Nom de Guerre

by Gulvin, Jeff

  Gently, he took the dead man in his arms and laid him face down on top of the ridge. He felt the threat of tears as he fumbled with the backpack, reaching to the base of his back for the money belt and passport. He lifted away the jacket and saw the butt of a 9mm pistol pushing against the waistband of his trousers. With a cry in his throat, he rolled the body over. He stared at those dead eyes, the blond hair, the white skin. And then he prised his thumb into the flesh of that face. His thumb stuck, then gave and came away with strips of pink latex sticking to it, like flaps of dead skin. Swann tore at the face, pulling away the mask, until Boese’s dark skin was exposed. His eyes were still blue and they were still open, but they were no longer laughing at him.

  29

  WEBB AND THE FIREARMS team flew straight back to London, but Swann remained behind. Logan’s bleeding had been stopped by the rescue team as she was airlifted to hospital. The wound was clean, with minimal muscle damage, but she was going to be in hospital for a few days at least, before they would allow her to move. Swann was floating—the rush of adrenalin, the death of both Storm Crow and Boese. He would’ve liked to see them in court, but they had escaped him twice and perhaps justice had been done today. He sat by Logan’s bed and held her hand while she slept. Then he dozed too, and when he lifted his head, she was looking at him with a softness in the black of her eyes.

  ‘Hi, baby,’ she said. ‘You OK?’

  Swann nodded. ‘What about you?’

  ‘Just fine.’ She smiled. ‘You made the climb?’

  ‘I did, didn’t I.’ He paused, looking beyond her for a moment. ‘Boese’s dead. I shot him on that ridge.’ He looked back at her then. ‘Brady’s dead too, Chey. He died in that ice chimney, right there. His fault, his idea. All I ever tried to do was save him.’ He sat back in the chair and all of a sudden he laughed. Then he leaned over the bed and kissed her. ‘I love you,’ he said.

  She touched his face and winced, shooting pain rippling up her arm.

  ‘You OK?’ He cupped her cheek with his palm.

  ‘I’m fine. A little uncomfortable is all.’ She laughed then, lightly. ‘You know what’s funny, Jack?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I’ve been a Fed for seven years now and I’ve been in lots of bad situations. I’ve had my gun out more than once, but it takes a second-hand bullet to plug me.’

  Atwood called Harrison and told him The Cub would meet him in a bar off 21st Street. Harrison went up to the eleventh floor and collected Kovalski. The Cub was on his own, drinking from a bottle of beer in a corner, where he could keep an eye on the entire room. He wore jeans and boots, a Pendleton hat set low over his eyes. Harrison bought beers, and he and Kovalski sat on stools for a while, checking who was watching whom, then they slid into the seat opposite him. The Cub stared into Kovalski’s eyes. Harrison took a Marlboro from his shirt pocket and introduced Kovalski. The Cub continued to stare into his eyes. Kovalski looked right back and then The Cub extended his hand.

  Harrison tapped the ash from the end of the cigarette. ‘So, what did you get for me, bro?’

  The Cub bunched his eyes and sat back, tapping a tin of chewing tobacco against his thigh. ‘Dubin wasn’t on that flight on August 21st,’ he said. ‘D.C. to Detroit. The Jonathan Institute was told he was flying from the UK to the States, but that was just cover. I know, because he was in Pakistan with me.’

  Harrison stared at him.

  ‘That’s number one,’ The Cub went on. ‘Number two. He only used the name of Josef El Kebir twice.’

  ‘You’re sure?’

  ‘As far as I can figure. The first time was in 1976. You know about that. He ran the operation to kill the Jackal until Ford told us to quit it.’

  ‘And the second time?’ Harrison asked him.

  The Cub smiled, but not with his eyes. ‘The second time is real interesting, Harrison.’ He placed a fingerful of chew under his lip. ‘Beirut, 1985. Dubin had been put in after the marine barracks got blowed to fuck. I told you already, the guy speaks Arabic like a native and he can pass for Middle Eastern with no problem at all. Anyways, he dug around a little bit, gathering intel’ here and there, and he found out who was behind the suicide attack. A guy called Sheik Mohammed Fadlallah. Given that he killed two hundred and thirty-eight of ours, we decided to hit him.’ He paused long enough to sip from his beer bottle and check the tables closest for potential eavesdroppers. ‘Interesting thing happened,’ he went on. ‘About that time, the DIA were considering recruiting a young marine, who’d been at the barracks when it was bombed. I guess the suits figured Dubin could use some help, and military intelligence wanted to see how this young guy performed in the field. On March 1st, 1985, thirty-six US citizens, who were working with the UN, got evacuated real quick. One week later, a motherfucker of a car bomb goes off right in the middle of the Shiite suburb where Dubin had located Fadlallah. Eighty people got killed and two hundred more were injured. Unfortunately, not Fadlallah. I guess an hour or so later, a banner was hung up on one of the bombed-out buildings. It said: “Made in the USA.”’

  The Cub stopped talking as a cocktail waitress offered them more drinks, then he sat forward again. ‘I don’t know why they fucked up, boys, but it sure as hell wasn’t Dubin’s fault. That guy’s intelligence was as good as anybody’s ever seen. He was and is a prize CIA asset. The marine on the other hand, well, he never did cut it with the DIA. Dubin sent a report back on him, saying he wasn’t suitable for covert operations.’

  ‘So he came back to the States and joined the FBI.’ Kovalski’s face was grey. ‘Louis Byrne,’ he said.

  ‘You got it, daddy.’ The Cub looked him in the eye. ‘Dubin ain’t your bad guy,’ he said. ‘But I figure you know that already. Byrne knew the name El Kebir as far back as 1985.’

  They met Angie Byrne in the Seaport Bar in old town Alexandria, after they left The Cub. Kovalski told her what they had discovered. ‘The British are convinced that Ben Dubin was Storm Crow,’ he said. ‘Case closed as far as they’re concerned.’

  ‘You’ve said nothing to them?’ Angie asked him.

  ‘Not so far.’

  Angie was very quiet, but the tiredness had gone from her eyes. She looked at the sample handwriting that Kovalski had shown her from copies of the bank forms. ‘This is his handwriting,’ she said. ‘He likes to print capital letters. He always has.’

  ‘There’s millions of dollars in those accounts, Angie,’ Kovalski said.

  She made a face, lip quivering just fractionally. She sucked at a breath. Neither Harrison or Kovalski spoke; the silence awkward and stretched.

  ‘Louis was always bitter about not going further in the service,’ Angie said at last. ‘He had a yearning to work overseas, and he thought he could do everything so much better than anyone else.’

  ‘Well, he sure did a number on Dubin,’ Harrison said. ‘For such a top CIA guy, he was suckered in big time.’

  ‘Without him ever knowing it,’ Kovalski added. ‘Louis’s worked him over ever since 1985, Angie. He knew that if we ever got through the myth that Boese was Storm Crow, there was always El Kebir in the background.’

  ‘It’s terrifying.’ Angie shuddered. ‘My own husband. He’s been bad since before I ever met him. I never had any idea till that night in my bedroom. He should’ve taken his wedding ring off.’

  Harrison lit a cigarette. ‘He shouldn’t have come at all,’ he said. ‘But he knew what Boese was doing. I guess he wanted to push us towards the second person—Dubin.’ He blew cigarette smoke at the ceiling. ‘Some of it was vanity, though. That’s what Boese figured on. Vanity fucks you over in the end. It got to Louis, just like it did to Carlos.’ He sipped at his bottle of beer. ‘He should’ve let things run their course. But I guess Boese musta pissed him off.’ He broke off then. ‘If Boese hadn’t got his own contingency plan, he would have rotted in jail as Storm Crow. Louis would’ve kept his millions, killed his own creation, and been fêted as the best FBI agent since Joe Pistone.’ He pa
used for a moment and blew the air from his cheeks. ‘Was he jealous of you, Angie, earning all that money? That why he did this?’

  ‘He’s been jealous of somebody all of his life,’ she said. ‘His father, his elder brother, me. Clearly, Benjamin Dubin.’ She sipped from her glass of wine. ‘He’ll have guessed that Dubin sent back a bad report. And he’ll have nursed that grudge from that day to this.’

  ‘Can I ask you another question?’ Kovalski said.

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘Tal-Salem, Boese’s cohort, was digging into the events surrounding the first chemical strike in England.’ He looked at the notes laid out on the table. ‘The records say that Louis used the diplomatic pouch when you and he went over.’

  ‘That’s right, he did.’

  ‘What did he put in it, d’you know?’

  ‘Only his attaché case.’ She paused then for a second. ‘No. A pair of binoculars.’

  ‘Binoculars?’ Harrison screwed up his face. ‘In the diplomatic pouch?’

  ‘Yes. He had them in London, but we didn’t pack them at home.’ Angie looked at Kovalski again. ‘Why?’

  ‘Did you see them?’

  ‘What d’you mean?’

  ‘Did he use them, take them out of the case?’

  ‘I can’t remember. Come to think of it, I don’t think he did.’

  Kovalski looked at Harrison.

  ‘You’re thinking pirillium crystal,’ Harrison said. ‘And how it got to England.’

  Swann flew back to London with Logan, her arm in a sling, but ready to travel home. The case was officially closed and the souls of sixteen police officers and six civilians could finally rest in peace. Swann felt happier than he had done in years. He, Logan and his children spent a gloriously relaxed weekend together, before she flew back to Washington.

  The morning Logan and Byrne were due to leave, Swann received the information he had requested from the Questioned Document Section at Lambeth. He read their report carefully and then phoned Harrison.

  ‘It’s the same, JB,’ he said. ‘They think the Winthrop directions match, and are certain of the transfer forms. Whose writing is it? Dubin’s?’

  ‘Watch CNN, duchess. Make sure you’re sitting down.’

  ‘What’s going on?’

  ‘I’ll explain later, buddy. Better that way, believe me.’

  Swann looked across the squad room at Logan. ‘Does all this mean you’re going to leave the Bureau?’ he asked.

  Harrison’s voice was low. ‘Well, let’s just say I don’t got no reason to stick around any more.’

  Swann was all at once disturbed. ‘What aren’t you telling me, Harrison?’

  ‘Not a good time, Jack. Later.’

  ‘OK. But are you going to leave?’ Swann asked.

  Harrison sighed heavily. ‘You know what—I never worked abroad, Jack. And there’s a deputy leg-att’s job coming up in London.’

  Swann didn’t say anything for a moment and then he smiled to himself. ‘You know what, JB,’ he said. ‘If I were you, I wouldn’t bother going for it.’

  ‘No, why’s that?’

  ‘Because you’d have to cut your hair.’

  ‘Is that right? Nothing to do with the fact that I ain’t beautiful, black and female then, huh.’

  They both laughed then.

  ‘She’s coming back here first, though, right?’ Harrison said. ‘Kovalski’ll chew her butt off if she don’t.’

  ‘She’s coming back. Tell him not to worry.’

  ‘What time they get in?’

  ‘Three-thirty, your time.’

  ‘Tell them we’ll be at Dulles to meet them.’

  Swann shifted the phone to his other ear. ‘Listen, Harrison, much as I hate to, I have to tell you. Even with your fits of pique, it was a pleasure working with you.’

  ‘Likewise, duchess. Later.’ Harrison put down the phone.

  Swann drove them to Terminal 3, and Byrne discreetly made himself scarce while Swann said his goodbyes to Logan. They held each other for a long time and Swann was careful not to disturb her shoulder. He felt sad and yet more hopeful than he had ever felt, and he kissed her tenderly on the mouth. Everything was ahead of him now. Some doors had been closed for ever and others had been opened. Logan touched him on the lips with a finger. ‘I love you, Jack Swann,’ she said. ‘Don’t you ever forget it.’

  Swann held her in his arms one last time. ‘Just get the job, and get yourself over here.’

  ‘I will. Just you wait for me.’ She kissed him again. Byrne was looking at his watch. ‘Gotta go. Love you, baby. Always.’

  Swann stood with his hands in his pockets, staring after her until she disappeared into the departure lounge. Then he walked back to his car.

  On the flight, they relaxed in business class. Byrne ordered single malt whiskies and they touched glasses. ‘Here’s to a job well done,’ he said. ‘And remember, Cheyenne, the Director’s a friend of mine. That leg-att’s job is yours.’

  ‘I know it is, Louis.’ She settled back then, exhausted again, and quickly fell asleep.

  Byrne covered her with a blanket and watched the world below through the window, He ordered another shot of whisky and smiled to himself. ‘Here’s to El Kebir,’ he whispered, and drained the glass in one.

  At Dulles Airport, they transferred into the high-wheeled shuttle bus and crossed the tarmac to the arrivals lounge. Byrne was smiling as he loaded both their cases on to a trolley and pushed them through the customs hall. He saw Kovalski and Harrison and waved across the concourse. Kovalski, stony-faced, lifted a hand. Harrison just stared at him and spat into a Coke can.

  About the Author

  Jeff Gulvin is the author of nine novels and is currently producing a new series set in the American West. His previous titles include three books starring maverick detective Aden Vanner and another three featuring FBI agent Harrison, as well as two novels originally published under the pseudonym Adam Armstrong, his great-grandfather’s name. He received acclaim for ghostwriting Long Way Down, the prize-winning account of a motorcycle trip from Scotland to the southern tip of Africa by Ewan McGregor and Charley Boorman. The breadth of Gulvin’s fiction is vast, and his style has been described as commercial with just the right amount of literary polish. His stories range from hard-boiled crime to big-picture thriller to sweeping romance.

  Half English and half Scottish, Gulvin has always held a deep affection for the United States. He and his wife spend as much time in America as possible, particularly southern Idaho, their starting point for road-trip research missions to Nevada, Texas, or Louisiana, depending on where the next story takes them.

  Acknowledgments

  The author would like to thank:

  Special Agent Ken Piernick, Domestic Terrorism, FBI.

  The New Orleans Field Office, FBI.

  Rex Tomb and Ed Cogswell, Fugitive Publicity, FBI.

  Also:

  Tony Thompson

  Bruce Hoffman

  &

  Freer Richardson

  Glossary

  ANO Abu Nidal Organization

  ARV armed response unit

  ASAC assistant special agent in charge

  ATF Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms (Bureau of)

  BKA Bundeskriminalamt

  Box 500 MI5

  Box 850 MI6

  CAD computer-aided dispatch

  CASKU Child Abduction and Serial Killer Unit

  CJIS Criminal Justice Information Services

  CP command post

  DEA Drug Enforcement Administration

  DIA Defense Intelligence Agency

  DOD Department of Defense

  DST Direction de Surveillance Territoire

  ERT evidence response team

  ETA estimated time of arrival

  FEMA Federal Emergency Management Agency

  FEST Foreign Emergency Search Team

  GBI Georgia Bureau of Investigation

  GS15 government service grade 15

  H
RT Hostage Rescue Team

  NCIC National Crime Information Center

  NCIS National Criminal Intelligence Service

  NOPD New Orleans Police Department

  NYPD New York Police Department

  All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this ebook onscreen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 1998 by Jeff Gulvin

  Cover design by Barbara Brown

  978-1-4804-1855-4

  This edition published in 2013 by Open Road Integrated Media

  345 Hudson Street

  New York, NY 10014

  www.openroadmedia.com

  EBOOKS BY JEFF GULVIN

  FROM OPEN ROAD MEDIA

  Available wherever ebooks are sold

  Open Road Integrated Media is a digital publisher and multimedia content company. Open Road creates connections between authors and their audiences by marketing its ebooks through a new proprietary online platform, which uses premium video content and social media.