Traitor

by Murray Mcdonald

  “What’s a SOG team?” asked Frankie.

  “Special Operations Group,” said Carson. “A bit like a SEAL Team or Delta Force.”

  “Only better,” said Barry, smiling and ignoring the looks of disagreement from Carson and Flynn from DIA. “Nick Geller is history. We’ve got a ten man team with an attack chopper and two Range Rovers on board.”

  “We could have a team there in an hour,” suggested Flynn.

  Turner understood his point; they’d rather deal with their own. But the CIA team would be on site first and it may be better for another agency to deal with the problem. “I think it’s best we let the SOG team take him down.”

  Flynn nodded. “What about the police stopping him?”

  “Too risky,” said Carson. “It’s going to be hard enough for the SOG team to take Nick down.”

  “Piece of piss, pardon the French,” said Barry disdainfully.

  Carson had had enough of the rhetoric and bullshit. “Be very clear and warn your guys that Nick Geller was one of our best. Make no mistake, this will not be a piece of piss, a walk in the park or any other fucking cliché you want to spout out.”

  Barry nodded halfheartedly, more a ‘whatever’ than a ‘yes’.

  “Barry, do you know our biggest problem in Defense at the moment?”

  “Your boy just tried to kill the President?”

  Carson ignored the cheap and rather pathetic shot. “Who is the guy we’d send to track and deal with Nick Geller, when he is the guy we’d send after himself?”

  Barry struggled to understand what Carson had just said.

  “He’s saying that Nick is the guy that can catch Nick,” explained Flynn succinctly. “Don’t be so cocky, Barry, you’ll just look all the more of an ass when he hands it to you.”

  “I’ve got the route,” announced the analyst, breaking up the machismo display.

  Frankie and Carson were first to move to the screen, keen to see if their thoughts were correct. It was what they had predicted. Flynn walked over and saw the same. Turner looked at the screen and saw a route that circled around on itself a number of times before dropping off the screen.

  “He was lost?” asked Turner.

  “Do you know how many CCTV cameras there are in France?” asked Carson.

  “Millions?”

  Carson shook his head. “In the UK, God yes, literally millions. In France, maybe a hundred thousand, probably less.” He turned back to the analyst. “Can you show the placement of CCTV cameras on that map of Paris?”

  The cameras appeared almost in sync with Nick’s route around and around the French capital.

  Barry reluctantly joined the group, and instantly saw what the others had noticed. “Shit, he wanted us to track him.”

  Carson and Frankie nodded in unison. “In all the time I’ve known Nick, he’s taken the fastest and most direct route to anywhere,” Frankie said ruefully. “Even when we’re going places he’s never been to, he checks it out and knows the route in advance.”

  “And that’s exactly why your input is critical to this investigation,” said Turner, almost congratulating himself for Frankie being there, despite having nothing whatsoever to do with her involvement.

  They all looked back at the screen as the little Renault Clio continued its journey towards Auxerre and its imminent interception by the SOG team. Carson checked his watch. It was midnight.

  “I’m going to call it a night,” he said, much to everyone’s astonishment. “It’s been a long day!”

  “We’re about to catch him!” said Turner, perplexed.

  “Let me know when you do. Frankie do you need a lift?”

  Frankie nodded.

  Chapter 23

  Sunday 6th July.

  France

  The C130 landed just after 7:30 a.m. local time in Auxerre and taxied to a cleared area of the apron as requested. The team of flight mechanics dragged the MH-6 Little Bird attack chopper out onto the apron and set about preparing it for takeoff. Meanwhile, the two Range Rovers wasted no time. Their five liter supercharged engines kicked into life and propelled eight of the SOG team out into the early morning sunshine. Their communications screens synched seamlessly with the satellites overhead. Their target was twenty miles to their north.

  They raced off. Their job was to get around and behind the target vehicle and in place, ready to take it down. With their arrival, the motorway was being shut down. The police, following a signal from NCTC, had begun to block all entrance ramps to the southbound carriageway and had a rolling speed block in place, well out of sight, behind the target. As the SOG team got in place, the traffic around the target would have thinned, allowing them a clear run to capture him and minimize civilian casualties.

  With the helicopter up and in the air, the ‘go’ was given. The two Range Rovers stationed at an overpass had just watched the target speed past. The traffic around him was almost nonexistent. With the ‘go’ signal, both drivers accelerated hard and joined the motorway, gaining fast on the small Clio. By the time the first Range Rover drew level, the helicopter was hovering off to the left with its mini gun and rocket pods hanging menacingly underneath.

  The road ahead was clear and from behind the target, the driver of the second vehicle gave the order to move.

  The first vehicle accelerated sharply, cut in front of the Clio and slammed on the brakes. The second Range Rover closed to within an inch of the Clio’s rear bumper and matched the braking. Even if Nick had wanted to escape into the next lane, it was impossible, the Clio had become as one with the Range Rovers. The three vehicles connected and the Clio drew to a stop wedged solidly between the two SUVs, each of which weighed three times the tiny Clio.

  Even before they had drawn to a compete stop, the passenger doors of both Range Rovers were open and six of the SOG team members, dressed in full tactical assault suits with bio-hazard protection, rushed to take down the target.

  ***

  Turner watched the images the SOG team’s head-mounted cameras beamed back to them. Barry stood smiling as the CIA team performed the maneuver perfectly. Stopping a moving car at 80 mph was no mean feat. Stopping it as well as the SOG team had just done was remarkable.

  “Looks like he’s given up,” announced Barry. They could just make out the driver sitting still, keeping his hands visible on the steering wheel.

  Turner nodded; it was looking very good. He turned around to look at Flynn, who stood shaking his head slowly.

  “I know it’s tough,” said Turner. “He was one of yours.”

  Flynn shook his head even more and sighed. They just don’t get it.

  “Here we go!” shouted Barry, as the SOG team member reached for the Clio’s door handle.

  ***

  Nick grabbed his 9mm Berretta the instant the door opened, causing immediate panic amongst the intruders.

  “Don’t shoot!” screamed the yawner, dropping the tray with a selection of breads and pastries on the floor. Shoeless, who had graduated to just being shirtless, having heeded Nick’s advice, dropped a small pot of coffee as Yawner fell back into him.

  “Putain!” he shouted as the hot coffee burned into his naked chest.

  “You know… you should wear a shirt,” advised Nick, smiling and lowering the pistol.

  “You were right about your car,” said Yawner, bending down to pick up the pastries and breads. “It’s on TV right now.”

  Nick followed them through to the living room to the television set, where the news helicopter filmed the action from afar. They could clearly see the two Range Rovers wedge the small Clio and bring it to a stop before the SOG team approached the car.

  “Who’s in there?” asked Nick.

  “Not sure,” Yawner said. “Amir arranged it.”

  “Any chance of any comeback?” Nick asked.

  “Absolutely none.”

  ***

  A range of expletives exploded in NCTC when the youth was pulled from the car. When the SOG team had him prone on
the ground, they searched the car but a close-up of his face showed him to be eighteen at most.

  Flynn grabbed his jacket. “Guys, do you get it now?”

  Turner snapped. “What, Flynn? Do we get what now?!”

  “You’re not dealing with a fucking amateur. He’ll always be a step ahead of you and when it looks like you’re closing in, he’ll jump to three steps ahead.”

  “We’ll make that little shit talk!” said Barry pointing to the youth on the ground 3,000 miles away.

  “Barry, he won’t know shit!” Flynn sighed and picked up his jacket. “I’ll see you guys in the morning.” “Are you going to update Carson?” Turner called after him.

  “Jesus, Turner! Why d’you think he left? I only hung around to see Barry fall on his ass!”

  And with that, he was gone.

  Chapter 24

  Frankie woke up in the unfamiliar surroundings of the guest room of her house. She had taken one look at the bed she had shared with Nick and decided against. The meticulous search that had only just finished when Carson dropped her off had revealed nothing and fortunately had been done with great care and attention. With no mess to clear up, Frankie had called her mom. Obviously, the ‘I’m fine’ SMS hadn’t appeased her mother’s concerns, judging by the thirty-seven missed calls that had amassed throughout the day. After a long and tearful conversation, she had gone straight for what turned out to be a fitful night’s sleep.

  She checked the clock, 6:00 a.m., just forty minutes since she had previously checked it. Sunday afternoon was barbecue day. At least that’s what had been planned with a few friends. She was going to have to cancel, although it was probably unnecessary given the only news that was filling the channels centered on Nick. The man who should have been their host was the most wanted man in the world, hardly a guy who’d be hanging around to fulfill his barbecuing duties. Just in case, she sent a group SMS message. A few responded immediately despite the early hour, asking if there was anything they could do and saying they hadn’t contacted her before etc…

  All bullshit, she thought. It was at times like these that true friends rose up and showed themselves. She checked her phone from the previous day. A couple of messages she had ignored, given they weren’t work related, sat waiting for her. Her real friends. She sent a message back thanking them for their kind words.

  Frankie grabbed a bathing suit and swam her morning twenty lengths, then jumped in the shower in the master suite. The water poured over her as she gently increased the heat. The dial stopped turning. This was where Nick usually jumped out. He couldn’t take the heat like she could. She thought of him as she pressed the button and turned the heat up beyond the safety level imposed by the manufacturer. The steam filled the entire bathroom, the water almost sizzling when it hit her skin. She stopped the water and almost pinched herself, it couldn’t be true, it must have been a dream. Stepping from the shower all such thoughts immediately evaporated.

  I’m so sorry - it was real

  N x

  The message had appeared on the mirror above the sink. Written by finger, the steam had clouded the entire mirror except for the message. She had been asked constantly whether Nick had left her a massage. Nothing had been found during the search, yet this was the simplest but oldest trick in the book. Frankie stared at the message, not knowing what to feel or do. The man she knew was dead. This was a message from dead Nick. The Nick that still lived, she didn’t know. She smiled. He had loved her. Dead Nick had loved her. Live Nick didn’t. Live Nick was going to be stopped— even if that meant killed— with her help. She grabbed her phone and snapped a photo of the message. Carson would know what to do.

  Dressed and ready, she walked across the driveway and unlocked the Prius, the car she used for work. She looked at the beautiful clear blue sky and the 911s cloth top. Fuck it, she thought. She went back into the house and, grabbed the Porsche keys, retracted its roof and pulled away. Her life was an open book now. Hiding her background was irrelevant. Everyone at the center was going to know everything about her as part of the investigation. She had nothing left to hide.

  Carson’s car was already in the lot when she arrived. She smiled. He had taken the Director’s spot, the spot which Turner had used the previous day. Turner arrived while she waited for her roof to close, and he tried not to show annoyance as he drove past ‘his’ spot to find another.

  Frankie waited for him, pondering whether to tell him about the message. She decided against. She’d tell Carson first.

  “Good morning,” she said brightly.

  “Is it?” was the gruff and unfriendly response.

  Frankie was initially taken aback until she remembered. “What time did you find out?”

  “We left here just after 2:30 a.m.” he replied, marching towards the entrance. Frankie had to jog to keep up.

  “So who was in the car?”

  “A teenager who’d been approached by ‘some guy’ in the street to deliver the car to Marseille for 500 euros.”

  “What? And he was doing it?”

  “He lives in a tough part of town and they made it clear they knew who he was and where his family lived.”

  “Deliver the car or we’ll pay you a visit?”

  Turner nodded holding the center’s main door open for her. “He didn’t recognize the guy?” she asked.

  “The description fits every dark haired young man in France and I don’t know if you’ve been to France, but they’re almost all dark haired!”

  “So he was scared?”

  “Shitless. He assumed there were drugs in the trunk and still wants to deliver the car, just in case they do come after him.”

  “Dead end?”

  Turner nodded. “Just as you thought,” he added pointedly.

  “Would you have done it differently had we told you he wasn’t in there?”

  Turner pondered for a couple of seconds before shaking his head. “Fair enough,” he said, much to Frankie’s surprise.

  Carson was waiting for them in Turner’s office.

  “Good morning, Mr. Carson,” he said, knowing Carson preferred Harry.

  “Morning, Paul,” he replied. Touché.

  Before they had a chance to talk, the night supervisor knocked and entered. His update was short and succinct. They had had little progress overnight. Even the black box they had retrieved from the prince’s jet on landing at Riyadh had offered nothing. It had mysteriously developed a fatal electrical fault and had failed to record any of the journey.

  “Any ideas?” asked Turner once the supervisor had left the room.

  “Other than work through the leads, I’m struggling,” said Carson.

  “We know the prince, my mother’s cousin, is lying,” said Frankie.

  Turner smiled at the reference to his comment the previous evening. “I know, your mother has thousands of cousins. I’m sorry, it was a long day.”

  “That’s okay, and anyway, not one of those thousands of cousins has spoken to her since the day she married my father. So what about the prince?”

  “We’re on him,” Turner acknowledged. “NSA is monitoring everything he does and CIA has a team watching him. If he so much as farts or sneezes funny, we’ll know about it.”

  Chapter 25

  Nick checked the luggage that the youths had removed from his car. Everything was in place. He stripped down the guns and gave them a much needed cleaning and lubrication. He checked the metal briefcase that had remained by his side. The seals were intact. He had become accustomed to the constant checking. Timing for the use of the virus was key. Any inadvertent release could significantly weaken the impact of the plan.

  A coded knock preceded the opening of his door. Without it, Nick had made clear, he would shoot first. Following the earlier incident, the message had travelled quickly and any further mishaps were deemed highly unlikely.

  “He will see you now,” said Amir as he opened the door. His unkempt and tousled hair was now groomed.

  Nick nod
ded and, taking the briefcase but leaving the weapons, followed Amir out of the small apartment he had been allocated and along a corridor to Mohammed Farsi’s far larger apartment. The entire top floor had been taken over by the group. The building stood in the center of the complex amongst a number of other high-rise apartment blocks. Nick assumed lookouts were stationed in all of the surrounding buildings and any suggestion of a raid or assault by the authorities would be spotted well in advance. The apartment block had numerous exits and roads leading away from it. It was, in his expert opinion, an excellent and safe base, certainly somewhere that would suit his needs should it be needed.

  Nick entered what he assumed to be the main place of worship for the group. A disproportionately large room had been created by knocking together three smaller rooms. A wash area, the wudhu, was set into the far wall opposite the Mihrab, which denoted the qibla wall and the direction of Mecca. Nick removed his shoes and placed them on the wooden slats by the doorway before entering. He proceeded directly towards the wudhu and under the eyes of the group already in the room, performed the ritual washing routine before prayer. Once completed, he stood up and joined the group.

  “Would you lead us?” asked Mohammed Farsi.

  “Of course,” he said, smiling to the group of twenty men that hung on his every word.

  Nick turned and faced the qibla before leading the most senior Al Qaeda members in France through the Salat al-Zhur midday prayer.

  With the prayer complete, the questions began to rain down. The group had been summoned and had spent many hours travelling through convoluted routes to meet the man who brought a message from their Caliph and who had so nearly killed the living embodiment of Shaytan (Satan) on earth.