by Jeff Gulvin
The team leader came up and Logan gave him the rundown on what they had discovered. Immediately, he deployed his men: two sniper observer teams and the main attack force. He sent in two men to clear the other units of innocents. Swann and Logan were suddenly impotent, waiting at the entrance to the small industrial park.
Swann was chewing his lip. ‘He’s taking chances now, Chey. I think this might be his last throw.’
‘I hope so.’ Logan looked at him then, a macabre smile on her face. ‘Maybe the bastard will top himself and do us all a favour.’
Swann was looking at the row of lock-up units. ‘If we can get a news blackout on this, he might come back.’
‘Oh, yeah. Right.’ Logan pointed at the sky where two separate helicopters were circling in the distance. ‘They monitor the radio channels.’
‘I thought the SWAT channel was encrypted.’
‘It is. But they watch the field office. As soon as the Blackhawk is up, you can bet your life they follow.’
Harada drove out to Falls Church and then dumped the blue Ford. He had the keys to an old Buick station wagon which he had parked three streets from his own, and he walked briskly to it. They were looking for a woman and he was a man again, only his cropped black hair was gone. He wore thick, black-framed glasses and a baseball hat which hooded his eyes still further. Time was less important now: he had managed to get out of the city without being stopped and the Ford had been dumped. He got behind the wheel, adjusted the rearview mirror and gazed at his reflection. For a moment, the past stung him and his hands trembled, then he felt under the passenger seat. His fingers closed on the ornate scabbard and the breathing eased in his chest. Again he looked in the mirror, then checked his road maps before twisting the key in the ignition.
26
MUJAH AL-BAKHTAR SAT IN traffic at the junction of Ealing Road and Bridgewater Road in West London. He had been out of the city and had driven the black BMW, with the tinted windows, east along the A40 until he came to Hangar Lane. From there, it was but a short distance till Ealing Road branched right and he was back in the heart of the subcontinent. He was too tall for the car and the top of his head brushed the velour ceiling. He drummed thick black fingers on the steering wheel and waited for the lights to change. What he had heard did not surprise him and, equally, it did not overly disturb him.
The halal butcher’s shop was halfway down on the right-hand side and al-Bakhtar bumped the BMW on to the kerb, being careful to avoid the array of silk saris being sold on pavement racks by the shop next door. He climbed out of the car and smoothed his palms down his thighs, straightening the creases in his trousers.
Across the road, Jean-Emmanuel Haan was having an Indian snack of samosa and thick black coffee. Sitting across the table from him was Sinil Kapoor, one of the best Mossad agents he had ever worked with. Haan watched the Somali climb out of the car and nodded at Sinil. She smiled, showing a set of perfect white teeth. ‘When have I ever been wrong?’
Haan stared at her now. ‘And he works there?’
‘Oh yes. You know, it was never really that difficult once we knew what we were looking for.’
Haan nodded. ‘It was just a hunch.’
‘Yes. But one that we never thought of.’ Sinil looked out of the window again. One of the boys, who helped behind the butcher’s counter, was getting into the BMW.
‘Valet parking,’ Haan said and chewed at a corner of samosa. He looked up and down the street then and saw a white car parked on their side of the road. Two men were in it, one Asian and one white; one was reading the paper. ‘Mr Plod’s here,’ he said.
Al-Bakhtar had seen the white car as he drove in and it confirmed everything his sources in Windsor had told him. He went into the shop and descended to the basement, where the tall, bearded man with the hooked nose was working at his computer. Al-Bakhtar leaned in the doorway, listening to the bustling sounds of custom coming from upstairs. ‘My friend,’ he said quietly. ‘I believe it is time to move our business. Somebody does not like what we are selling.’
Haan watched one of the shop assistants drive the BMW up the street and saw the men in the white car glance his way, then look back towards the butcher’s shop once more.
‘They really have no idea,’ Sinil said wearily. ‘They’ve only seen al-Bakhtar.’ She leaned across the table again. ‘They’ve never seen our friend leave, but he worships at the mosque on Chevening Road. Fridays at seven o’clock. Sometimes he likes to walk across Queen’s Park.’ She got up then and fished in her purse for cash.
Haan shook his head. ‘Lunch is on me, my friend.’ He met The Cub in the cinema on Shaftesbury Avenue, the third row from the back on the right-hand side. It was a matinee performance and business was slow. The Cub sat hunched in his chair, with his foot on the back of the seat in front of him, sucking Coca-Cola through a straw.
Haan sat in the seat behind him. ‘The word was good,’ he said quietly. ‘We have a location. Unfortunately, so do the British.’ The Cub stopped drinking. ‘You saw them?’
‘They stick out like a sore thumb. I imagine it’s regular policemen.’
‘That changes things. How do they know he’s here?’
Haan laughed lightly then. ‘They don’t. They’ve only seen al-Bakhtar.’
‘So how do we know he’s here?’
‘The Israeli source has seen him. If he is in that butcher’s shop, somehow he still manages to worship at the mosque on Chevening Road.’
The Cub put down his carton of Cola.
He took the tube back across London, and read his A-Z like any other tourist. He found Chevening Road and Queen’s Park, and his hotel was not far from both. He changed to the Bakerloo line and rode as far as Queen’s Park. Here he got out and then walked up Salusbury Road, with the park a street away on his left. He walked the full length of Salusbury Road and moved in and out of shops. One of them had a back entrance, which was for service staff, but The Cub ducked through and retraced his steps to ensure the route was clean and he was not being tailed.
The mosque was small, directly across from the junction of Chevening Road and Carlisle Road, and he walked past it on both sides of the street. Three steps leading up from the pavement to ornate oak doors, one of which stood open. There was no obvious location for an assault point and he checked and rechecked, then stood and considered it all. He walked along Chevening Road and crossed the park, pausing briefly at the bandstand, and then he walked the circuit again. He knew beyond all doubt that he was not under surveillance; and pausing again at Carlisle Road, he made his decision. He phoned Haan on his mobile. ‘I need a small van,’ he said. ‘Make it so the windows are tinted and the back ones roll down.’
‘Anything else?’
‘Yes, a resident’s parking permit for Carlisle Road, NW6.’
Swann watched the SWAT team attack the first unit. They breached the small door to the side of the roll-over, using a remote breaching device on an Alvis Wheelbarrow robot. No booby-trapped explosion and Swann breathed his first sigh of relief. But then he and Logan had to wait while the SWAT team did their work, searching the premises until they could give the all-clear. Time ticked away and he thought about Harada and the blue Ford. As yet, there was no word over the radio that any vehicle had been located. And there probably wouldn’t be. There were hundreds of blue Fords in the city. He stood at the edge of the lot with the evidence response team standing by, and waited. Eventually, the SWAT team leader came out and gave them the all-clear. Logan motioned to the ERT and they all moved forward.
The first unit was empty except for a small office, two lockers and a shower room. Swann stood in the doorway and studied the street map pasted to the wall. ‘This is Harada’s lock-up, Chey,’ he said. ‘There are his locations.’ He stepped closer and looked at the coloured pins stuck into the map: National Airport, Kennedy stadium, the Smithsonian and the Four Seasons hotel.
Logan tapped the map with her fingernail. ‘Look.’ She pointed to two more downtown hot
els where no device had gone off. ‘If he’s planted these, we can get the bomb squad to render them safe.’
They moved through the adjoining door to the second unit, where the red security consultant’s truck, with C U SAFELY painted on the side, stood in the cool of the garage. Swann placed his hands on his hips and looked at Logan. ‘Thinks he’s a comedian, doesn’t he?’
Logan stretched sterile rubber gloves over her fingers and opened the back of the truck. It was decked out in racking and shelves, and all manner of electrical equipment was stowed in little compartments. Swann could see wire and batteries, tilt switches, bulbs and circuit boards. He pushed the breath through his teeth.
‘This is brilliant cover, Chey. He can sit in the back and wire up any kind of improvised explosive device he likes.’
Logan was already talking to one of the field-office agents accompanying them. ‘Get on to the support staff,’ she said. ‘I want a check on every establishment in the city that’s had dealings with this firm in the last six months.’
The agent nodded and ducked back through to the other unit.
Back at the field office, there was still no word on the all-points bulletin. The Federal Triangle was in chaos and emergency teams were fighting their way through the rubble and debris of three major buildings, looking for survivors. So far, the body count was eighteen.
Logan sat at Kovalski’s conference table, toying with a ballpoint pen. ‘So much for noncombatants,’ she said.
Swann was very quiet. ‘It looks like my plan backfired.’
Kovalski was standing behind him. ‘Jack, it was better that we went public with the CIA angle than he did. We were never going to release Shikomoto and he was always going to do this.’
‘Tom?’ Mackensie was at his door.
‘What is it, Carmen?’
‘The Director and the national security adviser are here.’
Harrison dozed, his head against the wooden slats of the boxcar, the rhythm of the wheels working away in his head. Vaguely, he could hear the drone of Hooch and Carlsbad playing their perpetual game of cards, interspersed by Limpet snoring.
Sidetrack had been quiet ever since they jumped the 3-17 and had remained so across the various switches they made through Texas. They had been riding this train for twelve hours now and the only stop had been to swap drivers. They were through Arkansas and into Mississippi, and, as far as Harrison could gather from his railroad maps, their route would take them north through Tennessee into the mountains of Kentucky and West Virginia. The train jerked, and he wobbled, banged his head and sat up. Sidetrack was sitting at the far side of the car on his own, and their eyes met as Harrison got to his feet. It was midday outside, and Harrison stood in the doorway and took a leak, being careful not to let it blow back on his jeans. The .38 felt uncomfortable in his boot and, sitting down, he took the boot off to rearrange the strapping he used for a holster. Sidetrack watched him.
‘You’re pretty good around guns, ain’t you, Four-String?’
Harrison snorted. ‘You wanna tell me someone who isn’t in this country?’
‘But you really know what you’re doing.’ Sidetrack’s elongated fang was showing against his lip. ‘Sorta professional.’
Harrison snorted, but his senses were up. He looked through the shadows at Sidetrack’s dull eyes. ‘Sidetrack, I was never real professional at anything. If you’re telling me that I am around a weapon, then I guess it’s because I was a soldier.’ Harrison looked at him and their eyes locked, and again he felt the fingers of unease against his scalp.
He opened the .38 and checked the rounds. Then he snapped it shut again and spun the chamber. Very deliberately, he took the Beretta from his waistband, knocked the magazine out and again checked the rounds. He worked the action, popped the cartridge out of the breech and fed it into the top of the clip. Then he replaced the clip in the butt and worked it back into the chamber.
‘You getting ready for a war?’ Sidetrack said.
Harrison looked him in the eye. ‘Sidetrack, you’re jumpy as fuck. I figure we must be looking at trouble somewhere along this line.’ He got up and pushed the .38 back into his boot, then he folded his jeans’ leg down and fished in his jacket for tobacco.
Sidetrack took a bottle of mescal from the top of his pack and swallowed a mouthful. He offered it to Harrison, who shook his head. ‘Make me a cigarette,’ Sidetrack said.
Harrison squatted on his haunches and rolled him one. He gummed down the edge and passed it to him, then popped a match on his boot heel. He held it for Sidetrack, who gripped his wrist hard to steady it. Sidetrack blew out the match, still holding Harrison’s arm, and then he let him go. He swivelled to a sitting position, both legs tucked under him, and smoked without taking the cigarette from his mouth.
They rode on through the heat of the day and Sidetrack remained as sullen as he had been since they left Texas. Harrison sat slumped in a corner, nursing his water bottle and wondering what he was doing there. Hooch and Carlsbad finished their game and slept. When they stopped for a driver swap on the Tennessee State line, two ageing hobos tried to get aboard, but were discouraged. Harrison watched their expressions fade as soon as they caught sight of Limpet’s black bandana.
Penny and Jean took turns driving the pick-up, stopping only for gasoline, sandwiches and coffee. Each drove four-hour stints while the other slept, and every now and again Penny would check in on the cellphone. The pursuit was being handled from the Dallas office, where Swartz had remained behind. The New Orleans SWAT team had mustered and they were currently using a National Guard helicopter to follow the train. Every FBI office along the route, be it a field or resident agency, had been informed and the regional SWAT resource was on standby. Penny drove with the train in sight and when he lost it, due to the road configuration, the fixed wing gave him the location. His was not the only pursuit vehicle: they had drafted in the state police in Mississippi and Tennessee, as well as the Tennessee Bureau of Investigation. The difficulty for everyone was when the outfit switched trains, which had happened five times since they hopped the 3-17. Twice Penny almost missed it, but maybe luck was with them or Harrison was just being extra-vigilant, because he picked them up on foot before it was too late. Jean woke up and asked Penny where they were and he showed her on the map. They pulled off to fill up the truck and replenish their coffee cups, and then it was Jean’s turn to drive. She got behind the wheel and fired up the engine. Penny leaned in the far corner and sipped coffee. ‘Are you OK to drive?’ he asked her. She smiled, nodded and worked the steering wheel through her hands.
Harada drove north out of Washington D.C., heading for Interstate 270. He rode it as it became 70 and bent to the west, then crossed the turnpike into Pennsylvania. As usual, he drove within the speed limit. He was grey-haired now, wearing a baseball hat, and with his Joe Aoki ID in his pocket. If he got stopped, he was on vacation, heading for Canada and a date with the maple leaves of Toronto. But he did not get stopped. Once he was out of D.C., the pressure eased and with it the traffic, but he listened to the radio news for constant updates on the carnage he had created in Washington. The body count had risen above thirty, which made him the worst offender ever in the District of Columbia. The President gave a nationwide broadcast from his hidey-hole out at Camp David and said that the US authorities would stop at nothing until Harada was apprehended. He reiterated that calm was required and that undoubtedly Harada and the Asians responsible for killing the militia, the so-called Hong Kong troops, were in some way connected. What had gone on in downtown Washington was grisly proof that federal agencies were not involved. When questioned hard by reporters, he justified the aims of the CIA in recruiting Harada in North Korea, after the atrocities against US nationals by the Japanese Red Army. Harada listened and shook his head. He regretted the collateral damage, but it was not his fault: his hand had been forced and they must carry the blame. Again, he felt under the seat for the comfort of his sword, and wiped the sweat from his brow.
He drove west on the highway through Bedford County, again conscious of his speed and mindful of the Highway Patrol, which passed him both ways. He entered Somerset County and his palms began to moisten on the wheel. He rubbed them each in turn against his thighs, then he left the road at the town of Somerset and headed south-west for New Centerville. Here, he checked his map. There was a truck lay-by about ten miles further on, towards Bakersville on Highway 31. Harada looked at his watch. He had made good time and he was early. But he did not want to hang around; his nerves were more frayed than they had ever been, and he was suddenly unsure of his own resolve. He sat in the car for a few minutes, deepening each breath and concentrating until the calm descended once again. Then he started the engine and pulled out on to the road.
Clayton Morgan of the Pennsylvania Unorganised Militia drove east on 31. He had a sheet of tarpaulin fixed over the back of the old Ford pick-up and his brother followed in his Toyota. The road was quiet, though, and Morgan figured they would have more than enough time to dump the Ford and leave. The sky overhead was grey with summer rain clouds and the twilight fell earlier because of it. Morgan had his window rolled part of the way down and he could smell the moisture in the atmosphere. He pressed a plug of chew deeper into his cheek and spoke to his brother over the radio.
‘I didn’t really wanna volunteer us for this one, Mitch,’ he said. ‘Not with all that’s going on.’
His brother’s voice crackled back over the airwaves. ‘I don’t trust those fucking train-hoppers. But I guess somebody’s gotta do this. Our part in the game, maybe, huh?’
‘Yeah, I guess.’ Morgan looked back along the blacktop, but no lights were following them. ‘We’ll be OK. What’s it gonna take, a coupla minutes to dump the truck and skedaddle.’
Harada was cruising Highway 31. He had passed the lay-by shown on the crude hand-drawn map, spotted the parked Ford, and was now heading for Bakersville. He looked at his watch and then concentrated on the road. He had not pulled directly into the lay-by because he wanted time to assess the area for unwelcome surveillance. He drove at a steady fifty-five and saw the lights of the approaching truck up ahead. He slowed a fraction as they passed: two men in the cab, neither of whom glanced in his direction. His palms began to tingle. He drove on, speeding back up to the limit, and went almost as far as Bakersville. He pulled off the road before the city limits, though, not wishing to be seen in the town. He made a U-turn with the wheels wheezing under the sudden redistribution of weight and headed back the way he had come. Now he sped up and, for the first time since he had set foot on US soil, he broke the speed limit. There were no other vehicles in the lay-by, and he pulled off the road and stopped the car. The keys to the Ford were in the tailpipe and Harada whipped them out. Then, standing in the lee of the vehicle, he hoisted the tarpaulin. The baseplate was screwed into the floor of the truck, with the legs of the bipod lying flat. The box of ammunition lay alongside it and quickly he counted. Twelve 120mm mortars for the Lockheed lightweight system. He could fire them all in the first minute, and a minute was all he needed.
