by John Gardner
There were to be two major bombs, he told them. Two in very high-profile places. Many would die as a result. He showed them on the map that one bomb would have to explode at the Lincoln Memorial and the other at the recently refurbished Union Station.
“It is possible,” he said, “that we may require another pair of smaller devices. If so, they will be timed to go off within minutes of the two major explosions.” His finger traced the map. “One here and one here.” He pointed to the Executive Office Building, close to the White House, and the National Museum of American History on Constitution Avenue. Then he turned to the chart. It was a plan of the United States Capitol, the building with the large dome that dominated the city.
The plan was simple, though traced around with red lines. “These,” he said, pointing to the red lines, “are the ducts for both heating and air-conditioning. You will see that they have small access doors, which for some odd reason are not locked. Any person finding himself alone in any of these ten areas”—again his finger stabbed at ten different points on the plan—“could easily slip something within the ducts, and you see where they lead. All of these small roads lead into the House and Senate chambers. Think in terms of tear gas—and you will have something far more lethal—and consider what even tear gas would do. It would seep along the ducts and finally spill out into the two seats of government. They are far apart, at opposite ends of the building, but if these ducts are used”—he pointed again to the ten specific access points—“if a gas, or some other such, is placed into any of these areas, it will fill the two chambers very quickly. In a matter of minutes.”
“So, what will we be putting into the AC units?” Walid’s eyes had a fearful look deep in their irises.
“When the time comes, you will know, and the timing is of great importance.”
He looked from Walid to Khami and back again. “After you have set Magic Lightning in place, and after it begins to take effect, there will be other matters for you to attend to.” He smiled affably, as a devoted father might smile at his children.
Earlier on that day, in the Kensington house, a man from the British end of Yussif was explaining similar things to Hisham, complete with similar plans. The plans in this case were of the London Houses of Parliament, plus the seats of government in Paris and Rome. Hisham had already been told where their bombs had to be placed. One close to the Foreign Office in London’s Whitehall; another directly opposite Buckingham Palace. This latter would rip apart the great fussy and ornate Queen Victoria Memorial, which stood in the center of the circle joined by The Mall, Constitution Hill and the short twin roads leading from Birdcage Walk and Buckingham Gate.
The sites of the explosions in Paris and Rome were also chosen with daring, and meant to give the people of France and Italy cause for deep anxiety.
Hisham was also extremely worried. With his team depleted, he had no idea how he would be able to carry out the attacks as planned. Apart from himself, there were only Ahmad, Dinah and Samira to call upon, and even at this moment Samira was out of London.
After Ahmad and Dinah had so brilliantly assassinated the man called Blount-Wilson, Samira had volunteered—even demanded—to carry out the killing that Hisham and Dinah had botched a couple of days before. Not that it was their fault, but Hisham felt ashamed that it had not been done properly. He prayed that Samira would deal with the matter.
Later that same evening, Big Herbie Kruger would feel the brush of the Angel of Death’s wings.
21
SAMIRA WORE A WIG similar to the one Dinah had used for the assassination of Archie Blount-Wilson, though Samira’s wig transformed her into a brownish-redhead. She also put on granny glasses and a long summer dress of flimsy material. The American passport she showed at the car rental agency gave her name as Cronin. Delphina S. Cronin, the same name she had on the international driver’s license and the American Express credit card that she used to pay for the rental.
She filled in the papers in a neat round hand that bore no relation to her own writing. It was one of the skills they had all learned from the Biwãba during the long training period.
Hisham had given her an accurate map, so she set out from London heading for Salisbury, pulling in at the first service area to get a sandwich and change into jeans, a black T-shirt and a dark denim jacket. It would be ironic, she felt, to hit the target Kruger near where the man Keene had died. She knew there was plenty of time, because their contact at the place they called Warminster had said Kruger would not be back until early evening. At the service area she had called the Kensington safe house and Hisham gave her the code which meant Kruger had yet to leave London. She called again, from a public booth in Salisbury, and the word was that he had just left, with some firepower in a chase car. Hisham said that Kruger would be in the second car.
She did not even bother to think about how Hisham got the information. All she knew was that he had someone on the inside who passed him stuff—inconsequential information as far as his contact was concerned, but life or death matters to a leader like Hisham. He had once told her that his person within the British Intelligence was an unwitting agent, and there had been plenty of those around during what the West called the Cold War.
Throughout her journey Samira kept repeating to herself, “I am the Angel of Death. I am the Angel of Death.” Hisham had reminded her that chanting something which described your operation was a way of fixing the mind, keeping focus. It was almost hypnotic.
It was dusk when she reached a stretch of open road with no houses in sight and flat country on either side. Flat unless you looked hard and had a soldier’s knowledge of cover. There were two little rock-strewn hillocks, bumps really, about a foot high. They were close to the road around fifty yards from where she had pulled off onto rather soggy ground.
Samira worked quickly, changing the car’s number plates, putting her duffel bag into the trunk and opening the zip to uncover the grenades and the Polish-made PM-63—not the ideal weapon for the job, as it was known to have an erratic muzzle movement and required a shooter to hold it in a tight two-handed grip to fire a complete magazine of eighteen 9mm rounds in one burst. Samira was really relying on the grenades. If she timed things correctly, she could get both cars. She had personally set the grenade fuses to five seconds. It all depended on her judgment. Samira was good with weapons and was confident that she could handle the timing. From where she now lay, it would be possible, even in near darkness, to roll two grenades, one after the other, so that both cars would get the full impact. “I am the Angel of Death,” she repeated again, knowing that as soon as the grenades had left her hands she would have to flatten out, as though digging herself into the earth, for she would be lying in the lethal zone when the grenades exploded. When that was over, she could finish the job by moving up and using the PM-63.
Now she only had to wait and hope that no passing motorist, or thief, took it into his head to give her car the onceover.
“I am the Angel of Death …I am the Angel of Death …I am the Angel of Death …”
Big Herbie Kruger stayed behind for a few minutes, talking alone with Worboys in his office. They had been joined by Martin Brook, who waited with Bex and the muscle outside in an anteroom. God in heaven, Herbie thought, Young Worboys even rated an anteroom these days. Only a handful of years ago he was Herbie’s gofer, running errands and playing around with the female staff. How times had changed. Nowadays if you complimented one of the female staff on her appearance, like as not she would scream sexual harassment. Maybe he could have Bitsy Williams on sexual harassment charges. Should work both ways, but this politically correct business had taken so much harmless fun out of life. What everyone needed was a good dose of male liberation, Herb reckoned.
He talked with Tony Worboys about Ramsi. “He being cooperative?”
“Ramsi? Yes. Yes, very cooperative. You’ll have to go in at the back door, search his subconscious a bit, meddle with his mind. He’s in a kind of denial over the whos,
whys and whats, but it shouldn’t be difficult.”
Herbie switched subjects. “You pinpoint the locations in New York? The map references given in the phone numbers to Jasmine?”
“Yes, as a matter of fact, we did.”
“And?”
“Passed them on to the anti-terrorist boys. Too late if they were for real.”
“Where were they?”
“The locations? One was a bookshop—Barnes and Noble—on Fifth Avenue. The other was outside St. Pat’s Cathedral. They put watchers on, but came up with zero. As I said, too late.”
“Or maybe the watchers got spotted and they called off the meet.”
“Whoever they were, yes, could be.”
“Also the meets could have had double meaning. Like we used to do with times on open telephone lines. Subtract four hours, or add six. Stuff like that.”
“Yes, but who was playing Claudius to Jasmine? Maybe we’ll never know. Your job is Ramsi now …”
“And Carole. We haven’t cleaned out Carole yet. Not completely.”
“You’ll have Martin Brook giving you a hand.”
“Sure, how do I stand with him?”
“You mean, can he outrank you?”
“Outrank, yes.”
“No way. He knows the score. He’s taking over Gus’s old job on a permanent basis, but he knows you’re running this op.”
“Good. He gets out of line, I call you.” Herb grinned, raised a hand and headed towards the door. “Watch your back, Tony. We’re both targets now, so watch your back.”
“Don’t worry. I’m going to earth. Wife and kids’re already in this building. We’re using the Infirmary. The kids think it’s a great lark; always asking to see the minders’ guns. Wrap these buggers up tight, Herb. Get Gus’s killer and close the thing down as quickly as you can.”
The journey back was noisy and a shade cramped. The Fat Boy, as they used to call Martin Brook, had slimmed down greatly. Bex sat between him and Herbie in the back of the Rover, while the chase car constantly switched positions. Sometimes it would be behind them; at other moments—if its crew didn’t like the look of a car overtaking—it would pick up speed and get behind the vehicle, riding in front of Herbie’s car while the observer in the back of the chase car would punch registration numbers into a laptop secured to the back of the shotgun’s seat. The laptop’s modem ran through the car’s radio telephone and details of the owner of any queried car would ribbon out on its screen within seconds.
The two-way radios between the cars were on constant chatter:
“Hardy One. There’s an old Jag coming up fast and overtaking. We will follow.”
“Roger, Hardy.”
“Hardy One. We’re coming up in front of you now. Ease back.”
“Wilco, Hardy.”
“Think they’re bloody fighter aces,” Herbie muttered. He did not like it, because it made them more visible. The technical advances had brought drawbacks with them. Kruger was not always happy with advances in technology.
They skirted Salisbury and prepared for the final leg, down the Wylye Valley. Inevitably, Herbie thought of Gus’s last journey to Warminster. He wondered again what had really happened? Thought of the man seen talking with Gus beside the car. Or was it Gus? he asked himself. Was Gus already out of it, unconscious in the driver’s seat? Had there been other people, unseen by the witness, crouched beside the car, waiting out the headlights raking them? Men who joined Gus and read him the death sentence before they fixed things up, ran the car off the road and blew it, melting into the night once it was done.
Big Herbie also thought of the various other permutations. The old Chief and Gus had covered all the tracks to Jasmine. Had another person been in the loop? BMW for instance? Had Willis Maitland-Wood really retired fully, or was he the new Claudius? He thought he should give Willis a call. See if he was still gardening away with his Memsahib in darkest Eastbourne. Or was he heading down a wrong tributary? Was there a serving officer who had been culled by Gus to take over the running should he shuffle off the mortal coil?
Who? He wondered. Whom would Gus choose to walk steadily in his footsteps?
He glanced up and saw they were nearing the bend through the village of Wylye, and the headlights behind them were suddenly very bright.
The radio crackled. “Hardy One, there’s another Rover coming up like the clappers. The guy’s either drunk or wants to kill himself. On our outside now. Overtaking. Watch him, we’re going to pass you. Get in between.”
“Roger, Hardy. Got him.” The shotgun in front moved slightly, grabbing at the H&K Herb and Bex had noted that afternoon. He turned. “Get down,” he said firmly but calmly. “Right down in the back.”
In the darkness Herb caught a long slice of thigh as Bex groped down between him and Brook.
In the chase car the observer had noted the registration and typed it in as they were passing the car they were minding.
“It’s okay. Belongs to a doctor in Warminster.” He read the details from the screen as they slid between the cars. Then the hell broke loose.
Samira heard them, was aware of the lights before she looked up and was dazzled by the headlights. Shit, she thought, they’ve put an extra car in. Her brain computed the situation. The really heavy muscle would be in the first car, while Kruger would be sitting quietly in the middle car. The third car might be a problem.
She automatically took in the speed of the approaching convoy, pulled the pin on the first grenade and rolled it into the road. Then the second grenade. There was an instant, the fraction of a second, when she realized that her timing was way out. Then the first car came abreast of her and the two grenades exploded. One directly under the first car’s engine, and the second—the throw badly timed—blew out the back of the same car. The middle and last cars both did expert handbrake skid turns, ending up side by side across the road.
Samira stood up, yelled, “I am the Angel of Death” at the top of her lungs, and began to pull the trigger. As she rose from the ground, she felt the spasm of pain in her lower legs where the pieces of grenade cut a swathe through her shins, just below her knees. Then the stat-stat-stat came from the rear car. As she was raised up by the impact of the 9mm bullets from the Heckler & Koch, she yelled again, “I AM the Angel of Death!” She felt the ground as her back thudded onto the grass, then she seemed to drift away. From above she saw men running, forming a tight, protective circle around the last car. In the white light she also saw herself, lying on the ground. Then she was lifted higher and higher into an unbearable brightness.
The chase car stayed for the police and ambulance, though there was little left of the doctor, who had been rushing back from a Salisbury hospital where he had been seeing a patient moved from Warminster hospital that evening. He had a dinner appointment and was late.
The woman lay cut to pieces by the grenades and bullets. She looked young and had once been pretty, before the grimace of death had taken her. There was a wig lying near her head. Most of her chest was gone, and the legs had almost literally been sliced from under her.
There was a lot of chatter on the radios, and the car carrying Bex, Martin Brook and Herbie only stayed for less than five minutes. The chase car minders moved around, automatics and submachine guns ready and swinging from side to side.
Later, Bex said that she became frightened only when she saw the minders, for they had pulled ski masks over their heads and looked like a terrorist team. When Herbie saw them, he knew that he had been wrong in thinking these men were hired on a temporary basis. He knew who and what they were.
They dropped Martin Brook off at the main house, while Bex and Herbie were driven straight to the Dower House. Even there, both the driver and shotgun climbed quickly from the car, weapons in hand and ski masks still in place as they shepherded their charges to the door.
When she saw the party, Bitsy started a little weeping and wailing act, but Ginger appeared behind her and roughly pulled her back into the house.
“You okay, chief? And you, guv’nor?” Ginger fussed around them as they went straight towards the dining room.
“Bits!” Herb shouted. “Bitsy Williams, we need booze and food.”
“Shit.” Bex slumped into a chair. “I think I’m beyond food.”
“Try the booze then, Bex.” Herbie was getting back into his stride.
“What the hell happened? I knew I should have been with you.” Ginger sounded genuinely concerned.
“Some babe tried to take us out.”
Bitsy came into the room looking gray around the gills and acting like a Victorian girl about to have an attack of the vapors. “You called, Herbie?”
“Booze, Bits. A vodka tonic for me, and …”
“The same.” Bex nodded.
“You will eat, won’t you?” Bitsy seemed to have slipped into her mother-hen mode again.
“Sure we’ll eat, Bits. What you got for us tonight, chopped liver?”
“Christ, Herb!” shakily from Rebecca Olesker.
“I’ve got some nice steaks and new potatoes, followed by a Charlotte Russe. How about that?”
“Nice girl, young Russian Charlotte.” Herb had taken the vodka and put it away in one. “Feels better.”
“What exactly happened?” Ginger asked.
“Will you eat now?” Bitsy’s query overlapped Ginger’s.
“Yes, we’ll eat now, eh, Bex?”
Bex nodded and took another sip of her vodka.
“Before you serve up, freshen this, would you, Bits?” Herbie handed over his empty glass, then launched into a graphic description of the attempt on their lives. He was just reaching his climax when the telephone rang and Tony Worboys, sounding shaken, asked the same questions.
They sat down to eat about thirty minutes later. Bex mainly pushed her food around, but Herb tucked in, making short work of the tender steak. “Come on, Bex. We got more work to do tonight. You’re going to need sustenance. That right, sustenance?”
