Donaldson licked his lips and nodded. He glanced at FB and raised his eyebrows. FB gave him the nod to continue. ‘Unfortunately, yes, and it could be even more of a nightmare than street rioting.’
The woman prisoner Henry had arrested sat numbly in the small cell, crying.
The flap in the cell door crashed open and an officer’s face filled the rectangular space. He did not say anything, just looked in. The prisoner wiped her eyes and stared defiantly at him.
‘I just wanted to know what you looked like,’ the officer said. ‘Just wanted to know what the person who half fried one of my colleagues looked like.’
The young woman’s shoulders slumped.
‘The one who nearly killed a cop. . or who might have killed a cop, because he might die yet.’
The flap slid back up and the catches banged into place. The officer — whoever it was — had gone. The prisoner flew to the door, smacking her hands and feet against it, screaming words which were lost behind the heavy metal panelled door and which could not be heard down in the custody reception area because it was too far away, down too many steps, around too many corners. . and no one would have really cared anyway.
‘There’s been a spate of bombings across the States over the last six years,’ Donaldson said, ‘aimed at minority groups — gays, blacks. . you name it. Twenty-one bombs and over thirty people have been killed.’
FB stifled a cough. All eyes turned to him for a moment, then went back to Donaldson who visibly bristled but tried to ignore the interruption. He knew FB held the world’s premier law enforcement agency in very low esteem.
‘As happens with these things, it took a while for connections to be made. It was only by the time the third bomb exploded that we realised we had a serial killer on our hands, but his infrequency of attacks and the fact that they have been all over America have made it virtually impossible for us to apprehend him. The bombs get better and better and more people get killed and injured each time.’
‘Presumably you must have some ideas about him,’ Henry said.
‘Yeah. Hazy, cloudy ones, but yeah.’
‘Such as?’
‘We went all the usual routes: undercover operations into right-wing organisations, covert operations, overt operations, busts left, right and centre — mainly right, of course,’ he slid in and got a titter of laughter. ‘But we got nothing. No hints, no whispers, no names, not a damn thing. . so we think he’s a lone wolf, classified as the new offender model terrorist.’
‘Making it virtually impossible to catch him,’ Henry said, knowing about the model referred to.
‘And making you look like nob-heads into the bargain,’ FB contributed destructively.
This time no one looked his way. There was a beat of embarrassed silence.
Donaldson reached for the briefcase by his side. He took out a series of grainy, indistinct black and white photographs, handed them round the room. ‘These are from CCTV cameras in three locations: Miami, San Francisco and LA. We think they’re of the same man. Our facial analysts are seventy per cent sure it is the same guy. Caught on camera just minutes before bombs exploded in these cities.’
‘It’s a bit slim — and they are very poor photos,’ Henry said as objectively as he could.
‘Agree,’ Donaldson said. ‘But it’s all we have. Three images of an unidentified person at the scene of three out of nineteen bombings, who could be the same person. If it is. .’
‘The odds of one person being at three out of nineteen attacks are pretty remote,’ Henry said. ‘Unless. .’
‘Exactly — unless it’s the bomber — so I’m willing to go with it. Gut feeling and all that.’
‘Gut feeling isn’t evidence,’ FB said.
‘Very true, sir,’ Donaldson said. He fished out more photos. ‘Charles de Gaulle Airport two weeks ago.’ He handed them round. They were still grainy, but slightly more defined. They showed a male, maybe mid-thirties, medium height, casually dressed, the peak of a baseball cap pulled down covering his face. Henry held one of the new photos up alongside one of the first batch and compared them. He shook his head unsurely.
‘Could be,’ he said, doubtfully.
‘Facial analysts give it a seventy-five per cent nod,’ the FBI man said. ‘Which as far as I’m concerned means the guy is in Europe. Two days later there was a bomb in Paris, one person killed, thirty injured. Jews. Coincidence? Not a chance.’ He looked round the room for someone to defy him. No one did.
‘Anything from flight records, the passenger lists?’ Henry asked.
‘Nothing conclusive. Some things still being followed up.’
‘OK. . say it’s the same guy — where is this leading, Karl?’
‘Maybe nowhere, Henry. Just a warning. Paris isn’t a million miles away. With all this upsurge of right-wing activity, it’s possible this guy might be operating around here. It’s a health warning.’
Henry thought about the large gay community in Blackpool who would be easy targets for a fanatic. ‘OK, I’ll bear it in mind. Can we circulate these photographs around the clubs?’
‘No problem with me — sounds a good idea.’
‘I’ll sort it — get some posters done and sent out to the gay bars for tonight with a warning to be on their guard.’
‘Yeah — do it,’ FB snapped.
‘Is there anything else you can tell me about this guy, Karl? Do the bombs get left in the same sort of packaging? Sports bags, carrier bags?’
‘All different.’
Henry nodded acceptance. He checked his watch. ‘Too late to do anything now because everywhere should be closed.’
‘OK, that’s it for the moment, Henry,’ FB said with finality. ‘Unless anyone has anything more?’ He glanced round the room.
‘Oh, I do, actually,’ Henry said brightly.
FB wilted.
‘Just one thing — this new splinter group. I forgot to ask — do they have a name?’ He aimed the question at Andrea Makin.
‘Yes they do. They call themselves Hellfire Dawn.’
Eight
‘It’s the way their twisted minds work.’ Andrea Makin was walking alongside Henry Christie as he descended the steps towards the basement of Blackpool Central Police Station. She matched him step by step. ‘Do you know the rationale behind the name Combat 18, for example?’
Henry had to admit that he did not.
‘It’s a number-letter combination, related to their good leader, Adolf Hitler.’
Henry thought about that. ‘You got me there.’
‘The number one relates to the first letter of the alphabet — A; the number eight refers to the eighth letter.’
‘Which is?’
‘H.’
Henry stopped suddenly on one of the landings. Makin too.
‘A-H?’ he questioned.
She smiled. ‘Come on, get a grip, Henry,’ she said lightly. ‘A is for Adolf and H is for Hitler — hence 18. They are devoted followers of Adolf Hitler and all his fine works and deeds.’
‘It’s a good job he wasn’t called Xavier Zakynthos, then, otherwise it’d be Combat 24–26.’
Makin smiled and ignored him. ‘They just haven’t got round to genocide yet — but on Allport’s Scale they’ve got well off the bottom rung.’
Henry’s simple mind was getting confused now. He knew he should have known something about Allport’s Scale, but in what context he could not remember.
‘What’s Allport’s Scale?’ he asked stupidly.
‘Gordon Allport wrote a book in the fifties about the nature of prejudice. He devised a scale about prejudice which runs from simple avoidance to extermination in extreme cases. Like Hitler and the Jews.’
‘Oh. So, anyway, what does Hellfire Dawn relate to?’ he asked, trying to mask his ignorance with a half-passable question. He waited with bated breath.
‘H is for Hitler — obviously.’
‘Goes without saying.’
‘D is for Disciples: Hitler’s Disciples.’
‘Sad bastards.’ He shook his head. ‘Still, it’s a pastime, though.’
‘Yeah — a dangerous one, don’t forget that. One which doesn’t keep them off the streets.’