Nom de Guerre

by Gulvin, Jeff

  ‘The meal receipt I found in Jake Salvesen’s office.’

  ‘Precisely.’ Kovalski sat back and spread his fingers. ‘The timing fits, John. As soon as she knew he was going to Paris she would’ve known why.’ He broke off for a second. ‘And one phone call later …’

  Harrison got up and walked to the window. He thought back to the spring, when he had been on surveillance, watching the militia leader’s compound, and all of a sudden Salvesen’s men came gunning for him. He remembered sitting in their mock courtroom when they laid their charges of treason—for being a federal agent—against him. Then he remembered the flight through the tunnels that Salvesen had built in the hillside, and Dugger’s Canyon and the Magdalena mine where three men had died at his hands. Jack Swann, a blabby-mouthed English copper responsible for almost getting him killed. He turned back to Kovalski.

  ‘Makes sense, doesn’t it,’ Kovalski said.

  ‘Yeah, I guess it does.’

  ‘Doesn’t make you feel any better though, huh?’

  Harrison snorted. ‘I’m alive, aren’t I.’

  He was quiet as Penny drove back from their meeting with Rene Martinez. Penny had good contacts on the NOPD drugs squad, and they knew he was trying to break the ring supplying cocaine on the marine base. Manx was the key to the bigger fish and Martinez was the way to get to Manx. If he got busted for possessing two grams of heroin, everything could fall apart. They did a deal with the assistant DA. If Martinez came up with the goods on Manx, he would get a federal charge and all the mitigating circumstances. If he didn’t, Penny and Harrison would leave him to the New Orleans dicks and he’d spend the rest of his life getting butt-fucked in Angola. Penny pulled up outside Louise’s bar off Canal, where they liked a beer after work. Cochrane and Fitzpatrick were there, together with some guys from the reactive squad, who were celebrating an armed robbery bust they had made the previous day.

  Harrison sat at the table, with them and not with them, sucking cigarette smoke and blowing rings at the ceiling. Penny was laughing with the rest of them and making wisecracks about the waitress who kept them supplied with drinks. He sat back though, taking the last of his chew from the tin, and caught Harrison’s expression.

  ‘Hey, ponyboy, what’s up?’

  ‘Oh, nothing, kiddo. Just thinking is all.’

  ‘Not good for you, man, not a guy of your age.’

  Cochrane, too, had noticed Harrison’s mood. He knew the story; the two of them were old friends. Harrison had stayed with John and Maddie for the first two weeks down here, before he got his room in the quarter. ‘Kovalski give you some news, JB?’

  Harrison looked at him. ‘Yeah. Guy that got me in trouble up in Idaho was a UK cop. Somebody called Jack Swann. Louis Byrne worked with him on the FEST they sent over.’

  ‘That chemical thing in London?’ Penny asked.

  Harrison looked at him and nodded. ‘Storm Crow, yeah.’

  Penny blew out his cheeks. ‘And this guy Swann burned you?’

  ‘Not on purpose, but it amounts to the same thing.’

  Cochrane pushed a hand through his thick white hair. ‘At least you know for sure now.’

  Harrison nodded. ‘I ought to be relieved that’s all it is. I was thinking we had some internal problem to deal with.’

  ‘That would’ve gone down real well, after the shit we got thrown at us the last couple of years.’

  ‘Tell me about it. Still gets you in the guts though, anyways. Maybe one of these days I’ll take a vacation in London, find this fucker Swann and have a couple of words.’ They all laughed and Harrison stood up. ‘Guys, I’m gonna split,’ he said. ‘There’s a gal in the Jazz Café I wanna try and poke tonight.’

  January 1999. One year until the new millennium. Swann thought about it as he drove into the Yard. Up on the fifteenth floor, he found Webb talking to DI Clements in the squad room. Clements was subject to tenure, and about to leave the department and go back to uniform. He was not exactly enamoured with the idea. They looked up as Swann dumped his case on the desk and went to pour some coffee.

  ‘You all right, Jack?’ Webb asked him. ‘Caroline wanted to know if you fancied dinner tonight. Couple of pints on the way home, first? What d’you reckon?’

  ‘Yeah. I suppose.’

  ‘Jesus.’ Webb shook his head. ‘Mr Enthusiasm.’

  ‘Sorry, Webby. Didn’t mean it to sound like that.’

  ‘Well cheer up, anyway,’ Webb said, punching him lightly on the arm. ‘We’ve got a date for Boese’s trial.’

  Swann looked up sharply. ‘When?’

  ‘February 5th.’

  ‘Hallelujah. Time that bastard went down.’ He thought for a moment. ‘There’s nothing the defence can pick holes in, is there, Webby? The last thing we need is Storm Crow flying away.’

  Webb laughed at him. ‘Jack, you know what, just because you’re paranoid, it doesn’t mean they’re not after you. Relax,’ he said. ‘We’ve got every scrap of forensic evidence we need.’

  ‘You sure?’

  ‘Positive. Leave it to your uncle George.’

  Swann sat down and rested the sole of his shoe against the desktop. ‘You know, I don’t think I’ll be happy till that bastard knows he’s doing thirty years.’ He shook his head. ‘Maybe it’s because of Pia, maybe it’s what he did in Rome, but no one has got under my skin like that guy.’

  They went up to the sixteenth floor, where Christine Harris had called them in for a meeting. No Julian Moore this time, just Harris and another DS from SO12.

  ‘Just an update, chaps,’ she told them. ‘The Vaczka gang.’

  ‘You’ve had spotters on them?’ Swann asked her.

  ‘Not a full team, Jack. Not yet. The intel’ is still too scant.’

  ‘The snout not up to it?’

  ‘I think she’s up to it. She’s about as close to him as we could hope to get somebody, but Vaczka’s a pro. Remember his links with Abu Nidal. That’s a serious connection. He lets very little slip.’

  ‘So have we got anything fresh or not?’ he asked her.

  She stared at him for a moment, the snap of irritation in her voice. ‘Yes, strangely enough, we have. That’s why I called a briefing.’

  Swann flushed red and held up a hand, palm outwards. ‘Sorry, Chrissie. Ignore me. Probably time of the month.’

  She blew air softly from her cheeks and shook her head at the others. ‘See what happens when cousins marry?’ she said.

  The tension was only partially defused and Swann was aware of DSU Colson’s gaze on him. Harris went on to tell them that Vaczka had met up with an Arab, or at least somebody dressed as such.

  ‘That could tie up with the ANO thing,’ Swann said.

  ‘Possibly. But this guy wore headgear like Yasser Arafat.’ Harris paused then. ‘Somehow that doesn’t make a lot of sense, does it. If you’re a contact man for Abu Nidal, you don’t swan around West London looking like an oil sheik, do you.’ Nobody answered her. ‘Vaczka’s also spending more and more time openly with his three lieutenants. That’s Stahl, Herbisch and Blunski. He is definitely planning something, only we don’t know what it is.’

  ‘What about the original information we got from Box 850?’ Swann asked her.

  ‘They know no more, or if they do, they’re not telling us.’

  ‘A possible connection with the disaffected Loyalists?’

  Harris nodded. ‘Vaczka has said something about a deal up north, he may have to go away for a while.’

  ‘He told her that?’ Colson said. ‘I don’t suppose he said when.’

  ‘What about spotters now, Chrissie?’ Webb asked her.

  She shook her head. ‘My guv’nor won’t go for it, George. All the time we’ve got a snout in so close, you can’t really blame him.’

  ‘So we just sit tight as usual,’ Swann stated. ‘See if any of the spinning plates fall to earth.’

  ‘That’s it for the time being. The reason I’m telling you now is because when whatev
er they’re doing happens, it’ll be sudden and we’ll need to roll very quickly.’

  ‘Have you thought about briefing an SFO team, Chrissie?’ Colson asked her.

  ‘What could I tell them right now, sir?’

  Tal-Salem sat and read the paper at his favourite café, wearing only a loose-fitting shirt and chinos. His feet were bare and his sleeves rolled back, the Rolex hanging from his left wrist where the strap was loose. The waiter poured him the Arabian coffee and he cast an eye over the beach, the sun warming the sand at his feet. Above his head, a gull cried and for a moment he looked along the line of the horizon, bunching his eyes against the brightness of the day. Then his gaze settled on the advert.

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  EVERYTHING CAN BE BOUGHT BY YOU DIRECT.

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  Carefully, he picked out the letters and his pulse rate quickened. QOFXICBYCFSB. TRIAL FEB FIVE.

  He laid the paper aside and sipped his coffee. Then he took a pre-rolled hashish joint from his shirt pocket, cupped his hands to the match and drew smoke into his lungs. He breathed very deeply, aware almost of the movement of his diaphragm. His eyes glazed just a fraction and he could smell blood in his nostrils.

  Vaczka lay back in bed, hands pressing into Amaya’s hair as she sucked his penis. His eyes were closed and the skin gathered in wrinkles at the corners. She lifted her head, drawing damp trails on his belly with lips and tongue, and her hair tickled his skin as she worked up to his face. He took her by the hips and guided her body down until he brushed against pubic hair and then moisture and warmth, and a gasp escaped his lips. She flicked her hair from her eyes, sitting up, shoulders back, with the points of her breasts rising and falling as she worked his hips. He could feel the pressure of her pelvic bone as she moved herself forward again, falling on to her hands either side of him, so her breasts hung in his face. He lifted his head, straining the muscles of his neck and brushed hard nipple with his tongue. He came with a cry in his throat and the muscles of his face twisting almost in pain. She worked herself a little more and then fell forward on top of him. Vaczka’s eyes were closed; he was breathing hard. He could feel the sweat gathered between their bodies. Then she eased herself off him, and curled into his chest with her knees against his hip. He kissed her hair, stroking her back, fingers feeling a path over the knots of her spine. Then he opened his eyes and stared at the ceiling.

  ‘I’m going to be away for a few days,’ he said.

  ‘When?’

  ‘Soon. I’m not sure exactly when. I’ll have to cancel the class.’

  She pushed herself up on one elbow. ‘People are going to be disappointed.’

  ‘Well, it’s only the one class. I’m sure they’ll get over it.’ He moved the pillows against the headboard and scraped a cigarette from the packet beside the bed. Amaya sat up next to him, one leg crossed under the other. He lit the cigarette, flapped out the match and blew a steady stream of smoke at the ceiling.

  ‘Is it work?’

  ‘What?’

  She swept the hair from in front of her eyes. ‘Are you going away to work?’

  ‘Yeah. A little sideline of mine in Liverpool. Theatre workshop.’

  ‘Can I come?’

  ‘You’ve got a degree course to do, Amaya. You’ll never get it if you keep taking time off to follow me round the country.’

  ‘You’ll let me know when you’re going, though.’

  ‘Of course I will, dummy. I’ve got to cancel the class.’ Vaczka put out the cigarette and cupped her left breast with a palm. ‘What time do you have to be gone?’ he said.

  Tal-Salem flew into London on a Chilean diplomatic passport. He was well dressed for London in February—double-breasted wool suit and a cashmere overcoat that reached to his ankles. He took a cab from Heathrow into London and checked into the Hyde Park Tower in Bayswater. He had posted a parcel to himself and collected it at reception. Upstairs, he laid his case on the bed and unwrapped the parcel. Inside were two Beretta automatics. He took the twin leather shoulder holsters from his suitcase and adjusted the straps when the weight of the weapons was in them. Then he took both guns to pieces, cleaned them with oil and put them together again. He had five spare clips and he popped each bullet out and then replaced them one by one until the spring mechanism would go no further. After that he lay back, smoked hash and watched the news on television.

  Vaczka spoke to Stahl on the cloned mobile telephone, and set everything up. The following day, Friday, he cancelled the next week’s lesson. He and Jeconec ate lunch in the cafeteria and he watched Amaya leave early and head down towards the station. He glanced at Jeconec and quietly shook his head. From across the road, one of Blunski’s team, Rafal Kestin, followed her.

  Amaya met Christine Harris by the statue of Robert Burns in the Embankment Gardens. It was lunchtime and people were eating sandwiches in the sunshine that had lifted the icy temperatures of the last couple of days. ‘He’s going to Liverpool next week,’ she told her. ‘He’s cancelled Friday’s drama class.’ She paused then, as Harris considered the information. She had been running and her sweatpants were rapidly cooling against her thighs. ‘If you arrest him for something, he’s going to know this has come from me,’ Amaya said, her mouth pinched and tight about the words.

  Harris laid a hand on her arm. ‘No, he won’t,’ she said. ‘Besides, we’ll look after you.’

  Amaya looked at her with the edge of her lip raised over her teeth. ‘I’m not doing this any more,’ she said. ‘This is the last time you’ll see me. You can do what the fuck you like with my visa. I’ve had enough. I might just go back to Poland, anyway.’ She turned then and walked away. Kestin stood on the Embankment and watched them.

  The week before Vaczka cancelled his drama class, Adam Herbisch stole nine motorcycles from different parts of the country. Through the network, he arranged for a target to be chosen, lifted, and then stored ready for the number plates to be changed. When he had the full complement, he passed the word to Stahl, who subsequently told Vaczka. Herbisch then stole a skip lorry and a Range Rover with tinted windows, and stored them in a lock-up in Highbury. He phoned Vaczka when everything was ready, and told him the preparations, routes in and out, everything. Vaczka switched off his mobile, confident that the authorities could not listen to conversations on cloned mobile phones, then left the flat for the POSK. Jeconec was waiting for him, eating meat-filled flour balls which only Carmen seemed able to cook properly for him.

  ‘You should sleep with her,’ Vaczka told him when he sat down. ‘Better still, marry her. Look at the way she cooks.’

  Jeconec laughed and glanced out of the window. Two men were working on the road; they had been there for three days now. He nodded towards them and Vaczka spoke without looking up. ‘I know. I spotted them too. Interesting that the council should dig up the road just now.’

  At the counter, a young couple in baggy coats and university scarves held hands as they ordered some coffee. They sat down at the table next to Vaczka and looking lovingly into one another’s eyes.

  ‘Amaya not working today?’ Jeconec asked.

  Vaczka shook his head, watching the men working outside. ‘College.’

  ‘She a good fuck?’

  Vaczka looked witheringly at him.

  ‘Sorry,’ Jeconec said.

  Vaczka sat back and spoke in soft tones, suddenly aware of the young lovers at the next table. ‘Everything is now ready,’ he said. ‘All I need from you is the truck.’

  Jeconec smiled widely and placed the last meatball in his mouth, looking across Vaczka at Carmen. ‘No problem,’ he said.

  Tal-Salem picked up the stolen Range Rover from the lock-up and drove it north out of London. He was meticulous in his covert antisurveillance, arranging for the keys to be left for him at the hotel in Bayswater, then watching reception for two full days before actually picking them up. After that, he
checked his maps very carefully, working out exactly what the layout of streets was around the immediate vicinity of the lock-up. Only when he was sure of that on paper did he undertake his first physical reconnaissance. Again he disguised himself as the black man, an appearance he was now beginning to appreciate. The application of stage make-up, something he had only perfected since he had worked with Boese, came much more easily to him. He made the pass in a taxi and checked to see what was close to the garages. They were set on their own in a side street, fully enclosed in a warehouse, which was overlooked by the back windows of a row of residential properties. Tal-Salem gave them a cursory onceover, but knew he would have to return to look more closely. This he did the same evening, and keeping to the shadows of the warehouse, he scanned the windows of the houses with an infrared scope, looking for the telltale silver disc of a video camera. He found none. No cars were parked close by. He even inspected the doors on the warehouses on the other side of the road. Only when he was absolutely certain of his security did he move the Range Rover.

  Returning to his Chilean diplomat’s disguise, he parked the Range Rover in Bayswater and watched the permit area for two days, having paid his fee to the hotel. Again satisfied, he made the trip out to the M3 and the service area at Hook. Two motorcycles, both of them British Triumphs, were parked by the steps leading up from the car park. The two riders were easily picked out, seated by the window in The Granary, watching both the entrance and the road. Tal-Salem sat at the table behind them, not acknowledging their presence, and observed them for half an hour. When he was satisfied, he reached over the back of his seat and looked into the hard grey eyes of David ‘Dog Soldier’ Collier.

  Boese watched Terlucci, watched his face, the way he moved his hands, where he moved his hands; the depth of his conversations with the two bank robbers, Matthews and Thompson. He watched Terlucci and counted days. Morgan’s sister visited him once more in late January and Boese played chess with Morgan the afternoon before. This time Boese beat him and Morgan left the table with a smile on his face. On 3 February, Boese found himself assigned to the kitchen with Gianluca Terlucci. Thompson was supposed to be cooking with him, but he was suddenly sick, and Terlucci took his place. When Boese saw the alteration on the roster, he took precautions. In the metalwork shop he had crafted a slim blade of his own, which he kept wrapped in toilet paper in the hollow tube of a barbell in the gym. Before the preparation began for the evening meal, he worked out as he did every afternoon.