Nom de Guerre

by Gulvin, Jeff

  They shook hands and Williams offered Swann a seat across the desk from him.

  ‘How’s things up at SO13?’

  ‘Right now? Up to our necks in it.’

  ‘Storm Crow’s rapid exit.’ Williams drew his brows together. ‘Should’ve had a full team on him, Jack. No question about it.’

  ‘I agree. But the SEG took tactical advice and decided against it. They determined no specific threat.’ He chewed his lip. ‘Having said that, I’m not sure the outcome would’ve been any different if they’d had SFO back-up. The team that hit them were in and out in about two minutes. So far, twenty-one people are dead and we’ve collected over five hundred shell casings.’

  ‘Jesus Christ.’ Williams sat back in his chair. ‘You know what’ll happen now, Jack.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘The old “arm the police” call will go up again.’

  Swann moved his shoulders. ‘They were all armed, Ray!’

  They sat in silence for a few minutes, then Williams said: ‘I suppose Boese’s long gone.’

  ‘We think so. So far he’s been sighted in Germany, Chile and South Africa. All at the same time.’

  ‘Usual story, then. Interpol are on it, though?’

  ‘For what it’s worth. Boese’s got more disguises and more passports than you could shake a stick at.’ Swann clasped his hands together on the desk. ‘We’ve got a body, though, Ray. Dead. One of their team, he was hit by a car on his motorbike.’

  ‘Any ID?’

  Swann shook his head. ‘Not obviously. But he’s got his blood group tattooed on his ankle.’

  ‘Soldier.’

  ‘That’s what we thought. We should be able to ID him from his fingerprints. The military will keep a record.’

  Williams nodded.

  ‘One thing about him,’ Swann went on. ‘He could really handle a motorbike. The four/two that followed him said he was stonking along like Max Biaggi.’

  ‘What’re you thinking?’

  ‘There had to be other bikes involved. We think they may’ve escaped along the towpath running from Hanwell village.’

  ‘Biker gang?’

  ‘Could be, couldn’t it.’

  Williams stood up then. ‘Wait here a minute, Jack, would you.’

  Swann sat and looked across the open-plan office—detectives and civilians and spooks from Box, all working hand in hand, trying to place and establish patterns of activity on nominals all over the country. He recognized one of the men from Special Branch, who was permanently seconded on terrorism.

  Williams came back with a file in one hand and a video cassette in the other. He sat down and passed over the file, blue and curling now at the edges. ‘Funnily enough, we’ve been gathering a bit of intel’ on a relatively new bike gang, or at least new to us.’ He looked keenly at Swann. ‘We heard that they were burying one of their dead up in Newcastle last year, so I got an SB contact to run a surveillance video as they crossed the Tyne Bridge.’ He paused and tapped the cassette case. ‘No helmets. They always like to take them off for the funeral run.’

  ‘So you got their faces?’

  ‘We did. The SB contact has a mate at the BBC. They ran the film as a news piece, so the quality is good. He passed the tape to SB who passed it to me.’ He handed it to Swann. ‘Yours to borrow, Jack. I need it back for the library.’

  ‘Who’s the gang?’ Swann asked, as he picked up the black plastic box.

  ‘That’s the really interesting bit, given what you’ve just told me. They call themselves The Regiment.’

  ‘Regiment?’

  ‘Yeah. They rarely wear their colours, but when they do, the insignia is a death’s head between two crossed M16 rifles. We haven’t ID’d them all by any means, but the ones we have are ex-soldiers.’

  Swann stared at him.

  ‘The leader is a man called David Collier. He spent three years with 22 SAS.’

  ‘Hence, The Regiment.’

  ‘Exactly.’

  Swann opened the file. ‘This what you’ve got on them so far?’

  Williams nodded. ‘I’ll get you a copy done.’ He gestured to a girl sitting in the typing pool behind his desk. She took the file and brought back a copy for Swann. ‘That, you can keep,’ Williams said. ‘The video I need to get back.’

  Swann sat at his desk and read the file in its entirety. The Regiment, according to the intelligence gatherers at NCIS, had been formed three years previously by David ‘Dog Soldier’ Collier, thirty-three years old, and a former badged member of 22 SAS. He had served for long periods in Ulster and went behind enemy lines during the Gulf War. He had left the army in 1995 and travelled for over a year, spending a considerable amount of time in the United States, Chicago and Texas, particularly. According to his file, he had always ridden a motorcycle, but had never affiliated himself to any club or gang. NCIS believed that while he was in the States he made contact with two notorious biker gangs. One was The Outlaws, who had upwards of forty chapters worldwide, and whose dubious motto was ‘God forgives, Outlaws don’t’. They had done battle with Hell’s Angels all over the world for control of drugs and criminal empires. The other gang he contacted was The Bandido Nation in Texas; again, a worldwide group who were known to run drugs and operate other criminal activities. Bandidos and Outlaws had signed a non-aggression pact in 1980 and referred to themselves as sister organizations. NCIS knew that they had affiliated groups in England.

  When he got back to the UK, Collier attended meetings (as a probationer) held by the Midland Outlaws, even though he lived in London. But he soon left them. Many of his former friends were leaving the army, and by 1996, he was forming his own motorcycle gang who were affiliated to no one. They bought a four-bedroomed, end-of-terrace house in Hounslow, West London, and fortified it as their clubhouse. Swann studied the surveillance photographs which clearly indicated the CCTV cameras that Collier had set up against intruders. Only three members lived full-time in the clubhouse, one of whom was Collier; but forty others were dotted round the country, covering most of the major cities. They operated much the same rules as other clubs, but they were very much an MG—motorcycle gang rather than a club. Their bikes had to be 750cc or over, strictly British or American. The gang members who did not live in London had to phone the clubhouse at least twice a week and attend meetings or events twice a month.

  The surveillance photos were few and far between—a couple of long-lensed shots of two members leaving the clubhouse, but apart from that there was very little. NCIS pointed out that The Regiment operated antisurveillance measures as a matter of course, came out of the clubhouse in twos, and checked the vicinity scrupulously for observation points. They rode their bikes in pairs, with an obvious ‘third eye’ scouting for surveillance. Unlike other gangs, they were not believed to be involved in drug-running, but were thought to be dealing in stolen motorbikes. Two import/export companies had been registered with Companies House, one of which had a subsidiary in Petersburg, Virginia. Swann looked at the single picture they had taken of Collier: a slim, wiry man, with dark, short hair and hard grey eyes. He was coming out of a house wearing Levis and a regular biker’s jacket. No colours, no earrings and no obvious tattoos.

  Christine Harris was in the Special Branch cell when he took the videotape to the senior officers’ room, where they had a television and video. Swann liked her; she had been their liaison with the sixteenth floor for the past six months and he knew she would’ve liked a more active role. Swann had often told her to transfer downstairs. The problem was, her bosses knew how bright she was and they wanted her in a role where she could strategize long-term operations. Swann showed her what he had got and together they went to view the film. Colson came in while they were watching it. Swann was seated forward in his chair, with his elbows on his knees and knuckles fisted under his chin. ‘What’ve you got, Jack?’

  ‘Biker gang, Guv. The Regim—’ Swann broke off. ‘Chrissie, rewind that,’ he said. She picked up the remo
te control handset and wound the tape back. ‘Stop.’ Swann pointed at the screen. ‘Forward again.’ She moved on and a biker came into view—no helmet, short-cut hair, with a neat black beard. ‘Freeze it.’ Swann got up from his seat, and, bending, he studied the image on the screen. ‘That’s our dead soldier,’ he said.

  Webb listened to all Harris had to tell him, then met McCulloch in the bar. ‘SB,’ he said as he put the phone back in his pocket. ‘Our bird’s got bugger-all money. She gets about two pounds fifty an hour from the Spar, plus her income support, child benefit and single parent benefit. The father is absent and the CSA have no record of him. She gets a rent allowance and her council tax is paid in full by social security.’ He arched his eyebrows. ‘She’s skint, Macca. No money at all.’

  Swann briefed everybody working on Operation Crow’s Flight, as the Boese break-out had been dubbed, including Webb and McCulloch when they got back to the Yard. Colson had decided that they had enough on Catherine Morgan to ask her some searching questions when she got back from wherever she was, without making a covert entry into her house. Webb had been assured by her workplace that she would return by the end of the following week. If she didn’t, they could break in then. Swann passed on all the information that he had gathered from NCIS. The technical support unit had broken the video down into stills, so they were able to check out, at least visually, each face that crossed the bridge. Five members of the troop crossing the Tyne had been identified as ex-soldiers by NCIS, each from a different regiment.

  ‘Their clubhouse is in Hounslow,’ Swann told his colleagues. ‘Gives them good communications for the M4.’ He paused, letting his sentence hang in the air. ‘NCIS have gathered quite a bit of intelligence on them and some of it has been looked at by SB. They don’t appear to have any major UK affiliations, but nobody rumbles with them. The Midland Outlaws have been known to associate with two Regiment members in Birmingham. NCIS also believe that a delegation from both the Texas and French Bandidos have visited Collier here in London.’

  ‘What’s their form?’ Webb asked. ‘Drugs?’

  Swann shook his head. ‘No. Legitimately, they bring in US import motorbikes, as well as greys from Japan and Italy. NCIS reckon they are heavily involved with stealing bikes as well, and supplying over in Europe. Bikes are nicked and probably sold pseudo-legally through their legitimate firms.’ He broke off then and his face sharpened. ‘They are, however, ex-soldiers. Collier was 22 SAS. Nobody can prove anything and the intel’ is scant, but it’s rumoured among biking circles that if you want a contract carried out, you pick up the phone to The Regiment.’

  Colson cleared his throat. ‘It’s possible that this gang performed the hit on the SEG,’ he said. ‘The attack was planned and executed with military precision. The escape on motorbikes tells a story. So far, we’ve recovered three powerful machines, all of them ringers, the index numbers don’t match the engines. The underwater search unit has recovered two more from the canal down by the Southall recreation ground. They’ve also recovered two full-face crash helmets, which are down in Lambeth right now, being swabbed for hair samples.’

  McCulloch looked doubtful. ‘They won’t get any, surely.’

  ‘They will,’ Webb cut in on him. ‘Hair sticks to the inside of crash helmets, Macca. The water won’t shift it.’

  ‘DNA,’ Tania Briggs put in.

  ‘When we’ve got something to match it with, yes.’

  Later, Swann and Webb had a drink in Los Remos, well away from the Yard, with Roberto lining up tapas and San Miguels for them. ‘The biker gang’ll be a bastard to look at, Webby,’ Swann was saying. ‘They’ve got CCTV set up and they operate a third eye every time they’re out.’

  Webb nodded, and stabbed at a piece of garlic potato with a cocktail stick. ‘There’s ways and means for everything, Jack.’ He looked sideways at him then. ‘You did bloody well.’

  ‘No.’ Swann shook his head. ‘NCIS did well. Right result that was, getting a video of them all.’

  Webb chewed potato. ‘Bikers like to show respect when they bury their dead,’ he said. ‘No doubt they phoned the Newcastle Old Bill and told them they’d be doing it.’

  They bought more beer and sat at a table. ‘How you doing, anyway?’ Webb asked him.

  ‘I’m all right.’

  ‘Missing the kids?’

  ‘Course I am. Flat’s so fucking empty without them.’

  ‘There’s no way Rachael will let you have them back again?’

  Swann lit a cigarette, inhaling sharply, and shook his head. ‘No chance. Her life’s on the rails again, isn’t it. Besides, I’m never home. I can’t remember the last time I didn’t pull any overtime.’ He drained his glass and caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror. His face looked old and empty. He looked away. ‘I still think about Pia. With Boese getting out, I think about her even more.’

  ‘She was more of a victim than anything else,’ Webb said gently. ‘She was genuine, Jack. Anyone could see that.’

  ‘You think so?’

  ‘Yes, I do. So does Caroline.’ Webb touched him lightly on the shoulder. ‘Anyway, it’s history now, mate. Time to move on.’

  ‘Yeah, I know. I need to.’ Swann sucked on his cigarette and crushed the butt in the glass ashtray on the bar.

  Webb and McCulloch went through Catherine Morgan’s bank account with a fine toothcomb. They contacted the special secure unit to speak to her brother Brynn, but he refused to talk to them. Swann went back to NCIS with the photographic stills and the file. He sat with Ray Williams and the NCIS Special Branch liaison, and began to track the handful of members they had started to profile. One week had passed since Ismael Boese had been broken out of prison, and later that morning, Swann heard that the twenty-second victim of the shooting had died; after clinging to her eighteen-year-old life for a week.

  ‘Bike gang members never speak to the police,’ Williams told him. ‘It’s part of their code, goes for all of them, right across the board—Angels, Outlaws, Bandidos, Cycle Tramps, Satan’s Slaves, the lot. They never ever give statements. There’s been a few successful infiltrations, one from SO10 in Manchester and one good one in the States: an FBI agent named Tait joined the Angels’ chapter in Anchorage, Alaska, of all places.’

  ‘What about this firm?’ Swann asked him.

  Williams made a face. ‘Doubtful. We’ve got no source there at the moment, though SB have looked. They’re too new and Collier’s an old hand. He’s done plenty of UC work himself. Box 850 used him for at least one deniable operation in South America, the year after he came out of the army.’

  ‘Where’d you find that out?’

  ‘DEA Intelligence in El Paso, Texas. It’s highly possible they still use him from time to time.’

  ‘I don’t care if he’s a full-time spook,’ Swann said. ‘If we can pin this on him, I’m going to cut his legs from under him.’

  Williams regarded him thoughtfully for a moment or two. ‘I hear the feather you lot received was addressed to you,’ he said quietly.

  ‘How the hell d’you know about that?’ Swann looked sharply at him. ‘We haven’t even released the fact that we got one.’

  Williams tapped the side of his nose. ‘This is NCIS, remember.’

  Swann relaxed and again looked at the file. ‘Who’s the girl?’ he asked. ‘This Janice Martin?’

  Williams placed both hands behind his head. ‘Gorgeous, isn’t she.’

  She was, with blonde hair that shone like gold, even in the photo, and a classically carved face with full, almost pouting lips. ‘That picture’s from her modelling days, before she started to hang around with the gang. We think she was Gringo’s old lady for a while.’ He sat forward. ‘His steady girlfriend. Property, if you like.’

  ‘Who’s Gringo?’

  Williams tapped the stills from the video: a biker with longer hair than the rest, riding directly behind Collier on a chopped Harley Davidson. ‘George Beresford, Gringo,’ Williams said. ‘He lived in
a flat with Janice for a while, then moved back to the clubhouse. She still lives in the flat. We think she’s just a mamma now, but she’s the daughter of a pretty wealthy antiques dealer from Norfolk. They use her on their trips to the States now and then, to courier over paperwork and other stuff. She can come across as very upmarket English.’ He scraped at his cheekbone with a fingernail. ‘Trouble is she has a major cocaine habit, which they don’t like at all.’ He cocked his head to one side. ‘If they have a weak link, it’s her.’

  Again Swann looked at her picture. ‘She’s certainly a babe,’ he said. ‘What’s a mamma exactly?’

  Williams made a face. ‘I once heard a mamma described as someone who has to “pull the train”; in other words, sleeps with any gang member, at any time of his choosing. No doubt, she’s fucked the lot of them.’

  Swann stared at him for a long quiet moment. He was thinking about the hairs that Lambeth had found in the crash helmets.

  Tal-Salem smoked a Turkish cigarette and drank his third cup of coffee in the Internet Café in central London. He logged on and waited, and smoked and waited, and then tapped into the system. Carefully, he scrolled the bulletin boards, first the FBI web site, and then, checking the address in his notebook, he dialled into ‘Alt. Constitutionalist’, the main US militia web site. He waited, then worked his way through the pages until he found what he hoped he would. The FBI had alluded to it in general terms in their own recent bulletins. He sat back and looked at the picture, which was grainy, in black and white, but the man’s features could just about be made out. ‘This man is dangerous and a traitor to the United States constitution,’ the inscription read. ‘Free Americans beware, Special Agent John Dollar worked undercover for two years in Idaho. Because of him Jakob Salvesen is in custody awaiting federal trial, on trumped-up federal charges. Guard against such FBI/ATF activity occurring in your territory. Remember Randy Weaver.’ Tal-Salem printed the page, complete with the picture, and folded the sheet in his wallet. Then he logged off and went back to his hotel room.