11:52 A.M.
An unknown location
Footsteps against the floor. The low murmur of voices, somewhere. Out there. Coming toward him.
Harry shifted his weight as he lay there on his back, wincing as the concrete bit into the flesh of his wrists, bound beneath him. He had no idea how long he had been here—darkness enfolding him, the rough fabric of the hood clinging close to his face—but he hadn’t been moved since he’d come to.
Hadn’t heard any voices, till now.
It was a large room by the echo of the voices, he thought, struggling to process—to analyze his surroundings. Large room—concrete floor. A warehouse? Perhaps one Lahcen had used to conduct his illicit trade.
Hard to tell.
His head was still pounding from the force of the blow that had been delivered hours before—felt as though it could split open at the slightest impact. The smell of urine filling his nostrils.
“I seek refuge in Allah,” he whispered, his mouth dry and pasty, “from the outcast Satan. They plan, and God plans–”
“Shut up,” he heard a voice respond, punctuating the words with a curse. Rough hands, more than one pair of them, grabbing him by the shoulders and heaving him to his feet. He felt the concrete scrape painfully against his bare feet as he was dragged across the floor, gritting his teeth to keep from crying out.
And surely God is the best of planners, Harry murmured, repeating the words of the sura to himself as he was thrust suddenly into a chair. Seeking strength for all that was to come. The role that he was committed to. Play the part.
And then the hood was ripped away. . .
11:07 A.M. British Summer Time
Thames House
Millbank, London
“All right then,” Phillip Greer nodded, turning away from the young woman at his side as they reached the door of his office. “Did he elaborate on the nature of the compromise?”
“No, not yet.”
Could be any number of things, Greer thought. A politician’s peccadilloes knew few limits. Some took longer to catch up with them than others.
“See what else he’s willing to give you—what he wants for it. And, Dara, do your best to validate everything you can. This may require us to pay a visit to our friend in Parliament, inform her that she needs to clean her house. If we take that step, we must be certain.”
“Of course, sir.” His officer nodded, a certain note of surprise in her voice that he’d even felt the need to say it. Asset validation was elementary in this business, and Dara wasn’t a novice at her trade.
He didn’t know why he’d said it either, he realized, watching her back as she disappeared down the hallway. Stress, most likely. There was so much at stake just now—things were still so fragile in the UK, following the attack on the Queen, the collapse of the government which had followed.
The last thing they needed was another compromised politician in White Hall. Particularly one who had been an ally.
His secretary looked up at his entry, inclining her head toward the figure of Darren Roth, occupying a chair not far from her desk in the outer office. “Mr. Roth is here to see you, sir, as per your schedule.”
“Of course.” Greer forced a smile to his face, reaching out to grasp Roth’s hand. “I regret making you wait, Darren. My office?”
Not another word was said until the door of the inner office had closed behind them—until Greer had rounded the back of his desk, gesturing for Roth to take a seat in front of him.
“It’s on for tonight?”
A nod. “I left the signal—he’ll know to take it from there.”
There was something uneasy in Roth’s demeanor, Greer noticed, watching him closely. Something troubling him.
“Are you sure it’s wise to move this quickly?” the younger officer asked finally, meeting his gaze.
Greer shook his head. “I’m sure we don’t have another choice.”
12:47 P.M. Central European Summer Time
An unknown location
Pain. Shooting like liquid fire through his veins as the cosh slammed once more into his naked body, ripping a tortured scream from his lips as the chair rocked, nearly tipping over and taking him with it.
Unendurable pain never lasts, Harry thought, gasping through the pain–the words of some ancient maxim filtering unbidden through his mind. If it lasts, it can be endured. He wondered if the philosopher had ever known torture. . .
It was strange, the absurdities that occurred to a man in extremis—the mind seeking some desperate refuge from a body pushed past its very limits. Had Hashim Rahman known such thoughts, he wondered absently, remembering how he’d tortured Rahman in Leeds—seeking information, seeking truth—dealing out the brutality which had once been dealt to him.
And now here he was again, the bloody cycle repeating—feeding on itself. Consuming, both the perpetrator and the victim.
Another blow slammed into his ribs, reawakening the fire once more, and this time he felt strong hands descend on his bare shoulders, anchoring him in place. An unwelcome salvation.
“Who was your field commander in Syria?” he heard a man’s voice demand—fingers sinking deep into his matted black hair, jerking his head back and up.
Harry stared into the man’s eyes—dark and black, boring into his own, set in an angular, bearded face. His own age, perhaps slightly older—a harsh, cruel visage.
“Abu Omar al-Shishani,” he whispered, a bloody froth moistening his lips. Struggling to process the questions through the pain—knowing that his life depended on these answers.
“Abu Omar is dead,” another of his interrogators spat, moving into his line of vision from the right. “Who was your unit leader?”
“Tariq ibn Hamza al-Libi.”
He sensed the men exchange glances. “Tariq ibn Hamza is dead. Is everyone you fought beside in Syria dead?”
“Many of them,” Harry replied, every word coming out with an effort—his eyes locked with his principal interrogator. “Many of the brothers died in the land of Sham. Many more, scattered to the winds. In Allah’s struggle. Had more answered the call of jihad, perhaps their deaths would not have been necessary.”
It was a deliberate provocation, but the accusation was a natural one. Exactly what al-Almani would have said, if he’d been real.
And that was itself a dangerous thought, he realized, reeling as one of the men backhanded him across the face, a rough slap that echoed across the empty void of the warehouse. Al-Almani needed to be real. To himself, most of all—the man he once had been, buried. Deep within.
“Can’t you see?” he heard Yassin ask, somewhere behind him—his body coming alert at the voice. He hadn’t known the kid was in the room. “He’s one of us, just as I told you. He is committed to the cause.”
“If so, why did he kill Lahcen?”
Harry lifted his head once again, forcing himself to look the man in the eye. “The man was a spy, as I told you once before. I saw the wire.”
“He wasn’t,” a new voice announced from behind him—another man walking into his line of vision. Older than the rest of Harry’s captors, a touch of silver in his beard. There was an aura of authority about him, visible in the way the other interrogators took a step back, deferring to him. Here was the power in this room. The power of life and death. “Said was many things, but he was not a traitor. We would have known—he would not have been able to hide it from us. He was not a subtle man.”
There was no hubris in the statement, just a quiet confidence. Harry just sat there in silence, looking at the man—blood trickling down his cheek from a cut just below his left eye.
“My son Ismail was in Syria,” the older man continued after a long moment, reaching into the pocket of his trousers—retrieving a small photo from an inner sleeve of his wallet. “He died fighting among the mujahideen of Tariq ibn Hamza. Perhaps you would remember him?”
1:02 P.M.
A Dassault Falcon 50
Over northern Franc
e
“Danloy isn’t going to be bought off with partial disclosure,” Anaïs Brunet replied, a flush of anger coloring her cheeks as she leaned forward in her seat, taking a sip of her Perrier. “Not now. Not with his blood up this way—we’re going to have to give him everything, or very nearly.”
She swore softly to herself, glancing out the window of the business jet. White cirrus clouds surrounding them at this altitude, wisps of cotton against the sun. “This is why I was concerned about reading the Belgians in from the very beginning—we’re now going to have a third agency with nearly unfettered access, and we can’t control who Danloy briefs on it.”
“And this is why I counseled reading them in from the beginning, Anaïs,” Vukovic’s voice responded over the secure commlink. “I know Christian—if I had approached him at the outset–”
“What’s done is done, Daniel,” Brunet responded sharply. She had enough of her own recriminations without listening to his. “There’s no profit in revisiting the decisions of the past. There were reasons for them, but now we must adjust—find a way to deal with our new reality.”
“Which means reading in the Belgians,” Gauthier observed, rejoining the discussion.
“Oui. Or else President Albéric will be receiving a call from Brussels.” She hesitated, weighing the realities of their situation once again. Then, “Have a copy prepared, Lucien, of everything LYSANDER has given us over the course of the operation to date. Redact anything which could be used to identify our officer. Once I’ve reviewed the file, we will send it to Brussels via courier. For Danloy’s eyes only.”
1:03 P.M.
The warehouse
It was a youthful face that stared back at Harry from the photograph—a dark-haired young man in his early twenties, tall and lean—struggling to grow a beard. Just the right age to have fallen victim to the siren call of the caliphate. And he was dead.
There could be no danger that a dead man could contradict whatever story he chose to tell, and yet. . .
There was something wrong. A sudden awareness of his danger filtering through to him past the throbbing pain consuming his body.
It was too easy.
Harry kept his eyes focused on the photo for a moment more, as if endeavoring to memorize the face. Then, lifting his face to look the older man in the eye, “No, I would remember his face if he had. He did not fight with us.”
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw one of the interrogators move in, the cosh already drawn back—his battered body bracing for the blow.
But the older man’s hand was raised in a restraining gesture, a curious smile playing across his features. He gestured to the man with the cosh. “Untie him, and get him some water. He’s telling the truth, this one.”
Harry held the man’s gaze until the interrogator forced him to lean forward—sawing through the ropes with a long knife—keeping the relief from his face with a mighty effort. His instincts had saved him, once again.
For now.
“A man intent on deceiving us,” the older man began once more as Harry’s wrists came free, “would have seen claiming my dead son as his dearest comrade as his surest path of salvation. And I would have known he was lying, for my son did not die in Syria. He died here, in a motorway accident outside Lille five years ago.”
“I am sorry,” Harry said, his voice hoarse—rubbing his raw wrists in an effort to restore circulation. Every inch of his body throbbed with pain, the beating leaving him bruised and bloody—reawakening old wounds.
The older man shook his head dismissively. “Don’t be. He was a sorrow to me while he was alive.”
Contempt was the only emotion in the man’s voice when he spoke of his son—cold and remorseless.
He smiled, reaching out a hand to lift Harry from the blood-spattered chair—wrapping his other arm around Harry’s shoulders to steady him, drawing him into a warm, almost gentle, embrace. The man’s lips, only inches from his ear. “Salaam alaikum, my brother. You may call me Gamal. Gamal Belkaïd.”
8:04 A.M. Eastern Daylight Time
The Old Ebbitt Grill
Washington, D.C.
“. . .if you could bring it up in conversation with the Minority Leader, it would be. . .most appreciated.” An expression of unusual earnestness crept over the lobbyist’s florid countenance. “It is very, very important that this passes the House, Ian.”
“Of course it is, Robert,” Ian Cahill responded, struggling to keep the boredom out of his voice as he picked at his omelet—skewering a stray bit of andouille sausage with his fork.
Everything in this town was “very important.” Everyone consumed with their own petty little agendas. Each of them, more important than the last.
Cahill tuned out the lobbyist’s soft, importunate, almost whining voice with an effort—nodding as though he were still listening as he set about cleaning up the remnants of his omelet with a diligence that spoke of his own humble beginnings.
He’d known what it was not to have all this—once.
Now people came to him, not because he had a vote, but because he had something far more important. The ear of the people with the votes.
Power.
And yet, when it truly mattered. . .he was powerless, he thought, still reflecting on his dilemma with Melody Lawlor. More particularly, with what she had overheard. There had to be a way to get to the bottom of it. To find out the truth.
He might have even thought she’d imagined it all—he’d always been plagued by doubts about her reliability as a source—if not for his own meeting in Fado’s, just a few nights before. There had been fear in the woman’s eyes as she listened to what he had to say, and that told him much.
She had served in some of the world’s worst places, if even half of what was said about her was true—wasn’t the type of woman to scare easily.
Which meant that Melody’s story was far more. . .plausible, at the very least, than he ever would have wanted to believe.
Now he just had to figure out what to do about it.
2:21 P.M. Central European Summer Time
The warehouse
Liège, Belgium
“You ask how I can be so sure that Said did not betray us,” Gamal Belkaïd observed, turning back toward the rude wooden table that sat in the middle of the warehouse’s small office.
He set a mug of steaming hot tea down in front of Harry, returning to the seat across from him—his long fingers delicately cupping a second mug as he lifted it to his lips, his visage briefly obscured by the rising steam. “How I can be sure, for example, that you are not, even now, a plant of a Western security service?”
Harry remained silent, drawing the man out, feeling pain shoot through his body once more as he took a sip of the tea—his tortured body had been cleaned and bandaged after he had been released from the chair, fresh, if ill-fitting clothes had been given to him, but it was going to take a few days for the bruises to fade. Perhaps longer.
“Are you not even curious?”
A shake of the head. “Allah preserves me here, as He did in Sham. I take no other protectors to myself—I would not be of those who build for themselves the house of the spider.”
Gamal smiled, clearly recognizing the Qur’anic reference. “You are a bold man, Ibrahim. I like that about you. But I will tell you, anyway.”
He set his cup aside, the smile unwavering as he looked at Harry across the wooden table. “I am a businessman, to speak of my affairs as I see them. A criminal, to describe myself through the eyes of others. Some men try to bring down the West with guns and bombs. I do so through women. Drugs. Anything else a decadent society requires and men will pay a premium for. Selling them the rope to hang themselves, as I believe is the Western idiom. And when I am able, I help the men with guns and bombs.”
His eyes narrowed, watching Harry’s face for any signs of a reaction. “You do not approve?”
It was an old line, Harry thought, holding the man’s gaze steadily. The Taliban had used a sim
ilar rationale for their own opium trafficking during his years in Afghanistan—in those rare moments when any of them had bothered with a rationale. Trafficking that had done much to alienate the conservative Muslim populace they worked amongst. A smarter counter-insurgency strategy might have been able to exploit the fissures there, if only they had been understood. If. . .
“It’s war,” he replied finally, shrugging his shoulders. “There are many things we do which would be haram in normal times. To normal men. But we do not live in normal times, you and I.”
The older man laughed, a harsh laugh with an edge of steel in it. “Nor are we normal men.”
2:31 P.M.
Alliance Base
Paris, France
This was a mistake, Anaïs Brunet realized, staring down at the folder spread out on the desk before her. The details of LYSANDER’s mission, laid out in cold, sterile text. Black and white.
Seeing, in her mind’s eye, the man behind the words. The young officer they had sent into harm’s way—had asked to return, even against his better judgment.
And now they were endangering him once again. But her hand was being forced.
She shook her head, closing the folder. There was nothing black and white about this world. Nothing clear.
Only deals one made with oneself—trading off one interest against another. Hoping against hope that you’d made the right call.
Trying to learn to live with yourself, even when you hadn’t.
Brunet took a deep breath, reaching for her pen. The cover page, awaiting her signature, staring back at her like a warrant of death.
Presence of Mine Enemies Page 25
