‘Three of them.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘But they’re gone now.’ Lafitte turned again.

  ‘Yep. Headed on up the coast.’

  ‘OK.’ Lafitte sat down again. ‘Thanks, Tommy. I’ll see you for a beer tonight. I got work to finish right now.’

  When Brindle was gone, Lafitte sat in the sudden stillness of the office, oblivious to the sounds of custom from the other side of the door. Three gooks driving a black Suburban. He sat back, looked at his figures, but knew he could not finish them now. A cold sweat had broken out at the base of his neck and he pushed himself away from the desk, grabbed his hat and went out through the store. He spoke to Lorraine, his weekday manager. ‘Lorrie, I’ve got stuff to do at home. Lock up for me, honey. Will you?’

  ‘Sure thing, Billy.’

  He fired up the Dodge Ram V8 pick-up truck he always parked out front and swung on to the highway. Behind him in the cab, a Winchester 30/30 hung on two brass hooks. He saw Maplethorpe, one of Riggins’s deputies, easing his cruiser along the blacktop, and signalled to him. They pulled up in the middle section of the highway, door to door, and Lafitte rolled down his window. ‘D’you know anything about three gooks driving through town in a Chevy Suburban, Map?’ Lafitte asked him.

  The deputy pushed his flat-brimmed hat higher up his forehead and wiped away sweat. ‘No, sir.’

  ‘Tommy Brindle tells me they stopped for gas. Government-looking types.’

  ‘I ain’t seen them, Billy Bob.’

  ‘Get a hold of Sheriff Riggins, will you. Ask him to call me up at home.’

  ‘You got it.’

  Lafitte gunned the motor and spun the wheel, hauling the heavy truck across two lanes, and up Indian Creek Road towards his house, which overlooked the sea from the mountain. That was the wonderful thing about Oregon, the mountain and forest in your backyard and, out front, the carpet of the Pacific rolled to the horizon. Millicent wasn’t home, and both the boys were working with the loggers on Pierce Hill. Up there for a week at a time, only coming home to stock up on food at the weekend.

  The dogs barked and raced each other out of the barn to meet him, as Lafitte swung down from the cab. A German shepherd called Piper, and Dillon, the Rottweiler/Dobermann cross. Lafitte had wanted to get one of those wolf dogs, but Millie said they were too unpredictable. He had seen one about seven-eighths pure wolf one time; a guy up in Washington owned him. He looked just like a wolf, only his ears were slightly taller and he had that Husky/picture-book quality about his features.

  Lafitte ran rough palms over the dogs’ heads as they followed him as far as the screen door of the kitchen. They lived outside and knew better than to try and enter the house. Lafitte paused in the kitchen. The windows were open to the screen mesh, but the wind off the sea was dry and the heat seemed to clog up the air. He wiped the back of his neck where the short hairs prickled with sweat, and hunted down a soda from the icebox. In his den, he closed the door and switched on the extendable desk lamp, twisting the bulb round to face his computer screen. He had to wait a few moments to let it boot up and then he went through seven separate security codes to see if anyone had hacked into his system. Only when he was satisfied did he open his private files.

  The room was in permanent darkness except for the glow of the lamp. The windows were blacked out with heavy cotton blinds, as this side of the house faced straight up the hill. There were plenty of places for someone to spy from up there, if they had a mind to do so.

  He had started the Pacific Coast Militia in 1992 after listening to Louis Beam at Estes Park, Colorado, calling for Leaderless Resistance to defeat state tyranny. Now it was close on a thousand men strong and the FBI would be watching him. Lafitte had come across Beam in Vietnam and had been present as a guest when he took over as Grand Dragon for the Texas Ku Klux Klan.

  Right now he had things to check, so he scanned his filing system and then began to print off various sightings from various groups all over the country. He took each sheet of paper, set them before him on the desk, and then took out his glasses and began to read. The first similar sighting had been in December 1997, in a small town thirty miles south of Clarksburg, West Virginia. Two members of the Mountaineer Militia had come across three Asians in suits, driving a black Crown Victoria with the windows tinted out. They tailed the car as it made a circuit of the city limits, before heading off in the direction of Washington D.C. The following weekend, the farm of one of the same militia leaders was buzzed by a black helicopter. Two weeks after, it was buzzed again. Lafitte read on: numerous accounts, particularly th
ose mentioning helicopters, because that was what he wanted to check. On 15 April of this year, one of the surviving members of the Washington chapter of the Phineas Priesthood circulated the fact that his house was being monitored by video cameras in a black helicopter. It had been three years since Verne Jay Merrell and his buddies had been arrested by the FBI. Lafitte sat back again, the sweat heavy now on his neck. Only last weekend, Millie had told him that an unidentified helicopter made a low-level fly-by, right over the house.

  He picked up his cellphone and dialled. He was pretty sure the Feds could not monitor cellphones, though he was damn sure they were listening in to his land line. All that bullshit about affidavits, probable cause and federal judges, before they could set up a wire tap. Everybody knew the FBI did exactly as they pleased and federal judges were in cahoots with them anyway. He sat back, drumming his fingers, and took a pinch of Copenhagen from the tin in his shirt pocket. The phone rang four times, then Reece answered.

  ‘Bob?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘This is Lafitte.’

  ‘How you doing, Billy Bob?’ Reece ran the West Montana Minutemen, the oldest and most established people’s militia in the country. Not only that, he ran a coordination programme of survival training and guerrilla warfare, which took in everyone from the KKK to the Priesthood and right across the board of peoples’ militias. Last year at a secret meeting between the main players from all over the country, Reece took it upon himself to carry the phantom-cell concept one stage further. Lafitte had been one of the first to agree: Leaderless Resistance was fine, but every other successful group in the world had strategists and planners, a pillar of central command.

  He tweaked aside the blinds on the window and told Reece what had happened. He had already circulated the weekend helicopter movements across the encrypted Internet channels. Reece had been right on the phone, telling him and his sons to scour the mountain for hides and lay-up points that a Fed in a gilly suit might be able to use. Both of Lafitte’s sons had received paramilitary training at Reece’s Montana compound and they had sectioned that hillside like they were Red Berets. Reece was quiet for a moment.