Covenant

by Jeff Gulvin

  Harrison watched Swann from the Hyatt roof, heard him calling, saw the two hostages step back and realised what he was doing. And then Harada slowly lifted his head. The sniper alongside Harrison tensed. ‘Clear shot,’ he said.

  ‘Take it.’

  The single shot echoed across the roof and Harada twisted like a broken puppet.

  Swann saw him buckle and a string of blood spurt from his skull. Then he crumpled on to his side, the sword still embedded in his guts. Looking round, Swann saw that the cameraman had stopped filming. They stood in silence, the three of them, and then Swann felt Logan at his side. Harada lay at their feet, deep in his own blood, head twisted back, his suddenly dull eyes looking up at the sky.

  Across on the far rooftop, Harrison laid a hand on the young sniper’s shoulder. Downstairs, he went to his room and found Jean watching the television news. Her face was white and she looked up as he came in, then back at the TV once again.

  Harrison picked up the remote control and switched off the set. ‘Did you see all that?’ he asked her.

  ‘Yes,’ she said quietly, ‘I did.’ She sat with her hands in her lap, then looked up at him once more and he could see tears at the back of her eyes. ‘John,’ she said. ‘I want to go home.’

  The Cub lay in the back of the van, watching the mosque through the smoked-glass windows. One was rolled down far enough for him to nose through the muzzle of the barrel and get off one clear shot. One was all he needed.

  People thronged the pavement as the mullah called the faithful to prayer. The Cub was watching the entrance for the arrival of the man the British did not know for sure was there. The van was hot, although there had been a little bit of rain during the day, and The Cub was less than comfortable. He also had a bad feeling deep in the pit of his stomach that Bin Laden would not show up. The time ticked towards the hour and The Cub watched through the rifle sight and waited.

  Cars drew up, pedestrians arrived and still there was no sign. Then, just before seven, a blue car pulled up and The Cub saw the Butcher of Bekaa step out. He was flanked by another man and then between them came a third, and when he stood to his full height, he was over six foot. He wore traditional clothing and sailed up the steps with al-Bakhtar covering his back. The Cub watched, but could not see his face and could not get a clear shot. Within seconds, the car was gone and the mini-entourage had disappeared into the mosque. The Cub rolled on his side, looked at the ceiling and swore softly to himself.

  He waited until 10 p.m., watching as all the worshippers left. He waited for al-Bakhtar and his quarry to emerge. But they did not come and when ten became half past, he took the rifle apart, climbed into the front seat of the van and started the engine. He pulled on to Chevening Road and saw a red van watching the doorway of the mosque. Further up the road, a man in a suit and tie waited at the bus stop. The Cub could make out the radio piece in his ear.

  He drove to Ealing Road, cruised the length of it and saw that the halal butcher’s shop was not only closed for business, but the grilles were down and the windows were empty. He pulled over, looked for the spotters and saw nothing that resembled them. He parked the van in a side road and made his way on foot back behind the shops and again scouted for surveillance. There was none. He shook his head and considered, then looked at his watch and climbed the short fence into the yard at the back of the shop. The basement entrance was down a flight of six steps and The Cub pressed his ear to the door. He looked up again—all was dark and quiet—and took a single-bladed knife from his pocket.

  Inside, the small basement smelled of blood and animal entrails. The Cub had no light, save that of the streetlamps outside, but he took in a desk and a chair and marks where some sort of equipment had been. The floor was littered with papers and he bent and fished in his pocket for a match. He lit one and held it up, and gazed at the shreds of paper. Just bits and pieces of headed notepaper with scribblings that meant nothing to him. He went upstairs and checked the shop, and then the rooms above and finally the attic. He had been right: it was connected to the one next door. In the distance, he could hear sirens and his senses sharpened, and he went back to the basement again. He paused at the door for one last look round and struck another match. The sirens were louder now and it was time for him to go, but something by the unused fireplace caught his eye. Sections of paper that had been partially burnt. Quickly, he picked them up and stuffed them into his pocket.

  Outside, he closed the door and went up the steps, and walked back to Ealing Road. He crossed to the Indian restaurant and found Haan enjoying a meal. He slid into the chair opposite and ordered a beer, and then he took the scraps of burned paper from his pocket. ‘Look what I found,’ he said.

  Haan laid down his fork and wiped his mouth, then studied the papers.

  They looked at one another for a long moment and The Cub arched his eyebrows. Then they sat and ate, and watched as the police broke down the door of the shop across the road.

  29

  HARRISON SAT ACROSS THE table from a manacled and orange-suited Southern Sidetrack.

  ‘It’s that or the needle, asshole.’ Harrison looked coldly at him. ‘I got you on tape admitting to the murder of Tom Carey and the DA’s gonna push all the way for the big one, seeing as how we know you killed a whole bunch of other guys.’

  Sidetrack sat back, showed his long tooth and looked Harrison right in the eye.

  ‘You figure I’m afraid of dying?’

  ‘I don’t know. Are you?’

  ‘Nope.’

  Harrison nodded and rested his arms on the back of the chair. ‘You ain’t bothered by all those years of appeals and then the governor saying: “No way, José.” You ain’t bothered about the last night, with the minutes ticking away and the clock being all there is. And that last meal, the one you can’t eat because your stomach’s all in knots. And you’re thinking about how there just might be a God. And if there is, you might be going down instead of up when it’s over.’ He lit a cigarette, flapped out the match and blew smoke in Sidetrack’s face. ‘And then the guards coming and the preacher man, and that one guy hollering to everybody how there’s a dead man walking.’ He sat back. ‘None of that bothers you, huh?’

  ‘Nope.’ Sidetrack looked evenly at him.

  ‘OK.’ Harrison stood up and banged on the door of the interview room. He crushed out his cigarette, and then the key turned in the lock.

  ‘Four-String.’

  Harrison looked back and saw Sidetrack staring at him. ‘Shoshone, Idaho. If he’s any place, it’s there.’

  He had not watched Jean pack, but stayed in his room on Burgundy and Toulouse, having said his goodbyes the night before. In the morning, he gathered his ancient hobo clothes and drove to the field office. Penny met him on the squad-room floor.

  ‘You not going to the airport with Jean?’ he asked.

  Harrison shook his head. ‘I never did do goodbyes.’ He laid his bundle on the desk and went up the stairs to where Hammond was in a meeting with Mayer, the special agent in charge. Harrison rapped on the door and went straight in. Mayer looked up at him.

  ‘John, we’re in a meeting.’

  ‘I know. But this won’t take a minute.’ Harrison sat down in the empty chair and looked at Hammond first, then Mayer. ‘I know where I can find Whiskey Six,’ he said. ‘I’ve sorta done a deal with Sidetrack to try and keep him away from the needle. I don’t give a fuck whether the DA keeps to it or not. But I think I can get Whiskey Six.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘I know where he might be at. It’s just a small town, but the Union Pacific freight line runs right through it.’ He paused and hissed breath through his teeth. ‘I’m gonna ride the boxcars to see if I can track him down.’

  ‘You think he’s this ex-Tunnel Rat Martinez?’ Hammond said quietly.

  Harrison nodded. ‘The last time I saw him was in a hole in the ground in Vietnam.’ He stood up then, took his FBI shield from his back pocket and laid it on Mayer’s desk. ‘As of
now, I quit the Bureau, Charlie. I’m going after Martinez as a private citizen. I’ll find him, round him up and deliver him to the nearest sheriff’s office. While I’m gone, do me a favour and have the puzzle palace sort the paperwork, so I can get some money.’

  Mayer looked at him, eyes thin, then at the shield lying on his desk. He sat back in his chair, fingers steepled before his mouth. ‘You’re really gonna do this?’

  ‘Yes, sir. I am.’ Harrison shook his hand, then he shook Hammond’s and walked out of the office.

  In the parking lot on level seven, he fired up his Chevy and pulled to the top of the ramp. Matt Penny was standing in his way. Harrison stopped, grabbed a cigarette from the dashboard and rolled down the window.

  ‘You’re outta here, aren’t you?’ Penny said.

  Harrison lit the cigarette. ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Where you going?’

  ‘North.’

  ‘You coming back?’

  ‘I’ve still got my room in the quarter. I figure I’ve got to leave my stuff somewhere for a while.’

  ‘Call me.’ Penny offered his hand.

  Harrison took it. ‘Say goodbye to Jean for me. Better still, take her to the airport. She’s about ready to go.’

  Penny nodded. ‘Anything I should say to her?’

  ‘Tell her I don’t do goodbyes.’ Harrison leaned and spat tobacco juice. ‘And, Matthew. Tell her that I love her.’

  He gunned the engine, spun the wheel under his hand and drove down the ramp to the street.

  Swann and Logan watched Washington D.C. slowly get back to normal, though the Federal Triangle had been badly damaged by the mortars, especially the front of the Hoover building. The FBI was rehoused in the contingency facility within hours of the evacuation, and was up and running the following morning. It would be some time before they could return to the puzzle palace.

  Harada was dead and his public suicide was on everybody’s lips. There were pictures in every newspaper, and the video footage was being run and rerun. Smylie was on every talk show, talking about his ‘ordeal’. He claimed he had been contacted and asked to show up at the Howard Johnson for an exclusive, and thought it would be with one of the militia leaders. He had no idea it would be Harada, or that when he showed up he would be held at gunpoint.

  The cameraman had not caught the moment of death on film, and all of the networks had wanted to interview Swann. But he declined to talk to any of them. He sat in the bar at the Hyatt with Logan and Kovalski, who was on his way home to Springfield. They shared a bottle of wine.

  ‘There’s one good thing about what Smylie did,’ Kovalski was saying. ‘It showed the militia, more importantly the regular American people, that Harada was nothing to do with us.’

  Logan sipped wine. ‘The unrest hasn’t gone away, though, Tom. It won’t till we find out who’s behind the killings.’

  Kovalski sighed. ‘One step at a time, Chey.’ He looked at Swann, who sat deep in thought. ‘You took a chance up there, Jack. Walking out like that.’

  Swann shook his head. ‘I don’t think so. Harada wanted to finish it.’

  ‘It’s a good job you didn’t shoot him yourself, then I would have a bunch of explaining to do.’

  They were quiet for a moment, then Swann laid his hand on Logan’s knee and squeezed. ‘I’m going back to London,’ he said. ‘The Louisiana course seemed to get by without me and I miss the kids.’ He looked at Kovalski. ‘Is your new terrorism response co-ordinator broken in yet?’

  Kovalski smiled. ‘I guess so.’ He glanced at Logan then. ‘You can get yourself to the leg-att any time you want.’

  She kissed him on the cheek.

  ‘Can’t say I’m not gonna miss you.’ Kovalski stood up. ‘You’re a lucky man, Jack Swann. A very lucky man.’

  They shook hands and Kovalski went out to his car.

  Swann sat down again and summoned the waiter for another bottle of wine. Logan looked thoughtful. ‘Jean Carey’s gone back to England,’ she said.

  ‘At least she now knows who killed her son.’

  ‘Harrison quit the Bureau. He’s gone after the leader of the FTRA on his own.’

  ‘And the Bureau is happy about that?’

  Logan made a face. ‘The Bureau doesn’t have a choice. We’ve rounded up a whole bunch of FTRA members and Harrison will give evidence against them. But if he wants to quit, what can anyone do about it?’

  Swann finished his wine and stood up. ‘Cheyenne, I’m going to go and phone my kids. I’ll see you in the restaurant.’

  He walked over to the bay of public telephone booths. Logan watched him, then looked up at the glass-fronted elevator. Smylie was coming down. He had spotted her and had a massive grin on his face.

  Logan sat where she was as he appeared at the arm of her chair. ‘Agent Logan,’ he said. ‘Is this seat taken?’

  ‘Does it matter?’

  Smylie sat down. ‘Incredible television, wasn’t it?’

  ‘It was appalling.’

  He nodded. ‘You think so? You know, I had no idea that’s what he intended when he showed up. Pity the cameraman got sick to his stomach, though, huh? The finale would’ve been good.’

  ‘So why didn’t you call us when he arranged to meet you, Carl? If you had, we might’ve been able to stop the mortar attack.’

  ‘I didn’t know it was him.’

  Logan leaned close to him then and her eyes were chill. ‘Save the bullshit for the talk shows, asshole.’ She stood up. ‘You’re a piece of shit, Smylie. Not even fit to step on. Keep away from me. Understand? Come nowhere near me, or so help me, I’ll find a way to indict you.’

  The Cub flew into D.C., and called Cyrus Birch from Dulles Airport. They met at the same Leesburg restaurant as the last time and Birch was there by five. The Cub was sipping cold beer at a table in the corner of the room. Birch slid into the seat opposite and, for a long moment, they just looked at one another without saying anything.

  ‘So, is the mission aborted?’ The Cub asked finally.

  ‘For the time being. We really have lost him this time. Even the Israelis don’t know where he is.’

  ‘And the Butcher?’

  ‘The same.’

  The Cub nodded slowly. ‘I watched them go into the mosque, but they didn’t come out again.’

  ‘He has many allies. He was probably already out of the country by the time evening prayer was over.’

  The Cub sat for a moment, and then he fished in his pocket and brought out the slips of charred paper he had found in the West London basement. He looked at them briefly and then handed them to Birch. ‘I found these at his premises, just before the British raided it.’ He stood up and walked out of the restaurant.

  Birch watched him go, sighed and glanced at the scraps of paper. Goose flesh broke out on his cheeks.

  Kovalski met Swann and Logan in his office, on the morning of their departure to London. Logan’s promotion had been finalised and she was due at Grosvenor Square the following day. Swann was as happy as he had been in a while. He was going home. His children were at home and the woman he loved was going home with him.

  Swann and Kovalski shook hands and Kovalski looked at Logan. ‘I might catch up with you two in London at some point. Now this Balkan thing is over, we’ll be sending a whole bunch of agents to look at the war crimes issue.’

  Just then, his assistant buzzed through to him. ‘I’ve got Mr Birch in the outer office, sir,’ she said.

  Kovalski lifted an eyebrow. ‘OK. Send him in, Mary.’

  ‘We better go,’ Logan said.

  ‘Hell, no. Stick around. See what other little surprises the CIA has got for us.’

  Birch appeared at the door and Kovalski came round from behind the desk. ‘Cyrus. What a surprise.’ He made no attempt to keep the sarcasm from his voice. ‘Pity you didn’t tell us about Harada earlier, wasn’t it?’

  Birch coloured below the ears. He glanced briefly at Swann and Logan. ‘I need a few words in private, To
m. It’s why I called by, instead of phoning.’

  ‘This facility’s a SCIF, Cyrus. Shoot.’

  ‘Private, Tom. Please.’

  ‘We’ve got to go, anyways. We got a plane to catch.’ Logan kissed Kovalski and then she and Swann left the office. They went downstairs to where an agent with a car was waiting to drive them to Dulles. ‘Whatever it is,’ she said to Swann, ‘it’s not my problem any more.’

  Up in Kovalski’s office, the two men sat on the leather couch, with the door closed. Birch fished in his pocket for the small polythene envelope. He looked at it briefly, then passed it to Kovalski. ‘These were found in West London,’ he said. ‘We were working on some covert action and …’

  Kovalski was staring at the papers, his eyes bunched in his head. On one was the transcript of an interview. Halfway down the page a section had been marked with an asterix: ‘Listen to us you people of America, if you hold worth in your lives, in the lives of your children and your children’s children, then change your way in the world. Find a government for your own people, not one which struts the stage of the world pandering to the interests of Jews. If you do not, the fight will come to America and you will mourn the loss of your sons.’

  Kovalski looked at Birch, his mouth suddenly dry. He had read those words before. He looked at the two other pieces of paper, sections of headed notepaper with some unintelligible scribble on them. One had a PO box in Germany as the address, with ‘American Militia Abroad’ printed at the top. The other was less clear, the page badly charred. Kovalski made out part of two words—‘hield Soci’.

  ‘I think that should read Shield Society,’ Birch said quietly. ‘Again, registered in Germany.’

  ‘These are the groups behind the military ordnance theft.’

  ‘I know.’

  Kovalski looked at the section of interview transcript. ‘But this …’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘Where did you find them?’

  Birch took a deep breath. ‘In the basement of a halal butcher’s store in West London.’