Incursion

By Bill Johnstone

A veteran CIA agent, retired to academia, is the catalyst which triggers this tale of intrigue, espionage and subterfuge involving the Washington homicide police, the US and the Soviet security agencies and a trail of seemingly unrelated murders.
Washington-based British journalist, Mike McCabe, doggedly pursues the clues to uncover the truth in this compelling and colorful story, reluctantly assisted by DC homicide detective Pat Kovarik.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Bill Johnstone
• Release date: Jun 6, 2020
• ISBN: 9780463910030

Bill Johnstone

The author has been a journalist for more than 30 years and has taught the subject in the USA and the UK.He was born in Glasgow, Scotland and lived in London and Washington where his novels are set.He is an avid animal lover and a trusteee of a cat sanctuary in Somerset, England.He travels frequently between the UK and the USA.

Book preview

Thrillers in the series:

White Collar Option

Then Go Straight Forward

Waiting For The Storm To Pass

Their Will Be Done

Pointed Inwards

Made To Account

Chain Reaction

True Wind

Consignment

Incursion

AUTHOR

The author has been a journalist for more than 40 years; among the many news outlets for which he has worked are The Times, Observer, the BBC and UPI. He has taught journalism in the UK and USA.

He was born in Glasgow, Scotland but lived for many years in London and Washington, DC where this story is based. He took his doctorate in the USA which is also a backdrop to this book.

Many thanks to my family and friends for their support which made this book possible.

Special thanks to Rosamund for her encouragement, patience and diligent proofreading.

Additional thanks to Di and Ian Cormack, whose critical eyes help spot the errors which nearly got away.

Comments: [e-mail]

Chapter 1

The flak-jacketed police team cautiously feeling its way along the sidewalks, as if in some ghostly ballet, was exceptional in this placid part of Washington. Supplemented by a wave of sniffer dogs, they didn’t seem to bother the students as they made their way to classes each with books under one arm and a cell-phone held in another.

Mike McCabe sat by the window of the small coffee shop watching the squad inspecting doorways and windows. It was a quiet mid morning. He thought that most people in the city, who did real jobs, had done half a day’s work by now.

He finished his bagel and coffee then made for Georgetown University campus two blocks away. A meeting with a learned academic, a national security expert, was the attraction, and at her invitation too. Whether anything would come of it, he didn’t know.

As US Editor-at-Large for the London Daily Herald, McCabe was always in the market for a good tale. Things weren’t exactly buzzing in Washington at that moment, except the usual political backstabbing and the infantile exchanges between the powerbrokers on Capitol Hill. These jousting were much too commonplace nowadays and far from newsworthy, at least in his terms. He guessed most of his readers felt the same. There wasn’t even a hint of a sex scandal to titillate the tabloids.

On the campus lawn students were chanting, waving placards and doing the things one would expect of protesting youth. He smiled to himself. Thank God there were some things that never changed. The great and the good from the US political world, who’d gathered for their annual jamboree at the university, were the target. The heavy security was predictable and inevitable.

Oversized people carriers with darkened windows and a team of fierce looking guard-dogs, accompanied by equally menacing handlers, were in plain view. The dramatic effect of the sinister entourage was heightened by the guards’ conspicuous earpieces and signature dark glasses. Whether they were real deterrents or just theatre, donned for effect, was anyone’s guess. He’d seen it staged a dozen times before but today it felt more dramatic. The blatant spectre of rooftop sharpshooters added to the histrionics.

McCabe stood motionless on the lawn, acting on a signal from one of the dog handlers. He guessed that at least two of the aerial marksmen had him in their sights, their trigger-fingers poised to launch their deadly strike at a second’s notice. He walked cautiously forward on another hand signal. He breathed out slowly, momentarily relieved but knowing he was still in the gunmen’s sights until he got to the sanctuary of the building at the far end of the lawn. Once there he breathed another sigh of relief.

Ten minutes into the academic warren, and two wrong turnings later, the door he was looking for appeared. There was no gold lettering, advertising who was inside. It was a modest office entrance by any measure, her name in plain typeface. He peered through the open door at the slight figure behind the desk.

It had been a long time since he’d seen her, supposedly a beauty in her youth whose looks then would have halted any conversation. It wouldn’t have come as a surprise to be told that she’d once smitten many normally levelled-headed men. In an earlier era, they might even have fought duels over her.

She raised her head slowly and greeted him with a warm smile. ‘Mike McCabe,’ she said softly.

He’d met her only twice, once at some conference and later in a one-to-one interview.

She was difficult to forget. ‘Spying is part of our infrastructure now. It supposedly protects our freedoms but in itself undermines it,’ he remembered her saying at the conference. ‘It is a cynical pastime, played by the powerbrokers, like some harmless board game.’ Then she had stopped speaking, as if to let the message take effect. ‘But it’s not a game and it’s not harmless.’

He wasn’t sure if he’d agreed with her, or even understood, but the delegates at that international forum looked uncomfortable, as they exchanged their forced and embarrassed smiles. There followed an applause which was stilted, if not hollow.

He’d had an interview with her at a later time but that meeting had been almost fleeting. So, what did she want from him now? That was anyone’s guess. But he was in the story-telling business. If she had one to tell, she’d come to the right shop. However, he rarely got one handed on a plate. Those who provided them had their own agendas and were to be approached with caution. However, his news antennae always lured him to the bait. He knew that, so did she.

She looked frail, much more than he’d remembered. ‘What can I do for you Michael?’ she asked quietly, as if they’d known each other for decades. It had been a long time since he’d been addressed in such a fashion. It sounded familiar yet formal.

He smiled and slipped into the room; the office of Miriam Cessmore, Professor of International Security. Whether she would share any of her secrets with him, or anyone else for that matter, was indeed the question. ‘You invited me, remember. Or have I got my wires crossed?’ he said politely.

She studied him for a second or two, as if she was assessing what he’d just said. ‘Yes, of course,’ she replied. She smiled broadly again.

He wasn’t sure what question she’d just answered; her invitation or his cross-wires. It didn’t matter.

Her story went back nearly forty years, although she’d been well down that road before he came into her world. It was a frightening odyssey that required her to risk her life every waking second and sometimes when asleep. She’d been a primary recruiter for the CIA, an enthusiastic all American girl. Unashamedly, she’d laid out her stall on university campus recruitment days, one college town after another, like some surreal road show. It had never been done on such a scale before. The ploy was highly successful, as she netted dozens of outstanding intellectual talent. In her world she’d become a legend.

But life went sour on her. It wasn’t meant to be that way but the deaths kept mounting and with them her guilt. She couldn’t cope. Among the dead were some of the youth she’d hired. She felt responsible. Death or retirement then seemed her only career options. It was said, she didn’t care which one. In the end she found solace in another, academia. Now she was a professor, a scholar and a teacher, lecturing across the globe on recent US history, specialising in international security.

She looked at him now with a stare that was hard to dislodge. ‘Yes, Michael, you’re quite correct. It was at my invitation,’ she said with a smirk. She was silent for a moment. ‘Are you still living in that houseboat on the Potomac?’

‘Yes,’ he answered quickly. ‘I rent it from a friend.’ He suspected she knew everything about him. It would be contained in a file, the size of which would frighten him. He guessed she was just making conversation.

‘It wouldn’t be my style; too much water,’ she said quietly.

He laughed.

He remembered she had a penchant for small houses. When she was a visiting professor in London she lived in a mews cottage. Here in Washington, she lived in a tiny town dwelling; more like a doll’s house, he recalled. He guessed that from her lounge window she could see the entire street with its comings and goings. It made her feel secure. He wondered if she was still looking over her shoulder.

‘I guess I’m not here to do another profile,’ he said. ‘So, what am I here for?’

She lay back in her chair and turned her gaze away from him. She stared at the wall for a moment. ‘Interesting piece you wrote the other morning. I read you regularly, thanks to the Internet. The headline on your article was inviting but you didn’t really have the story, did you?’

‘A letter to my editor would have been sufficient.’ His voice sounded sharp, the comment a little more caustic than he intended. He didn’t realize it until the words had gone. He contemplated adding something but the appropriate phrase didn’t spring to mind.

Again she said nothing. He sensed she wasn’t teasing. She was one of those people who managed to say something when silent. Clearly, she had an agenda.

She looked towards the laptop on her desk, pressed a few buttons on it then studied the video that flickered into view. ‘Have you seen this?’ There was a detectably serious change in her voice. She wasn’t waiting for an answer. ‘There’s nothing in this world now which goes unrecorded. Everyone has a cell-phone. A social benefit, I’m told,’ she said in a tone that suggested she disagreed.

The video began to flicker on the screen again. She stopped it and stared at him.

He moved to join her behind the desk.

She pressed another button to continue the play. He recognised the backdrop. It was the small park in front of the White House. There were two figures. They were sitting on a bench. Dotted round the park were others who looked like office workers having lunch. He’d done it himself many times, enjoying excellent hotdogs from a local street vendor. He recognised one face, the other was unclear. The figures stood up and began to walk away from the camera. McCabe peered at the video. It wasn’t the greatest likeness in the world but it was him alright; a little bloated, since he’d seen him last, but recognisable nevertheless. The characteristic way he moved and stood were as distinctive as his fingerprints.

‘You know him,’ she said.

He wasn’t sure whether it was a question or a statement.

She knew the answer anyway.

‘Walter Dempsey,’ he said quietly as he moved closer to the video. He leant over her. ‘Is this the replay?’ he asked as he pressed a button and watched the video restart. He moved to within an inch of the screen, enlarged the picture to full size with another button then watched the recording again. ‘What am I looking at here?’ he asked moving even closer.

Predictably, she said nothing but instead pressed the replay button again. ‘Listen carefully.’

Just before the video ended there was a barely audible background sound. It could have been the noise from a can of pop or the escaping air from a car tyre. It drowned out any of the conversation. Then the picture disappeared abruptly.

McCabe looked at her, waiting for the punch-line. ‘What was happening? Who is the person with Dempsey?

She smiled, again disclosing nothing.

He suspected she had a dozen non-committal faces in her repertoire. ‘Who took it?’ he asked quickly. Another bland expression from her confirmed he wasn’t going to get an answer to that question either.

He stared at her. Was this lady, now in her sixties, giving him a masterclass in subterfuge and ambiguity? Or was she just having another bit of fun at his expense? Nothing could be taken at face value. But he knew he was here for a reason. ‘Why are you showing me this?’ he said, repeating his earlier question.

Again she didn’t answer. If he got any reply it would be tangential. He knew that much. She never seemed to answer a direct question.

‘Why are you showing me this?’ he persisted.

She stared back at the wall, and then to a framed picture on her desk. She smiled but again in silence. Then suddenly she began to talk again. ‘As I said, your article on organised crime and Interpol is unfinished.’

He looked at her then at the screen. ‘So, Dempsey would help me finish it? Is that what you’re saying?’ He wanted to reach for his notebook but he didn’t dare interrupt her flow. He hadn’t joined the dots yet. The picture she was drawing was far from clear.

She shrugged her shoulders. ‘I’m too old to be frightened,’ she added suddenly. The tone in her voice had changed; now it was angrier, almost bitter. The comment was unsolicited. She typed something on her keyboard then looked at him. ‘There’s a copy on its way to you Mike. I trust you haven’t changed your email in the last twenty-four hours?’

He allowed himself a chuckle. ‘Is nothing sacred?’ he murmured. ‘Clearly not; at least not from the prying eyes of Uncle Sam.’

Suddenly, a girl student was standing in the doorway. ‘Professor, your tutorial class is waiting. I’ve been sent to get you.’

Cessmore stood up, nodded a farewell to him, walked to the door and turned as she left. ‘I look forward to reading your finished version.’

McCabe had a stream of questions. None of them would be answered. It was now obvious why he was there. He smiled as he looked after her. She knew he’d follow the leads and couldn’t resist. She knew he’d take the bait.

Chapter 2

The corpse on the sidewalk, outside the pawnshop in North East Washington, was the centre of police attention. A ‘Crime Scene’ tape encircled the immediate area. Pat Kovarik, DC Homicide Detective, walked round the body, inspecting its details then walked round it again, as was his style. For him the scene was as important as the act in analysing any crime. ‘One shot to the back of the head.’

He turned to stare at the shop front. ‘I thought these places were things of the past; from a bygone age?’ He continued to study the frontage.

‘Not in these neighbourhoods, Lieutenant,’ whispered John Henry, his assistant, almost with reverence, as if he was sharing a confidence. ‘I was brought up in an area just like this,’ he added, taking a quick look round as he spoke. ‘It wasn’t much better or worse. These shops are part of what made these places tick. In fancy language it’s called the social and economic infrastructure.’ The handsome African-American looked serious. His voice was a mixture of sadness and pride. Those who knew him well might have detected a slight break in the tone. ‘There’s been a lot of gentrification around here but there are remnants that linger still. I guess this is one.’

Kovarik looked at him and nodded. Had it been anyone else, it could conceivably have appeared sympathetic, not so the detective. His face conveyed nothing, certainly not sympathy. ‘It sounds a pretty grand description for what it is,’ he said coldly. ‘It’s a pawnshop, plain and simple. People hock their goods for money.’

John Henry ignored the cynicism. It didn’t surprise him. He had great respect for his boss but sentimentality was never his bag. ‘I had an uncle who pawned his watch every Monday to keep him going through the week. He’d get it back every Friday on payday. Places like this were a way of life.’ He knew it was an anachronism, no question. It seemed of a time long gone, an age if not a world away from bit-coin exchanges, or instant intercontinental electronic money transfers. Property, from jewellery to family heirlooms, anything with an inherent value which could be exchanged for hard cash, qualified. The resulting loan would be repaid with interest within a specific time when the item was reclaimed.

Kovarik didn’t respond to the anecdote. It was difficult to tell if he’d heard or didn’t really care. ‘Do we know who he is?’ he said eventually, bending down to get a closer look at the corpse.

‘No, Lieutenant, we don’t yet and there is no ID. He had keys on him. We’re checking to see if any fit the front door which appears to be unlocked.’

‘Is he the owner then?’ asked Kovarik, staring at the body again.

‘We don’t know that either. The shop is owned by a Mr. Moore,’ said John Henry, reading from his notes.

‘I can see that,’ said Kovarik, looking at the sign above the shop which read Proprietor Dusten Moore.

The young cop appeared unfazed by the remark. He smiled, determined not to rise to the bait.

‘And do we know what happened?’ asked Kovarik quickly, still looking at the sign above the shop.

John Henry shook his head and looked at his watch. ‘No to that question too, Lieutenant,’ he said respectfully. ‘He was found about three hours ago by a fourteen year-old kid. As you can see, there is a sizeable head wound and plenty of blood. The attack was from behind.’

‘A bit early, for a kid to be out; don’t tell me, he was having a morning jog?’ asked the detective, sounding cynical again.

‘No, Lieutenant, the kid delivers newspapers to the apartments on the other side of the street,’ answered John Henry, nodding towards the two red brick buildings on his left.

‘Have you spoken to him?’

‘No, sir. The boy has gone to school. I have a statement from his mother but I can see the kid later, if needed.’

‘What did she say?’

John Henry flipped open his notebook again, got to the relevant page and began to read from it. ‘The boy came here on his bicycle, had just delivered half his round to the far block,’ he said pointing to the end of the building. ‘Before he went onto his next half, he noticed the body. Apparently he thought it was a drunk.’

‘So, ignored it?’

John Henry nodded. ‘He went about his business. But when he’d finished the second block he came back and had a closer look. It was then he noticed the blood on the sidewalk.’

‘That’s when he phoned the police?’

‘No, he phoned his mother on his cell phone.’

‘So they do have some uses,’ muttered Kovarik, walking round the corpse again.

‘A patrol car was here within ten minutes. That is, after the mother rang.’

The forensic team arrived and stood beside the body waiting for Kovarik’s approval. The detective, still bent over the body, didn’t move. ‘Give me a moment, doctor,’ he said to the team leader.

John Henry knelt down beside him. ‘These are the keys we found on him. None fit the front door. We’ve confirmed that. As I said, the door is unlocked. Whether he did it or someone else did, we don’t know at the moment.’

‘No wallet; can we assume the motive was robbery?’ asked Kovarik as they both stood up and moved towards the shop. ‘Or they fought over something stolen from the pawnshop?’

‘Yes, he could have been robbed on his way out.’ John Henry looked pleased with his analysis.

‘On second thoughts, what would be worth stealing from a pawnshop in this area?’ muttered Kovarik. He gave the door a slight push and it gave way easily. ‘Have you been inside?’

‘Not yet, Lieutenant. I was waiting for you and the forensic team.’

Kovarik slid through the open door and cautiously entered the shop. He stopped, surveyed the dark, felt for his automatic hinged to his waistband and reassuringly fingered it. His eyes took a few seconds to adjust to the dim light. He didn’t know what he expected but not pristine glass cases fitted neatly all round the room. Nor did anything look as if it had been disturbed. The displays all appeared closed, if not locked, the contents arranged in perfect order with price tags attached to each. He walked slowly from one case to another. There was no evidence of a disturbance of any kind.

‘Who the hell are you?’ shouted a figure, behind John Henry still standing in the doorway.

Kovarik turned slowly towards the voice and saw a figure emerge, as John Henry stepped