by L. T. Ryan
He left the files alone and went to the other end and stopped outside the closed door. He tapped on it. The door sounded solid. He pressed at the top, middle, bottom and sides. It didn’t bend or bow. He searched the wall for any false panels. Mason could have set a trap. He could control it from a device hidden inside the wall behind a false panel. Jack’s search revealed nothing. He opened the door, braced for anything.
All he found was more of the same. Clean, sleek, modern. The bed was made, the top of the dresser bare. A single nightstand stood between the bed and the window. The drapes were pulled to the side. The blinds were drawn shut but made of some kind of material that let the light in.
Jack checked under the bed. Found nothing there. He opened the door to the en suite bathroom. It was minimal and unoccupied, as he expected. He investigated the walk-in closet, found two rows of clothing on either side. On the right, suits and white button up shirts and ties. On the left, casual clothing. Ten pairs of shoes ranging from beach to casual to dress lined the floor.
He exited the closet and went to the dresser. They were full of neatly arranged clothing, but nothing else.
The answer, if there was one, was in the files. Jack doubted he’d find anything of use, though. Mason didn’t seem to be the kind of man who’d bring his work home. But this wasn’t work. This went far beyond work. Still, Jack had no problem getting inside the house. He knew that British Intelligence would have even less of a problem. If they believed the man to be involved in something suspicious and detrimental to Great Britain’s security, they’d infiltrate and get the evidence they needed.
So Jack returned to the computer desk. He pulled out the files and went through them, one at a time. It turned out that the simple words weren’t code at all. Snow apparently referred to Mason’s ex-wife, Gloria. Snow had been her maiden name. The file labeled dog contained veterinary records for Mason’s dog, Barnaby. The last receipt indicated that Barnaby had been put to sleep three months prior due to hip dysplasia. The misfits file was filled with random receipts from restaurants, bars and stores. And so it went. Every folder he looked through had a purpose. He found nothing nefarious or evil. Nothing that implicated Mason or himself.
Jack went back downstairs, grabbed a beer from the refrigerator and took a seat at the dining room table. His position allowed him to see the front entrance as well as the back door. And there he’d wait for Mason to return home.
CHAPTER 29
Alex Parkin watched the images of the bombing on the television for the hundredth time. Each viewing caused him to feel sicker than the last. Inside, he bled and burned with every soul who perished. And he’d say as much in his address to the people of Great Britain. That was his duty as the Prime Minister.
“Sir?”
Alex set his pen down on the legal pad on his desk, pushed back in his chair and looked up at the man wearing a blue pinstriped suit. Jon Hayes brushed back his thinning hair then placed both hands on the Prime Minister’s desk and leaned forward.
“Sir, I need to speak with you.”
“Then speak,” Alex said.
Jon looked over both shoulders. “There’s too many people in here, and I need to be frank with you.”
Alex leaned to his left, looked past Jon. Select members of his cabinet sat near one another. They all stared at the flat panel televisions mounted to the walls. Every one of them, lost in thought. None had offered much advice to Alex up to that point. As far as he was concerned, there was little point to them being in the room.
“Everyone out,” Alex said.
Heads turned toward him, stares of disbelief. He gestured toward the door with his head. They rose and staggered into the hall.
“Better?” he said.
“Yes, sir. Thank you.”
“For Christ’s sake Jon, we’re alone now. We go too far back for this sir talk.”
The men had a history. They’d served in the SAS together. Alex was an officer, Jon his top NCO. Their difference in rank meant nothing. They’d become best friends and still were to this day. Alex dragged Jon along for his meteoric rise through the political ranks. Unheard of, some had said, for him to become Prime Minister at the age of forty-five with only six years of public service. But his party had spoken, and so did the same public that he had served. And now he faced what he feared was the first in a series of attacks on London.
Jon said, “I’m getting conflicting reports, Alex.”
This was the first he’d heard of any reports at all. “What are you hearing?”
“Some are saying this is most certainly an attack by a group led by a man named Naseer Shehata. Recognize that name?”
Alex nodded. “What about the conflicting report?”
“That this was carried out, at least in part, with the help of someone in MI5 or MI6.”
Alex rose, slammed his palm against the desk. “Who would have authorized this?”
“It’s not like that,” Jon said.
“Then how is it?”
“We’ve got a rogue agent.”
Alex didn’t want to believe that anyone sworn to protecting Great Britain could be a part of such a nefarious act. “That’s just as bad. Maybe worse. Any other theories floating around?”
“No.” Jon paused. “Well, one more.”
“What is it?”
“It’s not really a third theory, more of a blend of the first two.”
“Meaning?”
“Someone from MI5 or MI6 is working with terrorists.”
“Why?”
“Any multitude of reasons I’d imagine.”
“Such as?”
Jon held out his hands. “Take a guess.”
“I don’t have the patience for guesses. Why that hotel?”
“I’ve got a guy who is checking records, matching names, and so forth. It’s tedious, he says, but he should have a yay or nay to us by six this afternoon.”
Alex glanced at his watch. He wasn’t sure he could wait two hours for the news. “Yay or nay on what?”
“If there was a specific target at the hotel.”
“How will he know?”
“There’s a limited number of names that run in these circles, Alex. If one pops up, it’s not a coincidence.”
“What if the hotel was a decoy?”
“You’re thinking of the restaurant?”
“Yes, that cook, on the telly, the one with the red beard—”
“I remember him.”
“—he mentioned men in masks with guns. They came in and shot up the restaurant.”
Jon crossed his arms, rubbed his jawline. “What if that was the decoy?”
“What if every last bit of it was a decoy, Jon?”
“Get us to focus all our efforts on that one area and carry out a bigger attack.”
“That’s what I fear most.”
Alex walked to the bank of windows on the outer wall. He looked out over Downing Street. Spring was in full bloom and he’d hardly noticed. Cherry blossoms, maybe an inch deep, covered the sidewalk. He shook his head at the reporters who never seemed to leave the front of Number 10.
Reporters, he thought. Tabloid rubbish.
Jon joined him by the windows. He placed a hand on the Prime Minister’s shoulder. “It’s just a test, Alex.”
“I hope to God you are right. You know, I always knew this was a possibility. But I never expected it to hit so close to home.” He pointed toward the plume of smoke that rose into the air and hovered over the site of the bombing. A surreal reminder of the attack carried out just a few hours before. “What if there is another attack while we’re chasing down this possible rogue agent?”
Jon nodded and remained quiet. After a minute, he said, “We’ve got the best of our intelligence agents looking at this from every angle, Alex. We’ll get them before they get to us.”
There was something in Jon’s words that dragged up one of Alex’s deepest fears. He’d be the next target.
CHAPTER 30
Mason
waited at his desk until the last person left the office. The short-walled cubes made espionage at work difficult even for a trained spy. If someone saw him pulling files from his desk and then leaving, they might stop and question him. Better to leave nothing to chance, Mason figured.
He pulled his bottom right drawer open, gathered a stack of files from his desk, dropped them inside. Before sliding the drawer closed, he grabbed a green folder. At the top of the folder the word “Jack” had been written in permanent marker. Mason inspected the folder. The strands of hair he had taped on the top and bottom of the folder were intact. While not foolproof, it gave him an indication that no one had accessed the file. He opened the folder, breaking the hairs in the process. At first glance everything appeared to be as he left it. He scanned through the papers contained within the folder. Nothing seemed out of order.
Mason rose and took a step back from his desk. He dropped the folder into his briefcase. A full day at the office never left him feeling well. He arched his back, stretched, kicked his chair away and turned. He had a clear path from his desk to the exit door. Before he reached it, his boss entered.
“Need a word with you, Mason,” Cameron Mills said.
Mason nodded and followed Mills. They stepped inside his boss’s glass-walled corner office. Five floors up, it had a view of the river and of Legoland, the intelligence community’s nickname for MI6’s building. From a distance, the green and off-white building looked like a castle made from the children’s play toys.
Mills sat down, gestured for Mason to do the same.
Mason settled into his seat and said, “What’s going on, boss?”
“Any word on Noble?”
Mason avoided looking at his briefcase. “Nothing yet, sir. I’d hoped he would reach out, but he hasn’t.”
“Do we think he’s connected with the bombings today?”
“Why would we?”
“He had reservations at that hotel.”
Mason nodded. He hadn’t revealed that information to his boss.
“I’m afraid the link ends there,” Mason said. “Besides, why would he blow up the place he’d been staying?”
“Maybe to fake his own death?”
“Unnecessary, sir. He’s clean as a whistle now. The only reason he showed up on our radar was because of an old travel warning we had in place arising from an incident in 2006. In fact, a brief came through today advising to remove him from our list.”
“A man like him should never be removed from our lists.”
“I agree, sir. But it is what it is.”
Mills nodded, coughed. The order would have come from above him, so he had little recourse.
“Anything else, sir?” Mason said.
“Not for now. Tomorrow I want you to go to the site of the bombing, then to the hospital to interview witnesses.”
“The hospital?”
“Anyone that saw what happened is either dead or in a hospital bed, Mason.”
Mason considered this kind of work to be below him and his skill set. But orders were orders.
“Yes, sir.” Mason rose, grabbed his briefcase and started toward the chrome-rimmed glass door.
“Mason.”
Mason stopped, turned. “Yes?”
“This is no coincidence.”
“What’s that?”
“The bombing, a billionaire being murdered, and Jack Noble being in town. We need to find him.” Mills paused, removed his glasses. He chewed on the frame for a second. “Understand?”
Mason nodded, said nothing. He stood in the open doorway for a minute, then headed toward the elevator. The empty elevator whisked him to the ground level floor. He ignored the security officers positioned there. He placed his gun and holster and briefcase on the conveyor belt. The items passed through the x-ray machine. Mason retrieved them and headed for the door.
The ride home was longer than the short distance should have taken. Traffic in London had that effect on travel. He had no choice, as did none of the seven million residents who worked normal hours. Not that Mason’s job could be classified as such, but some days that’s how it shook out. Despite the traffic, Mason enjoyed his ride home. It provided the one time of day when he did not think about the job. At first he had to force himself to keep his eyes and mind focused on nothing but the road and cars in front of him. Now it came naturally. Nothing mattered. Not the job, not national security. Not his past or his future.
An hour later, Mason pulled to the curb in front of his house. He got out of his car and walked toward the front door. He climbed the seven stairs, stopped on the landing. He reached for the door. A warm breeze blew past, carrying with it the smells of the White Swan, the local pub two blocks away. The smell of beer and the grill mixed together caused his mouth to water. Home could wait. What he wanted was a drink.
So Mason turned around and walked down the stairs and made a right at the sidewalk. Ten minutes later he sat at the bar, a pint in his right hand.
Mason contemplated his recent decisions. What had seemed like a good idea now backfired. The Jack Noble situation had gotten out of hand. He should have reported the man’s presence as soon as Jack landed in London instead of taking matters in his own hands. Thornton was a pain and had to be dealt with. That had been a foregone conclusion. Without Mason’s interference, Jack would have handled it. But Mason needed Jack for more than just the hit, so he couldn’t allow him to carry out the hit inside a store on a busy road. The result would have been a choice between imprisonment or fleeing for Jack. The warehouse meeting had been a mistake, though. He admitted that.
The problem now was that he’d gone too deep. Making a confession at this point would end his career and ensure that he spent the rest of his life in a cage. The Jack Noble situation had to be handled. He had to end it.
The bartender dropped a plate in front of Mason. The pork pie sent clouds of steam towards his face. His mouth flooded at the aroma. He finished his beer, signaled for a second, and then began eating his meal.
A slender female hand came to a rest next to his beer. A white mark where a ring once wrapped the third finger. The perfume that mixed with the smell of his food was a not too distant memory to Mason. He turned and saw the one woman he had no desire to see at that time.
“Hello, Gloria.”
She smiled. “Mason, nice to see you.”
“What are you doing so close to my place?”
“I was thinking about coming by. Saw you get out of your car and then come down here, so I followed you.”
“Well, you shouldn’t have.”
“Mason, I’m sorry for what happened. How many times do I have to apologize?”
“Doesn’t matter. You can apologize until I’m dead and withered away, it won’t change anything. I’m never taking you back.”
“Can I at least buy you a drink?”
Mason shook his head. He stuffed an overloaded forkful of pork pie into his mouth. He kept his lips parted as he chewed. Gloria watched him in the mirror. Her lip curled upward and turned away.
“I guess I should go, then,” she said a few moments later.
“Yeah, you should.”
Gloria pushed away from the bar and headed toward the door. He watched her in the mirror and then spun on his stool in time to see her leave.
“Way to be strong, mate.” The bartender set down a third pint and gave Mason a wink and a nod.
Thirty minutes later, Mason left the bar and headed home, slightly buzzed after four pints of beer. The air had cooled and the sky had darkened. The street lamps cast shaded pools of light along the sidewalk. Shadows from tree branches looked like gnarled fingers on the ground.
He reached his home, took the seven steps to the landing. He cursed himself as he reached for the door. He now regretted the fact that he had left it unlocked. What if Gloria had come back to his house instead of her own?
Mason wasn’t entirely surprised when he saw Gloria sitting at the dining room table. What did surprise him was tha
t Jack Noble sat right next to her.
CHAPTER 31
Jack watched the man as he stepped into the foyer. Mason’s eyes had been focused on the floor, so he flung the door closed before realizing Jack was there. The guy’s expression changed from annoyed to surprised to scared, though he quickly downshifted back to surprised. Guys like Jack and Mason knew better than letting an opponent see their fear.
Mason dropped his bag and reached for his handgun.
“Don’t move, Mason,” Jack said. He aimed his Beretta at Mason’s stomach.
“No,” Gloria said. She jumped up from her seat.
“Sit down, Gloria,” Jack said. “I got a feeling that he doesn’t much care if I shoot you, but I know you don’t want me to kill him. So sit your butt in that chair and shut up.”
Gloria lowered herself into her seat. The wood groaned in response. She placed her hands flat on the table. Her eyes remained locked on her ex-husband.
“Mason,” Jack said. “I want you to lift your hands in the air.”
Mason did as told.
Jack said, “Now with your left hand I want you to show me where your gun is.”
Mason hiked up his jacket.
“Good, now with your thumb and little finger I want you to take it out of the holster, set it on the ground in front of the stairs and step away. Keep your front to me the whole time or I’ll sever your spine with a bullet.”
Mason pulled the pistol from its holster as instructed. The weapon looked awkward in the unusual grip. He shuffled toward the stairs, placed the gun on the first step.
“On the ground,” Jack said.
It didn’t seem like much, but the step was approximately eight inches off the ground. That’s eight inches less Mason would have had to stoop to retrieve his pistol.
Mason grimaced, grabbed the handle by his thumb and little finger and then placed it on the ground. He straightened and shuffled a foot forward, both hands in the air.
