Backlash (2 page)

Gill turned to the assortment of tools on the towel. He selected a ball hammer, testing it for weight and effectiveness by smacking it gently into the palm of his left hand. He stopped and looked at the woman in the bath. He sniffed. ‘Actually I quite fancy giving you a “Yorkshire Ripper”.'

He said it as though he was about to give Lucinda Graveson a cut and blow dry.

Over the last six months, Gill had studied Lucinda Graveson's habits quite closely. He knew enough to switch off all her house lights at 11.30 p.m. This chore done, Gill sat behind drawn curtains in the darkened house for another forty-five minutes, looking out through a narrow gap at the street outside.

He used the time for some deep reflection about the future. Making plans, deciding the way forwards.

At 12.15 a.m. he went into the kitchen and stepped carefully over the body of Lucinda Graveson's husband before letting himself out of the back door. He edged to the front corner of the house and stayed there for a while.

Nothing moved. Few lights shone in the surrounding properties. It was one of those neighbourhoods – weren't most? Gill pondered depressingly – in which everyone kept themselves to themselves, kept their noses out of other people's business and curled up in their alarm-protected houses. It was the sort of community that, directly and indirectly, people like Lucinda Graveson contributed to, Gill firmly and obsessively believed.

Five minutes more he waited. Still no movement. When he was certain there was nothing to worry about, he flicked the hood of his coat over his head and trotted confidently down the drive, past Lucinda's natty little MGF and her husband's BMW.

Gill walked down the avenue and criss-crossed his way through a large good-class housing estate until he reached a main road. In a few more minutes he was at his motorcycle, which he had left secreted between two units on a crappy industrial estate. Over his shoulder he carried the black plastic bin liner which contained the protective clothing he had worn and the tools he had used while committing his crimes, including the electric-shock baton with which he had subdued the Gravesons before killing them. As he stuffed the bag into one of the panniers he reminded himself to check the baton because he'd had to give Mr Graveson a second blast with it when the first one hadn't worked. Maybe there was a loose connection in it somewhere, he thought. From the back box he removed his full-face helmet and pulled it on over his head and mounted the big bike.

He was aware of the possibility of getting pulled up by the police on his journey, but the chances of it happening were remote and even if it did happen there was little chance of the panniers being searched. Gill acknowledged the risk, but was prepared to take it because he knew that the hundred per cent safe disposal of the clothing was guaranteed at home. In this game, the gauntlet sometimes had to be run.

The machine fired up first time, its engine ticked over smoothly.

Within minutes he was on the motorway, accelerating easily up to his cruising speed of eighty. Just about right to make good progress but not too fast to attract any unwelcome attention. Less than an hour later his bike was parked up in a secure garage and Gill was walking into his flat.

He chilled out, wound down for a while, wrote things up and glanced over some old articles. He bathed in a little self glory and patted himself on the back, wondering how his latest exploit would hit the news. While relaxing he lifted a few weights, did fifty press-ups, a hundred sit-ups and 5,000 metres on his rower, just to keep himself buzzing.

Just before 4 a.m., he left the flat to make his way home.

The urge to kill again was already permeating through his soul.

Miami, Florida, US

The bomber – his name was unknown – had planted nineteen bombs and spent six years making the world's most prestigious law-enforcement agency look stupid.

The first bomb had been a low-key affair – as bombs go. It had been placed in any bomber's favourite location, a bar. This one was in San Francisco and was frequented by the gay community. An easy target on a steamy Friday evening in June when the place was heaving with vest-clad, muscle-bound bodies. The surprise was that it only ripped the guts out of three people, those unfortunate ones seated on the bench under which the innocuous looking sports bag containing the bomb had been placed. Four others were maimed, another dozen injured.

The bomb had been a try-out. It had worked.

Each subsequent bomb was better, more powerful, more deadly and sophisticated than its predecessor. The death toll could easily have passed one hundred, but twenty-four it was, with two more in comas from which they would be unlikely to surface, eight wheelchair bound and another forty with lost limbs.

The FBI had reacted predictably, throwing the bulk of their resources at the numerous right-wing terrorist groups which were sprouting up across America like cancerous tumours. They did their best to infiltrate this movement – fast becoming very clever and more security-conscious where law enforcement tactics were concerned; a movement that had studied, liaised with and learned valuable lessons from other terrorist groups, particularly the successful European ones, such as the Provisional IRA, and had begun to operate in self-contained units, making it virtually impossible for an outsider such as an undercover officer to penetrate successfully.

And so the Feds had tried and tried and, humiliatingly, discovered nothing. No hints. No whispers. No names. Not a thing. The bomber remained nameless, faceless, untouchable, able to conduct a campaign of terror with impunity across the country, wreaking havoc, misery, mayhem and death, inducing fear into his targets.

The FBI began to suspect the bomber was a loner. He (although the actual gender of the individual was not a certainty to them, it was unlikely to be a female, according to the behavioural psychologists) was, they deduced, either not affiliated to any particular group or was operating independently on the periphery of several. He was classified as a New Offender Model Terrorist, acting out his deadly rages and frustrations in total anonymity . . . and outwitting the FBI at the same time.

The twentieth bomb exploded in Miami. Another gay bar. The eighth such target chosen by the bomber.

It was a huge, devastating explosion, completely and utterly destroying the inside of the bar in the Coral Gables area of the city. It blasted out the massive plate-glass window at the front of the premises, sending horrific shards of glass scything out across the sidewalk drinking area. Five people were blown to smithereens, many more injured, including numerous passers-by who were both white, male and heterosexual.

An FBI team from the Miami Field Office were at the scene within ten minutes, under the supervision of the Special Agent in Charge. They took control of the carnage, usurping, bawling out and chivvying the local cops and, as per textbook procedure, establishing a suitable rendezvous point (RVP) through which all approaches to the scene had to be channelled.

The SAC had made an excellent choice for the RVP – a small parking lot about a quarter of a mile distant from the scene of the bombing, some six blocks away and out of sight of it. The SAC brought in a mobile-communications truck, staffed with highly trained operatives who looked after all the phones, radios and agent deployments. The SAC seated himself in the cramped office at one end of the unit and directed operations from there. He had visited the scene briefly, but had come away quickly so as not to get involved, leaving his assistant in charge, while retaining overall strategic command and control from the truck, well removed from the hysteria and emotion. The chain of command had therefore been set up.

This was the first time the Feds had been able to react so swiftly with a full team and a well thought out approach. There had to be the chance of a good result because of it.

Unfortunately, people who bomb other people are unpredictable, usually smart, always devious and, of course, very dangerous. The bomber had decided to up stakes with this bombing and the FBI, despite their preparations, were not ready for the change in modus operandi. The bomber knew what procedures the FBI would adopt at the scene, in particular that an RVP would be established some way away. After reconnoitring the whole neighbourhood several times over a period of days before he planted the device in the bar, the bomber had concluded that the only place the RVP could realistically be set up was in the parking lot. It had the necessary elements needed: space and control of the main routes to and from the scene.

The secondary device was much larger and more powerful than the one he had used in the bar. It had been placed and taped to the underside of a storm-drain cover in the parking lot and – beautifully and coincidentally – the mobile communication truck was parked slap-bang over it. The bomber waited several hours before detonating the bomb, at a time when the RVP was at its most hectic with milling FBI personnel.

He was positioned on the high roof of an apartment building with an excellent view down to and across the lot. He had been there since the first bomb exploded, waiting patiently and happily, watching the emergency services hurtling by. He had observed, with a wry smile playing on his lips, the FBI commandeering the parking lot, as predicted, and driving the state of the art communications truck onto it and setting up shop. He remained cool and relaxed, holding back for the exact moment that would produce maximum impact.

He picked up the remote control, his hands covered by thin latex gloves, pointed and thumbed the button.

A classic.

The blast almost blew him across the roof. He held on tight to the railings, keeping his eyes wide open, unwilling to miss one fraction of a second of the devastation he had caused.

He had destroyed the communications truck, killed three agents and severely injured a dozen more. But, through one of those inexplicable freaks of fate, the SAC, who had been sitting in his temporary office in the truck, only a matter of feet from the epicentre of the blast, emerged shaken and shocked, his clothing having been torn from his body, but otherwise unscathed.

It wasn't long before a pair of keen agents were on the apartment rooftop looking down at the scene of tangled metal from which smoke still rose languidly in the hot night and from which two of the dead had yet to be cut free. They immediately radioed control that they believed they had found the point where the bomber had been sitting. They could not believe their good fortune. This was the closest anyone had ever knowingly been to the bomber. They were literally hot on his trail.

Professionals that they were, the two agents approached the eyrie with extreme caution from the roof door. Their senses tingled with excitement and they took nothing for granted. Their weapons were drawn at the ready. They slid slowly across the flat roof, eyes never still, checking for booby-traps and trip wires, until they reached the edge of the roof. Here they found a folding stool of the sort used by anglers, a pair of binoculars on it and what looked like a TV remote-control unit discarded on the ground.

The agents eyed each other.

‘Don't touch anything,' Colin Brewster whispered hoarsely and unnecessarily. Booker nodded and tried to hide a disgruntled ‘Tch' with a short cough; though he had far less experience than Brewster, he knew his job and resented the older man telling him what to do. Booker had a very tight feeling in his chest. This could be the breakthrough. This could be it – the bomber's first mistake. Even if there were no fingerprints to be found here, the amount of information that could be gleaned from the three items they had found was phenomenal. There could be numerous lines of enquiry here. He squatted down onto his haunches, his knees cracking loudly, and squinted at the evidence.

Brewster moved to the low wall with railings at the edge of the roof. He gazed pensively down on the scene of the bombing below. He had lost one very good friend down there. Arc lights illuminated the whole area as the time moved on towards midnight. Brewster's forehead creased. He knew this was a terrific breakthrough, yet something was nagging – gnawing – at him.

Booker said, ‘This could tell us a lot, pal.'

‘U-huh,' agreed Brewster laconically.

Both agents had their backs to the roof door.

‘The bastard'll regret this,' Booker growled, ‘leaving this gear.'

The roof door opened a fraction.

Brewster did not answer. His mind was still unsettled as he worked through this scenario. This bomber did not make mistakes, he thought. He does not leave clues or evidence. So why now?

The roof door opened a little wider. The old rusted iron hinges did not squeak or groan as they should have done. They had been well oiled, lubricated and tested. They moved smoothly. Noiseless.

‘This is just fantastic,' Booker gushed. He wasn't really thinking straight.

Brewster remained silent, brooding, not keying in to his partner's enthusiasm. He folded a piece of gum into his mouth and chewed.

‘Somethin' ain't right,' he said.

Booker regarded him, puzzled.

Now the door behind them opened wide enough to allow the barrel of a silenced pistol to peek through. The agents were fifteen feet away, muttering to each other. For someone as good as the bomber, the distance was no problem, even though it was some time since he had used a gun in anger. He was supremely confident in his abilities. But this was not the right moment to kill them. He wanted the agent who was standing by the edge of the roof – Brewster – to step back a few feet. He didn't want the guy toppling over the edge and splatting down on the sidewalk.

Their radios squawked.

Booker, still bouncing on his haunches, answered and had a short conversation, confirming some detail or other. Brewster stayed by the edge of the roof.

The bomber pushed the door open and stepped out behind the special agents. Brewster sensing something, turned quickly. Booker stood up and followed his colleague's gaze.