Andre was looking at the faces of the others for reassurance that no one else understood the lieutenant when he saw Stempel’s eyes. They were thick with moisture and his nose was running.
Chapter Seven
He pulled the van up to the manhole cover on the side street. He carefully lined the vehicle up with minute turns of the wheel and releases of the brake. When the spot was just right, he put the van in park and applied the handbrake. He twisted around and rapped on the wall with his knuckles. The narrow street was deserted. There had only been nine attacks in London proper since the ‘go’ order had been given, including the Wembley Stadium job he himself had done. But people were still staying home at night.
A single thud vibrated through the floorboards of the old Volkswagen. After a few seconds, a distant boom broke the peace of the evening. ‘Down ten, left twenty,’ the words came quickly over the radio in Russian. In back, his partners had to turn two knobs on the mortars’ aiming mechanisms to adjust the fire — one click of the elevation knob, two of the azimuth. Another thud shook the vehicle. He heard the first wails of a siren in the distance.
Another boom jarred the night. ‘Fire for effect,’ came the radio call from the spotter. The back of the van came alive with thuds as the mortarmen began firing through the open roof. These were not the light 60- and 80-mm hand-carried mortars. They were huge 120-mm tubes and projectiles. The rounds would be penetrating the roof of No. 10 Downing Street and exploding on the lower floors of the Prime Minister’s residence.
Through the windshield he saw a bobby stop at the corner, then take off running. He cursed, threw open his door, and raced down the street. When he rounded the corner, the policeman was nowhere to be seen. He slowed to a walk down the deserted city street. The front stoops of the row houses jutted out onto the sidewalk. He passed the first set of stairs with great care. The shadows on the opposite side were empty. He passed another. Nobody.
As he reached the third, he stopped. He had a feeling — an internal estimate of the distance a fleeing man could have run. He raised the machine pistol, holding it one-handed into the air with his elbow bent.
He edged his way around the stoop. A dark figure squatted in the shadows. The bobby raised his head and then his useless billy club. He wasn’t one of the new special squads. He had no gun.
Even as he lowered his machine pistol, a wave of disgust washed over him. The bobby shied away, his back pressing against the painted bricks behind him.
I could let the man go.
The thought surprised him. It had come from nowhere. The two of them remained there — motionless, silent — as he turned the thought around and around in his head. He inspected it from all angles.
But why? came the response every time.
Fire blazed from the end of the machine pistol — lighting the darkness and sending the bobby sprawling.
‘Hey, Kate,’ Woody said, gently shaking her. Kate Dunn opened her eyes. Bright sunshine streamed through the plane’s window.
They were parked on the airport tarmac. She was lying on her side and curled up in her window seat under a blanket. She felt a rush of excitement on arriving back in the States.
‘We’re home,’ she said sleepily — turning to face Woody. The plane was empty save for two men in dark suits who stood over them. Woody sat there with his blanket pulled up under his chin.
‘Looks like we’ve got some kind of official welcoming committee from Uncle Sam,’ Woody said. His eyes were puffy. He’d obviously slept through the landing too. He looked up at the two men. ‘I have nothing to declare.’
‘Would you two please come with us,’ one of the men said. He flashed a badge in a leather folder perfectly — the folder flopping open and then closing in one motion.
‘Hey, hey!’ Woody said. ‘Not so fast. Lemme see that again.’
The dour man’s face showed a hint of a frown as he retrieved the wallet from his jacket. He flicked it open again and lowered it to Woody’s face. Woody perused the FBI ID then turned to Kate. ‘Looks real to me.’
They rose and collected their things. ‘Look, I’ve been through this before,’ Woody said as he pulled his camera bags from the overhead compartment. They were plastered with bright green decals in the shape of marijuana leaves. ‘I knew Jimmy Hoffa, okay? We had a little falling out, that’s all. But those garbage bags I dumped in the Gulf of Mexico were just some animal carcasses I’d picked up on the highway. I had nothing to do with any CIA contract killing, okay? Not that I’m saying the CIA killed him, mind you.’
‘Woody,’ Kate chided, but it did no good. Woody was having too much fun.
‘Say,’ Woody said — motioning the agent closer. ‘Is it true what I heard about Jay Edgar Hoover?’ he whispered. ‘That he was partial to dark, solid colors and the layered look because of his weight problem?’ The two agents eyed each other — apparently vying to see who could appear more indifferent. ‘I mean, sure, I understand that when he foofed up for parties and things that he’d make a statement with some florals or, like, a hot pink one-piece thing. But, you know, for business I bet he was pretty conservative. Flats, no heels, right?’ He grinned and nodded his head — pointing at the agent. ‘Am I right?’
‘Let’s go,’ was all the man said.
Woody kept up the running barbs on the private jet all the way to Washington. The agents had told them nothing other than their destination and that they just wanted to ask them some questions. ‘Man,’ Woody said — eyeing the small, well-appointed jet. ‘Your tax dollars at work. Does this thing have a bidet?’
Kate tried her best just to tune him out, but grew more and more annoyed as the flight wore on. She knew it was his way of dealing with power. She had seen him try the same shit with Russian police, to varying degrees of success. When confronted with authority figures who robbed him of control, Woody just peppered them with comments — pin-pricks in the elephant’s hide. He was convinced that, sooner or later, he would gain the upper hand by so annoying them that they lost their cool.
‘You know, you really shouldn’t wear navy with,’ he nodded and made a face, ‘you know,’ he nodded again and then leaned forward, ‘your dandruff problem,’ he whispered. The two agents sat stony-faced across a coffee table, facing Kate and Woody. The agent to whom Woody spoke smirked. But sure enough he shortly stole a quick glance at his shoulder. Woody tapped the side of Kate’s leg with his knuckles. He thought he was getting somewhere now.
‘Man, it’s been a long time since I’ve been to D.C.,’ Woody said to Kate, then turned back to the agents — grinning. ‘It was back during the Iran-Contra hearings. I got some photos with a telephoto lens of Oliver North watering his lawn. He was wearing a T-shirt that had an American flag on it and the words, “These colors don’t run”.’ He grinned at the two men. ‘Get it? “These colors don’t run”?’
‘I get it,’ the agent said. The flatness of his voice and his completely stern look signaled to Kate that he was ready to take offense.
‘Pretty witty, don’t ya think? Double entendre.’ Woody was grinning his stupid smile. ‘That’s French.’
‘I know what it is.’
‘Do you speak foreign languages?’ The man said nothing. Woody maintained a broad smile on a tanned face framed with long, graying hair tied in a pony tail. The government agent — many years younger — had short hair, pale skin, and no smile. ‘You don’t, do you?’ Woody asked. ‘That’s really pretty provincial of you. I mean, it kind of makes you, like, the ugly American.’