Alex Shaw - A Jack Tate SAS Thriller

Tate’s eyes snapped open as the door creaked. The desk officer entered. ‘I’ve got to take your prints – Chief Donoghue’s orders. Will there be an issue?’

‘No issue at all.’

‘British?’

‘English.’

‘Like the Queen.’ The officer had a legal pad-sized black plastic case in his hand. He retrieved a card. It had a printed table on it, columns to receive the inky print of each digit. ‘Hold up your hands.’ Tate did so and the officer inked the tips of each finger with a spongy implement from his case. ‘Now on the card, roll each fingertip slowly once, from left to right.’

Tate complied. Once satisfied with the prints, the officer abruptly stood and left the room. Tate stared at his dirtied fingers, thought about rubbing the ink off onto his jeans but couldn’t be bothered. Instead he stood up and wiped them on the clean, whitewashed wall directly next to the door. It was like finger-painting, a childish but satisfying act of defiance. Tate sat again. He didn’t know how long he’d be stuck in the room for. How long would it take the local authorities to realise their mistake? One of the army’s many mottos had been “eat when you can and sleep when you can” because you never know when you’ll get another chance. There was no food, so Tate closed his eyes and tried to sleep. Fleetingly the stolen fireworks again bloomed in his memory and then he woke with a start, his neck stiff and his head groggy.

‘Get up and follow me.’ It was the desk officer again.

The officer led Tate out of the cell, back into the open-plan squad room, along the full length of the space and through a door into the big office at the back. The large man he’d seen earlier was sitting at a desk. He nodded Tate into the empty chair opposite him.

‘I’m Chief Donoghue of the Camden Police Department. Care to tell me, Mr Tate, the reason for your presence in Maine?’

Tate examined his inky fingertips. ‘Vacation.’

‘That’s what you told my men. But I’d like to know the real reason.’ Donoghue leaned back in his chair and laced his fingers in his lap. Tate noted that his bulk was muscle rather than fat. He had the look of an old soldier – a short, no-nonsense haircut and a stern brow. ‘You see the thing is, Mr Tate, we think you may be just the person we have been looking for.’

Tate remained silent. In his experience, men in authority liked to hear the sound of their own voice, regardless of how much power they had. And this was Donoghue’s desk, in Donoghue’s town. He took in Donoghue’s office. The same white walls as his holding cell but here the concrete floor was covered with grey carpeting. The wall directly behind displayed several framed certificates as though to confirm his legitimacy to all those sitting in Tate’s seat. The desk itself was bare save for a laptop and a blue Maine PD coffee cup. There was a modern coffee station on a unit, and a coffee table with two comfy chairs.

‘What job do you do back in the UK?’ Donoghue asked.

‘I’m a Human Resources consultant.’

‘And the name of your employer is?’

‘Fir Tree Consulting.’

‘Branches everywhere? That’s cute,’ Donoghue said without humour. ‘Can you verify that?’

‘I’ve probably got a business card in my wallet somewhere. It’s in my car, but I’m sure your men have already checked it.’

‘You’ve got an attitude there, Mr Tate.’

‘That’s right, Chief Donoghue; we are both wasting our time here.’

‘Do you have an issue with authority figures, Mr Tate?’

Tate shrugged. ‘Not when I see one.’

The police chief’s nostrils flared, but his tone remained neutral. ‘You are doing what, exactly, during your vacation here?’

‘Driving around, taking in the sights.’

‘How long do you plan to be in the US for?’

‘Like it says on my car rental agreement, a month.’

‘That’s a long vacation.’

‘There’s a lot to see.’

‘Did you serve, Mr Tate?’

‘You mean like a waiter?’

Donoghue pursed his lips. ‘You know what I mean.’

Tate shrugged again. ‘You’ve got my details and my prints. I imagine that you’ll have a pretty good file on me soon enough.’

‘Is that how you want to play this? Really?’ Donoghue’s eyes narrowed. ‘Why are you being so unhelpful, Mr Tate?’

Tate sighed. ‘Yes, I served.’

‘Where?’

‘Afghanistan.’

‘Infantry?’

‘Yes.’

‘See much action?’

‘More than I would have liked. What am I being charged with?’

‘Nothing at the moment, apart from driving in excess of the speed limit.’

‘So why haven’t I been read my rights?’

‘You may or you may not be aware that the Amended PATRIOT Act provides me with increased powers to hold and question “persons of interest” without charge. You, Mr Tate, are a person of interest.’

‘I’m honoured you find me so interesting, but I still don’t know what this is all about.’

‘OK.’ Donoghue pursed his lips again. ‘At lunchtime today, a prominent local resident was murdered. It looks like a contract killing. A single shot was fired. I’m still awaiting confirmation on the type of round used, but it was pretty big – we believe some sort of sniper rifle.’

Tate’s eyebrows rose. It was something serious. ‘And you think I have something to do with this?’

‘Something, or maybe nothing, or maybe everything. An SUV, like the one you were driving, was seen leaving the area. A surveillance camera captured a suspect fitting your description.’

‘Who was the murder victim?’

‘A retired senator by the name of Clifford Piper; you ever heard of him?’

Tate shook his head. The only Piper that flashed in his mind was the wrestler – “Rowdy” Roddy Piper.

‘His wife was killed last year in a terrorist attack. He retired afterwards.’

Tate vaguely remembered the headlines. ‘I’ve never heard of him, and I wasn’t there. My SUV has a tracker, and you can check that against your intel.’

‘Intel?’

‘Your reports.’

‘Yep, see, I know what “intel” means. I’m just surprised that you’d use that term. I don’t think you are who you say you are, Mr Tate.’

‘So you are going to hold me until what, you decide that I didn’t shoot a senator with a Barrett?’

‘Who said anything about a Barrett, Mr Tate?’

Tate remained silent for a moment; he was tired and snappy. ‘It’s the most reliable 0.50 rifle, in my opinion, and it’s what I’d use if I wanted to make sure of hitting a target with one round. One large round. There’s a pretty good suppressor available for it too, and in a semi-urban environment you want to make as little noise as possible.’

‘Ha,’ Donoghue said with a knowing nod.

Tate was getting bored; he wanted to be on his way. ‘You don’t have the murder weapon – just a large hole and a deformed round. And the fact that you didn’t mention anyone as having heard the shot leads me to believe that the shooter used a suppressor. A 0.50 calibre makes a hell of a bang without one.’

‘What did you do in Afghanistan, Mr Tate?’

‘I soldiered.’

‘What exactly did you do in Afghanistan?’

‘I can’t tell you.’

‘Oh, yes you can. Weren’t you listening to me? The Amended PATRIOT Act gives me—’

Tate stood. ‘Yes, I heard.’

Donoghue got to his feet with surprising speed. ‘Where the hell do you think you are going? Sit down!’

The two men sized each other up, Donoghue incensed, Tate impassive. A loud knock on the office door, followed quickly by an officer entering the room broke the standoff.

‘Chief, this is urgent.’