by Jeff Gulvin
‘Thank you, Mr Stoval. That’ll do for now.’ Webb leaned over and switched off the tape. Stoval got up, saluted and left the room.
Webb sat back and placed both hands behind his head. ‘We’ve found our first liar,’ he said.
He, Carragher and an agent from diplomatic security went back to the incident room at Paddington. They sat down with Weir and Webb relayed what they had discovered.
‘You didn’t ask him directly?’ Weir said.
Webb shook his head. ‘He’s cocksure of himself, Guv. I wanted to hold that in reserve.’
‘So what do you want to do now?’
‘I want to get the barman in here to look over some pictures, see if he picks out Patterson. If he does, I want to lean on him a little.’
‘Why Patterson?’
‘Because he’s weaker than Stoval. Stoval lied through his teeth to me just now. He claimed to be with Patterson all night, but he’s on that tape in Camden Town. Patterson’s his alibi.’
‘What about the nightclub tapes?’ Weir asked.
‘We’ve been through them, but nobody has spotted him there.’ Webb sat forward. ‘I know what you’re thinking, Guv. The trip to Camden could be innocent. But if it is, why lie about it to me?’
Weir sat back and lifted one foot to the edge of the desk. ‘OK,’ he said. ‘Go for Patterson. I’ll get the barman in here, see if he can give us anything.’
Harada rode the metro in Washington D.C., dressed as a woman. His make-up was perfect, painstakingly applied that morning. He had taken a razor to his head and shaved off all of his hair, then fitted the net over his scalp and the black-fringed hairpiece over that. He wore a skirt and jacket combination, flat black shoes, and had shaved the hairs on his legs so that nothing showed under the black nylon stockings. The whole thing set a charge in his veins and his thoughts of Shikomoto were concentrated into memories of the past. For three years they had been lovers, men with a passion born of generations before them. Harada had never dressed in women’s clothing before, but both he and Shikomoto had applied make-up, in the manner of their forebears, before they launched their attacks. Those thoughts brought back other memories—more recent ones—thoughts and deeds he would much rather forget.
He concentrated on the map above the opposite window. At his feet, he carried three large plastic store bags from the shops in Pentagon City. They contained clothes he had bought to cover the separate packages he had built in the early hours of this morning. Last night, he had driven his C U SAFELY truck to the Kennedy stadium and then to the B terminal at National Airport. Complete with tool belt hanging like a pistolero round his waist, he had wandered into the men’s room and closed the door of the cubicle. Fifty-five seconds to whip out each of the four screws on the inspection hatch, then set the timers and replace the hatch once more. After that, he headed back to the scene of his second attack, the hospital opposite Foggy Bottom metro station, and laid another device. Then he had walked through Station Park until he found the appropriate trash can. And now he was on the final leg of this particular trip, with a journey on the metro.
He rode the Blue line, got out of the train at the Metro Center and dumped a Burger King drink carton into a rubbish bin on the platform. Then he got back on the train and rode to Rosslyn, where he discarded a sealed hamburger carton, once again in the trash can. Switching lines, he made a drop at Union Station, then took a cab to Constitution Avenue and the Smithsonian Museum of Natural History. He climbed the stairs in the cool of the building and paused briefly in front of the massive stuffed elephant that dominated the lobby. In the ladies’ room, he went to the disabled cubicle and placed his final device behind the inspection hatch. He was working hard now and alone. This was more difficult than he had first envisaged. He was conscious of the summer heat and the last thing he needed was sweat starting to smear his make-up.
When the final stage was set, he hailed a cab and rode up town as far as the old soldiers’ and airmen’s home. He got out, paid the driver and walked to the self-storage units.
Across the road, the legless old man was vigilant as ever. Sentry duty in the goon tower. He sat in his wheelchair with his twin stumps sticking out and wondered where the hell he had lost his legs. His pyjama jacket was open, revealing matted white hair on the hanging folds of his chest. He gurgled on his own saliva and spat at the floor as if it was tobacco juice, then thinned his eyes at the woman opening the door to the lock-up.
‘Nurse,’ he yelled. ‘Goddammit. Nurse!’ Reaching out, he pressed the bell and kept his finger there until the intern appeared in the doorway.
‘What is it, Charlie?’
‘Goddamn Japs. It’s Pearl Harbor all over again.’ He looked round at the nurse, eyes rolling. ‘I was in Hiroshima, or was it Nagasaki.’ He thought for a moment, his finger still pressing the bell button.
‘Charlie, take your finger off the button,’ the nurse said gently and walked round the bed.
‘Goddamn, would you look at that.’ The old man threw a hand in the direction of the storage lot across the street. ‘One minute it’s a man, now it’s a goddamn woman.’ He gripped the nurse’s arm and looked into her face. ‘I tell you. They’re damn near everywhere.’
The nurse smiled at him. ‘You wanna take your nap, now, Charlie? I think you’re getting tired.’
‘No.’ Charlie squeezed more tightly on her arm. ‘Call the marines, goddammit. Call the President. The Japs are everywhere.’
‘Your nap, Charlie.’ The nurse wheeled him away from the window. ‘Come on, you’ll feel better after.’
‘Where’re my damn legs?’ Charlie muttered as the nurse lifted him on to the bed. ‘Who in God’s name ran off with my damn legs?’
Swann could smell the tension in the field office when he went in that morning. Logan was up and gone without waking him. Neither of them had got to bed before 3 a.m., and he took the metro in from Crystal City, switched lines and got out at Judiciary Square. She was on the phone when he got upstairs, and Kovalski and McKensie were in a meeting with the people from Fugitive Publicity. Swann sat down opposite Logan.
‘Carl,’ she was saying. ‘If you’re so sure BobCat Reece has the proof he talks about, show it to me. Until then, why don’t you think about how you might just be making the situation worse.’ She sat back, smiled at Swann and rolled her eyes to the ceiling.
‘The FBI is not running round the country killing people. I know somebody is, Carl. But it’s not us. We’re doing all we can to stop it. Tell that to your friend Reece.’ She put the phone down and shook her head. ‘Every time I change my internal number, that reporter gets a hold of it.’ She blew out her cheeks. ‘How are you, honey?’
‘Fine. Why did you leave without waking me up?’
She shrugged. ‘This is our fight. Besides, you’re looking tired. I figured you needed some beauty sleep.’ She tried to smile again, but it didn’t really work.
Swann sat forward. ‘Are you going to Mississippi for the funeral?’
‘If I possibly can. It depends what Harada’s got planned.’
‘I was thinking about him last night,’ Swann said. ‘Why bring the Tatenokai into it, Chey? Why go to all that bother of sending Carl Smylie an encrypted e-mail about Mishima’s Shield Society? I mean, given the remit Harada’s laid out for us, why do all that?’
‘I don’t know, Jack.’ Logan got up. ‘But when I pop the sonofabitch, I’ll ask him for you. OK?’
Swann followed her to the coffee-maker. ‘What about some kind of deal with Shikomoto—privileges or something?’
‘Nothing doing.’ Logan poured coffee.
Back in the squad room, the phone she had left was ringing. Swann walked over and picked it up. ‘Agent Logan’s phone,’ he said.
‘This is Fachida Harada. Listen very carefully.’
Swann snapped his finger at the agent seated in the next booth and made a whirling gesture above his head. The Triggerfish team set about trying to locate the source.
‘
Fachida, listen,’ Swann started. Everyone in the office looked up. Logan dumped the coffee in the sink and all but ran to Kovalski’s office.
‘You listen,’ Harada said in Swann’s ear. ‘The FBI has done nothing by way of accession to my demands. So this is what will happen.’ Now, half a dozen agents were listening in, including Logan and Kovalski. ‘There’s a bomb at Union Station, another at the Metro Center, another at Rosslyn. There’s one at the Smithsonian and one at National Airport. I’ve placed a really nice one at the Kennedy stadium, one at Station Park, and, because your vigilance is so pitiful, another at Foggy Bottom.’ He paused for a moment. ‘There is a total of two hours before they all go off. The first will go in thirty minutes and then at intervals after that. This time, we play a guessing game. Which is thirty minutes and which is two hours?’ He hung up.
Logan came out of Kovalski’s office and yelled at the Triggerfish man. ‘Did you get a fix?’
The agent looked at her and sighed.
‘Fuck it.’ Logan turned to the gathered members of the task force. ‘Eight separate devices and thirty fucking minutes. I don’t believe the sonofabitch.’
The city ground to a standstill: eight separate devices, placed strategically to cause the maximum confusion. The people around Foggy Bottom were evacuated for the second time in as many weeks and feelings were running high. City cops, parks cops and even the secret service cops were drafted in to assist the task force with what was becoming a massive logistical problem. Kovalski and Logan remained in the command post this time and Swann hovered impotently in the background. The Office of Emergency Management was on the phone to Kovalski, so were the Department of Water and Power, the State Department, FEMA and the Department of Defense. The FBI Director drove the short distance from Pennsylvania Avenue to be on hand at the command post. Everyone outside wanted to know what they were doing about Fachida Harada. Was the militia right? Was this some renegade government agent gone wrong, or was it even more sinister than that? How could one man be causing so much mayhem?
Kovalski somehow kept his cool, but exactly thirty minutes from the time the warning came in, the device at Union Station blew up. Already the metro was at a standstill and the thousands of commuters who had travelled in on the trains had no way of getting home. Ten minutes after Union Station, the Foggy Bottom bomb went off. It was much bigger than the previous one and windows for a hundred metres were blown out. This time, there was not enough bomb-squad support in the city and the naval EOD team had to come in from Indian Head to deal with both the airport and the Kennedy stadium. Kovalski had ordered a full evacuation of the National Airport and its metro station—the whole area back to four hundred metres. Incoming flights were rerouted, the air-traffic control tower had to be abandoned and contingency plans were being implemented. Bolling Airbase assisted and Andrews out in Virginia. Some of the flights were sent into Dulles, which was rapidly clogging up.
‘This is the worst we’ve seen in the city,’ Logan told Swann. ‘Somehow, we’re gonna have to negotiate with this guy—’
Swann moved alongside Kovalski. ‘Tom,’ he said quietly. ‘Something occurs to me. The delay on these devices is complicated. So far, there’s been not a single error and, as far as we know, Harada is working alone.’
‘So?’
‘So he’s using military hardware. Not only has he got access to C-4, he’s using sophisticated timers. This isn’t just a central heating programme with a safety-arming switch.’
Kovalski’s direct line, rerouted to the command post, started ringing. Logan picked it up. ‘Agent Logan.’ She knew even before he said anything and she snapped her fingers at the Triggerfish team. ‘You’re making your point, Fachida. Stop this and we can start talking.’
‘Talk is cheap, Agent Logan. You know what my demands are.’
‘Call it off, Fachida, and I promise we’ll talk.’
‘Interstate 395. There’s a car bomb between junctions 7 and 8a. You’ll know the vehicle, because the hood is up and the hazard lights are on. You have another thirty minutes.’ He hung up.
Logan held the phone for a few seconds, then set it down, and turned to Kovalski. ‘You’re not gonna believe this,’ she said.
Kovalski was on the radio to the EOD units and every available state trooper in the area. Interstate 395, one of the busiest routes into the city, had to be sealed off. Sweat was visible on his brow now: resources were being stretched to breaking point.
Fifteen minutes later, Harada called again. This time he spoke to Kovalski. ‘I hope you’re having a nice day. I want Shikomoto released within the next twenty-four hours. In the meantime, Interstate 66 between junctions 73 and 74. You need to close it down.’ He hung up. Kovalski was glaring at the Triggerfish man.
‘Mr Kovalski,’ he said. ‘Quit looking at me like that. This guy is on the move and every call’s on a different electronic serial number. There’s fuck all I can do about it.’
Kovalski sat down heavily and looked at the Director. ‘Sir,’ he said. ‘He’s given us a further twenty-four hours, including the time it takes to sort this mess out. What’re we going to do?’
They could hear the explosions from the command post, and Swann stood at the tinted windows and watched the pandemonium round the metropolitan police headquarters in the next block. When this happened in London, people got upset, but they were relatively used to it. It had never happened in Washington D.C. and the people were panicking. The TV sets were on in the outer office and he went to watch the coverage from various vans and choppers. CNN showed the massive snarl-up of traffic on 66 and 395. They showed the Federal Triangle in disarray, people herded into the parks round the White House and the Washington Monument.
Various members of the public were being interviewed by reporters. One man, well dressed in a business suit and crisp white shirt, was gesticulating wildly. ‘We wanna know what the hell is going on here!’ he was saying. ‘Twice now, twice there’s been a bomb at Foggy Bottom. What the hell is up with that? What does the FBI think it’s doing?’
The reporter moved to the next person and the next, and the sentiments were exactly the same, just varying degrees of venom in the verbal vilification. ‘The goddamn militia’s got it right,’ one woman was saying. ‘The government’s brought this on itself. There’s gonna be war in this country and it’ll be the government’s fault.’
Swann shook his head. Then another man, bearded and sweating, was talking. This is either some loco agent gone AWOL, or it’s a deliberate ploy to deflect public opinion away from the murders these Asians have been committing. I think the patriots are right. I tell you, I thought they were just a buncha fruitcakes, but not now. Oh, no. The government can take my gun if they want to, but the barrel’s gonna be smoking and they’ll find the clip empty.’
In the command post, Kovalski’s phone was ringing again. ‘Have you been watching TV?’ There was ice in Harada’s voice. ‘If you do not release Shikomoto within twenty-four hours, I will make public a fact that will have the people of this country storming every federal building in the fifty-one states.’ He hung up before Kovalski could say anything.
Kovalski did not even look at the Triggerfish man. He stood for a long moment, thinking. Swann could almost see him count from one to ten. Then he looked up, caught Swann’s eye and called to Logan. ‘Cheyenne. Get a chopper up and get to an airport,’ he said. ‘I want you at Eastville, Georgia, talking to Shikomoto.’
Swann went with her. The roof of the 4th Street field office was flat and the SWAT team had a helipad painted on it. The Department of Defense flew in a Blackhawk and airlifted them to Andrews Airforce Base, where the Hostage Rescue Team’s plane was waiting. Swann buckled himself in and looked round at Logan. They were the only passengers. The plane was cleared for take-off and they were away, flying south across Virginia for the Carolinas and Georgia.
They landed at Atlanta and Agent Pryce from the field office collected them again. ‘We’ve set it up,’ he said. ‘Shikomoto’s
agreed to see you. From what the guards down there tell us, he’s really enjoying this.’
They were shown straight to the interview suite, where Shikomoto was already seated in his leg and wrist irons, a packet of cigarettes and an ashtray on the table before him. He looked up when they came in, but his face was as impassive as ever and he did not smile. Logan sat down opposite him.
‘Hello, Agent Logan,’ he said. ‘I expected to see you again, but Fachida has hurried things along a little, hasn’t he?’
‘What do you want?’ she asked him.
‘My freedom.’
‘Freedom’s gone already. Second option?’
Shikomoto laughed then. ‘There are no second options, Logan. You knew that before you came here.’
Logan shook her head. ‘Get real, Tetsuya. You know we’re not gonna free you.’
‘What choice do you have? Your capital city is in panic. Your people are revolting.’
‘Nobody’s revolting.’
‘They’re beginning to. They will, Logan. They have the fear of God himself in them right now, and they will react. With some countries that’s not a real problem, they might riot, smash things, demonstrate, but there are two hundred and fifty million privately owned weapons in this country. When your people revolt, they do it with guns in their hands.’ He took a cigarette from the pack, his manacled hands making the movement awkward. He blew the match out from the side of his mouth and looked at her once more. ‘Release me.’
Logan sat back and drummed long-nailed fingers on the table. ‘Who is Harada working for?’
‘Nobody.’
Swann sat forward then. ‘What he’s doing is not the work of just one man.’ He held Shikomoto’s eye. ‘Samurai means to serve, Tetsuya. Who is Harada serving?’
Shikomoto shook his head. ‘People believed that the samurai served the emperor in the old days. In a way they did. They might have collected taxes for him, or they might have done so for their warlords. But, ultimately, a samurai warrior served no one and nothing, save his honour.’
‘Honour.’ Logan curled her lip. ‘What has blowing up innocent people got to do with honour?’
