by Gulvin, Jeff
The prison was old: eighteenth century, according to Mercier. Swann gazed up at the battlement-like ramparts as the steel doors were opened and they were driven inside. Their ID was checked and rechecked, before they were led to a police interview suite in the west wing.
Swann stood with his hands on his hips, considering the table with two chairs on one side and a third bolted to the floor on the other side. Bars crisscrossed the reinforced glass of the window, both vertically and horizontally.
Swann could see pigeons huddled together on the guttering of the opposing wing. They waited for fifteen minutes, then heard the sound of heavily booted feet in the corridor outside. Somebody cursed softly, then the door was unlocked and Carlos the Jackal was carried in on a pole.
Swann stared at him, suspended like a piece of dead meat, with manacles keeping him in place. Two thickset guards held him, and they set him in the bolted-down chair. One of them watched, hand on his gun, while the other knelt and fastened the chains to the bolt loops set in the chair. All the time Carlos looked on impassively; hair brushed straight back from his head, pudgy, with still-boyish features, and a crinkled moustache lining his upper lip. He wore a blue prison overall, one piece with a zip fastener. He ignored Swann and Webb, but looked lasciviously at Logan, his tongue touching the edge of his teeth. The guards went outside and relocked the door. Carlos sat before them like a condemned man in the electric chair, his hands clasping the arms where the chains held them in place.
‘What do we call you?’ Swann said. ‘Carlos? Ilych? Mr Sanchez?’
The Jackal was still looking at Logan, who stood by the window. ‘My friends call me Carlos,’ he said to her, voice soft with a Spanish accent. His eyes were dark and a little yellowed at the edges. ‘What’s your name, my dear?’
‘Logan.’
‘And where are you from, Logan?’
‘The United States. I work for the FBI.’
‘FBI? Their special agents are much prettier than I remember.’
‘Carlos.’ Swann’s voice was sharper. ‘My name’s Swann, from Scotland Yard. We’d like to speak to you about El Kebir.’
Carlos looked at him now, directly in the eye, and Swann knew he had struck a chord.
‘You know who he is, don’t you?’
Carlos cocked his head slightly to one side. ‘El Kebir.’ He seemed to mull over the words for a moment.
‘You know who he is,’ Swann repeated.
‘Josef El Kebir.’ Carlos tried to shift position in the seat, but the chains restricted him. Again he looked at Logan. ‘So undignified,’ he said.
Swann glanced at Webb. That was the first time they had heard ‘Josef. Now the name on the passenger list made total sense. J. L. Kebir.
Carlos looked at Swann again. ‘You clearly want something from me. What can you possibly offer me in return?’
‘Nothing.’
‘That’s what I thought.’ Carlos smiled at Logan.
‘El Kebir is Storm Crow, isn’t he,’ Swann said.
‘Is he?’
‘You know he is.’
‘Do I?’
‘I think so.’ Swann leaned back in his chair. ‘What’ve you got to lose, Carlos? Why don’t you talk to me. They say El Kebir’s more dangerous than you were. That must piss you off.’
Carlos ignored him, letting his eyes and his slow smile roam the contours of Logan’s body.
Swann breathed stiffly, audibly. He looked sideways at Webb, and then at Logan. Carlos sat on the other side of the table, impassive. Again he looked at Logan. ‘You really are very pretty,’ he said.
Logan moved to the table. Webb got up and she sat down in his seat, resting one elbow on the wood and cupping her cheek with her palm.
‘Am I?’ she said. ‘You think so?’
‘Oh, yes.’
‘You like black women, Carlos?’
‘My dear, I like all women.’ He tried to lean forward, but couldn’t. ‘They like me. I’m very experienced, you see.’
‘I bet you are, honey.’ She smiled at him, lowering her gaze so her eyelashes brushed her cheek. ‘It’s just a shame you’re chained up.’
He laughed now, showing the white of his teeth. ‘And that we’re not alone.’
She looked from Swann to Webb, then back in his eyes. ‘Pretend they’re not here.’
He made a face. ‘I don’t think I can. You see, a man likes his privacy.’
‘I understand.’ She reached over and touched the back of his hand. His eyes softened. She touched him again, then sat back and folded her arms. ‘I wish there was something I could do for you.’
‘Talk,’ he said. ‘Talk is enough for now. Just to hear a woman’s voice, and such a pretty woman too.’
‘You know, you say the sweetest things.’
‘Do I?’
‘You know you do. All the ladies loved you. Carlos the Jackal, the most dangerous man in the world. What happened, baby doll, you disappeared off the face of the planet?’
‘I have many homes, my dear. I like to relax, to party, see friends, girlfriends. I grew tired of the spotlight, the world’s press speculating on my whereabouts. What I was planning next, my links with the KGB.’
‘That was all bullshit, wasn’t it,’ she said.
‘The KGB? Of course. I hated Russia, and Russian women. There, I don’t like Russian women.’
Logan laughed. ‘Tell me about Ismael Boese,’ she said. ‘You can do that much, can’t you?’
Carlos did not reply. He was looking at her now as if Swann and Webb were not there.
‘It’s my job, honey,’ Logan went on. ‘Did you hear what he did in New Orleans?’
‘A tanker. Impressive.’
‘You trained him, didn’t you, Carlos. All those years ago, when he was still just a kid. He was something of a protégé, wasn’t he?’
Carlos looked a little wistful.
‘You must’ve trained him well, because he’s giving us the run-around.’
‘He is?’
‘Oh yes. He’s led us all over the place.’
Swann was watching her, trying to decide if she was making progress or not.
‘Tell me something, Carlos,’ Logan said.
‘What’s that?’
‘Did the Jackal ever eat with the Crow?’
He looked slantedly at her then and laughed, low in his throat. ‘You’re very clever, Logan.’
‘You think so?’
‘Yes. I do. They should promote you, the FBI.’
‘Why don’t you write and tell them?’ Logan flashed her eyes at him. ‘Well, did he? Did the Jackal ever eat with the Crow?’
Carlos looked at her for a long moment, then breath escaped his nose in a sigh. ‘No, my dear, he did not.’
‘Is El Kebir the Storm Crow?’
He smiled again. ‘You are very clever, so I’ll tell you something for free,’ he said. ‘Because you’re pretty and you smell so good, and I haven’t smelt a woman for what seems like eternity.’ He paused, cocked his head to one side and looked longingly at her breasts. ‘In 1976, Josef El Kebir tried to kill me. Right after I walked away from Entebbe. Your own President Ford put a stop to it.’ Again, he tried to lean forward. ‘You see, El Kebir was CIA.’
Harrison was in Tom Kovalski’s office. He was working his way through some files when Randy Shaeffer came in and told him that Swann was on the line from Paris.
Harrison reached across Kovalski’s desk and picked up the phone. ‘Hey, Jack. What’s going on?’
‘I’m still in Paris. We just interviewed Carlos.’
‘How’d you get on? Did the old fart tell you anything?’
‘He told Logan. She was brilliant, let him think he could get in her knickers. Listen, the stuff The Cub told you about Ben Dubin?’
‘What about it?’
‘Ask him if Dubin ever used Josef El Kebir as a nom de guerre?’
‘Kebir?’ Harrison thinned his eyes. ‘That was one of the names on the flight manifest you got.�
��
‘Right.’
‘That guy don’t exist, Jack. We’ve checked everybody and he doesn’t exist.’
‘Harrison, Carlos told us that El Kebir was a CIA agent. Ben Dubin’s a CIA agent, and he was in the States on the 21st August. He could’ve been on that flight.’
For a moment Harrison was still. ‘I’ll try and get hold of The Cub. When you back in London?’
‘First thing in the morning.’
‘I’ll call you.’ Harrison put the phone down.
Tal-Salem had observed Swann, Webb and Logan leave Scotland Yard. Two Algerians, known of old to Boese, had followed them to Heathrow Airport and watched them check in for the flight to Paris. They phoned the information back to Tal-Salem. Now, he watched them return, and then he phoned Boese, who was waiting patiently in his small hotel in Perth, Scotland.
‘They went to Paris,’ Tal-Salem said.
Boese was thoughtful on the other end of the phone. ‘We have no way of knowing what they’re doing now, no way of knowing what they’ve discovered. Not until they move. Watch and wait. The timing will be everything.’
Swann and Logan were in the Special Branch cell, talking to Christine Harris. The door was open and Byrne and Webb stood in the corridor, listening. ‘Josef El Kebir,’ Swann said. ‘Storm Crow is a man called Josef El Kebir.’ He paused and looked across at Byrne. ‘According to Carlos, El Kebir was CIA.’
Byrne was still, face grave, greying hair cut so close the artificial lights reflected off the pink of his scalp. ‘And you’re thinking Dubin.’
Swann nodded. ‘Dubin was ISA, Louis. That’s pretty serious stuff.’
‘You’re not kidding. Special forces, Jack. I guess Dubin would’ve been ground intel’, though, embassy-linked. Official.’
‘He’s got a data base in Scotland the length of that corridor.’ Swann flapped a hand. ‘Every single incident that’s ever happened anywhere, as far back as the Stern Gang in the forties. Every bad guy, every government agency. He’s in and out of the State Department, Langley, and your headquarters all the time.’
Logan chewed her lip. ‘You know something, Louis,’ she said to Byrne. ‘I’ve got this most weird feeling. Carlos was allowed to roam the world by a whole bunch of governments, including ours, until his usefulness ran out. It’s possible that the CIA know about Dubin and are, at best, turning a blind eye, or, at worst, actually sanctioning it.’ She stared at Swann. ‘It wouldn’t be the first time. Special relationship or not. Friendly countries stiff each other all the time. Israel tried to fuck with us in the past. Tom Kovalski was a spy hunter before he fought terrorism. He busted two State Department guys who spied on us for Mossad.’
A cold silence fell then. Outside, the wind was blowing and it seemed to send a chill through the little room. Harris had her computer running. ‘January 1976,’ she said, indicating the screen. ‘CIA plot to assassinate Carlos the Jackal. An ex-PFLP terrorist was hired for ten thousand dollars to carry out the hit. The deal was brokered in a hotel room in Athens. It was only aborted after President Ford decided to cancel all future CIA liquidation operations.’ She thought for a moment then. ‘Leave me alone a minute,’ she said. ‘I want to talk to Box.’
They left her and trooped back to the squad room. ‘What do we do now?’ Webb asked.
Swann stared out of the window. ‘I don’t know.’ He glanced at Colson. ‘What d’you want to do about Dubin, sir?’
‘Nothing yet.’ Colson lifted his hands at his sides. ‘What can we do, Jack? You’ve told me that Storm Crow is a CIA agent called El Kebir. You haven’t shown me how that man is Dr Benjamin Dubin.’
Swann took Logan down to the canteen and they ate some food. Swann picked at his, not really interested, but poured his third cup of coffee. Logan looked over the rim of her cup at him.
‘Jack, your insides are gonna rot.’
‘Probably.’
His pager sounded at his side and he turned the display to look at it. ‘Chrissie wants us upstairs,’ he said.
The squad room was a buzz of excitement when they got back up there. Christine Harris held a sheet of printed computer paper in her hand, and Byrne stood reading it over her shoulder. Harris looked up as Swann and Logan came in.
‘What is it?’ Swann asked her.
Harris handed him the paper. ‘I talked to Box 500,’ she told him. ‘Then I did some checking of my own. Special Branch airport-entry records, February 1976.’ She cocked one eyebrow. ‘MI6 received a tip-off in February 1976 that a CIA operative was passing through Heathrow on his way to Athens. Seems we might’ve been in on the deal to kill Carlos, as well. Why not, he’d already shot Edward Sieff and bombed an Israeli bank in the City.’
‘What’re you saying, Chrissie?’
‘I’m saying that Josef El Kebir came through Heathrow on his way to call off the PFLP hitman in Greece. Box 500 told us, and the Special Branch team pulled him at the airport. They had a little chat, as we like to do. Then they sent him on his way.’
‘And?’
‘And later we identified him through MI6. His name was Benjamin Dubin.’
Boese rang St Andrews University. Nothing had happened since Tal-Salem had contacted him after the police returned from Paris. Boese had decided to gamble. If he was wrong, it would not matter. He would just move on to other options. ‘I’d like to speak with Dr Dubin, please,’ he said. ‘Department of political relations.’
‘One moment.’ The operator connected him and he waited, moisture on his lip, recalling the darkness of the Spanish projects in Arlington and the chill voice from the rooftop. Dubin had been in Washington at that time. Dubin had interviewed the Jackal and Dubin had been in the special secure unit at Reading Prison last October.
‘Dr Dubin’s office.’ A woman’s voice.
‘I’d like to speak with Ben, please.’
‘I’m afraid you can’t, sir. He’s away.’
Boese closed one hand into a fist. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘This is Dr Burden at Columbia University in New York. I was really hoping to catch him.’
‘That will be impossible for the next couple of days, at least. He’s taken some of his students on a walking trip to Ben Nevis.’
‘Thank you. I’ll call him when he gets back.’ Boese hung up, picked up his bag and walked downstairs.
Swann phoned Harrison in Washington. ‘Forget my last request,’ he said.
‘Why, what’s happened?’
Swann told him. ‘It’s Dubin, JB. We got it from Carlos, and it was confirmed by Special Branch over here.’ He let air hiss from between his teeth. ‘No wonder he wanted to perpetuate the myth about Boese. It all makes sense now. The prison visit. That’s when Boese knew he’d been betrayed. He was waiting for something, some sign. Dubin never gave him one. He just wanted to gloat. Think about it, JB. He’d already written a book on Carlos. Add to that, one on Storm Crow, and suddenly he’s got a reason to start having a lot of money, all those royalties flowing in.’
‘Makes sense, Jack.’ Harrison paused for a moment. ‘You heard anything on that handwriting I beamed over?’
‘Not yet.’
Swann put the phone down and then dialled the number of St Andrews University. He spoke at length with Dubin’s secretary. She told him that Dubin was up north and then she said: ‘You’re the second person to ask about him in as many minutes.’
Swann felt sweat break out on his brow. ‘I am?’ he said quickly. ‘Who was the other one?’
‘Somebody from Columbia University in New York. Dr Burden, he said his name was.’
Swann thought for a moment. ‘Did he sound American?’
She hesitated. ‘Well, I suppose so, yes.’
‘Where exactly is Dr Dubin?’
‘He’s staying in Fort William, the Eil Hotel. It’s beautiful, right on the banks of the loch.’
Swann put the phone down and wiped the moisture from his palm on his thigh. He turned back to the others. ‘Dubin’s on a walking holiday and I’
m the second person to ask about him in as many minutes.’ He sat for a moment longer, looked at his watch, then picked up the phone again. He spoke to international directory enquiries and asked for the number of Columbia.
‘Dr Burden, please,’ he said, when the line was answered.
‘What department, sir?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘One moment.’
He waited while the telephonist checked her listings.
‘I’m sorry, sir,’ she said. ‘We don’t have a Dr Burden registered at this campus.’
‘You sure?’
‘Absolutely positive.’
‘Of course you are.’ Swann stared at the faces of his colleagues ‘Thank you,’ he said, and put the phone down.
He took the briefing in the conference room, planning exactly what they were going to do. Boese had led them to this: primed Jorge Vaczka, and probably watched them fly to Paris. After that, it didn’t take a genius to figure things out. Black team from SO19 had been tasked and they had got to the Yard as quickly as possible, vans and Range Rovers all ready to go. The commander was on the telephone to the local police, letting them know that he was sending an armed team into their area to make an arrest. His Scottish counterpart was not very happy about a bunch of armed Londoners on his turf, but Garrod reminded him of his nationwide terrorism jurisdiction. A nice way of saying there was nothing he could do about it. When the short briefing was over, Swann looked at his watch: two-thirty already. The team would be helicoptered from the roof of the Yard to Lippetts Hill, north-east of London. From there, they would fly in a fixed wing to Inverness and drive south.
Logan phoned Kovalski and told him what had happened. She told him about the CIA connection and almost felt the shudder run down his spine.
‘Oh God, Chey,’ he said. ‘Let’s just hope he’s a lone wolf gone bad.’
‘You’ll soon know if he isn’t,’ she said. ‘Because we’re about to pop him.’
‘He’s a rogue player, Chey. He’s got to be. There’s no way the CIA would sanction an attack on London.’
