The Bergamese Sect (20 page)

The safety lamp blazed again. Countless glinting shards shone like a spent firework falling, dispersing over the track.

‘
No!’ yelled Clara.

Henric’s weapon discharged, hitting the assassin in the heart. The figure teetered for a second, the gun dropping, then slumped and fell. The wind picked up the body and flung it over their heads. They waited for its impact on the invisible ground, but it continued to fall away from them, spinning, tumbling into the abyss.

‘
Where’s the ground?’ Henric shouted, mesmerised by the falling figure. The silhouette of the corpse was suddenly picked out by a reflection, a mirror image of the dark clouds above.

‘
We’re on a bridge,’ Matt screamed, gripping the throbbing wound on his upper arm. ‘That’s water below.’

‘
Jump now!’ Clara shouted. ‘Before the other one comes.’

Matt looked at her, his face white, his muscles paralysed.

‘
Jump, you son-of-a-bitch,’ she balled at him, dragging him to his feet and thrusting him toward the ladder.

As he left the train, Matt forced his arms up as if somehow they would aid his descent. The clatter of the train disappeared, replaced with a soft swish of calm air as his body spun into the depths. He could see the bridge, the speeding train, black against the clouds. Two bodies were following him through the sky, limbs flailing.

And two more figures, clinging to the back of the train, their stricken eyes watching as the three of them glided toward the water.

Chapter 12

The town of Dana Point, south of Los Angeles, was a bustle of people out to enjoy themselves. The morning was warm, a refreshing breeze blowing off the Pacific, the sky a vivid blue. Swarms of cruisers and sailboats jostled for space in the harbour, their multi-coloured flags making the horizon shimmer with vivid colour. Sprinklers drenched the green lawns, sending clouds of water floating across the streets. The shops and bars were brightly decorated, lit by countless tubes of glowing gas, revelling in the brisk summer business.

Half way down the street stood an office building of bright white brick with dark windows. The building was smart and functional. The entrance lay back from the curb, up a short flight of wide steps, and was surrounded by large palm trees growing from enormous orange pots. A plastic sign displaying an intricate company logo of concentric circles stood on chrome legs.

Carefully avoiding the pedestrians, a van, white with blacked-out windows, edged down the street. It drew up outside the white office building, stopping in a small unloading bay at the bottom of the steps. For several minutes it waited, its engine running, stark in the bright sunshine.

A vagrant in a thick brown overcoat meandered up the street and sat himself down on the entrance steps of the office. A garbage collector arrived, parked his cart in front of the van and began sweeping the sidewalk by its wheels. With a dangerous glide, a girl on roller skates, dragging a white poodle with bulbous tail and ankles, drew up. She tied the poodle to a fire hydrant, took off her skates and loitered on the sidewalk. From her pocket, she pulled out a white dust mask and stretched it over her face.

The door of the office building swung open and a young man came out, a briefcase dangling from the end of his arm. He wore a white shirt and black tie but no jacket. His hair was short, almost shaven, his body lean and fit. Squinting at the bright day, he skipped down the wide steps to the sidewalk and stopped as if he’d forgotten where he was going.

As he stood there, the side door of the van slid rapidly open and two men jumped out. They leapt on the young man, grabbing his arms and throwing his briefcase to the floor. One of them tackled him from behind, bringing him quickly to the ground, and thrust the barrel of a gun into the back of his head.

‘
Federal agents,’ the man screamed, ‘don’t move!’

The two men wore grey combat gear and black metal helmets. Their automatic weapons glinted in the sun as the young man lay spread-eagled on the sidewalk, motionless and silent. One of the agents bent over and quickly frisked the young man’s body. ‘Clear!’ he shouted.

The pedestrians noticed the attack. They gathered in a shocked crowd on the other side of the street, mumbling to each other but unwilling to intervene.

But three onlookers seemed unusually interested and slowly approached the federal agents – the girl, the vagrant and the garbage collector. The agents eyed them for a moment but were unconcerned, busy with securing their prey. They picked up the young man, dragged him toward the waiting van, threw him inside and climbed in after him.

Suddenly, with unbelievable swiftness, the vagrant leapt forward, releasing a pungent spray through the door of the van. In an instant, the girl was inside the vehicle and had disarmed the federal agents with a violent sweep of her arms. In the blink of an eye, the garbage collector had shattered the windscreen of the van with a punch-gun and knocked the driver almost unconscious.

The girl jumped from the van, pulled out a pistol, and placed an earpiece in her ear. She began conversing quietly with the shoulder of her bright T-shirt while directing the agents out of the van with the tip of her gun. The young man stepped out after them, grinning through a violent cough as he passed.

The agents were dragged up the steps of the office building, their eyes streaming, one of them groggy after the blow to his head. The vagrant tied their hands behind their backs with thin strips of black plastic.

‘
What the hell’s going on? We’re federal agents,’ one of them screamed, fighting back the chemical tears.

‘
Be quiet.’

‘
Who are you?’ the agent asked.

The garbage collector just smiled at him as he stepped out of his coveralls. Beneath he wore casual clothes, a shoulder holster holding a .22 calibre weapon by his ribs. He nonchalantly whipped out a pair of shades, placed them on his nose and smiled at the captives again.

―
§ ―

The deserted airfield stood off a forgotten road in the hills east of San Bernardino, an inconsequential strip of brown dusty earth, now almost blown away, the perimeter fence mostly gone. A plume of red dust grew up as a blue van sped through the broken entrance gates and headed for a derelict hangar. It slowed on the cracked apron, shot through the creaking doors and screeched to a halt inside the corrugated building.

Six heavily armed men stepped out. They quickly checked the perimeter then ushered three captives from the vehicle. Marching them to the centre of the wide floor, they sat them in plastic chairs and strapped their arms behind them. The armed men stood back, concealed their weapons, and eyed the agents suspiciously.

Several minutes later, a distant whistling sound washed over them. The three captives turned and saw a Lincoln Continental draw up on the apron beyond the hangar doors. The back doors opened and two men exited. They were well dressed, the older man greying slightly, the younger tall and blonde. Walking slowly, they entered the hangar and sat in two chairs facing the captives.

Walsh brushed back his hair, crossed his legs and stared at each of the men in turn. He pulled out a tiny black notepad and checked some details in it, then slid it neatly back into his jacket.

‘
Who’s the senior rank?’ he asked the three men. One of the agents looked up and nodded dejectedly. His eyes were red, confused, his mouth taught.

‘
Okay, which agency you working for?’

‘
Who are you?’

‘
Just answer the question.’

The agent remained cool. ‘You realise you’re dealing with federal agents?’ he said.

‘
So are you,’ Walsh replied with a crooked smile.

‘
The consequences for interfering could be costly.’

Walsh’s smile disappeared. ‘Don’t threaten me. Whoever you’re working for, they can’t help you now. They wouldn’t want to anyway – if they knew it was me they were dealing with. Believe me. Now, who the hell are you?’

A glimmer of concern spread across the face of the senior agent. ‘We’re FBI, LA Field Office,’ he said.

‘
Why weren’t you carrying identification?’

‘
We were told not to.’

‘
Why?’

The agent shrugged. ‘Don’t know.’

Walsh uncrossed his legs and glanced at Petersen beside him. He turned back to the commanding officer. ‘What about your uniforms? Why aren’t they marked? You could easily have shot each other if things had got confused.’

The agent shrugged again. ‘This is what we were given. Special issue,’ he explained.

Walsh couldn’t believe the saboteur had acted so rashly. The ruse had worked perfectly and there was now no doubt about his identity. But Walsh desperately needed to buy some time.

‘
Who was your target?’ he asked.

‘
We weren’t told.’

‘
What
were
you told?’

‘
We were briefed to arrest a dangerous fugitive. We were to use all necessary force to apprehend him. We weren’t told why he was wanted.’

‘
Is that common?’

‘
Well, no, but we don’t question an assignment given us by the Special Agent in Charge.’

‘
Who’s your Special Agent in Charge?’

‘
Troy Neumann.’

‘
Ah, Troy,’ Walsh said with recognition. He knew Neumann well enough for it to be useful. It would be helpful in stabilising the situation. ‘What’s your name, son?’ Walsh asked the agent.

‘
Dick Turner.’

‘
Well, Dick, you’ve been sent on a mission that’s highly irregular. You’ve just demonstrated that someone in your line of command is a traitor. This is really serious.’

The glimmer of concern turned into worry. Turner shifted uncomfortably in his chair and stared at the ground. Walsh felt some sympathy for him. He’d been thrown into a battle he couldn’t possibly understand. It angered Walsh that he’d had to put these men in danger. But then, he’d had no choice. How else could he flush out the saboteur? Call in the state police? The CIA?

The agent narrowed his eyes, a hint of anger welling up in his expression. ‘Who are you guys and what the fuck’s going on?’

‘
Never mind who we are. It would be in your best interests to tell me what I need to know.’

The agent stared at the ground again, shaking his head in disbelief and annoyance.

‘
What were your orders following the apprehension of the suspect?’ Walsh asked.

‘
We were given an address in Victorville, a safe house.’

‘
Was someone to meet you there?’

‘
No, as far as I know.’

‘
After you reached the safe house, what then?’

‘
Hold the suspect there for two nights. A drop-off is arranged for Friday north of Santa Barbara.’

‘
Is there anyone else on this operation – anyone who’ll expect to see you before Friday?’

‘
No.’

‘
Are you sure?’

‘
Yes.’

‘
Were you given a contact?’

‘
Sure, we have an unlisted number. We were to report the outcome of the pick-up and then confirm our arrival at the drop-off zone.’

Walsh sat back in his chair, placing the tips of his outstretched fingers together. He paused for a moment, took another glance at Petersen. ‘Okay,’ he said, ‘here’s what I want you to do. Call the number now; tell them the pick-up went smoothly. You have the suspect in your custody, unhurt. Say you will confirm the drop-off time on Friday.’

‘
Why should I? I still don’t know if you’re legitimate.’

The agent was doing what any FBI man would do. Relinquishing control simply wasn’t in their repertoire. Walsh smiled. He had to admire the man’s boldness. ‘Would you do as I say if Neumann told you?’ he asked.

Turner hesitated then said, ‘sure, that would be a direct order.’

‘
Okay, how do I get to him securely?’

‘
Do you know Dougherty’s?’

‘
Sure.’

The FBI Special Agent paused. ‘Go through them. Ask if they’ll deliver, then order two egg muffins and fries. The address is 1045A Belmont and First.’

Walsh turned to Petersen and held out his hand. Petersen reached in a pocket and drew out a compact mobile phone. He handed it to the Assistant Director. Walsh showed it to Turner. ‘This yours?’ he asked the agent.

Turner nodded.

Walsh tapped in a number and waited several moments for a reply. A voice answered the call and Walsh repeated the information Turner had given. He waited for the operator to patch him through to Troy Neumann on a secure line.

‘
Neumann? Sewell here,’ Walsh said. There was a pause. ‘Sewell,’ Walsh repeated, but the voice on the other end was confused. ‘Actually Troy, it’s Larry Walsh.’

Another pause. ‘Er,’ said Walsh, raising his eyebrows, ‘your little shindig down in Dana Point today… what’s it all about?’ Neumann began an explanation. ‘Right. Counterintelligence Division? I see. Well, there’s been a change of plan. I want you to tell your men to co-operate with me. No…, yes…, sure…, I see. Hold on.’

Walsh looked at Turner, smiling. ‘Here, he wants to talk to you,’ he said. Walsh gave a nod to one of the armed guards who stepped forward and sliced through the plastic strap tying Turner to the chair. The agent flexed his fingers, rubbed his wrists, and held up a hand. Walsh tossed him the phone.

‘
Turner here.’ There was a long pause as Turner listened to the voice. His face was unmoved, his gaze avoiding Walsh. ‘Sure,’ he said at last. He passed the phone back to Walsh who raised it to his ear and turned away from the seated men.