Mercy's Chase

by Jess Lourey

  The problem with the Alcatraz plan was that it had been too complicated. This time wouldn’t be. Simple point and shoot on September 23rd, using the Order’s specially manufactured sniper rifle and their private room above Tower Bridge as his home base.

  The Order had sniper towers ferreted around all major cities. Locate the top of the highest building, guess that the Order owned a few rooms up there and had access to upmarket rifles that could shoot twice as straight and three times as far as military Issue, and you’d be right. No better angle in London than Tower Bridge, he’d already checked that out, and riding on the Eye was just to get a second perspective.

  He wouldn’t mess up the hit this time.

  He took no pride in that thought. Gina Hayes and her vice president weren’t as bad as the news would have a person believe. They never were—he’d learned that and plenty more in his four decades at the FBI. This assassination was not personal. Hayes was a woman and she threatened the Order. That was all.

  He’d kill her and the vice president, and then he’d disappear forever.

  That was the deal.

  He imagined what his life would be after the assassination. The details sometimes changed, but he knew one thing: it was time to hit up one of those unnamed Caribbean islands and become the eccentric old guy who lived in a straw shack out on a secluded beach and only tramped to the one-store town to pick up rum, eggs, milk, and bread every other week.

  He’d fish all day, read some good spy novels before bed. Hell, maybe he’d write his own book. He’d certainly seen enough in his life to fill fifty novels. Yeah, that sat right; that vision of him clacking away on a typewriter, Hemingway-esque, a half-empty bottle of rum and a full ashtray within reach.

  Maybe he’d even get a cat.

  “You’ve been standing there the whole ride.”

  Clancy dropped his binoculars and swiveled his head slowly—everything moved slowly on this tourist trap—toward the unmistakably American voice. The man was half Clancy’s age, round and soft in the middle, and quivering with the need to usurp Clancy’s unobstructed view of London. Clancy fought the urge to punch the guy. People in Rome had been rude, almost as an art form, but it was never personal. Americans, on the other hand, insisted on shaming a person. Clancy hadn’t missed that when he’d fled the country.

  He made a note to put this guy in the book he was gonna write.

  “Count on that not changing,” Clancy grumbled, smacking the binoculars back to his face. He would never get back on this ride if he could help it, which meant tracking all possible angles and escapes on this single trip.

  He scanned the countryside. They were at the apex of the ride, and if he wasn’t mistaken, he could spot Windsor Castle 25 miles to the west. Impressive. He focused back on Parliament. The weather for the next week was supposed to be cloudy and cool. In other words, London. There was a bit of luck in that no wind was forecasted. If that held, he’d have the clearest of shots.

  The president was now being herded inside Parliament.

  He wondered if she was meeting with Lucan Stone, who Clancy has spied entering the building just a few minutes earlier.

  Lucan and Clancy had been partners before the Alcatraz goat rope of an assassination attempt. Stone had exploded through the FBI ranks, but he didn’t have that hotshot air most wunderkinds did, and Clancy had worked with more than his share of young guns. Stone was quiet, and he did his job. Clancy Johnson had liked him better than fine as a partner, but it had always been a mystery whose side he was on. Was he a NOC—a nonofficial covered officer, the agency’s most clandestine operative—or was he simply running a one-off assignment?

  Didn’t really matter anymore.

  It was interesting that the FBI was so openly active in London, though. They were primarily domestic. If they needed to second-layer the Secret Service in Europe, that ought to be CIA territory. Clancy made a note to ask his connection at Five Eyes what he knew. It’d give him something to do with his free head time now that he’d decided exactly what his retirement would entail.

  “Some people would share their space,” the American whined, under his breath, but not really. “If they had the best seat in the pod, I mean. If they could see stuff that no one else could.”

  Passive-aggressive was another trait Americans excelled at. Clancy considered giving the man a piece of his mind but thought better. Someone who wasn’t embarrassed to be ignorant wasn’t going to listen to Clancy. He did toss the guy a second glance to make sure his face hadn’t changed, though—a recent habit since his meeting with Jason in Rome.

  A shudder tickled his neck. He didn’t know if the man was even human. It was a waste of talent, the Order treating him like a gopher.

  Thinking of Jason brought to mind Salem Wiley, who’d driven up to Parliament just as Clancy’s Eye pod had cleared the building’s roofline. She must be cracking codes for the FBI now, though her companion looked more MI5.

  Clancy smiled. That kid. Too bad she was on the Order’s radar.

  He’d heard the Grimalkin was assigned her—or, if the rumors were true, had demanded her. The smile turned into a grimace. That meant she wasn’t long for this world. He hoped for her sake that the Grimalkin was as efficient as the rumors suggested.

  None of this—Lucan Stone being on site, Salem Wiley being in town—changed his instructions. Vit Linder had been specific: Clancy was to assassinate the president and the vice president. Normally they did not travel together, but there would be a single, very public photograph taken on the 23rd featuring President Gina Hayes and Vice President Richard Cambridge on the front lawn of Parliament just moments after the signing of the accord. The event was being staged purely for optics, a risky but photogenic illustration of the United States’ commitment to a new globally responsible environmental policy.

  Both of them cut down at that moment would send a clear message.

  Vit Linder had been shifty, unctuous on the phone. Clancy knew the type. Rich dad and a staggeringly dumbfuck certainty that he’d earned it all himself. The good news was that Clancy didn’t particularly care what sort of man Linder was, or even that his voice had slid sideways when he’d mentioned the double assassination. The guy was uncomfortable with some part of it, but Linder was what men like Clancy called a soft hand. Probably didn’t want blood on them. No, all that mattered to Clancy were these ten words, whispered by Linder toward the end of their conversation:

  Once they’re dead, you’ll be free of the Order.

  The details were straightforward. The president would exit Parliament at the same time the vice president was driven there. They would meet for a highly orchestrated handshake at which time Clancy would shoot them both from the Order’s Tower Bridge penthouse. He would then be driven to the airport.

  Linder had said a Muslim group would be framed for the killings.

  That told Clancy that this assassination was being marketed for Americans. “A Muslim group.” That’s all the Rust Belters and Bible Thumpers would need to know. He’d be toes-deep in the sand before the American intelligence community discovered it wasn’t Muslims.

  If they ever did.

  He felt a twinge in his gut as the pod started its descent. He realized he cared about his country, at least for a second. The president and vice president both dying would plunge the United States, and maybe the world, into chaos.

  The twinge passed.

  He thought about fishing and writing that book, a golden sun turning him brown as a nut, his rum at his side. He swung his binoculars to the east and glanced at his watch. He would be staring through the spyglasses in full view of multiple witnesses when the bomb went off.

  Exactly as planned.

  11

  Parliament, London

  The largest door of the Robing Room opened and Gina Hayes stepped inside, accompanied by her ubiquitous assistant Matthew, two Secret Service, and
a steady stream of staffers coming in and out with questions and updates.

  Salem, Charlie, and Stone all stood when they saw the president.

  “Salem!” Matthew said, waving, indicating she should leave the table and join the president.

  Salem smiled. She remembered Matthew as having a gift for putting everyone at ease and remembering names. Salem had met him only once, at President Hayes’ inauguration last January. “Hi, Matthew, Madam President.”

  Gina Hayes was a formidable woman, solidly built, her eyes steel gray. She was as smart as she was efficient. “Update me on Gaea.”

  Salem tipped back on her heels. She should have anticipated the question, but her mind was as blank as a sheet. Charlie appeared at her elbow to rescue her. “Agent Thackeray of MI5, Madam President. I’m Ms. Wiley’s partner. Gaea has amazing potential, but I’m afraid Ms. Wiley hasn’t been given enough dedicated time for it. With all due respect, it should be her full-time job.”

  Salem flushed with gratitude. President Hayes reminded her of her own mother, cold and authoritarian. The similarity made it difficult to keep her wits in her presence. And Vida Wiley and Hayes shared more than a demeanor. They were both connected to the Underground at depths Salem hoped never to know.

  The president arched an eyebrow at Charlie. Instead of responding to his defense, she strode toward the nearest painting, Matthew, Salem, and Charlie following. “I’m a fan of William Dyce’s.” The painting depicted a man on a white horse returning to King Arthur’s court, the king stretching a sword toward him in welcome. The painting was titled Hospitality, and the plaque below it read, The Admission of Sir Tristram to the Fellowship of the Round Table.

  Hayes tipped her head toward the words. “Dyce was a Scotsman, did you know? My grandmother emigrated from Scotland.”

  “That explains how well she held her whiskey,” Matthew said, not glancing up from his ever-present iPad.

  The president’s chuckle was surprisingly warm. “Possibly.” Her eyes grew faraway. “‘The best laid schemes o’ mice and men, gang aft agley, and leave us nought but grief and pain, for promised joy!’”

  “Robert Burns,” Charlie said, admiration apparent on his face.

  “Yes,” President Hayes said, turning her attention to Salem. “Luckily, Salem, we are neither mice nor men. What do you think would be the best use of your time with the FBI?”

  The question caught Salem off-guard. Quitting it. “I’m not sure.”

  “Don’t be modest,” Charlie interrupted. “You’re brilliant. Once you’ve built her, Gaea will revolutionize computers.”

  The president and Matthew exchanged a look. Hayes moved on to the next painting, this one featuring a man kneeling before a queen and her ladies. It was named Mercy and was half the size of Dyce’s hospitality painting. Its plaque read, Sir Gawaine swearing to be merciful and never be against Ladies.

  “This one has always looked to me more like justice than mercy,” Hayes said, hands behind her back as she studied the art, “but of course there can be no justice without mercy.”

  A loud bang interrupted their meeting.

  It sounded to Salem like a very large door being slammed, but Lucan Stone, Charlie, and both Secret Service agents were in motion before the sound faded. All four of them shielded the president with their bodies and escorted her out.

  The door to the hallway opened. It was chaos outside. “Bomb!” someone yelled.

  Salem’s knees gave way, and she reached for the wall below the painting. She was suddenly alone in the Robing Room. A bomb had just gone off somewhere close enough to hear. Where were Mercy and Vida?

  Heart thumping, she rang her mom, frantic to make sure she and Mercy were all right. When there was no answer, she called Bel. “I’m in Parliament. I was talking to the president when a bomb went off somewhere.”

  Bel had never allowed lag time in her reactions. “Is anyone hurt?”

  “Not that I know of.”

  “Vida and Mercy?”

  “I don’t know where they are. Mom isn’t answering her phone.” Saying that out loud made Salem nauseous.

  Bel hung up without question. She called back two minutes and forty-five seconds later.

  “They’re fine. They’re on their way to their hotel. The news hasn’t gotten wind of anything yet. Start researching.”

  Salem didn’t know she’d been holding her breath until the aching in her chest signaled her. She sucked in a mouthful of air, staring at the B&C. Of course. “Thank you,” she said, but Bel had already hung up, likely to follow up on her end.

  Salem set down her phone and clicked on Gaea, talking to the program in soothing tones. “I need SIGINT on what’s happening, honey.”

  She typed on the industrial laptop’s keyboard, her fingers flying like a concert pianist’s. Gaea may be a baby, but she was a genius child. She could manage the terrorist networks, at least when looking for something as loud as a bomb. Within five minutes, Gaea had established a terrifying fact: the marquee terrorist groups were as surprised by the bomb as the president and her team had been, so caught off-guard that they didn’t even bother to code their communications.

  Gaea wasn’t needed; a simple language translator would do.

  Salem commanded ECHELON to run in the background before tapping Gaea to scour the major news networks.

  Thirty-seven minutes later, she had it.

  A man believed to be Saudi Arabian and in his early twenties had set off the bomb while sitting on a bench near Westminster Pier, only about a thousand feet from where she now sat. The act was being treated as a suicide bombing, his ties still buried, two tourists killed and eleven injured in the attack.

  The rest of the afternoon and the night ticked away. Charlie checked on her sometimes, reporting on the lack of action outside. Salem stayed at the B&C in the Robing Room, running and tweaking Gaea, listening for any SIGINT tying the attack to a specific group. She was the best in her field, she recognized that without ego, and she couldn’t find anything. Three groups had publicly claimed the bombing, but their backdoor communication put the lie to that.

  Something was way off.

  A bombing in London with so many heads of state gathering would be a jewel in the crown of any known terrorist organization. The internet was alight with talk of it, but no one in the surface web or dark web knew who had done it.

  “Hey.”

  Salem glanced up. Charlie was standing there, looking as though he’d been there for a while. “Sorry. Hey.”

  “Have you left your computer today?”

  She glanced at her phone. She’d been sitting in the same spot for seven hours. “No.”

  He wrinkled his nose. “That’s what I thought. Everyone else is off—everyone who works for the president, that is.”

  “Agent Stone?”

  Charlie nodded, his eyes hooded. “And his three field agents. We’re all going out for a pint. Care to join us?”

  Salem blinked, still not oriented to reality after spending the afternoon in a rabbit hole. “Did they identify the group for the bombing?”

  Charlie had shrugged. “No. And even if they had, it doesn’t change standard operating procedure. Security is tight. Scotland Yard is on the case. The summit moves forward as planned. And tired men need a drink.” He ran his hand through his hair and slapped on a smile. “Women as well. You’re joining us?”

  12

  Mayflower Pub, London

  London’s Mayflower Pub had stood on a cobbled street, tucked into the edge of the River Thames, for over four hundred years. It had been erected on the original mooring spot of the Mayflower ship before its trip to what would become Cape Cod. The pub was dark wood and heavy stone, scarlet walls and crosshatched windows, the sour smell of four centuries’ worth of beer spillage complementing the hearty fryer smell of London’s best fish and chips. Stepping inside
the cozy interior was a stroll back in time, the brightly lit cell screens and modern clothes of the patrons jarring.

  The grim faces of the FBI agents, however, perfectly matched the interior.

  Salem sipped her second pint. She hadn’t eaten since breakfast. She’d never cared for beer, but she also had never had a Guinness straight out of a keg. It was creamy, chocolatey, more dessert than beverage. She’d been listening to the agents talk, Charlie slipping easily into the group.

  “ISIL, you’d think,” he was saying. “But they’d have claimed it by now, right, Salem?”

  Salem knew he was being nice, pulling her into the conversation. As the beer began to line her veins, she realized she didn’t mind. “Any group would have,” she said. “Unless this is only a warm-up leading to something else.”

  Lucan Stone sat across from her, his expression inscrutable. Nina, one of his agents, sat to his left. If Salem wasn’t mistaken, Nina and Stone had a thing going, or were at least very comfortable with one another. She fought the lick of jealousy, leaning toward Charlie. He threw his arm over her shoulder companionably.

  “If Salem hasn’t discovered a claimer, no one has,” he said. “This girl’s the best in the business.”

  Nina leaned forward, her elbows on the table. She was a redhead with a sharp nose. “Word on the street is that Gaea is at least a year out from being workable. Padding expectations?”

  She had said it conspiratorially rather than meanly, but her physical nearness to Stone set Salem on edge. “If I was, I wouldn’t come clean in a bar.” Salem pulled on her beer. She really should order some food. Or slide her hand into Stone’s under the table. The more she drank, the more difficult it became to separate a good decision from a bad.

  Nina wouldn’t let it go. “My Quantico cyberterrorism professor couldn’t stop talking about you,” she said. “There must be more than you’re saying. If you can build a quantum-based codebreaking software before anyone else, doesn’t that mean that the United States wins the cyber war? We’d be light years ahead of all the other nations.”