The vicar, p.8
The Vicar, page 8
Now all he needed was a distraction or, better yet, total panic.
He had about three minutes before the train stopped at the platform when he saw his chance. A lady with a couple of kids sat across from the three guys. She stood up to get their backpacks and her much larger one from the overhead compartment. The kids’ backpacks were retrieved without a problem, but hers appeared to have gotten stuck. Terry was on his feet in a flash, the silenced 9mm SIG Sauer in his waistband on his left hip, offering to help her get it down. She smiled thankfully and took a step back. Perfect. With much grunting and mumbling, more for show, really, as he’d managed to get the bag loose within a couple of seconds, he began pulling the bag down. He slipped the tracking device he had retrieved from the weapon into one of the backpack pockets. He smiled. That should confuse any welcoming committee at the station.
One of the men sitting across from them nudged his friend and said, loud enough for him and the woman to hear, “That’s the problem with these British bastards, Michael. They aren’t worth a shit.”
The woman, for her part, glared at them then mouthed the word “asshole” to Terry. He grinned appreciatively and gave the bag one final heave. The effort and weight of the bag apparently caused him to stumble onto the right arm of the man sitting facing his two compadres. This was the one who had a weapon under his left armpit, so Terry knew he was a right-handed shooter. Terry’s “fall” effectively put him out of action for a few seconds. Holding the handle of the backpack in his left hand, and using it to shield the view of his right hand and the men briefly from the lady and her kids, he slightly pulled the weapon from his waistband and put one round in each of the men’s hearts facing him. Phut, phut. Now for the panic. Turning the weapon slightly he placed two rounds—phut, phut—into the third man’s head, causing it to explode as if he’d been hit by a grenade. Then, in a blur, he put three rounds through the window. The woman started to scream at the sight of the blood and brains as the Irishmen fell lifeless onto the table in front of him.
“Jesus!” screamed Terry. “Get down, someone’s shooting at the train!”
He had already slipped his weapon into his right-hand pocket as he dropped her bag on the floor. He pointed at the window with his left hand; the woman looked, and her eyes went wide. He grabbed the kids from their seats and pushed them to the floor, “Crawl, dammit, get the hell out of this carriage.”
She nodded bravely. Keeping her children close, she grabbed her backpack and started to crawl away from the carnage. Other passengers in the train car who had heard the commotion stood up to see what was going on. “Get down on the floor, you bloody fools, someone’s shooting at the train.” It was as if he’d given an electric shock to peoples’ brains; what had been calm sixty seconds earlier was now total panic. People were climbing over seats, over each other, in an attempt to get out of the door into the next car. He heard a yell from further down that someone was shooting at the train. The panic was spreading. Suddenly the outside went dark as the train entered the East River tunnel. Terry reckoned he only had a minute or two before they arrived. He jumped up and flipped the emergency brake switch. The wheels automatically locked with a terrible screeching sound, and within ten seconds, the train came to a shuddering halt. Now to get the hell out.
The rear car was nearly empty now, and everyone still there was focused on escape. Terry ran back to get his bag and its precious contents, then pried open the rearmost sliding door. Opening it quickly, he jumped down onto the gravel ballast separating the tracks and ran from the mayhem that he had caused. He figured he had a couple of minutes to get away before the train was swarming with cops. Running like hell toward the tunnel wall at the far side of the numerous tracks. and enveloped in darkness, he headed back toward Sunnyside Yard in Queens. In under a minute, he found what he was looking for—an access door used by maintenance workers. It was locked, but three carefully placed rounds took care of that. Then he made his way through an upward-sloping, dimly lit corridor. Turning a corner, he was confronted with a concrete staircase. Taking the steps two at a time, he continued along the corridor until he reached a heavily painted wooden six-panel door. Trying the handle, he opened the door and entered a maintenance room. There were men and a few women in overalls working on tool benches lining the walls.
Most people would have tried to make their way out of the building surreptitiously, but Terry had learned over the years that confidence can usually get you in and out of most places. So he slung his bag over his shoulder, stuffed his hands in his pockets and, with the odd nod to the people working there, made his way out toward the city streets, scanning for any watchers around Penn Station. He knew he had to head for Shae’s apartment, but first he needed to get out of these clothes and shower. He made his way to Macy’s to pick up a couple of changes of clothes, shoes, toiletries, an electric shaver, and a decent suitcase before jumping in a cab to head to the Grand Hyatt on Forty-Second Street.
At the hotel, he used his Swiss passport and spoke German at the front desk. After a long hot and then cold shower, he ordered a decent breakfast and a French press coffee from room service before flicking on the TV. He watched the coverage of the shooting for a while, then muted the sound and darkened the room. Terry needed sleep, and he waited for darkness to envelop the city. He operated best in the dark.
16
oxfordshire, 2000
In order to deal with the death of his daughter, Terry had done what most soldiers do and compartmentalized the pain. Amanda, for her part, was a wreck and couldn’t understand why there were no tears, why Terry wasn’t angry. Her mother replaced Terry as her rock, which caused Amanda to withdraw further from him. Even then, people were telling him he was going to lose her if he didn’t take his head out of his ass, but he wouldn’t listen.
The funeral took place at the village church near the estate where the Clay family had worshipped for centuries. It was also where Miranda had been baptized.
The morning prior to the funeral, the undertaker brought the small coffin containing Terry’s little girl into the manor house and set her remains in the family’s private chapel. Then they did the unthinkable: they opened the coffin. He was furious—how dare his wife’s family show her off in some grotesque version of lying in state? He told his wife that he thought it was wrong, but she replied that people wanted to say goodbye, and so he had kept his tongue like a good husband and allowed the show-and-tell. The viewing for all and sundry to see his little angel was between three and seven, and so they sat, like only the English can sit, back straight and shoulders back, as if at attention, which was ingrained in them when they were schoolkids. welcoming the mourners and hangers-on as they arrived in force. There were lords and ladies, earls, members of the cabinet, and even some lesser members of the royal family. It was quite a show. In the front pew, his in-laws flanked their heartbroken daughter. He chose to sit furthest away from the aisle, next to his mother-in-law, who was gently sobbing like his wife. He just sat staring forward, unable to utter a word. All he wished was that the visitors would fuck off and leave them be, but no, they just kept coming like a river of grief.
The only tolerable moment was when R, who had been one of Miranda’s godparents, appeared in front of him accompanied by Terry’s sister. She, like Amanda, was devastated by the loss. Although Terry and his sister had not spoken directly since she was whisked away into witness protection, R, over the years, had arranged for her to receive letters from the family as well as home movies and videos, so she could keep track of them. That she was here now was a testament to how worried R was for his agent and friend. Terry rose from his seat as if on autopilot, and his sister hugged him, hard, sobbing into his jacket the whole time. He had barely been able to lift his arms to return the embrace. R eventually pried her off of him and sat her down in the pew, where she promptly buried her head in her hands and continued to weep. Deep down, he was glad to see his sister after so many years, but he also resented her show of grief. It seemed to suggest that her world was over and not his. R shook Terry’s hand and, in a show of sentiment not usual for the British gentry, pulled him in and patted him on the back. He spoke the usual words of condolence, but Terry didn’t hear them. All he was able to do was mumble his thanks and return to his seat.
And so, the procession of mourners nearing its end, it was Terry and Amanda’s turn to approach the coffin and view its contents. Amanda, supported by her parents, went first, and, as any grieving mother would, she broke down. She begged her parents, begged God, begged anyone who could hear to bring her daughter back to her. It took the combined strength of her parents, R, as well as the family doctor, the one who had said his daughter would be fine, to get his wife away from the coffin and take her upstairs to her room for some much-needed rest. Terry just stood there and did not lift a finger.
Then there was no one else. Just him alone with his little girl. He shuffled forward like a man possessed and looked down at her. There was a paleness about her that had never existed when she was alive. At that moment, he nearly broke. He just couldn’t understand. How had the pneumonia taken hold so fast, why hadn’t all the drugs and wonders of modern medicine been able to save her? He sighed, and the sound seemed to echo around the chapel. He blamed himself, of course. He was supposed to protect her like he had protected so many others, but he had failed miserably. He swore to her then, to his dead daughter, that as long as he had breath in his body, he would never fail again. He reached down into the coffin and removed the Saint Christopher medal that hung around her neck, placing it gently in his pocket; he needed something of hers to remind him of his failure and of his promise to make up for it. After pushing an errant hair away from her face, he stroked her cold lifeless cheek. “Goodbye, my darling.” Reaching up, he slowly lowered the lid of the coffin, as if putting her to bed one last time, before walking out of the chapel.
Within a week of the funeral, unable to stand being in their apartment and the memories it contained, Terry was back in Cyprus, where he remained for another three months. R had said that he could take as long as he needed to be with Amanda, but he rejected the offer. Amanda had begged him to stay, but he had said there was no one else that could go, which was a lie. She had begged him to talk to her, mourn with her, cry with her, but he just couldn’t. He feared that once he started, he’d never stop. By the time he returned home, his marriage was on the rocks. Amanda had grown cold. Even though his frame of mind was such that he now felt the need to talk, to be with her, the opportunity to rekindle any spark of love that had been between them had passed. Terry knew then she would never forgive him. They were divorced within the year.
17
new york city, 7:00 p.m. edt
Terry set the alarm on his phone for eight o’clock p.m. but was awake by seven and watching CNN. By now the shooting on the train was national news, and it was being reported, through unnamed sources, that it was believed the shooter had been on the train. Pretty soon there would be a police sketch of him on every channel in New York, so he went to work on his appearance.
Removing the new clothes from his suitcase, he opened the electric shaver he had purchased and shaved his hair down to a number three, catching the hair in the open case. A number three cut was short enough to change his appearance but not so short that it would attract attention. The last thing he needed now was to be memorable. After taking another shower and wiping the tub clean—no point in leaving more DNA than necessary—he stripped the sheets and pillowcases from the bed and placed them, along with the towels he had used, in the suitcase. He got dressed in black shoes, dark pants, a slate-gray shirt, and a dark casual jacket and loaded his remaining clothes in the duffel. Just then his phone pinged with a text from K; he’d run the photos of the two dead terrorists from the boat and come up with two possible leads from Londonderry. The older of the two was definitely IRA and had been wanted for a number of bombings in the mid-1990s. The younger one was just a street thug who had aspirations to play with the big boys. Both had fallen off the map some years ago. Bugger, a dead end. He went back to getting his stuff together and wiping down the room, not that his prints would show up on any database, but it was best not to leave the cops any fingerprints or DNA they could have on file. He put on the New York Yankees cap he had purchased and a pair of nondescript glasses that looked prescription.
Downloading a luggage storage app on his phone, he booked a spot with a company near Grand Central Station and headed out of the hotel to drop off his suitcase. It would be found eventually, but not before he was long gone. Now he had to eat. He headed for Scotty’s, an all-night diner over on Thirty-Ninth and Lexington. After wolfing down a decent steak and eggs with a double order of hash browns as well as two cups of coffee, he headed for an off-the-books safe house he maintained for just such a situation. He hadn’t wanted to go there earlier, just in case it was under surveillance, and there were way too many people around during the day to spot any watchers keeping an eye on the place. A light rain began falling when he arrived in the vicinity of the safe house, which made him smile. He remembered how, throughout his regular army career, other soldiers had bitched mightily when it rained. They hated the cold, hated the way the water soaked everything and eventually chilled a person to the bone. For him, though, rain had always brought a smile to his face because if his guys were miserable, so were the enemy. This caused them to make mistakes, to be more interested in moaning and keeping warm than what was happening around them. It also made him all that much harder to be spotted. Terry didn’t mind the rain; he loved it, longed for it like a distant traveler longs for their lover.
He positioned himself deep in the shadows but with a view of the building and settled down to wait for a couple of hours. He had retrieved the night-vision device from his duffle and occasionally raised it to his eye. He hoped if anyone was watching the apartment building, they would be stupid enough to sit in a car or be in some type of nondescript van, the type always used on TV shows. After a few hours, he deemed the coast to be clear and made his way to the main entrance of the building. There was an elevator, but he ignored it. Nothing worse than taking the elevator and being shot to shit when the doors opened on your floor. The stairs were much better, as they offered a chance to maneuver if it did hit the fan.
His apartment was on the top floor, the door directly opposite the entrance to the stairs. If he had to exit quickly, he had the option of the fire escape or the stairs. He opened the door of the stairwell and looked both ways down the corridor. All seemed clear. He took a deep breath and stepped across the corridor to his apartment door, opened it quickly. And entered. He cleared the apartment room by room until he was satisfied there were no surprises waiting for him, including the sort that explode.
He stripped off his now-wet clothes and retrieved a similar outfit from his closet, including a black woolen coat, and turned on the television in the bedroom. Switching the channel to the local news, he quickly dressed while waiting for the latest report on the Acela shooting. Going to the bathroom, he removed a panel along the side of the bathtub and withdrew another bag. Inside the bag, he found a couple of flashbangs—M84 stun grenades, three M18 smoke grenades, and more ammunition for his Walther. He had a feeling he was going to need it, as he had never been in a position where his entire network of Parishioners had seemed to evaporate overnight. The fact that the assailants on his boat had known where he was and knew his real name was driving him nuts, but he tried to put that out of his mind as he focused on the mission at hand. He also placed a Leatherman multi-tool in his pants pocket and a Fairbairn-Sykes fighting knife in his jacket pocket. The last items he retrieved were a block of C-4, some detonators, detcord and fuses, and two small digital timers. He transferred all this, as well as the items in his duffel, into a Bergen backpack he had stashed in the back of the closet. This allowed him to keep his hands free if anything should occur that required him to react without hesitation. He then shoved the items that were too large for him to carry back into the space alongside the tub and replaced the panel.
Proceeding to the living room / kitchen, he turned on that television and put on the kettle to make a French press coffee. He had just poured the coffee into a metal go-cup loaded with sugar when the news started talking about the shooting. After about thirty seconds, up popped a police sketch that was surprisingly accurate. He knew it was time to make a move. If anyone at the rental agency or his neighbors, who he had bumped into now and again on the stairs, were watching the broadcast, the cops would be busting in the door to his safe house within the hour. He again wiped everything down as best as possible, stuffed his wet clothes into a garbage bag for later disposal, and, without a further glance around, left his now-burned safe house as silently as he had arrived. Quickly walking down to the garage, which was one of the reasons he had chosen this place, he pulled the cover off the 2008 Cadillac Escalade he kept stashed there. Throwing the cover in the back, he placed the backpack in the passenger footwell and drove out into the rainy night. It was now time to head over to Shae’s and hope that there was something in the dead drop he had set up in her apartment. This time, he knew they would be watching.
18
new york city, 1:00 a.m. edt
Terry had been watching Shae’s apartment building for a couple of hours and figured he had spotted four watchers. They were situated in two cars, two men in each, one across the street from the apartment and the other on the corner of the block, where they could see the service gate that led to the back of the building. There may have also been a fifth and sixth, but if the two women sitting in the window of the bar half a block away from the apartment were watchers, they knew their shit, and he just couldn’t be sure. Obviously, there was no way he would be able to enter the building through the front or back without trying to take out the watchers, which was something he wanted to avoid. But what they, and Shae, couldn’t know was that he had rented an apartment in the building next door. Pulling up the collar of his coat and tucking his chin down to partially obscure his face, he half ran, half walked through the rain to the building next door and hurried up the stairs. He waited on the first-floor landing, silenced Walther in hand, for five minutes to be sure they hadn’t spotted him.
