Covenant

by Jeff Gulvin

  ‘My God, John,’ Jean said. ‘What happened?’

  ‘I got initiated, Miss Lady Mam. You’re looking at the newest member of the Southern Black faction of the Freight Train Riders of America.’

  He took a shower in the motel room, and she bathed his cuts and bruises with iodine. Then she took him to bed. Later, they sat naked in the heat and drank bottles of cold beer from the cooler he kept in his truck. ‘After we meet with Penny and Swartz, I want you to go back to New Orleans,’ Harrison said.

  Jean looked a little doubtful, but he took her hand in his and squeezed. ‘I’ve got to meet up with the crew in Arkansas again, and I aim to get as much on tape as I can.’

  ‘You’re going to wear a wire?’

  ‘Yes, I am. Jean, these guys might be freighting drugs round the country, but it’s not their main business. They’re shipping military-grade weapons to the unorganised militia. We’ve got all hell busting loose and the weapons are being transported by the FTRA.’ He shook his head. ‘No wonder hobos are being killed. You get in a boxcar with a bunch of guys arming a revolution and they ain’t gonna take any chances.’

  Her face clouded and Harrison laid down his beer bottle. ‘I’m sorry, honey. I didn’t mean to … I forgot myself for a moment.’

  ‘It’s OK. In a way, it’s something.’ She looked at him then, eyes glassed with unfallen tears. ‘At least I know he wasn’t just murdered for no reason at all.’

  ‘No.’ Harrison brushed her hair back with his fingers. ‘He was in the wrong place at the wrong time. He looked Asian and he musta jumped a boxcar of Southern Blacks freighting military weapons.’

  Jean got up then, walked to the door, still naked, and Harrison watched her: slim, lithe and petite. She opened the door a fraction and let the warm night air penetrate through the screen. ‘You know,’ she said. ‘I think I might go back to New Orleans. Perhaps it’s time I started to think about going home.’

  Harrison did not say anything at first, then he shrugged lightly and nodded. ‘Maybe you oughtta get your life going again, Jean. Go back to work or whatever. Your job in that hospital in London—that’s a worthwhile job right there. I bet those kids really miss your face of a morning.’

  She looked over her shoulder at him. ‘Do you think so?’

  ‘I sure do.’

  ‘Oh, John.’ She came to him then, and he took her in his arms and held her with her head against his chest. A lump was coagulating in his throat and he tried to swallow it, but could not. ‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘I’ve come so far but …’

  He held her at arm’s length then. ‘Jean, you’ve probably done as much as you can now. We’ve probably learned as much as we’re gonna learn. You know the Southern Blacks killed your son and you probably know why. I tell ya, that’s more than a helluva lot of families ever find out.’

  She took her robe from the bed, slipped it round her shoulders and sat down again.

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘I can’t go home just yet. I can’t go without knowing you’re safe.’

  ‘I’ll be just fine.’

  ‘I mean, I need to know you’re not with them any more. You know—that the job’s finished.’

  Harrison smiled then. ‘Miss Lady Mam,’ he said gently, cupping her chin in his fingers. ‘D’you know how long I was undercover one time?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Three and a half years. I can’t see you sitting in New Orleans for three and a half years.’

  She laughed. ‘No. Neither can I. There’s a part of me that wants to go home, John, but there’s another part which feels this isn’t finished.’

  They met Penny and Swartz in De Ridder the following afternoon. The diner was quiet and they occupied a booth at the farthest end of the room. Harrison set his back to the wall so that he could survey every corner. There were a couple of truckers eating in one booth and a kid and his girl in another, and one old guy who came in behind them and ate apple pie at the counter. The waitress brought coffee, and then Penny and Swartz showed up and sat down opposite them.

  They made some fairly audible small talk and then Penny leant over. ‘Randy Meades is one of the main players in the New Texas Rangers. That’s the biggest militia outfit in the state. The cops have busted him three times for driving with no licence plates or valid documentation. Every time he goes to court, he claims the government has abrogated his constitutional right to travel and replaced it with a privilege.’

  ‘Usual fodder, then,’ Harrison said. Then he told them what he had learned and afterwards the two agents sat in silence. Harrison looked squarely at them. ‘The Southern Blacks referred to it as revolution. They’re arming the militia for war.’

  They left the diner an hour later, and the man at the counter was on his third piece of pie. He chewed, sipped coffee and watched them cross the parking lot. Five minutes later, he left the diner, stood on the step and looked at the night sky. It was warm and moist and he took off his denim shirt, leaving only his singlet. He lit a cigarette and then took a multicoloured bandana from his pocket: red, blue and black. He tied it round his neck, then flicked his shirt over one shoulder and headed for the railroad tracks. He had a rat tattooed on his arm.

  20

  THE CUB FLEW INTO Manchester Airport on a Canadian passport provided by Secret Branch 40. He had met with Cyrus Birch in Paris, and Birch had confirmed that the Intelligence Support Activity’s role in London had been terminated and was being taken over by the Israelis. Haan had been right. Mujah al-Bakhtar had been spotted in West London, which set alarm bells ringing throughout the UK’s security services. There had only been one sighting, but by a reliable PLO source, who was based in London and was also an Israeli asset. Mossad, in consultation with Birch, had informed the British.

  The intelligence community thinking was simple: the Americans wanted Bin Laden dead. Wherever al-Bakhtar went, Bin Laden was usually there too. By informing the British, they were increasing their chances of locating him. Birch was happy to have Haan on the payroll now, to covertly monitor MI5 activities and to see if they could lead The Cub to Bin Laden’s location. The PLO source had had one sighting only. Al-Bakhtar had walked into a shop in Wembley and bought a newspaper. The source witnessed him getting into a BMW car and driving west on the A40.

  So now, The Cub returned to the UK as a Canadian businessman, ostensibly heading for Sheffield to buy table knives. The UK authorities had previously seen him on to the plane at Heathrow and Haan had informed him that they had no idea he was returning. At Manchester Airport, he boarded the shuttle for Piccadilly Station and headed south to London.

  He took a room at a small hotel overlooking the recreation ground on Kilburn Park Road. The accommodation had been arranged through the Israelis. The Cub studied his watch; the schedule had been tight, coming down from Manchester and getting across town. He had a number to ring three times if he was delayed. But since he was not late, he left his bag on the bed, stepped back into the sunshine and headed for the recreation ground. A footpath divided the large grassed expanse, with tennis courts and a cricket pitch occupying half of it. The pavilion overlooked the cricket ground on the far side of the path and The Cub made his way towards it. Wednesday evening and getting dark now, beyond nine o’clock. He was hungry and needed a shower, but this had to be done first. Only a handful of people were in the park—mainly kids playing cricket, a game that The Cub considered himself expert at after Pakistan. Apart from them, there was only the odd walker such as himself. He carried a small black attaché case, which was empty.

  The Cub walked to the pavilion and then crossed behind it to where the large metal dustbins on wheels were standing. The rubbish was collected on Thursday mornings, so this had to be done now. He quartered the area with great care, leaving and re-entering the park to make sure it was clear of surveillance, before he approached the bins. He hefted the case up into the first one. The second bin was right beside it, but partially hidden by the ever-lengthening shadows. The Cub stepped up on the wheels
, reached over and grabbed the other case. Another covert look round told him that nothing was amiss. The attaché case was an exact replica of the one he had been carrying, only this one was much heavier.

  He did not return immediately to the room, but jumped on a bus that took him west. During the two weeks he had stayed in London as a tourist, he had familiarised himself with the bus and underground train routes to ensure his options (if attempting to shake surveillance) were varied. The bus took him as far as Wembley, then he took another back towards Willesden and walked up to the Neasden roundabout. The Indian tandoori house was still open, and The Cub sat down in the window and ordered a curry, wondering how they would compare to those he had eaten in Islamabad. This was close to where the PLO man had made the sighting of the Butcher of Bekaa. The Cub sat in the window seat on his own and waited for his meal to come. At his feet, he could feel the comforting weight of the attaché case. Al-Bakhtar could have come from anywhere and disappeared back to anywhere. This part of London was full of ethnic communities, Asian and Afro-Caribbean predominantly. Thousands and thousands of them. Al-Bakhtar had not been dressed in any traditional garb, merely a dark suit, and he was bareheaded—just another black man amid a sea of black men. He ate the curry and decided it was not too bad, then he paid in cash, picked up the case again and travelled back to the hotel.

  He laid the case on his bed, then turned the key in the doorlock. When he arrived, he had been over every inch of the room for bugs or microsurveillance cameras. Birch believed that the Israelis were clean, but if the ISA ground support had been infiltrated by the British, then it was entirely possible the Israelis had too. The Cub was in no doubt that the Brits would pay more attention to Israeli personnel than they would to Americans. But Haan had corroborated Birch’s opinion. He said that Mossad recruited from within the ranks of the Jewish community for their ground support personnel. The UK was a friendly country, which always made it that bit easier, and there was a substantial Jewish community in Stoke Newington. It was they who had prepared the way for the assassin. Satisfied that no one was watching him, he flicked the locks on the case and lifted the lid. Expertly, he cast his eye across the rifle, broken down and secured in pockets of cut polystyrene foam. Next to the gun was a full clip of 10mm ammunition and a mobile telephone with battery charger. The Cub took out the phone, switched it on and laid it beside the bed. Then he closed the curtains and set about putting the sniper’s rifle together.

  It was a hybrid, no particular make, and certainly not traceable. It reminded him of the ones that the FBI used—hand-made by ex-marine armourers at Quantico. It took him less than five minutes to assemble it and adjust the sights. The breech was set in glass. Most importantly, the barrel had a screw-on silencer. He took it to pieces again and cleaned each section with the oilcloth housed in the lid of the case. He checked the sights again and took the corner of his shirt to a tiny smudge on the glass. The mobile phone rang and he looked at it for a moment before picking it up.

  ‘Hello.’

  ‘Everything OK?’

  The Cub smiled. ‘You’re here already, then.’

  ‘I’m on the payroll now.’

  ‘When this is over, I’m coming to your place for a few weeks.’

  ‘Fine. I’ll let Natalia know.’

  ‘She’s still putting up with you?’

  ‘Her, my grandmother and Yannick.’

  ‘I thought he went back to Puyloubier.’

  ‘No. They didn’t want him back. He drinks too much wine. Anyway, he looks after my grandmother, or she him, one of the two.’

  The Cub checked the street below through the curtains. All was quiet. ‘What news?’

  ‘Nothing. Our hosts are very anxious. He’s got a lot of people in this country, a support network that makes some of ours look amateur.’

  ‘So I sit tight.’

  ‘I’m afraid so. Watch some of the cricket. There’s a World Cup in progress.’

  The Cub grunted. ‘With my knowledge I could contribute to Wisden.’

  George Webb drove along Kilburn Park Road and turned south on Maida Vale. Ten minutes later, he was parked at the US Embassy in Grosvenor Square and Carragher looked at him from the passenger seat. ‘I’ll get the door opened,’ he said.

  The building was quiet, just the marines on guard and a light in the legal attache’s office. ‘Your buddy Swann’s girlfriend is moving over here, isn’t she?’ Carragher asked.

  Webb looked sideways at him. ‘His fiancée, you mean.’

  ‘Really? That serious, huh?’

  ‘Oh yeah. Old Jack’s going for it hook, line and sinker.’

  Carragher smiled as he unlocked the office door. ‘I gotta tell you, George. She is a bit of a babe.’

  Webb sat down at his desk and sifted through the papers. The technical support unit had created the still photograph from Camden Town tube station, and had blown it up so the picture was pretty clear. Webb laid it on the desk and began leafing through the pile of military personnel.

  Carragher took half the pile over to his desk. ‘There’s no law against being in the same tube station on the same night, is there, George?’ he said.

  Webb looked at him, ‘Course not.’ He smiled then. ‘Keen to protect your own, huh?’

  Carragher shrugged. ‘I just figure Kibibi’s killer could be anyone in London.’

  ‘You just keep talking.’ Webb was staring at a sheet of paper in front of him. It came from the file of a black marine, with portrait and profile photographs attached. He looked at them closely, then laid the blown-up image from the video alongside. ‘I think that’s bingo,’ he said quietly.

  Carragher looked up from his own pile. ‘What’ve you got?’

  ‘Dylan Stoval,’ Webb said. ‘Alton Patterson’s room mate.’

  Stoval sat across from him at eight-thirty the following morning. Carragher was there, plus two of the officers from diplomatic security. Webb looked over fisted hands at Stoval, who looked back laconically. He sat easily in the chair, his beret secured under the epaulette on his shoulder and his tie tucked inside his shirt. Webb could almost see his own reflection in the shine on his boots.

  ‘You room with Alton Patterson, don’t you, Mr Stoval?’ Webb said.

  ‘Yessir.’

  ‘Have you known him long?’

  ‘A couple of years, I guess.’

  Webb looked at the file in front of him. ‘You’ve shared one or two postings, haven’t you?’

  ‘Yessir. Here and the National Guard base at Wichita Falls.’

  Webb nodded. ‘How well did you know Gunnery Sergeant Simpson?’

  ‘Not real well at all, sir.’

  ‘Did you ever visit her apartment?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘And you didn’t socialise with her at all?’

  ‘No, sir.’ Stoval’s eyes were clear, his expression sure of itself. He sat with his hands resting in his lap in an easy manner.

  Webb glanced at Carragher. ‘Who do you hang out with over here?’ he said.

  ‘Alton mostly. We’re buddies. I shoot pool with a coupla guys up at the Foxhole. There’s a crowd of us, I guess.’

  ‘But none of your acquaintances had much to do with Sergeant Simpson.’

  ‘No, sir:’

  ‘Did you know her in Texas?’

  Stoval shrugged. ‘She was there when I was, for about a month, is all.’

  ‘Six weeks.’

  ‘Was it? There you go.’ Stoval smiled. ‘We’d met as soldier and sergeant, sir. That’s about all there was to it.’

  ‘She was a good-looking woman, though, wasn’t she?’ Webb said.

  ‘I guess so.’

  ‘You didn’t fancy her?’

  ‘Excuse me?’ Stoval looked puzzled.

  ‘You know—fancy her?’ Webb made an open-handed gesture.

  Stoval looked at the diplomatic security officers and then his face cracked open in a grin. ‘She was an OK gal to look at, but she was a gunnery sergeant, sir. Sh
e wouldn’t have nothing to do with guys like me. Besides,’ he said, ‘when she was in Texas, she was dating a white guy. I figure she musta liked them better.’ He looked evenly at Webb. ‘Lotsa white guys like a piece of black ass.’

  Webb stood up then and walked round the desk. ‘So you never saw her socially?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘And never visited her.’

  ‘No, sir.’

  Webb nodded. ‘This is just routine, Mr Stoval, but we’re asking everybody the same thing. Where were you on the night she was murdered?’

  ‘I was in my room some of the time and shooting pool the rest.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘The Foxhole, then two local bars.’

  ‘Which bars?’

  ‘The Red Lion and the Cat and Fiddle, sir.’

  ‘And people saw you there?’

  ‘I was playing with Alton. But yeah, I guess some people woulda seen us.’

  ‘Nobody that you can name, though.’

  ‘No one except Alton, sir.’

  Webb nodded and sat down again. ‘You didn’t go anywhere else?’

  Stoval shook his head and Webb gestured towards the tape machine. ‘For the tape, Mr Stoval.’

  ‘No, sir, I didn’t go no place else.’