Nom de Guerre Page 3

  Information is power. Boese had been taught that even before he could walk. His parents had taught him many things that other people did not get taught. Subsequently, he never looked at any situation as another person might; his mind concentrated on the minutiae of detail. It was how he had avoided capture for as long as he had. He listened, observed, and picked up snippets of conversation. Terlucci was troubled now, confused at how a man in the SSU, with no outside contact whatsoever, could know so much about him. But like most Latinos, Terlucci was a talker. Boese had never spoken directly to him, but it was not difficult to pick things up. A word here, a word there. In the six months that he had been here, he had gleaned enough information to frighten the life out of most of them. He had no need of violence; reputation was all. He did not have a clue what his daughters’ bedroom looked like, but right now Terlucci believed he only had to whisper to harm them.

  Gibbs was looking forward to his visitor. He talked openly at the next table to Butcher and McClellan. Somebody from over the water, no doubt hopelessly vetted by the authorities. In the past it had been family members who visited, but today it was allegedly Gibbs’s priest. Boese would watch with interest.

  He lay on his bunk and meditated; mind working back over itself, the little details of the year gone by. Tal-Salem was in Spain, waiting as he was. Ramas had been sacrificed. The woman. He smiled when he thought of her, all those nights with Swann, and priceless snippets of information. He thought about the panic in the country, the people fleeing London, the Prime Minister, and then all the backslapping and relief when they realized they were only dealing with water. And then, all at once—Rome. He sat up and moved to the corridor. Morgan was sitting at the freshly cleared breakfast table, with the chesspiece box open before him. Terlucci was watching kids’ programmes on TV. Boese could see the flickering screen through the open lounge doorway.

  Morgan set up the pieces while Boese leaned against the metal doorframe to his cell and watched him, head slightly to one side, eyes hooded. Nobody volunteered to play with him. Very carefully, Morgan set the pieces in their places, the whites facing away from him, then he sat for a moment with his knuckles gripped under his chin. A thickset man, square-faced and flat-fingered, red hair cut high on the neck and freckles creeping over the creases in his face. He had been convicted of beating a nightclub bouncer to death in Cardiff.

  Boese walked casually over to the table and leaned with his hands fisted before him. Morgan did not look up. Boese studied the board, aware of Griffiths’s gaze from the control room. Any moment now he would be reaching for the red book. Morgan looked up eventually. ‘I never played you,’ he said quietly.

  Boese did not reply, merely eased himself into the empty seat across the formica-topped table and stared at the pieces. He moved a pawn. Morgan looked over red fists, blond hairs growing on them. ‘White moves first.’

  Boese just stared at him.

  They played slowly, Boese watching the workings of Morgan’s mind. He was not particularly intelligent, but he had a methodical mind. He studied every move for three minutes or more before moving his pieces, always in the same position, unshaven point of his chin resting against his knuckles. Boese could hear him breathe. The Blues Brothers played pool right next to them and the dull smack of wooden balls seemed to irritate Morgan. He shifted in his seat and glanced now and again at the players from under one cocked eyebrow. Boese ignored them, concentrated on boxing Morgan in. It was not difficult. The man took so long over studying each move, his own response was predictable. Boese beat him easily, but he made it look difficult. He could have won inside a few minutes, but he chose to jockey and then gradually wear him down. It was the first time anyone had beaten Morgan. Everybody was aware of it and a silence descended as Boese uttered the word, ‘Checkmate.’ For a long time Morgan sat across from him, still with his fingers interlocked, still studying the end of the play. At last he breathed out, long and audibly, then sat back. He stared into Boese’s eyes. Boese stared back, then Morgan scraped his chair away from the table. He hovered a moment, fist clenching and unclenching, then very meticulously he began collecting the pieces.

  Gibbs’s visitor arrived at two-thirty. Visitors had their own entrance, twin sets of airlocked doors with a dead space between them. Two wardens showed them into the suite, where they waited while the inmates remained in the sterile area. Gibbs went in, the only one with a visitor. Boese watched him from the television room. His spare clothes were waiting for him. He was strip searched and his existing clothes removed, then he dressed in those he had passed for inspection the previous day. When he was ready, he was led through to the visitors’ suite. Restless all at once, Boese went to the gym. Terlucci was lifting weights with the Blues Brothers.

  Boese worked out, pumping weights, running and boxing, anything to get the blood flowing. His mind was working overtime and he needed the flow of adrenalin. At four-thirty, Gibbs came back to the unit. He looked pleased with himself and Boese noticed the wardens were edgy. He wondered who Gibbs’s priest had been.

  He waited all evening, cooking supper, a chore they took turns at. Nobody complained about his food. Boese served Butcher, he served McClellan and then Gibbs. Momentarily, he caught Gibbs’s eye. Nothing. In his cell later, he sat crosslegged on the floor and stared at the space between his knees. He heard a movement in the hallway, a light step outside.

  ‘Go away, Mr Griffiths.’

  Griffiths cleared his throat. ‘Somebody has telephoned about you.’

  Boese stilled; his hands, loose in his lap, tensed imperceptibly. Slowly, he looked up. Griffiths’s eyes were watered blue, yellow at the edge due to his age and the artificial lighting they perpetually lived under. He plucked at his ear. ‘Somebody wants to talk to you.’

  Boese half lifted one eyebrow. ‘I don’t know anybody.’

  ‘His name is Benjamin Dubin. Dr Benjamin Dubin.’ Griffiths studied the slip of paper in his hands. ‘St Andrews University in Scotland. He’s a professor of international terrorism.’

  Boese looked beyond him, past the black of his uniform to the blue-painted wall and the tiny chips in the brick. ‘Why does he want to see me?’

  ‘He’s written to the governor and asked for permission to conduct an interview with you, for academic research, if you are willing. We have no objection. The man is internationally renowned and has been cleared by the Home Office.’ Griffiths came closer, a lop-sided smile on his face. ‘Do you want to see him?’

  Boese said nothing, his gaze still on the brick wall. Tal-Salem in Spain, and the others—waiting. ‘I’ll see him,’ he said. ‘But he is not allowed to tape anything or photograph my face.’

  Swann fastened the knot of his tie and jerked the cuffs of his suit jacket down over his shirt. He could smell his own aftershave. The suit was new, a black, three-button two-piece. He had bought it off the shelf and it fitted well. The flat was empty, had been since the children went home. He missed them terribly. The phone rang on the small table under the window.

  ‘Swann.’

  ‘Hey, Jack. What’s happening?’

  Swann smiled and sat down on the settee. Cheyenne Logan. He recognized her voice immediately, the southern drawl from her childhood in Alabama, still evident. She had been part of the Foreign Emergency Search Team that the FBI sent over last year. They had spoken half a dozen times since then. He imagined her as he sat there; black skin, long legs and very pretty. She favoured red suits and red nail polish, and her hair, the last time he had seen her, had been shoulder length, the colour of soot and brushed away from her face.

  ‘Hello, Chey. How are you?’

  ‘Just fine, Jack. Had a note on my desk about Jakob Salvesen and I thought about you. How you doing?’

  ‘Oh, I’m surviving. Going to a works do later tonight.’

  ‘Your kids OK?’

  ‘Back with their mother.’

  ‘Probably best for them, honey.’

  ‘Yes, probably.’ Swann transferred the phone to
his other hand and scrabbled in his pocket for cigarettes. ‘How’s Lucky Louis?’

  ‘Got promoted, Jack. Unit chief now. Heads up the International Terrorism Ops Unit.’

  ‘Give him my congratulations. What’s happening with Salvesen?’

  ‘Arraignment’s only just coming up. Takes a while over here.’

  ‘Tell me about it. Boese’s still on remand.’

  ‘We’re interviewing Salvesen again, Jack. Particularly about the UK connection. Does anyone from SO13 want to speak to him?’

  Swann made a face. ‘Not right now, I don’t think. We’ve got Boese and enough evidence to get him thirty years. We don’t need any more.’

  Suddenly he missed her. He didn’t really know her and yet he missed her—soft and warm and feminine. He sat forward, scraping a match for his cigarette. ‘Have you got any plans to come over here, Cheyenne?’

  ‘Not real soon, Jack. Why?’

  ‘I’d like to buy you dinner.’

  ‘So get on a plane. It’s only a couple hundred bucks.’

  Swann laughed. ‘I’d love to. But the chances right now are slim to nothing at all.’

  ‘You and me both then, huh.’

  ‘I suppose we could have a transatlantic telephone relationship,’ he said.

  ‘You trying to tell me something, honey?’

  ‘Only if you want me to.’

  ‘When I do, you’ll know.’

  ‘I’ll look forward to it.’

  Neither of them spoke for a few moments; Swann could hear the echo down the line. ‘If I do get the chance to come over, I’ll phone you, OK, Chey?’

  ‘You better.’

  They chatted some more and Swann began to feel that familiar warmth spreading through him—the softness of a woman’s voice, her interest in his life. He recalled her touch. The night they arrested Boese, they were celebrating in Los Remos. Cheyenne wore her clothes well, colours to set off the black sheen of her skin. He remembered how she smelled.

  ‘Gotta go, Jack,’ she said in the end. ‘Bureau’s paying for this and I got a meeting to go to.’

  ‘Good to hear from you, Chey. Listen,’ Swann sat up straighter, ‘tell Louis we’ve finally met Ben Dubin. You know, his contact from the Jonathan Institute. Tell him Dubin is going to interview Boese.’

  Boese was strip searched. He passed his clothes through the day before Dubin was due to arrive and the following morning they strip searched him. When it was done, he dressed in the fresh clothes, face set cold, and sat in the sterile area waiting for Dr Benjamin Dubin, the international academic he had heard on radio stations throughout the world.

  Dubin was alone, but their conversation would be monitored, as it always was, by a warden. Chesil: tall, young, thin face with pockmarks still evident from his youth.

  Boese was led into the interview room at the far end of the main visitors’ suite and found Dubin waiting for him. For a long time they stared, neither one of them speaking, the table between them, but neither one of them sitting. Chesil stood at the door like a guard from Buckingham Palace. Dubin finally extended a hand. ‘Ben Dubin,’ he said. ‘St Andrews University.’ Carefully, Boese took the hand, held it for a moment, then released it. Dubin gestured to the vacant chair. ‘Please.’

  They sat and regarded one another across the short expanse of tabletop, Dubin leaning forward, his elbows on the wood, beaten leather briefcase resting against the leg of the chair. Boese studied him minutely. He dressed like an academic—the briefcase, the badly ironed slacks, and the cuffs on his shirt were ever so slightly frayed. Yet his eyes. His eyes were not the eyes of a professor. Boese felt his pulse rate quicken a fraction. ‘Why did you want to see me?’ he asked.

  Dubin clasped his hands in front of him. ‘I’m the director of the centre for the study of terrorism and political violence at St Andrews University. I’m writing a book, almost finished. A biography of Carlos.’

  Boese thinned his eyes. ‘Where were you before the university?’

  ‘The Jonathan Institute.’

  ‘In Israel.’

  ‘Correct.’

  ‘Where else have you been?’

  ‘The RAND Corporation. US government think tank in California.’

  Again they studied one another. Boese thought he could detect a slight nervousness in Dubin, but he was not sure. He had a way of slowly rubbing his hands together.

  ‘What did you do in Israel?’

  ‘Same as I always do. Studied terrorism.’

  ‘The Israelis are terrorists.’

  ‘That’s an opinion.’

  ‘You don’t share it?’

  ‘They’ve committed terrorist acts. Begin was a leader of the Irgun. The Stern gang. They blew up the King David Hotel, hanged two captured British army sergeants.’ He gestured openly with his hands. ‘It’s certainly an opinion.’

  Boese still sat perfectly still, hands in his lap, slightly back from the table. He was aware of Chesil’s gaze. Chesil was unintelligent; this conversation should go over his head. Choose words carefully.

  ‘How long were you in Israel?’

  ‘I went in 1986, just after Reagan bombed Tripoli.’

  Boese screwed up one eye a fraction. ‘And left?’

  ‘Just after you killed those people in Rome.’

  Silence. Boese sat a little closer, his gaze fixed on Dubin, who returned the stare impassively. ‘You are Storm Crow, aren’t you,’ Dubin said. It was a flat, almost monotone statement. Boese looked at him carefully, scanning every millimetre of his eyes. He said nothing. Dubin smiled. ‘I didn’t expect you to confirm it, but I believe you are Storm Crow.’ He picked up his pen, where it lay across his pad of paper on the table. ‘Do you mind,’ he said, ‘if I take a few notes?’

  ‘I don’t give interviews.’

  Dubin looked slightly concerned. ‘They told me no tapes, no tapes or pictures.’

  Again Boese was silent. Dubin scratched his nose and looked keenly at him. The fluorescent light reflected off his glasses. Boese saw his own face in them. ‘What do you wish to know?’

  ‘As much as you’re prepared to tell me. I’m particularly interested in the time you spent with Carlos.’

  The Jackal. Fat Venezuelan fool. Boese lightly tapped his fingers on the tabletop. ‘Ilyich Ramirez Sanchez.’ He shook his head. ‘He worked for Wadi Haddad in the Yemen. Saddam Hussein over OPEC. The PFLP. I never met him.’

  Dubin frowned heavily. ‘You were his protégé, Mr Boese. Paris 1982. You were present when he wrote his letter to the Minister for the Interior, Gaston Defferre, declaring his intentions over France. I have separate accounts from two of the “Friends of Carlos” that state as much.’

  Slowly Boese shook his head.

  ‘Magdalena Kopp,’ Dubin went on. ‘Bruno Breguet.’

  ‘I don’t know them.’

  ‘Kopp was arrested with Breguet and imprisoned in France. Carlos declared war unless they released her. In 1982, you bombed the Paris-Toulouse express.’

  ‘I wasn’t there.’

  Dubin sat back again. ‘OK,’ he said. ‘Maybe we can come back to that.’ He looked round the room. ‘Your motivation for the attacks last year, was that purely money?’

  Boese merely looked at him.

  ‘OK.’ Dubin lifted both eyebrows. ‘Where did you first meet Carlos?’

  ‘I told you. I do not know him.’

  ‘So my information is incorrect.’

  ‘What do you think?’

  Dubin held his gaze. ‘I don’t think it is.’ They sat in silence for a few minutes after that, then Dubin changed tack. ‘You killed Bruno Kuhlmann, didn’t you. You may have known him as Richard Gravitz. Healey Hall Farm in Northumberland. Was that a deliberate sacrifice—to see if the derivative you had worked, or was it just an accident?’

  Again Boese said nothing. He was waiting, waiting. Chesil was listening.

  ‘What was your connection with Jakob Salvesen’s militia?’

  Boese still did not reply
.

  ‘I understand.’ Dubin held up his hands. ‘You’re going to trial, you don’t wish to prejudice yourself. Forgive me.’

  Boese stared at him now.

  ‘Let me ask you a different question. Much has been written about Carlos. But we know he was not actually responsible for anything like what has been attributed to him. He was more a product of the Cold War than anything else. He was in the pocket of Iraq and Syria particularly, perhaps Libya. Countries, regimes were his paymasters. Did you learn anything from that?’

  Boese eased back on the legs of his chair. The Jackal had been in it for the money like the rest of them. He had no cause. He played one country off against the other. Boese watched Dubin’s eyes. Leaning forward, he clasped his hands together, their faces close now. At the door, Chesil stirred, but Boese ignored him. ‘What did you do in Israel?’

  Dubin looked slightly taken aback, but he smiled. ‘I tell you what,’ he said. ‘Let’s trade information. I’ll tell you what I do, if you confirm some of these questions of mine.’

  Boese considered. ‘The Jackal will have told you nothing,’ he said. ‘You asked him the same questions?’

  Dubin nodded.

  ‘And he said nothing.’

  ‘I asked him about you, about Storm Crow. Who gave you the name? The first recorded incident is—’

  ‘Israel,’ Boese finished for him. ‘In 1989.’