‘LA won’t be recognizable. Erase it, and the black-and-white fanatic show rolls on to the next venue.’ Rolls on across America.
It was interaction, interconnections, all the way. A Forrester sharpshooter attends a black rally in Washington, Azania’s security wave him through; Forresters set up Azania for Pitt’s death, for the drop, he willingly ascends the platform. The arrowed lines flowed across the chart – black to white, white to black – the skeleton framework of an enemy strategy, the equation for high-level collusion and widespread conflict, laid bare. A cat’s-cradle, tying matters together, tightening knots. Kemp studied Krista in his peripheral vision, absorbed the image and matched it to a ghost of his past. Not a bad likeness. He remembered the concentration, the poise, that pose, the unselfconscious beauty, her capacity to laugh, ability to warm and to walk away. Remembered times, recurring pain. He focused on the drawings, the developing scenario. Josh Kemp and Krista Althouse. Exciting to be back. They were reborn as forty-somethings, professionals, with a common purpose – defeating Armageddon. Something to tell the grandchildren. Except there were no grandchildren, was no child. No Emmy. Christ, adults could fuck it up.
Wood was talking, had attached a covert shot of the South African to the middle chart. ‘Okay, he’s skipped London, but he’s orbiting like a death star. Company got any intel on him?’
‘CIA? Nothing,’ Krista responded. ‘Not even ID. Same goes for our friends at Six.’
‘And at Five,’ Kemp admitted.
‘Regular man of mystery.’ The black Special Agent stood back, examined his handiwork. ‘Gofer, courier, overseer, quartermaster. He’s carried instructions, rubbed out a criminal armourer in northern England and liaised with the hired Jamaican hand in London.’
Kemp had crossed to the mini-fridge for a soda. It was mildly disorientating to discuss race relations with an African-American without positions being taken or offence given. That was the expectation. Awkwardness and angst had been conditioned in – programmed in – by decades of liberal over-sensitivity. Refreshingly puzzling to have preconceptions confounded. He stooped, selected a can, staying with the South African theme. ‘Gofer, courier, overseer. Not to mention being seen in Slovakian towns doing murky racist deals on DVDs, CDs, CD-ROMs and weapons. Five are putting the appearance of ecstasy tablets stamped with anti-black graphics down to him.’
‘Busy fella.’
‘Serious fella. And I’m not surprised. He’s representing someone’s interests.’ A gaseous hiss as the Briton tugged the ring-pull.
‘Someone in South Africa with long arms, deep pockets, political conviction and a bona fide, bad mother attitude problem.’
Krista went to join Wood, took up the nylon-tip and wrote Property in bold on the centre chart. ‘Recurring motif, common denominator. We think our white supremacist bogeyman over here might own real estate in southern California. Could have investments in Africa. We know Azania’s Foundation owns land and buildings over there.’
Kemp wanted to hug her, but contented himself with tipping chilled carbonated beverage down his throat. ‘Even Professor Pitt had a pied-à-terre in Cape Town,’ he threw in.
‘Langley’s got to have waypoints, likely candidates, on its computers. Let’s try them again, tie them down.’
The two Americans went into a working huddle, conferring, cross-checking. Kemp looked on, suppressed a transient spasm of jealousy. Could be concern at their easy intimacy, could be envy, could be his subconscious reacting in a marital fashion, proprietarily, resorting to former ways, the old blueprint. Could be. Complexity was part of the subject matter, part of their history. He would handle it, had no wish to spoil the party, wreck progress. He had come this far, reached California. It was a fact he and Krista were no longer married, a fact that without such constraints the destructive claustrophobia, the abrasive stress, were gone. This was freedom, the circuitous route to it. A journey which fostered acceptance – respect – but failed to banish regret. He glanced away, embarrassed at his own sadness, convinced at his past stupidity.
Wood was pointing to a section of his work, expanding on a subject. They were a fine FBI partnership, experienced, dedicated, determined to do what was right, what was required. It was why he worried. He would hold the black Special Agent responsible for Krista’s safety. If the flipcharts were right, the four-inch bull barrel of her concealed Kimber HD .45 would hardly act as deterrent. The Bureau might not be outclassed, but it faced being outgunned. His stomach tightened. Professor Pitt’s inverted body had swung grotesquely into his consciousness, half the man it used to be. It was the fate of those who crossed the enemy, could be the future of them all. He did not want it for Krista.
A light winked among a bank of telephones, secure feeds back to the centres of power, sources of powerlessness. Money no object, resources infinite, the computer capacity and manpower of two security organizations applied to either side of the Atlantic, and he and his coterie were reduced to drawing lines on paper. It somehow seemed appropriate – basic tools to counter conflict generated by base primal instincts.
He snatched at the receiver. ‘Kemp.’
The message came, its contents hidden to Krista and Wood. Their conversation dried, anticipation and focus switching to Kemp’s impassive features. The face gave nothing away, gave everything away. News was serious, situation critical, transmitted through the handset, the set of the jaw, the grip of the fist, the unblinking eyes. Message over, telephone returned to cradle. Out.
Wood tilted an eyebrow. ‘Trouble?’
‘Worse.’ Kemp crumpled the soda can and propelled it on a flat trajectory to the distant wastepaper basket. ‘London.’
* * *
The UK
Confluence of events. It had begun on Brixton Hill, an altercation that drew attention but people avoided. Escalation was always a possibility, a high probability, and the reaction of most was both grim resignation and a desire to exit the area. It was an easy, uninformed step from onlooker to cross-fire victim. Locals preferred to live, move on, scurry away. ‘ don’t owe you fuckin’ nuffink …’ The antagonist, his BMW drawn at a tight angle across the nose of a gold Saab, thought otherwise. He was there to corner, collect, was in uncompromising mood. Gentle persuasion was unmanly, respect a variable that came with the flash of a precious metal tooth or the flash from the muzzle of a handgun. Either way – and it could go any way – it was the ethos of intimidation, the language of the street. They understood the terms, knew the territory. With limited vocabulary, negligible civility, the two young males staked their claims, traded counter-claims. Face-off. Neither would back down.
The shouting increased, the volume of sound and patois expletives riding higher on each wild gesticulation. Heated exchange was turning critical, was popping the circuits. No give, and something would give. They were past the stage of abort, of a high-five or a handshake, of listening to reason or each other. That was not the way, the code. Superior firepower, better wheels, mutual assured destruction, these were the ingredients, imperatives, of honour, the elements of disaffected alienation. A passer-by ducked her head and hurried off. She recognized the format, the type, had witnessed countless cloned incidents and similar spectacles on almost every street. Dreary repetition, an unending cycle. Best to keep eyes averted, to hide disapproval. They could turn nasty, turn on her, would stick in a knife or a dick as naturally as they played music loud. Their manifesto, their statement, their behavioural norm. Anything could happen in the present environment. They were teenagers, teenagers with top-of-the-range cars, top-of-the-volume-range mouths, with money, designer labels, pumped egos and no restraint. It could only mean drugs, criminality. But she need not have worried. They were too engaged to notice, the ferocity of their argument chasing her down the sidewalk. She was fifty yards on, then a hundred, in the clear.
A police siren sounded, cutting out in a second, designed to warn and avert. It coincided with a new peak in the enveloping quarrel, came with a blue burst of flashing light. Visible presence, Operation Trident – the ongoing effort by New Scotland Yard to interdict black gangs – the law making a sortie from its vehicle pool. For all its ambitions, surveillance, deployment of armed response units, the operation might as well have equipped its patrols with tridents. It was a token stand – more often a retreat – against posses, dealers and Yardie hitmen, against armies with willing recruits, air-cushioned sneakers and a zeal to prove and blood themselves. Us and them. And they were losing. Here, cannabis and crack could be carried, knives wielded, with impunity; here, overstretch and nervousness encouraged the law to tread warily or not at all. Today was a break with procedure, a change from the norm. A single patrol car drew up in front, its doors slamming wide, a pair of uniformed officers emerging to investigate and confront. The effect was instantaneous, dramatic. Level two.
Snap decision. The mini-Uzi had appeared from a holster in the small of the BMW-driver’s back, swung wildly in a covering arc as he sought to meet, defeat, the dual threat. Safety-catch off, eyes cocked, he advanced and backed off, ranting, thrusting the weapon erratically towards his opponents. They stood, shocked in inertia. A young constable vomited. Excitable laughter from the gunman, the mood-trampoline of fear and ecstasy, a moment to enjoy. He brought the barrel up to his shoulder, squinted, simulated aim. Add shit to the puke. Man, were they scared. He had them in his sights, in his kill-zone, could make them dance or cry, beg or die. That was ghetto-rap, power, approval, that was being someone. Three hundred muggings a day in London, a cool round number, and he was part of the trend, a player in the pack. Reverend Azania had preached the need for the offensive, for seizing the day. He was doing more – seizing control. Counted among men. He could hold his head high, appear alongside the American on the town hall balcony, receive the salutations of the crowd. Mob rule was self-rule.
Another action, adrenalin-fed, as sudden as the first. Loosing off three directionless rounds, he used his free hand to wrench open the car door and threw himself inside. Ignition, reverse, ram. He cursed – the BMW impact-jolting to a halt – fumbling with the keys, foot stamping down as tyres shrieked and blistered on the forward momentum. Acceleration, outside images blurring, showers of glass and the indistinct shapes of falling humans pitched aside in the charge. He felt good, he felt possessed. They would call down support, radio their helicopters and firearms teams to give chase. All part of the service, proof of their oppressive intent. They wanted him to die, were competing to collect his scalp. Make an example, offer a Jamaican’s head, and the rich whites would sleep easier, could protect their safe little lives and safe little wives. It was ever their way, the rhythm of the slave plantations, the practice of the tyrannical state. The speed-needle clocked upwards. Showdown rather than slowdown. He yelled, exultant, turned the bass loud. Every day should be this exciting, every political statement this important.
The BMW swerved on to Cold Harbour Lane, rocking and rocketing into the descent. A bow-wave of shock carried before it, a confused, turbulent wake of damage and debris came behind. Horns, shouts, the crash of brakes, normality and pedestrians scattering, cars veering, at the approach. A shopper was hit, flew high, a cyclist crumpling on the bonnet and cannonading into plate glass. Four litres powered on, drove through, the vehicle battering, weaving, charging, the youth fighting the wheel, taking the world. He could hear the pursuit, had no cares. They would send weapons teams against him, negotiators, speak deceit, talk through loud-hailers, fire their tear gas and their bullets. Fuck them. He had right, the community, with him. Side-collision, lurch, adjustment, quickening. A poverty parade of bargain stores and forlorn takeaways spilled past at speed. Parade dismissed. The BMW jumped the kerb, tractor-ploughed, and ricocheted fitfully back to its course. More flashing lights. They were coming, committed, a thin blue line streaking for the frontline. He worked the pedal, engine pitch rising, the inertia-pull of the belt tight on his chest, his breathing taut and shallow. This was his territory, a landscape to which he belonged; this was real. Police incident-tape marked its boundaries, the aftermath of recent and daily crime, streaming like bunting from lampposts and bollards. Welcoming. He went for the finish.
Loughborough Junction, its five Stalin towers squat and lowering over urban blight. The streets had been reclaimed, renamed, a stamping ground for gangs, a dumping pit for problems, dysfunctionals and stolen cars. Not a pretty place, not a place to be. Community relations meant little when few knew their parents. Deprivation – desperation – bred animosity, bred more offspring, bred broken homes and busted buildings. Beat patrols followed their instincts and stayed away. But today they had back-up, a chase in progress, a reason to enter. Scene change. Taking the corner. The BMW cut across the front of a truck, connected, spun and up-ended. Its roll was prolonged, the stunt unrehearsed. Careful parking had never been a strength of the area. Tumbling wildly, battering a swathe, sustaining velocity, the car flailed into two telecoms vans. A ready-made pyre. By then, the gunman was critically injured. Within a second, he had ceased to be. The explosion was large, fuel- and fragment-filled, took out windows, took down bystanders. People ran or fell, people watched. The road was on fire. It was a cremation; it was the starter beacon.
Inhabitants were not quick to take sides – they already belonged to one. As emergency services converged, they were confronted and pushed back; as police struggled to escort ambulances, they were pelted. The mood mutated from ugly to deformed, missiles turning from bricks and paving-slabs to petrol-bombs and flaming tyres. News travelled, revolt gathered. No one cared that the remains of five automatic carbines were discovered by fire crews in the incinerated wreckage of the young man’s BMW; no one blamed him for killing or crippling innocents in his solo stampede down Cold Harbour Lane. He was a victim, a martyr – he was black. The police had brought it on, brought it on themselves; through ignorance, intervention, they had generated tragedy. Official apologies would be tendered, but were not enough, postmortems and retired judges rolled out to placate, pontificate, to lay down smoke. There were easier means to creating a billowing fog. Beneath it, the battle spread, hand-to-hand, machete-to-nightstick, the glowing magma-flow of protest widening, enveloping. Rioters called in reinforcements, police did the same, the mêlée struggling and breaking into side streets, expanding, contracting, pulsing with its own malignant fury. A helicopter clattered overhead, dipping and side-sliding through the puff haze to film and direct. It took hits, wheeled off to a safer altitude. There was nothing safe on the ground.
Embers blew, combustion and outbreak flaring in Railton and Atlantic Roads. Lawlessness had come; lawlessness was opportunity. Combatants raced to the front, on foot, by vehicle, drawn by the Pied-Piper concert of klaxons, alarms and crashing glass. Some were diverted, tempted by side-shows, looting, joining the tail-end of ambushes and hunting parties, dragging drivers screaming from stalled traffic. A sports utility vehicle mounted the pavement, ram-flattened a young couple, the passengers emerging to frisk and rob the prone bodies. Behind, gears clashed, pneumatics hissed, as a truck targeted a department store, charging the frontage, blundering through in a crackling shard cascade. The infantry followed, searching for bargains, plundering at will. Wealth-distribution, goods-redistribution, had begun; the sales were declared open. It was social action, identity reaffirmation, with the added incentive of designer labels and cutting-edge sound systems. Each act was a signpost, an inducement to further excess. A carpet store smoked and erupted, an electrical goods shop was ransacked and followed. The young constable did not last long. He clutched at his acid-blinded eyes – as sightless as the CCTV cameras shot out by a roving posse – and sank to his knees, disappearing. Cut-off, cut-out. His death was unremarkable, unrecorded. The authorities were staring at blank screens, contemplating disaster. They would not have witnessed the gang house-breaking their way along the pretty crescent on a search-and-rape mission, could not turn back the crowds surging from the Underground, dancing drunk and skunked from ravaged pubs, or cut down the pair of bodies hanging in makeshift gibbets on Kellett Road. Scores were being settled, tallies were rising.
Infectious panic. A yell had sounded, the mob backing off from the litter bin in a dissolving, disordered circle. Around its base, the contents had been tipped, scavenged for improvised ammunition. Lying with them, built into a plastic mass-catering ice-cream container, was the bomb. It was a simple device, the face of its digital timer visible, the wires carefully taped, the explosives packed tight and bounded with nails, bolts, ball-bearings and a pair of small propane cylinders. The lid had come away, its surface glued with loose condoms, empty beer cans, hypodermics and burger wraps. Natural camouflage, Claymore-effect. Designed to discourage tampering, to kill many. The refuse bay itself would have maximized fragmentation; excrement on the nails would have complicated wounds. Read-out changed, counting down the detonation schedule. The shouts of incredulity, fear, climbed. In the frenzied atmosphere, hypnosis-psychosis of revolt, it was evidence of a campaign against them, symbolic of the persecution they suffered; it justified their response. They stampeded away, searching for scapegoats, fresh sacrifice. The explosive would be dealt with, redeployed. Outside Brixton police station, missiles were raining, the swollen horde blowing whistles, dancing, bringing up steel girders to force the entrance – force conclusion – beneath the front canopy. At the barricaded rear, hooded shock-troops with pistols and knives, dealers taking the drugs war back to the besieged, slithered over security walls and into the vehicle compound. The community was waking. It had yet to wake up to itself.
The Tiger stirred, inserting a bullet clip into the Glock 9-mm. A mile away, the bredren were lighting up the sky. He should be with them, joining the celebration, had listened to the reports, opened the windows of the stifling studio room to sniff the air, savour the moment. There was smoke on the wind, the eye-reddening hint of CS, the stifled pop of baton-rounds, the cacophony of charge and retreat. It was tempting to step outside, to carry the fight. But the warning had come soon after his meeting with the South African in Electric Avenue, an emailed message from his handler in Azania’s command revealing that Britain’s Security Service was tailing him, amassing evidence. The choice was to leave, lead and lose them in an international paper-chase of false passports and dummy destinations, or to stay and play. He had opted for the latter, the chance to stretch their resources, divert their attention. If they had solid proof of his handiwork, they would have moved. Instead, they followed his widening circles as he blanked his contacts, ran around, ran them around. He was floating free, cut loose, clear of incrimination. They were too late. Conflict was already here.
Time to go. He holstered the pistol and shrugged on his black leather jacket. Everything was ready. He would slip away through the burning streets, shake off the MI5 tail and Special Branch snatch squads and emerge clean and clear to escape. It would be comic witnessing their attempts to blend, survive, in the Brixton furnace. They valued their lives. It meant they were risk-averse, weak; their inferiority would show. He donned a baseball cap, pulled shut the window, flicked a Zippo and dropped it onto the shredded mattress primed with butane. One more conflagration, one more emergency call-out, one more vignette of confusion to slow and disrupt. He had helped light the fuse, would walk away to another place for another day. Toasting marshmallows was for kids. He closed the door and locked it.
A clutch of fire engines, riot police vans intermingled in the convoy, forced its way along Stockwell Road, progress slowed by the counter-traffic of refugee residents and abandoned vehicles. Bottlenecks meant barricades, barricades meant risk of attack. They inched forward, growling into the grey particle-mist, a flurry of stones rattling off their sides. An impressive formation. Their retreat would be faster, more ragged. The Tiger pushed through the milling crowd, puncturing the static field of electric tension, ignoring the vacant expressions of expectancy in the eyes and faces. They wanted a happening, wanted to be part of it. The herd. He had done enough.
‘Armed police!’ The shout came from behind, to his flank, in his face, a volley of words lost in the commotion, aimed at him. They would be sighting on his body mass, covering with their own Glock 9-mm hardware, would continue to fire until he was down. That was the way of SO19, standard operating procedure; that was the way of cops whose undercover colleagues had been totalled by the target in their fire zone. Doing it by numbers, doing it in Kevlar vests and macho combat boots. It showed lack of respect, a dearth of awareness. There was nothing standard about him. They were trained on their ranges at Lippitts Hill, comforted by counsellors, controlled by the law. He was initiated in the open gutters of Kingston, above the law. His name would never appear in the court listings of the white man’s justice system. If he fell, he would be a hero – a murdered man executed by murderous decree – if he lived, it was on his terms. The South African should have stuck around, might have learned something. Welcome to the dance hall. He spun, hand sliding for the pistol grip, and twisted into a sprint.
CHAPTER 12
The USA
‘Twelve confirmed? Not bad. Keep ’em coming. It’ll be this month’s main topic at the San Ysidro border crossing.’
It would be the month’s main topic back in Tijuana, the town from which the dozen Mexican illegals – since transformed into fatality statistics in the superheated fastness of the Sonoran Desert – had doubtlessly set out. Worth a smoke. Ted Bell opened the humidor, breathing deeply as the heavy sweetness of cedarwood and rich blended scents of Partido and Vuelta Abajo tobaccos rose to greet him. He loved this moment, entering a little world, another country, which he controlled, where twenty thousand bucks’ worth of Havanas nestled in a climate of his making. Seventeen degrees Celsius, 70 per cent relative humidity: constant, regulated, and he could tip the balance, spoil it all, on a whim, with the twist of a dial.
