by Stuart Woods
“Thank you,” Jasmine said, and returned to her newspaper. Later in the flight, she undressed and donned the money vest.
Harry Tate dropped Stone off at the embassy, then drove away. Stone flashed his new ID at the Marine guards, and, after carefully examining it, they escorted him to the elevator and pressed the floor button for him.
“Don’t get off at any other floor or you’ll be shot,” the young Marine said with a straight face.
Stone rode upstairs and was admitted to the sealed floor. He walked into the station chief’s office and found a strange man sitting behind the desk. He was disheveled, had a couple of days’ beard growth, and had the hollow eyes of the seriously jet-lagged. “Hello, Lance,” Stone said.
“Stone,” Lance replied. “Sit down. Holly will be back in a minute.”
“How was Tokyo?” Stone asked.
“Charming,” Lance replied. “The flight here was something else—an air force transport, two stops for refueling.”
Holly walked into the office. “Oh, you’re back. How was the witness?”
“Remarkable,” Stone said, tossing the photo of Jasmine on the desk. “She identified this woman as being in her office, applying for the job of a translator of Arabic and Urdu, who left to go to the ladies’ a minute before the first explosion.”
“Got her!” Holly said.
“Have you? Where?”
“I mean, you’ve pinned the bombing on her.”
“Well, yes, the witness confirmed your supposition. What are you going to do about it?”
“I assume Harry Tate was with you, so there’s no need to inform Special Branch. What else should I do?”
“How about circulating that photograph to the known world? Or are we worried about the tabloids?”
Holly turned to Lance. “Your thoughts?”
“Wire it to the FBI and let them notify all the other agencies,” Lance replied. “Come to think of it, I wouldn’t be surprised to learn that she has left the country. We’ll see where she pops up next.”
“Just follow the explosions,” Stone said.
“You seem a little off, Stone,” Holly said.
“I’ve just seen a formerly beautiful woman who has lost an eye and had her face permanently altered by flying glass. It didn’t improve my mood.”
“Did Harry show her this photo, or did you?” Lance asked.
“I did, after Harry had finished questioning her and was ready to leave.”
“Did Harry seem surprised that you showed it to her, or that she identified Jasmine?”
“No.”
“I didn’t think so,” Lance said.
“Throckmorton told us he hasn’t issued a general alarm for her, either—just distributed the photo to a whole lot of functionaries, including milkmen.”
“I wondered about that,” Holly said.
“A smart move,” Lance said. “Thousands of milkmen will be delivering to all sorts of obscure addresses in the UK. They might well spot her in a housedress, watching soap operas on the tube.”
“If you say so,” Stone said.
“At any rate,” Lance continued, “I think Throckmorton has indicated to us that he does not want the British public at large to know that the two most horrific bombings in London since the IRA attacks during the seventies have been carried out in his city by a mere slip of a girl.”
Ann Tinney came into the room. “Architect is here,” she said. She stepped back and allowed Felicity Devonshire to enter, dressed in a tailored suit of Scottish tweed, her red hair tucked up in a bun.
Stone and Lance stood up and shook her hand; Stone planted a kiss on her cheek.
Ann Tinney spoke up again. “By the way, I’ve just had a call from the State Department personnel office across the street. Harry Tate showed up there a couple of minutes ago and confiscated a woman’s Burberry raincoat found in the rubble of the office. I thought you’d like to know.” She closed the door.
“Raincoat?” Lance asked.
“Jasmine’s,” Stone replied. “The witness mentioned it.”
“Oh, let Special Branch paw the thing for a couple of days,” Felicity said. “Maybe they’ll come up with a strand of DNA or a receipt with Jasmine’s home address on it. If they do, the rest of us will hear about it in a week or two.”
“You’re in fine form, Felicity,” Stone said, smiling. “What have you been up to?”
“I’ve been stacking sandbags in front of my service’s building all day,” Felicity replied dryly.
“Personally?” Lance asked.
“Figuratively. I reckon we’re next. I’m traveling in the FO’s upholstered version of a Bentley armored personnel carrier. I don’t like hunkering down and waiting—I’d prefer to be combing the hedgerows for her myself.”
“I can just see that,” Stone said.
“What are you lot doing, then?” she asked. “And is it possible to obtain a cup of tea in this establishment that didn’t come in a bag?”
As if on cue, Ann Tinney opened the door and entered with a tray containing a china teapot and matching cups. “May I pour for everyone?”
“Almost everyone,” Lance said.
Ann poured.
Felicity tasted her tea cautiously. “Ah, Fortnum’s Earl Grey,” she said. “Thank you, Mummy.”
“To answer your first question,” Lance said, “we’re doing pretty much what you’re doing.”
“Stacking sandbags?”
“A little late for that, but we’re under the same investigative strictures your service is.”
“I dislike strictures,” Felicity said.
“Well, Architect, we’re flattered that you’ve ventured out onto the streets to come and see us,” Lance said. “Now, what may the government of the United States do for you?”
“Let your worldwide network of stations know that Jasmine Shazaz is in the wind. That’s what I’ve ordered done, and we could use the help.”
“You think she’s left the country?” Holly asked.
“It’s what I would do,” Felicity replied. “It’s better than living in a spider hole.”
“Any thoughts on where she might have gone?”
“Langley, Virginia, I expect.”
Holly and Lance looked at each other.
“She’s out for revenge, isn’t she?” Felicity asked, rhetorically. “And she’s made a start. She’s too hot to continue here. She’ll be looking for something to blow up where she’s not expected.”
“Thank you for that wisdom, Architect,” Lance said. “Now I’m going to curl up on that sofa over there and sleep for an hour, then I will start acting on Holly’s personnel recommendations. They were very good, Holly, I am in complete agreement. Now you and Stone go to a matinee, or something.”
“Good idea,” Holly said.
“The Gulfstream is arriving tonight with a couple of other people. The two of you can take it back to New York tomorrow morning.”
“I’m relieved, then?”
“No, I’m relieved that you’ve done a good job here, and I thank you. Felicity, you can curl up on the sofa with me, if you like,” Lance said by way of dismissal.
“Thank you, but there’s a tank waiting for me downstairs,” Felicity replied. “Holly, can I drop you and Stone anywhere?”
“Is there room in this vehicle?” Holly asked.
“Oh, dear, yes.”
“Then we’d be grateful for a lift to the Connaught.”
“Done.”
Lance hit the sofa, and the others left.
Stone and Holly got out of the armored Bentley at the Connaught and bade Felicity good-bye.
“Did Lance say we should go to a matinee?” Holly asked.
“Perhaps he meant that we should have a matinee,” Stone replied, ushering her quickly through the lobby.
“Good idea,” Holly replied.
Jasmine stood before an immigration officer at Kennedy Airport in New York and handed him her British passport, along with her most brilliant
smile.
The young man’s eyes lingered on her face, then flicked to the passport and back. “The purpose of your visit, Ms. Avery?”
“Pure pleasure,” Jasmine replied, turning her smile into a laugh.
He stamped the passport and handed it back to her. “Welcome to New York, Ms. Avery. I hope you enjoy your visit.”
“Oh, I will,” Jasmine said, accepting the passport and tucking it into her bag. She rolled her bag through customs, unimpeded, and emerged into a large hall where a group of livery drivers held up signs with their passengers’ names on them, one for Ms. Avery. She handed the handle of her case to the driver and walked alongside him.
“Good flight?”
“Perfectly normal,” Jasmine replied.
“Our people will be glad to see you.”
“And I, them,” she said.
She settled in the rear of the black Lincoln sedan and took a deep breath. She had slept remarkably well in first class and felt ready to greet the day.
Two changes of cars later she was set down at the curb in front of a pretty town house in the West Forties with geraniums growing in window boxes.
“Basement,” her driver said, then drove away.
She walked down a few steps, towing her case, then under the main stairs to a heavy door and rang the bell. She looked up into a surveillance camera and smiled.
A moment later the door opened and a fashionably dressed, middle-aged man in a business suit let her in. “Welcome to New York,” he said. “I am Habib.”
“Everybody’s Habib,” she said, then rolled her case into the apartment. It was bigger than she had thought it would be, with a large living room with a dining alcove. Habib took her case and rolled it to the rear of the apartment, showing her the bedroom.
“Do you need to sleep?” he asked.
“I need to blow up something,” she replied.
“I’ll be at the dining room table when you’re ready.”
Jasmine hung up a few clothes and put some things away, then returned to the front of the building and sat down at the dining table.
Habib unrolled a map of the city. “There are a number of potential targets,” he said, and they discussed each.
“I want the CIA station on the Upper East Side,” she said.
Habib tapped his finger on the map. “It’s right here. We’ve been surveilling it.”
“Do they have an underground garage?”
“Yes, but it’s well guarded.” He showed her some photographs of the building. “There’s a steel door with a keypad. Cars have to be admitted from the inside. The security station and barrier are about eight feet into the building,” Habib said. “Covered by armed guards.”
“Good,” she said. “I like armed guards. Do you have a person to deliver?”
“I have two,” Habib said. “A young man and a young woman.”
“What sort of accent does the young man have?”
“American. He was born in Pakistan but came here at the age of two with his parents.”
“The young man, then. I want him to drive a black Lincoln like the one that met me at the airport. It has a very large trunk, so we can maximize the size of the device. You have a reliable bomb builder?”
“I am the bomb builder,” Habib replied, “and my devices are very reliable. I have one ready to go. I need only add more plastique to fill the trunk.”
“I want cell phone activation,” she said, “and I want to be here.” She tapped a spot on the map around the corner from the garage entrance. “In a New York yellow taxi.”
“I will drive you,” he said. “I think it is best you do not try to make an escape by car. Immediately after the detonation, the streets will become impassable. There is a subway station here.” He tapped the map. “You should take the subway twenty stops downtown, to here.” He moved his finger downtown. “Another car will meet you there and bring you up the West Side to this house. I will supply you with a Metrocard.”
“Excellent,” she said.
“Why do you want to observe the attack?” he asked.
“Because it will give me pleasure,” she replied. “Let’s execute during rush hour tomorrow morning. Is that feasible?”
“Perfectly. We have only to obtain the two vehicles, which will be done tonight.”
“Good. Now I will have some food and a nap.”
—
Stone and Holly were sitting up in bed having a full English breakfast from a room-service cart. The TV was on the morning news, and the news was of heavy fog in London, preventing most flights.
“Looks like we might be stuck here another day,” Holly said.
“I can handle that,” Stone replied. “We can just keep ordering room service.”
“Stone, you are always good in bed, but last night was really something.”
“Takes two,” Stone replied, biting into a muffin.
The phone rang, and Holly answered. “Yes?”
“It’s Inspector Harry Tate,” a male voice said.
“Good morning, Inspector.”
“I thought you might like a report on the raincoat we took from your State Department’s personnel office.”
“Yes, indeed.” She motioned to Stone to pick up the phone on his side, then put a finger to her lips.
“The coat was unremarkable—a cheap knockoff of a Burberry raincoat, and we got nothing from the coat itself.”
“Was there something else?”
“There was a lipstick in one pocket,” Tate said. “The fingerprints were smudged, but we got enough DNA for a match. If we get her, we can place her at the office definitively.”
“Very good, Inspector,” Holly said. “Would you be kind enough to get the DNA profile to our FBI?”
“Of course, and to Langley, too.”
“That’s very kind of you.”
“Is there anything else we can do for you?”
“A latitude and longitude on Jasmine Shazaz would be very nice.”
“The moment we get it. Good morning.” He hung up.
Stone and Holly hung up, too. “I suppose that’s progress of a kind,” he said.
“Yes,” Holly replied. “Now we’ll be able to positively identify her remains.”
“That’s pretty cold of you,” Stone said.
“Yes, it is,” Holly said. “I find myself getting colder about these things.”
Jasmine sat in the rear of her stolen taxicab, leaning against a door and looking out the rear window toward the building on the corner behind her.
Habib’s cell phone rang. “Yes? Thank you.” He hung up and turned around. “The car is one minute out,” he said.
“You gave the driver my instructions?”
“Yes. When he rings the bell he is to say that his passenger is Director Katharine Lee.”
“Good. Now let’s move down the street to the end of this block. I’ll still be able to see the garage door from there, and I don’t think we want to be this close.”
“As you wish.” Habib put the idling taxi into gear and rolled down the street. As he stopped, a young woman walked up to the cab and rapped on the front passenger window.
Jasmine stiffened. “What does she want?”
Habib rolled down the window and accepted a shopping bag from the young woman, then he rolled up the window, and she walked away. He turned around and handed Jasmine the shopping bag. “Cover,” he said. “Purchases from Bloomingdale’s made a few minutes ago, complete with receipts.”
“Good,” Jasmine said, breathing a sigh of relief. She looked out the rear window. “Here comes our package,” she said.
The black Lincoln turned into the driveway of the corner building, blocking the sidewalk. She watched as the driver’s window slid down and a hand reached out toward the metal box cantilevered toward arriving cars. Half a minute’s wait ensued, then the garage door rolled up, and the Lincoln drove inside. Suddenly, flashes of light came from the garage, and she heard automatic weapons fire. She pressed the spe
ed dial button on her cell phone. Seconds later, a roar of sound and flame erupted from the garage, engulfing pedestrians and cars on the street.
“Go,” Jasmine said, but she did not stop looking out the window. “The building didn’t collapse,” she said.
“Perhaps it is strongly reinforced,” Habib replied, putting the cab into gear and turning downtown at the next corner. “Subway coming up on your right,” he said.
She handed him the cell phone. “Dispose of this,” she said, then hipped her way across the backseat and got out of the cab, which immediately drove away. She saw the off-duty sign on top go on.
Jasmine walked down into the subway station, inserted her Metrocard in the slot, and made her way through the turnstile. She had stood on the platform for less than a minute when the train arrived, and a flood of people got off. She waited for them to clear the car, then got on and took a seat. She checked her pulse: seventy-two, not bad. She began taking slow, deep breaths, and she noticed that she felt wet between her legs. The train rolled out of the station; after it had traveled only a few yards the lights went out in the car and the train squealed to a halt. Probably a momentary power failure, she thought, but it turned out not to be momentary. She sat in the car for perhaps five minutes when she realized that the train had probably been deliberately stopped.
A uniformed policeman entered the car from ahead. “Stay in your seats, please. This is a police stop. We’ll get moving again as soon as we can.”
The train had stopped for her, she realized. She opened her bag and removed the wallet Habib had given her the night before, containing a New York ID and several hundred dollars in cash. For just a moment, she considered trying to get the car door open and fleeing down the tunnel, but she restrained herself.
They sat there quietly in the dark for another seven or eight minutes, then the lights came back on, but the train still did not move. She looked out the window and saw flashlights playing on the wall of the tunnel, and a moment later the door to the car behind her opened, and four men, two of them uniformed policemen, came into her car.
“Listen up, everybody.” He held up a badge. “We are New York City police officers, and we are going to check the ID of everybody on this car,” he said. “Now sit quietly and keep your hands where we can see them. Get out your ID and be prepared to show it.”
