Collateral Damage

by Stuart Woods

  Jasmine chose an out-of-the-way bench, parked her cart at the center, and sat at one end. She was still tired from her journey, and she hadn’t had all the sleep she needed. She resented being hauled out of bed on her first day back.

  She could see a man walking slowly toward her, towing a shopping cart much like her own, dressed in a baggy suit and wearing a little embroidered cap, signifying his devoutness. He came slowly on, then parked his cart next to hers and sat down at the other end of the bench, took a newspaper from his coat pocket, and began to read it.

  “How was your trip?” he asked, barely moving his lips.

  “Rough,” she said. “Two long days on a mule. I don’t recommend it as a means of travel.”

  He chuckled. “I expect you have a sore ass, then.”

  “Don’t ask.”

  “You recall our conversation of a while back when you mentioned three targets?”

  “Yes.”

  “We think the third one would be appropriate at this time.”

  “Well, that’s an escalation, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, and it’s hard to escalate past a foreign minister.”

  “Somehow, that one is more satisfying,” she said. “It might even make a difference, if we’re lucky.”

  “We rely on planning, not luck,” he said, reprovingly.

  “Of course.”

  “What will you need from us, besides matériel?”

  “A black taxi,” she said. “I was uncomfortable driving the car last time, and a taxi is the most anonymous of all vehicles.”

  “It will be done.”

  “What about the driver?” she asked.

  He was quiet for a moment. “We must keep our numbers small. That is the way to remain safe.”

  “I agree,” she said. “I’ll need the package delivered. It must look good—a uniformed man in a liveried van, something like a DSL van.”

  “It will be done.”

  “I want another, larger device in the van. I’ll need separate cell numbers for each.”

  “Interesting,” he said.

  “We can maximize results with collateral damage.”

  “I agree. When?”

  “Five days. The parcel will be ready for collection at noon on the day and should be delivered at one P.M. Traffic will be good at the lunch hour.”

  “I have the list of cell phone numbers you gave me. Are they still good?”

  “Yes.”

  “Dispose of the one you answered this morning and go to the second number. I’ll call a day ahead of time to be sure everything is still on.” He took a page from a notebook and slid it across the bench toward her. “This is a list of my cell numbers. The first and second may be used for the first and second devices. Call me only if absolutely necessary. Good luck.” He rose, reached across his cart and took the handle of hers, then he walked back in the direction from which he had come.

  Jasmine sat long enough to check the area for anyone following him or watching her. Finally, satisfied that she was unnoticed, she took the handle of the other shopping cart and towed it toward home. She noted that the grocery items she had ordered were the top layer in the cart. What was underneath was heavier.

  She walked back to her flat, taking a circuitous route, checking reflections in shop windows and, occasionally, stopping to look at displays. It took her forty minutes to reach home.

  She pulled the cart up the steps carefully, one at a time. When she was halfway up, the front door opened and a woman she didn’t know stepped outside.

  “That looks heavy,” the woman said. “Let me help.”

  “That’s all right,” Jasmine said. “I’ve got it.”

  “Let me get the door for you, then.” The woman held it open and watched as she muscled the cart inside. She was English, mid-thirties, mousy hair, a plain coat, sensible shoes. Jasmine had never seen her in the building, and she was alarmed.

  “We’ve just moved into the building,” the woman said. “My name is Sarah.”

  “Welcome,” Jasmine said. “You’ll like the building.”

  A small car drew up outside. “Oh, there’s my husband. Please excuse me.”

  “Thank you for your help,” Jasmine said.

  The woman got into the car and it drove away.

  Jasmine left the cart in the hallway and ran to the rear of the building, looking out the window halfway up the stairs to the next floor. A woman and a child in the garden, a small dog in the woman’s lap.

  Jasmine ran back down the stairs and checked the street. A couple of cars passed without slowing down. A postman walked down the street, carrying his bag.

  Jasmine let herself quickly into her flat, then checked all the windows overlooking the street. Nothing out of the ordinary. Everything normal.

  She took the cart into the kitchen, unloaded and put away the groceries, then wheeled the cart into the pantry and locked the door.

  She checked the windows once more, then took off her dress and threw herself on the bed. Half an hour later, she was sleeping. An hour after that she woke with a sense of panic.

  Something was wrong.

  Felicity had just returned from her weekly lunch with the head of MI-5, which was responsible for domestic counterintelligence, when her phone buzzed. “Yes?”

  “Architect, this is Mason. We may have gotten lucky. A woman who is employed as an agricultural analyst in the Foreign Office may have spotted Jasmine.”

  “When and where?”

  “A little over an hour ago, in Notting Hill Gate. She and her husband moved into the building last week. She went home for lunch, and as she was going out again, she opened the door for a woman with a shopping cart: five-nine, pretty face, no makeup, wearing a Muslim headdress, unremarkable dress, sensible shoes. She believes the woman lives on the first floor of the building.”

  “Why didn’t the FO woman call sooner?”

  “She was delayed in traffic getting back to her office, where she had left our flyer, and it took her a few minutes to find it and make the comparison. She called the duty officer, as requested on the flyer.”

  “So the woman she spotted is in the building now?”

  “We have no reason to believe otherwise. Shall I raise the alarm?”

  “Not yet. Get some people into the street, try and set up surveillance directly across from the building.”

  “I’ll get the surveillance camera footage from the street immediately.”

  “Wait on that,” Felicity said. “I don’t want New Scotland Yard involved until we’re ready to move, nor do I want MI-5 hearing about this until I tell them personally. First, I want photographic identification. If she leaves the building, I want her followed: team of twenty, six vehicles, greatest possible discretion. If she meets anyone, follow both. Do not intercept without my personal authorization. Call me when we have live surveillance. How long?”

  “Twenty minutes.”

  “Then go!”

  “Yes, Architect.” Mason hung up.

  It was probably a false alarm, Felicity thought, but still, she was excited.

  —

  Jasmine looked at her cell list and dialed a number.

  “Yes?”

  “I’m blown. I want a black taxi now and two further vehicles, and I want this building watched, round the clock. How soon?”

  “Stand by.” He went off the line, then came back. “Taxi in twelve minutes,” he said. “Clean up as best you can.”

  “That won’t be necessary,” she said, then hung up. She undressed and put on jeans and a sweater and pulled her hair back into a ponytail. She packed a carry-on bag and threw personal items into a leather tote bag. She went to her safe and removed the spare passports and cash and tossed them into the tote bag, then she went to the kitchen pantry, looked on a high shelf, and took down a shoe box containing five cell phones. She dumped four of them into the tote, then lifted the lid of the box in her shopping cart and connected the fifth phone, pulling off the sticky label containing the numbe
r. Ten minutes gone.

  She exited the flat, leaving the door off the latch, and stood near the outside door, watching the street. Half a minute later, a black taxi came to a stop in the street and gave a short beep. The rear door on her side slid open. She opened the front door and, looking neither left nor right, walked in a leisurely fashion down the front steps and got into the cab. The driver pressed a button, and the door closed.

  “First transfer in three minutes,” the driver said, and the cab drove away at a normal pace.

  —

  As Jasmine’s taxi made its first turn, Jasmine looked out the rear window and saw another black taxi enter the street. A few blocks later, her cab turned into a mews, rounded a corner, and stopped. A gray Ford sedan waited, its engine running. She got out of the cab and into the rear seat of the sedan, tossing her luggage in ahead of her.

  “Get down,” the driver said, then he drove out of the mews, made a turn, then more turns. Finally, she transferred to a Volkswagen Beetle driven by her contact.

  “What happened?” he asked.

  “Do you have anyone in the street yet?”

  “A shopkeeper across the street a few doors down. What happened?”

  “When I came home from my meeting, a woman I didn’t know was leaving the building. She allowed the door to close to slow me down, then she introduced herself as Sarah and said that she and her husband had just moved into the building. Finally, she opened the door for me, and I went inside. Half an hour passed before it hit me: I saw a corner of a plastic ID card clipped to the collar of her blouse, under her jacket. Looked like a government ID, and she was too interested in me. That’s when I called you.”

  —

  Mason got out of the taxi with a female estate agent carrying a clipboard. They walked up the stairs of a house with a “Flat to Let” sign out front. Inside they walked up a flight and the woman took out a bunch of keys, found the correct one, and opened the door.

  “I think you’ll like the place,” she said. “It’s spacious, and the light is good.”

  Mason flashed a plastic ID at her. “Please sit down and be quiet. I’ll only keep you a few minutes.”

  She looked surprised, but she sat down.

  Mason pressed a speed dial number on his cell phone as he peeked through one side of the sheer curtains. “We got lucky,” he said. “We’re directly across the street, one floor up. The curtains are drawn in the flat. Is the team in place out back yet? Good. Now bring in the SWAT team van, and block both ends of the street. Call me when everything is in place.” He ended the connection, then turned to the estate agent.

  “Is there a rear exit from this house?” he asked.

  “Yes, it opens into a mews.”

  “Please leave at once by that exit, and walk quickly to the street behind and find a taxi. This is a matter of national security, and you are not to mention it to anyone. Do you understand?”

  “I suppose so,” she said.

  His telephone rang. “Mason. Right. Go.” He turned to the woman, who had gotten to her feet. “Too late. Please sit down again. This will be over shortly, then you can leave.”

  The woman sat down, and Mason watched through the curtains as a white van pulled up downstairs.

  —

  “Ring your shopkeeper,” Jasmine said to her contact.

  He did so and listened. His face changed, and he hung up. “They’re in your street,” he said to Jasmine. “A SWAT team is getting out of a van.”

  Jasmine dug a cell phone out of her tote bag and began to dial a number.

  The assault squad ran up the steps of the house, six men in black uniforms with helmets, heavy armor vests, face protection, and automatic weapons. The front door was locked; a team member carrying a heavy horizontal sledge swung it at the lock, and the door came open. The six men crowded into the hallway.

  “Flat door unlocked,” one man said, trying the knob. The team flooded into the flat, weapons raised, shouting.

  Jasmine pressed the last number.

  As Mason watched from across the street, the front of the building blew out. He flung himself into the corner behind him as the window blew in, filling the room with glass and debris.

  The estate agent began to rise from her seat, then she was struck by something heavy and sat down again. When Mason looked at her, most of her head was gone.

  He pressed a speed dial number. “Major explosion at subject house. Many dead or wounded. Full immediate response!”

  From down the street he heard the Klaxons of backup vehicles coming.

  Holly finished the last of her to-do list and looked at the clock: later than she thought, and she was hungry. She packed her briefcase and shut it, then reached for the phone to call Stone. It rang.

  “Holly Barker.”

  “It’s Felicity Devonshire,” she said, and she sounded weary and dejected.

  “It’s very late there,” Holly said.

  “We’ve had a major flap,” Felicity replied. Then she gave Holly a brief account of what had happened.

  “I’m sorry,” Holly said. “Casualties?”

  “Six of our people are dead, and one collateral.”

  “Jesus Christ!”

  “Exactly. We’re not sure what went wrong yet. We circulated the photo I sent you to a wide intra-government list, and one of them spotted her. We had people there in twenty minutes, but apparently Jasmine had gone. And she left a very large surprise behind her.”

  “Anything at the site that might help?”

  “We’re still sifting through the rubble. We had to prop up the building. It’s listing alarmingly and will have to come down. Fortunately, in the early afternoon the other occupants were at work.”

  “Why was your spotter there?”

  “She and her husband had only recently moved in. They met there at lunch to look at some fabrics together, and it turned into a matinee, or she would have been back at work when Jasmine came home.”

  “How on earth did Jasmine know she had been spotted?”

  “We’re not sure, but when we interviewed the woman at the FO she had a ministry ID clipped to her collar. Jasmine might have spotted it.”

  “This is just going to get harder now, isn’t it?”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  “Can our London people be of any help?”

  “No, now we have Special Branch involved, and, of course, our colleagues at MI-5 are on the job, furious that they weren’t consulted before our raid. I’m putting out bureaucratic fires everywhere.”

  “You have my sympathy,” Holly said. “I’ll see that the photo is circulated at the embassy. Who knows, somebody might spot her somewhere.”

  “That can’t hurt, I suppose,” Felicity said wearily.

  “Get some sleep, Felicity, you’ll have new ideas in the morning.”

  “I’m sleeping here tonight,” Felicity said. “Talk to you later.” She hung up.

  Holly called Stone. “I’m sorry I didn’t call you earlier, I’ve been at it all day. I hope you had dinner.”

  “I’m still waiting for you. Dinner’s in the oven.”

  “I’ll be there in ten minutes.” She hung up and headed for the elevator.

  —

  “All right,” Stone said, when he had dinner on the table and had opened a bottle of wine. “Tell me. You’ll feel better.”

  “Well, since you’re in the loop on this one I guess I’m on solid ground if you know more.” She began with her visits to Kelli Keane, then went on to her conversations with Felicity Devonshire.

  “So Jasmine is in the wind?”

  “Absolutely. She could be anywhere by now.”

  —

  Jasmine was, in fact, thirty miles up the Thames from London in a secluded and comfortable riverside house.

  “How long do I have this place?” she asked her contact, as she tossed her bags on the bed.

  “The family is in Pakistan, visiting relatives. They’re not due back for another month. They’ve called
their housekeeper and told them that you are the doctor’s cousin, and you’re between flats and camping out here. She’ll do for you.”

  “Thank God I don’t have to go out. That’s how the whole thing fell apart.”

  “It was a fluke, that’s all. We’ve heard that the intelligence services circulated your passport photo widely in the ministries. No more headdresses. Dress fashionably.”

  “As fashionably as I can with what’s in this bag,” Jasmine said, opening the case and starting to put things away in the guest room dressing area.

  “I’ll get you some catalogues, if you want other things.”

  “Thank you, Habib. I have to go to bed now.”

  “Would you prefer to do so alone?”

  “No, but I’m going to anyway.” She pulled back the covers and started to undress.

  Habib left and closed the door behind him.

  —

  Kelli Keane was returning from a meeting with her editor at Vanity Fair when she stopped to pick up a bottle of wine for dinner. She left the wine shop and stepped into the street to do a bit of jaywalking, when a car she hadn’t noticed whizzed by so close that the side mirror took the wine bottle out of her hand, smashing it into the street. She jumped back, terrified, then ran the rest of the way home.

  —

  “What’s wrong?” Jim asked as she came through the door, tearing her coat off and flopping down in a chair.

  “Somebody tried to run me down in the street,” she said. “Drink, please.”

  Jim put some ice in a glass and poured her two ounces of bourbon. He put it into her hand and found it shaking. “What kind of car?”

  “Dark—black, I think.”

  “Sedan? SUV?”

  “SUV. I don’t know what kind.”

  “Did you get a look at the plate?”

  She shook her head and tugged at the drink. “I was too busy cowering between two cars. The windows were darkened, I remember that. It took a very good bottle of wine right out of my hand, a Mondavi Reserve Cabernet.”