Angel City (5 page)

First up: a slashed throat under a face that had been chopped to pieces by the
Manon
's propellers after Harper threw him into the river. Next five shots: one goon each, skulls blown open by multiple head shots.

“Sure, that's them.”

“Who are they, monsieur?”

“Terrorists. From Muqatileen Lillah.”

The judge shook his head.

“Members of Muqatileen Lillah are exclusively South Asian. Their manifesto decrees them to be the chosen race of God. Never has a person of another race been included in their number. Despite your handiwork in deconstructing their skulls, initial examination suggests the men are not Asian. These men appear to be Caucasian of undetermined ancestry.”

Harper shrugged.

“Would've thought if it looks like a terrorist and kills like a terrorist, it's a terrorist,” Harper said.

The judge waved the mouthpiece of his pipe over the dead goons.

“Monsieur, you and I both know these men were not terrorists. These killers were only posing as terrorists.”

Harper read the man's eyes. Pale blue, normal luminance levels in the irises, clear of dead black. The man was human, nothing more.
How in the hell can he know?

“Not sure I follow you, gov.”

“Non?”

The judge pulled a series of photos from the next file, laid them on the desk. They'd been blown up ten times. Grainy as hell, but clear enough. Harper with the bomb wrapped in his coat, jumping for the railings to escape the
Manon
like a crook on the lam; then returning. A white grease pencil circled Harper raising the palm of his right hand before the eyes of the survivors, then the little girl. Another circle targeted Harper leaning over the dead man.

“At first, I was ready to accept the supposition of the Interior Ministry that you are a paid assassin working for a foreign government. The Israeli Mossad, most probably, as they have recently been quite active in assassinating members of Muqatileen Lillah. In line with that supposition, I assumed this dead man with the little girl was part of the plot. Someone evil enough to sacrifice his own child to achieve his ends. And I thought you had returned to the
Manon
to be assured he was dead. But this man is identifiable, and he has fingerprints. His name is Abu Jad, a cardiac physician from Beirut. He was taking his daughter on a birthday cruise.”

“So?”

“Monsieur. You are a highly skilled killer. I am very sure your mission was to escape with the bomb so that it would not fall into the hands of men in search of more efficient ways of destroying one another. Yet you gave up your one chance of escape to offer comfort to a little girl and a dead man.”

Harper stared at the judge. “So?”

The judge tapped the photos of the dead goons. “We both know these terrorists are not human. We both know they are evil made flesh, hiding among men as they have done through the ages.”

“Is that a fact?”

“
Oui, monsieur,
and it is a fact that has revealed to me who, and what, you are. And I have been waiting for your return to Paris many, many years.”

The clock chimed three thirty. Harper listened to the sound circle the room like it was looking for a way out. Then he noticed the lack of windows in the place, then the carefully fitted acoustic panels in the walls. And getting into the office was like breaking into a bank vault. The office had to be a shell within a shell, with phase cancellation frequencies blasting between the walls maybe. Harper added it up: By accident or design, the inspector's time mechanics couldn't get a track on him. Harper leaned forward in his chair, trying to lock his eyes on the judge; trying to figure if the setup was an accident, or if the elderly gent in bedroom slippers knew what he was doing.

“Listen to me, gov; whoever, or whatever, you think I am, you've got the wrong man.”

Harper watched the judge pull the last file to the center of the desk. It was thick and yellowed with age. It was bound with blue ribbon, and the ribbon was secured with a red wax seal. The judge blew away a layer of dust and opened the file, slowly sorted through the onionskin pages. Harper saw the words were handwritten with a fine script. When the judge found the page he was looking for, he began to read aloud.

“Your name is Jay Michael Harper. Your father was a lawyer at Gray's Inn who paid his way through law school working as a bartender in the West End. It was during that time that your father met your mother, the daughter of a member of the board of Coutts and Company. She was an only child. Your parents fell in love, and you were conceived early on in the relationship. They planned to marry. Your mother's parents did not approve of the match and disowned her. Your parents married in a civil court and lived above a grocer's shop on Tottenham Court Road. You were born seven months later at University College London Hospital. The following Christmas your mother's parents saw you, and as it often happens upon seeing a grandchild for the first time, they reconciled with your mother. They bought a house for your parents on Carlingford Road, very close to Hampstead Heath. This is where you were raised . . .”

Harper saw a little boy running up three flights of stairs, then climbing the ladder to the attic. Building a fortress of crates and cardboard boxes to hold off Mau Mau attackers. Harper could smell the dust, see the boy standing on the boxes, wooden stick as a righteous sword in hand and rallying his imaginary army: “To the last for Queen and Country!”

He blinked, the judge still reading.

“You were educated at Highgate School, where you distinguished yourself as a rugby left wing. You went on to the University of St. Andrews, where you distinguished yourself at right wing and geography studies. During your graduate year, your parents were killed when a gasoline delivery truck plowed headlong into their car. Your maternal grandparents died of cancer within six months of each other in your fourteenth year. You had no siblings, no aunts, no uncles or cousins. You quit university and traveled through Europe. You were left a sizable inheritance, so money was not a problem. But you sensed your life to be in need of direction and you obtained a commission in the Coldstream Guards through Brigadier Sir Malcolm Holloway, a close friend of your parents. You began your military career with No. 7 Company, but had yourself transferred to 1st Battalion. You distinguished yourself in reconnaissance skills. You were also rated as an exceptionally good shot. In April of 2004, you were tapped by the director of Special Forces to join the newly formed Special Reconnaissance Regiment as an intelligence officer. You were involved with the Jean Charles de Menezes shooting at Stockwell tube station in 2005 from the standpoint that it was you who warned your superiors the Metropolitan Police had misidentified the target. Unfortunately, your warnings were not acted upon and an innocent man was shot dead. You were kept from testifying before an inquiry and you resigned your commission in protest. Your resignation was not accepted. In the following month you were seconded to a top secret search-and-destroy unit known as Foxtrot 9. The unit was based at Al Minhad Air Base in the United Arab Emirates and referred to in all communications as the Gulf Institute for Agricultural Security and Sustainability.”

The judge looked at Harper.

“Une histoire intéressante, non?”

Harper stared at the judge, trying not to give away the fact that he was bloody well gobsmacked. He'd just heard more about Captain Jay Michael Harper than he'd ever been allowed to know since he was awakened in the dead man's form. And hearing it, Harper knew it was all true, not because he could remember it, but because he could feel the weight of the dead man's flesh and blood press down on his eternal being. He tried to shake it off.
Christ, what's keeping the inspector's lads?

“Rather run-of-the-mill tale for an English schoolboy,” Harper said.

“Then you will not be surprised to hear what happens next?”

“What's that, then?”

“You die.”

The weight pressed down.

“A misprint, I'm sure.”

“Let me see . . .
a été tué . . . Non, c'est très clair,
you are quite dead. You were killed in the northwest tribal regions of Pakistan.”

A burst of images rushed through Harper's eyes: Lights out on a chopper. Take off from Bagram Airfield, Kabul, Afghanistan. Night mission to infil target, ten klicks west of Af-Pak border. Dismount. Chopper breaks off. Quiet. Double-time it up and over the mountain, cross the border into Pakistan.

The judge's voice:

“You and three men from Foxtrot 9 were involved in a covert mission with orders to track and eliminate Taliban assets in the Parachinar Valley . . .”

Skirt the villages, crawl through farms, find an abandoned farmhouse before dawn. Five hundred meters south of Burgi, fifty meters off Boarki Road. Place stocked with food, gas, local dress. There is a gassed-up Toyota pickup truck hidden under a tarp. The mission is go.

“What you did not know was that the mission was doomed from the start, betrayed by a high-level member of ISI, Pakistan intelligence . . .”

Waiting for the contact to show. Pak spook assigned to drive and translate. Men changing into salwar kameez and sandals, then cleaning their weapons. One of them, ginger-haired lad from Cardiff. Ellis is his name, checking the five-round magazine of his L115 sniper rifle. Looks silly as hell with a taqiyah cap on his head. Good lad. Wasn't going to take Ellis this time because of his hair, till Ellis said, “Beggin' your fuckin' pardon, sir, but there's plenty of ginger heads in Pakland courtesy of the Raj. Your bloody lot couldn't keep it zipped around all those dark-eyed beauties.”

Just now, Ellis singing a Welsh lullaby:
“Huna blentyn ar fy Mynwes . . .”
Hear a racket outside . . . fifteen pickup trucks packed with heavily armed Hajis. But instead of continuing along Boarki Road, they turn up the dirt track, head straight for the farmhouse.

Captain Jay Michael Harper: “We've got company, lads.”

Hajis circle the house, blast away. One Haji with a video camera, standing on the back of a truck, filming the action. The assault is overpowering. Two of his men dead in the first five minutes. Ellis takes a shot in the chest. Cease-fire. Haji, with very proper Brit accent, calling over a bullhorn: “Surrender, we will not harm you. You have three minutes to decide. Live or die.”

Captain Harper crawls to Ellis. The lad's life slipping away . . . “Don't want my mum to see my body tied to the back of a truck and dragged through the streets, Captain.” Then he's gone.

Captain Jay Michael Harper: “No worries, mate.”

Pulls the dead men together. Covers them with their uniforms and boots, blankets and mattresses. Dumps two cans of gasoline over the lot, sets it alight. Flash of fire, room fills with smoke. Voice with the bullhorn still calling: “You have one minute. Will you live or will you die?”

Grabs the L115, crawls to the next room, aims through a glass window, and drills an 8.59-caliber round through the bullhorn and into the loudmouth's head. Drops the rifle, crawls to the back of the house as the Hajis open up again. Sits in the corner, watches the fire down the hall. Pulls his sidearm, sets the death end in his mouth, points it to his brain . . . Almost laughs remembering a little boy atop a cardboard fortress in the attic of Carlingford Road . . .
To the last for Queen and Country!

The judge's voice coming around again . . .

“Two days later, a Taliban website posted video of what it claimed to be a firefight with British forces on the sovereign soil of Pakistan. The house was consumed by fire in the battle. So much so that all the Taliban had for proof were the charred remains of humans and British weapons. Upon analysis of the tape, British intelligence realized one of their soldiers had escaped the fire . . .”

Finger on the trigger.

Captain Jay Michael Harper: “Do it, boyo! Do it!”

RPG crashes through the window, explodes, knocks the gun from Harper's hands. Door at the back of the house breaks open. Hajis charge in, grab Captain Harper, drag him outside, throw him in the back of a pickup, and speed away.

“There was a mystery as to what happened to the fourth man . . .”

Beatings. Sleep deprivation. Grinding out cigarettes in his flesh. Screams. Holding him, keeping his existence secret, waiting for the Holy One of God to come from Rawalpindi to torture and slay the infidel personally. Video camera already set to film the slaughter. Can't take much more. Hajis go to pray, leave one guard. Pretend to sleep . . . Lone guard sets his AK-47 on the ground, kneels to pray. Gather what strength is left, jump and snap the fucker's neck. Grab the AK, crawl into the dark.

The judge's voice again:

“Six weeks later, a farmer found a shallow grave containing human remains, burned beyond recognition. In a gesture of cooperation, the ISI of Pakistan notified the British Embassy of the discovery and invited their council. DNA tests were inconclusive, but the MOD judged the remains to be yours and declared you dead.”

Harper blinked, found himself back in the judge's office. He tried to lift himself from the chair, couldn't move. The weight . . . crushing down . . . the judge staring at him.

“But here you are, alive and well and killing in Paris.”

Harper felt the phantom of a dead man begin to stir.

He looked down at his hands.

They were shaking.

How the hell can he know this, any
of it? Every trace of the man should have been
destroyed.
Slowly, like a dead man rising, he lifted his eyes to the judge.

“Who the hell are you, and what the fuck do you want?”

The judge closed the file. Puffed from his pipe before laying it in the ashtray.

“
Mon nom est Bruno Silvestre. Je suis le juge d'instruction spéciale pour la Brigade Criminelle.
And what I want, monsieur, is to help you.”