Down Among the Dead Men (46 page)

'I'll get it on the system now,' says Harris. 'I'm awake anyway.'

Maybe something of Frank's desperation is coming through in his voice because Harris's has softened when she speaks next.

'Superintendent Searle has been asking for an update. One involving a possible assassination attempt on the US president might make him sit up and take notice.'

Koop comes back into the room wearing jeans and no shirt. He stands rubbing the back of his head with a towel and watches the presidential motorcade as CNN follows its progress through south LA.

'Yeah, well,' says Frank, 'let's hope they're right and I'm dead wrong about this.'

'Take care, Frank.'

'Will do,' he says and hangs up before he starts blubbing.

'Big party,' says Koop without taking his eyes off the TV. He turns to Frank.

'You'll have to call them.'

'Put a shirt on, for fuck's sake, Koop. I can see you've got a tan. No need to rub it in.' Frank waves the phone. 'And I'm calling them now, OK?'

Koop makes a gesture of supplication and heads back to his room.

After a couple of dead ends, Frank gets Agent Hagenbaum on the line.

'I was just about to call you,' says Hagenbaum before Frank can get a word out.

'Good,' says Frank. He waits.

'Are you there?' says Hagenbaum, an irritated edge in his voice.

'I was waiting for you, Hagenbaum. I thought you said you were about to call me.'

'You need to come in. You and the consultant. We're not far from you. At the Beverly Hilton on Wilshire.'

'FBI must be paying well. And what's it about?'

'Just get here right away, Keane. Like, now. Ask for me at the desk. They'll point you in the right direction.'

After Hagenbaum hangs up, Frank turns back to the TV but he's not listening.

What now?

Thirty-Seven

A river of cars backs up on the freeway. Outriders flashing blue and red block each exit and entrance as the motorcade sweeps through the paused city from the south. Overpasses are sealed. Two Navy helicopters monitor from above. It is the embodiment of power, and the Angelenos are only too pleased to be observers along the route. Even those held up in the grotesque traffic snarls feel privileged somehow.

The 405 to Santa Monica Boulevard. North Beverly to Cold-water Canyon, the caravan slowing as it winds up the hills in late-afternoon sun, the morning fog a distant memory.

At a property big enough to be invisible from the road, the gates are open and the motorcade swings in without stopping, its comet tail of media sputtering to a halt and then directed to the allotted parking by stern-faced cops in sunglasses. The gates close and the media swarm from the vehicles to join those already in place.

The president is in Los Angeles.

Thirty-Eight

It takes them almost an hour to get to the Beverly Hilton thanks to the presidential traffic extending back onto Wilshire Boulevard. They let the car be valet parked because there's no other way to do it.

Despite both Frank and Koop possessing the Liverpool sense that nowhere is too good for them, the Beverly Hilton does its best to dispossess them of their customary lack of nerves. It's not so much that it is particularly imposing, or that it is overly luxurious, it is more the sense that everyone –
everyone –
in there is connected, important, beautiful or loaded.

'Fuck me,' Koop whispers as they cross the lobby and a slimline supermodel type drifts past them in a cloud of perfume and attitude,

'Try and keep it together, you peasant,' mutters Frank. 'We are flying the flag, remember.'

At the desk Frank asks for Hagenbaum.

'Room 322. They're expecting us.'

'One moment, sir,' murmurs the desk clerk and picks up a phone. He speaks into it and then replaces the receiver. 'Suite 322 is on the third floor, sir. The elevators are to your left.'

'Suite,' says Frank, sotto voce, as they stand waiting.
'Suite
322, sir.'

At the third floor they exit the lift and follow the signs for 322. The corridor is lit with soft lamps and the carpet underfoot is thick. Frank feels a little knot of tension in his gut.

'You don't think this is where we get the waterboard treatment, do you, Koop?' he murmurs.

'What's all this "we" stuff, you English prick?' Koop winks. 'If it goes belly up, remember I'm an Aussie now, mate. It might confuse them long enough for me to slide out.'

At 322 Frank takes a breath and raps a knuckle on the door.

When it opens Hagenbaum is there.

'DCI Keane,' he says and looks pointedly at Koop. 'Mr Koopman.'

Frank doesn't remember ever mentioning Koop's name to Hagenbaum but says nothing.

'This is all a bit James Bond, isn't it, Hagenbaum?' says Frank as they walk into the suite. Hagenbaum doesn't reply.

Frank turns the corner and sees a large room with two couches facing each other over a coffee table. Leaning against the wall opposite the floor-to-ceiling window is Ashland. Baines, his arms folded, is standing next to the window. Frank turns and stops dead.

On one of the couches is Ben Noone, dressed in black and grey. He's leaning back and holding a beer bottle, looking comfortable. Catching sight of Frank he waves a lazy hand. Frank doesn't respond. Instead he looks at the man on the seat facing Noone.

He's an older man who Frank recognises from the TV. He stands as Frank and Koop approach. He's tall and dressed in what looks like a very expensive suit. Everything about him exudes power and privilege.

'DCI Keane,' says the man in the expensive suit as he extends a hand. 'Dennis Sheehan.'

Thirty-Nine

The police have established an exclusion zone around the side road leading up to the house where the president is staying the night. A long line of TV trucks and cars straggle down the road on either side of the intersection. The vehicles bristle with satellite dishes, radio antenna and electronics. Around each vehicle reporters and crew turn lights on and off as they do their piece to camera. Further down the street there are barriers keeping the curious from moving any nearer. Locals must pass through a temporary checkpoint to access their property but there aren't many who do; this area belongs to the very rich and most people in the surrounding couple of streets have wisely left overnight to avoid the zoo.

Four perimeters have been established by the presidential protection team radiating out from the man himself. The key perimeter is the one closest to the president, composed of the Secret Service agents who accompany him everywhere. The house and gardens, of course, have been swept and sniffed and examined many weeks previously. The house in which the president will host the fundraiser tomorrow evening has had the same treatment.

The second security perimeter is an obvious one, composed of highly visible police units, Federal agents and more Secret Service agents. This team patrols the borders of the property and has established checkpoints at all entrances. Police dogs patrol the gardens. There are SWAT snipers on the roof and concealed in strategic points. In areas where there is deemed to be a weakness, motion sensors and infra-red cameras are installed.

The third layer of security is less visible. Federal agents patrol a wider perimeter behind and within the publicly accessible areas. Their brief is to look for red flag signifiers, suspicious activity, or
even faces on their watch list. Operatives from Homeland Security working out of two large mobile bases monitor electronic transmissions in the area. Mobile phones are difficult to use close to the president. Internet connection is often suspended.

Finally there are the helicopters and aircraft maintaining an exclusion zone in the airspace around the house. The normally busy skies above this part of Los Angeles are temporarily quiet. Flights are diverted around the exclusion zone and air traffic for hundreds of miles in any direction is patrolled by fighter jets from Edwards Air Force Base.

The scale of operation required to protect the leader of the free world is breathtaking.

The possibility of anyone penetrating that ring of steel is almost zero.

Almost.

Forty

'You look like you need a drink,' says Sheehan to Frank. His voice is deep and rich and authoritative. 'Can we get you something?'

'I'll take a scotch,' says Koop. 'I don't know about Frank, but I could certainly use something.'

'Mr Ashland,' says Sheehan. 'If you would.'

Ashland nods and walks towards what appears to be a fully stocked bar. He makes no sign of being disappointed to be performing barman duties.

'Same for me,' says Frank.

'I'll take one too,' says Noone. He holds his bottle up and waggles it back and forth.

Sheehan shakes hands with Koop.

'Please,' he says, indicating the couch. 'Sit down.'

Frank and Koop sit on the couch facing Noone.

'No lawyer?' says Frank to Noone.

Noone shrugs as Dennis Sheehan takes an armchair at ninety degrees to his son. 'The fewer people who know about this meeting, the better. And that includes lawyers. We're kind of in new territory here.'

Frank studies Noone. It's been so long since he's seen his prey in the flesh that he has forgotten how visceral his response was to him back in the interview room at Stanley Road. He's almost glad to get the same feeling now. It's reassuring.

Ashland comes over and hands drinks to Frank and Koop. There's no trace of animosity on his face and no reference to their conversation earlier in the day.

'Things have changed since Mr Ashland and Mr Baines visited you,' says Sheehan as if he had read Frank's thoughts. Sheehan looks at Noone. 'And what's changed is that Ben called me.'

Noone's face is blank. 'I thought it might be a way out of all this . . . mess,' he says.

'I understand that you feel my son is connected in some way with killings in the UK,' says Sheehan. 'And that now you think he has some plan to harm me.' Sheehan leans back and extends his arms. 'Does it look like he's harming me?'

Sheehan's not expecting a reply, which is just as well because Frank's not sure he's got one. 'There are some things you should know, DCI Keane. One is that I have been taking care of my son ever since he was born. Due to my public duties I could not reveal what had happened. Even now it would be a problem for me; not a disastrous one, but a problem. So this meeting is to reassure you that you are simply barking up the wrong tree. Ben did not kill anyone. I will allow that he has, in the past, been somewhat wild and I have done my best to keep those excesses within reason. If he got caught up in a local matter in England that is unfortunate but it's not his fault.'

'He did it,' says Frank.

The words come out faster than he wants them to. He breathes deeply and gets himself under control. 'He killed the Peters family. He killed Dean Quinner. And he killed Warren Eckhardt a few days ago at the Farmers Market, right here in Los Angeles.'

Sheehan looks at Noone, who shrugs. You see what I'm dealing with?

It's Ashland who speaks next. 'Let me reiterate what I told you this morning. You have nothing on Mr Noone. Nothing. It's all conjecture and hearsay and coincidence. There are no forensics. There are no motives that you can come up with. And I think your friend agrees with me, don't you, Mr Koopman?'

Koop pulls a face. 'It's not looking very strong right now, I agree. Although I'm with Frank when it comes to thinking he did it.'

'And here's the other thing,' says Sheehan.

He rotates an iPad lying on the coffee table and the video of the break-in at Noone's house comes onscreen. Sheehan taps the screen. 'You committed a felony, DCI Keane. You too, Koopman. We could dig around and get some positive forensics from your visit; my organisation has very deep pockets and we'd find hair samples,
fibres, something that puts you inside my son's house. If we didn't, we'd plant it. We're not subtle.'

Sheehan leans forward and smiles a shark smile and for the first time Frank considers the notion that Sheehan knows all about his son's past . . . and doesn't care. 'Or I could get Mr Ashland here to put you on a round-the-world trip to pain, DCI Keane.' Sheehan clicks his fingers. 'Just like that. Who do you think you're dealing with here?' Sheehan's eyes are cold and Frank can feel the dark power of the man. 'I controlled armies, DCI Keane. Armies. I have my own army now. If I chose to I could drop you and Mr Koopman naked at the Afghan border with the Stars and Stripes tattooed on your foreheads. You'd be there by tomorrow morning.' Sheehan snaps his fingers again.

There's a short silence.

'I can't speak for Frank,' says Koop. 'But I'd prefer it if you didn't.'

'This official FBI policy, Hagenbaum?' says Frank.

'Listen to Mr Sheehan, Keane,' Hagenbaum says. 'Really. You need to. You're out of your depth. We all are.'

Sheehan smiles again, a warmer one this time, and shifts back in his seat. 'I'm sure there'll be no need for anything so crude, DCI Keane. But I did want to make you aware that this investigation, from your point of view, has run its course. There will be no further investigation. There will be no pursuing of your little MLAT application. You got it wrong. You will go home. You will not come back. There is, literally, nothing you can do to attach blame to Ben for your local troubles. I hope you get the guy who did it, I really do. But it wasn't Ben. My son does not represent a threat to either me or the president. We have spoken with the White House security people and Ben has passed on attending the fundraiser. They see that as being a very generous gesture on his part after paying thirty thousand dollars for it. They have no concerns about him as the only worries have been raised by you without producing one credible piece of evidence. And you're a burglar. In fact, they expressed the idea that it is you who may represent a more credible threat. The word obsession was used.'

Frank drains his glass and gets to his feet. 'I hope you're right, Mr Sheehan. Because I think your son is a fucking psychopath.'

'We going?' says Koop, looking at Frank. 'I was beginning to enjoy myself.'

Dennis Sheehan stands and extends his hand to both men. 'Please don't misunderstand me, gentlemen. Coming down hard on decent law enforcement officers is not something that gives me pleasure. But try and consider that, in this case, we are right and you are wrong. And, if you find you can't do that, then you'll have to be content with the idea that you can't do a fucking thing about it.'