Storm Crow Read online

  Storm Crow

  A Harrison & Swann Thriller

  Jeff Gulvin

  I’d like to say a special thanks to my agent and friend, Ben Camardi, whose support, consistency, and advice has allowed my career to keep rolling when it looked like the roads were closed.

  Contents

  Prologue

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24

  25

  26

  27

  28

  29

  Acknowledgments

  Glossary

  A Biography of Jeff Gulvin

  For Humphrey Price

  ‘… Militia members believe that the US government is part of a conspiracy to create a new world order … existing boundaries will be dissolved and the world will be ruled by the United Nations. Last year some of these militants continued to conduct paramilitary training and stockpile weapons.’

  ‘Terrorism in the United States’

  Terrorist Research and Analytical Center,

  National Security Division,

  Federal Bureau of Investigation

  PROLOGUE

  August 1996

  THE IRISHMAN SAT ON the balcony of the Chart House restaurant overlooking the Potomac River. If he thought about it, he could hear the traffic on Woodrow Wilson Bridge. A wasp hovered over his beer glass and for a moment he watched it, then flicked it away with lazy fingers, FTQ tattooed on his knuckles. He looked briefly at his watch as the Cherry Blossom steamer bumped against the jetty. It was white with yellow-piped trim, a riverboat whose massive sun-coloured paddle gleamed in the brilliance of a sky with no cloud. He checked his watch again. One-fifteen. Lifting the glass he drank, the beer crisp and dry at the back of his throat.

  Boats shifted with the mud-coloured water that ebbed from the wake of another, passing down the river. The Irishman watched two girls in shorts and T-shirts sitting at the table along from him. He could smell their cigarette smoke and he wrinkled his nose in disgust. He tapped his fingernails on the table top and glanced at the mobile telephone next to the stem of his glass.

  Two hours previously he had been sitting in the White Lion bar. It was cramped, slightly run-down, not the sort of place he would normally go. Billy the barman played rugby, read rugby reports from a stool and flexed his muscles. The Irishman sat upstairs on his own, reading the Washington Post and listening to the hubbub of students downstairs, and to Billy being accosted by the Coors sales girl with her three kids and no husband. She hung on his arm as he poured glasses of Bud or MGD or Newcastle Brown Ale for the regulars. The Irishman watched Kuhlmann below him. Kuhlmann had no idea he was there.

  An hour before that he was in Dean and Deluca’s, sitting at a marble-topped table, dipping a bagel into cappuccino, while two men from the FBI sat deep in conversation only a table away. The Hoover building was right around the corner and mini debriefs or private conversations quite often took place in here. The deli was downstairs, below street level. It had a wide chequer-board floor, with mock marble tables and a huge metal counter, and pipes like the tentacles of some metallic monster disappearing into the wall. The Irishman liked to sit there and watch the Feds talking to themselves. He had phoned Kuhlmann from the call box on Pennsylvania Avenue, and that brought a smile to his face.

  He sipped more beer and watched the boats lifting again with the swell. Humid August sunshine; he could feel it begin to burn his face. Lifting a booted foot to the vacant chair in front of him, he gazed down river towards the city. He could see the Observatory and the Boiling Air Base from this vantage point. A woman with heavy make-up walked past him. She dropped a half-finished cigarette on to the deck where it slipped between two slats and stuck, the smoke rising to irritate him yet again. He watched her go, oblivious to the hazard she left in her wake. Gold-coloured hair, brushed under her cheeks, white T-shirt over white pants overfilled with sagging, loose buttocks. Leaning forward, he poured beer over the cigarette and in the same moment looked towards the flagpole. Kuhlmann walked up from King Street.

  Bruno Kuhlmann had been sitting on the grassy square within the confines of the law school, talking to some girls he used to know, when the call came in on his cellphone. He rolled on to his stomach, facing away from them as he answered. ‘Yeah?’

  ‘Torpedo Factory Arts Center in Alexandria. D’ye know it?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘There’s a flagpole just in front of it. In fact, there’s two. Stand underneath the one flying the Stars and Stripes at exactly two-fifteen this afternoon. I’ll meet you there.’

  The phone went dead before he had a chance to say anything else. He switched it off and looked back at the girls. ‘You guys wanna beer?’

  They had gone to the White Lion where Billy wore T-shirts and mimicked Patrick Swayze, not in the way he spoke but the way he looked, the way he stood. Kuhlmann used to listen to him go on about rugby, the latest imported sport. Contact, more contact than football. He nodded and smiled; said nothing and thought what a sad fuck he was.

  He had left the girls in the bar and bought a five-dollar pass for the Metro at Foggy Bottom Station. From there he went down the Blue line and got off at Braddock Road. He could have gone on to King and walked straight down, but today was D-Day and he wanted to be especially careful; so he had bisected the streets from Braddock to Waterfront Park. August Sunday and bikers in leather cruised King Street. Wannabe good old boys with gleaming fifteen-thousand-dollar motorcycles, piss-pot helmets and drooping moustaches. Kuhlmann was clean-shaven, his hair longer now and blond, but that was for a reason. He silently mocked the Harley riders, leather-clad on a Sunday, and lawyers and doctors come Monday.

  He came out at King and Royal and looked at his watch. One-twenty. That gave him time enough. He knew the area but he had not been here in a while and he needed to check his exit routes, just in case he needed them.

  There were two entrances to the waterfront from King, one through the shopping mall, one slightly nearer the river in front of the Dominion. The guy with the water glasses was there, quite a crowd around him as he dipped his fingers and played tunes on the rims. They were not bad: the guy had talent, you had to say that, more than most of the so-called entertainers who hung out here on a Sunday. From where he stood on King Street he could see the flagpole and the girl who rode the unicycle, entertaining kids. The way out was clear this end. He checked the mall and figured he’d spot anyone who shouldn’t have been there. The other side of the Dominion was water, so no exit there. That only left the far end of the park itself, beyond the Chart House restaurant.

  From the Chart House balcony, the Irishman sipped a fresh glass of beer and watched Kuhlmann carefully quarter the area. Ex-army, Explosives Ordnance Disposal. He must have done some covert exercises if none of the real thing—by the time EOD got involved, covert wasn’t what was wanted.

  Kuhlmann marked out the territory, though, and the Irishman silently acknowledged the action. He sat and watched. With long black hair and a red bandana wrapped about his throat like a gypsy, the Irishman wore a leather waistcoat over his T-shirt, fading Levis and cowboy boots. Half a beard and black-lensed Ray-Bans. Kuhlmann walked the length of the boardwalk and disappeared round the other side of the restaurant. Fifteen minutes later, he came back from the mall and stopped under the flagpole. From the breast pocket of his jacket he took cigarettes and cupped
his hand to the breeze as he lit one. The Irishman looked at his watch. Not time yet. As if on cue Kuhlmann looked in both directions then sauntered up the steps of the restaurant, walking past him and on into the bar. He reappeared with a bottle of Miller in his hand and leaned on the rail not ten paces from the Irishman’s table. The Irishman slipped the phone into his pocket and stared up at the sky.

  He could smell Kuhlmann’s cigarette. Rob Whiteley. That’s what Kuhlmann called himself when he was talking, quite a bit of talk now since all this began. Today would be the day when talking ceased. Kuhlmann looked at his watch, drew stiffly on his cigarette and let go smoke, most of which blew across the Irishman’s table. Not once did Kuhlmann look at him.

  At precisely fifteen minutes after two, Kuhlmann finished his beer and walked back to the flagpole. The Irishman took the cloned cellphone from his pocket and dialled. He spoke without looking round.

  ‘You’re on time.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Murphy’s bar on King Street. Ten minutes from now. Order two pints of Guinness and make sure he pours it slow. Guinness takes time to pour. Tell him not to hurl it in like water.’

  ‘Whatever you say.’

  ‘Sit at the back of the bar, to the side of the cigarette machine. I’ll make myself known to you.’

  He switched off the phone and sat back in the chair. The wind had got up and the river slopped against the jetty. The Cherry Blossom moved on her ropes. He allowed two minutes, then rose and looked round. Kuhlmann was gone. He stepped down to the jetty and wandered round the back of the restaurant. A couple arm in arm were having their photograph taken in front of the riverboat. He smiled and nodded and wandered to the steamer, where he inspected the shine on her paintwork. Taking the cellphone from his pocket, he dropped it into the water. He stood a moment longer, pushed a hand through his hair, then walked up past the Arts Center.

  Murphy’s bar was dimly lit, a lot of people still out to lunch. Most of the tables were taken, but Kuhlmann had secured the correct one just to the side of the cigarette machine. He sat facing him, with a view over the whole room, two tall glasses of blackening Guinness before him. The Irishman moved the length of the bar where every stool was taken, people eating and drinking. He caught snatches of English accents from two men counting coins.

  Kuhlmann lifted his eyebrows as the Irishman sat down. ‘You were at the Chart House.’

  The Irishman sat across from him and looked at the Guinness. He rested both palms flat on the table, head half-cocked like a dog. The beer still had not settled. ‘Did ye do like I asked?’

  ‘Slow, right?’

  ‘It doesn’t look slow.’

  Kuhlmann grinned then. ‘Not like in Dublin, eh?’

  The Irishman stared at him through the black of his glasses. ‘Never been to Dublin.’

  ‘Belfast then.’ Kuhlmann had that smug look on his face. ‘I had a feeling we’d be talking Irish.’

  The Irishman leaned closer to him. ‘How do you know we are?’

  Kuhlmann stared at his fingers, the tattooed letters in blue. ‘Fuck the Queen,’ he said.

  ‘Ah, but whose queen?’

  Kuhlmann lifted his eyebrows. ‘Anyway, I was told American.’

  ‘Were you now?’

  Kuhlmann sipped the Guinness and made a face. ‘I hate this stuff.’ He pushed the glass away and took out his cigarettes. He had half taken one out when the Irishman suddenly leaned over and closed his hand over the pack.

  ‘Don’t smoke,’ he said. ‘I really don’t like it, and people are eating in here.’

  Kuhlmann stared at him for a moment, then at the crushed pack of Marlboro Lights. His first instinct was to hit him, but the Irishman sat there with his elbows on the table and stared at him through sunglasses. Kuhlmann could not see his eyes.

  ‘OK, let’s cut to the chase,’ he said. ‘My man wants to know—do we have a deal?’

  ‘No.’

  Kuhlmann narrowed his eyes. ‘What d’you mean—no?’

  ‘Exactly what I say. We were paid more than that in Mexico, and that was just a few mortars.’

  ‘Look,’ Kuhlmann said. ‘I don’t make the prices.’

  ‘Then maybe someone else should be sitting here.’ The Irishman steepled fingers in front of his face. ‘Either way, the price isn’t good enough.’

  Kuhlmann wiped froth from his lip and leaned his elbows on the table. ‘Listen, Mr Irish or whatever your name is, it’s a fair price. If you don’t want it …’

  ‘You’ll get somebody else?’ The Irishman leaned towards him suddenly, and the chill in his voice made the hairs rise on Kuhlmann’s neck. ‘I don’t think so. The price is the ten million dollars stated. No negotiation. We have plenty of customers and there’s no urgency about our business.’ He paused then and looked at him. ‘But I gather there is for you. It’s been forty years already.’

  Kuhlmann ran his tongue round the line of his mouth. ‘How’m I gonna justify ten million dollars to him?’

  The Irishman creased his lips. ‘I’ll tell you, Bruno. Shall I?’

  Kuhlmann stiffened. ‘My name’s Rob.’

  ‘No it’s not. You like people to think it is, but your real name is Bruno. Last name—Kuhlmann. Your father’s name was Jens and your mother’s Heike. You were born in 1973. August. Your birthday was last Tuesday. Happy birthday, Bruno. You graduated in Dayton, Ohio, and after college you joined the US Army. Explosives Ordnance Disposal. Your last posting was at the Navy EOD school at Indian Head, just down the river there. You worked as an instructor under Sergeant Robert G. Gittings. You got a scholarship to George Washington University to study electronics to Master’s level and you graduated last year. No problem—with your EOD background.’ He sat back and sipped beer. ‘You moved back to Ohio, but got bored, so ye drifted a wee bit. Michigan, Illinois and then Buffalo, Wyoming. You met our mutual friend at a gun show in Twin Falls, Idaho. You like survivalist magazines and you surf the Internet web sites. “Alt. Constitutionalist” and “2nd Amendment” mostly. You once submitted an open letter entitled “America Awake”.’

  Kuhlmann was staring wide-eyed at him. ‘Your girlfriend’s name is Susan,’ the Irishman went on, ‘but she’s just Wednesdays and Fridays. You sleep with Jackie on Saturdays and you’ve got your eye on a wee lassie called Rosanne whenever you come over here. You had a drink with her and a friend of hers—Stacey her name is—today, at the White Lion bar. Diana was there. I don’t know if you know Diana, she’s the Coors sales girl who hangs around wi’ Billy.’ He grinned then and rubbed at his tattooed knuckles. ‘But that’s small fry, isn’t it. Shall I tell you what else we know?’

  Kuhlmann smarted then, a faint flicker in his eyes.

  ‘You’re the John Doe from Atlanta.’

  Kuhlmann’s face was cold. He did not say anything. The Irishman drained the rest of his Guinness and pulled Kuhlmann’s unwanted glass towards him. ‘We know everything there is to know about your man. We know what companies he runs, which ones are dummy and how he uses banks to front him with discretionary trust funds. We know about his interests in the steel industry, and in gold. We know what he does in Paraguay. We know about the hotels in Europe and the mills in Finland. We even know about the licensing problems he’s been having with the Finnish government. You see, they like to control their paper industry. It’s about all they’ve got up there.’ Again he sipped beer. ‘Still, shouldn’t cause him too much of a problem, not as if it’s a big part of the empire. Last count, Bruno, your man there was worth five billion dollars.’ He shook his head and smiled. ‘Now, I think you’ll agree we’re worth the ten million.’

  ‘I thought it was a him, not a we.’

  ‘Him, them, us, her. Who knows, Bruno? Who indeed knows. But I think you understand what I’m saying.’ He smiled again and stood up. ‘You’ve got twenty-four hours to think about it. Twenty-four hours to talk to your man. Put the answer in the usual place and somebody’ll collect it.’ He glanced about the room, then h
e took a long, slim envelope from inside his waistcoat and dropped it in front of Kuhlmann. ‘Give that to your man as a keepsake.’

  After he had gone Kuhlmann wiped sweat from his palms on his jeans. He took a cigarette from the crushed pack and noticed that his hand shook as he lit it. He glanced at the envelope, then picked it up. It was light, as if there was nothing inside, but he could feel something. He slid his finger the length of the flap, peered inside and his palms were moist once again. A single black crow’s feather.

  The Irishman walked the length of King Street, then turned off for the Seaport bar. He went inside with his hands in his pockets. The familiar flagstone floor and dimly lit bar area: he could smell the coffee from the back of the room. The barman nodded to him.

  ‘Gimme an MGD, buddy. Will you? No glass. I’ll be right back.’

  ‘You got it.’

  The Irishman made his way out to the restaurant area and went into the men’s room. He unzipped and urinated, the smile spreading over his face. When he was finished, he washed his hands with soap from the dispenser. Blue ink ran from his fingers. When he dried them, the knuckles were clean.

  1

  June 1997

  JACK SWANN STOOD ON the cliff and paid out the rope, the hardware clanking on his harness as the breeze came up off the sea. Caroline fought with the travelling rug while her husband, George Webb, struggled with the buckle of his sit harness. Swann glanced over his shoulder at the shingle-strewn beach two hundred feet below him. For a moment the wind seemed to rise and he could taste it cold on his breath. But out of the wind, the sun was hot. Earlier, the week had been iffy, but this weekend was lovely. Caroline got the rug settled and sat down to squeeze Bergasol on her arms. She looked up at Swann, shading her eyes from the sun. He nodded to the rug. ‘You sure you want to put that there? We’re climbing further down.’

  She looked at him again, then the rug, then stared further along the cliff path where it inclined in a steep, sweeping arc. ‘It’s too windy up there, Jack. I’ll catch more sun where I am. Yell when you get to the top and I’ll open the wine.’