“The essence of what was being said, yes,” she replied, gesturing to the print-out before her. She had been awake even before the call, working on Nichols’ plate number. A dead end, as she had suspected from the beginning. Just a stolen car, nothing on the station’s CCTV to support Nichols’ claim of connection to the Shaikh.
She cleared her throat. “It’s a rough translation—the best I could do in the time I’ve had. There are nuances to the Arabic…”
“Let’s have it.”
“They kept the call short, under two minutes. Just the normal greetings at first, and then Tarik tells him, ‘The Day of Judgment is approaching.’ Rahman responds, something in an undertone that isn’t picked up, then demands to know where he has been. His tone…” She paused, her brow furrowing. “I don’t know quite how to describe it. It’s very accusatory, almost challenging his loyalty—as if Tarik has deserted them. That’s certainly the way he takes it, responding, ‘War can never frighten me to abandon the truth. I am not afraid of death. I will live for Islam and I will die for Islam.’”
Norris snorted, shaking his head. “And the religion of peace strikes again.”
That earned him a sharp look from Darren. “Let’s keep our focus, people. What is he trying to say, Mehreen?”
“It’s actually a quote,” she replied. “It’s taken from the response of Ali ibn Abi Talib, the fourth of the ‘rightly guided’ caliphs, to the defiance of the rebel Muawiyah back in the seventh century.”
“But what does he mean by using it?”
Mehreen tapped her pen against the sheet. “I think it’s an affirmation. Of his loyalty—of his belief that God has chosen him to lead the fight against the West.”
The look on Norris’ face betrayed his skepticism. “And the ‘Day of Judgment’?”
“Theologically, it’s a common reference to the apocalypse used by the Prophet in the hadiths and the Qur’an.”
Thomas Parker cleared his throat and eyes swiveled toward the American. “Sifting back through signals traffic out of Pakistan from before the Vegas attacks, the NSA picked up several references to a coming ‘Day of Judgment.’ Or ‘Day of Reckoning,’ as I believe their translation had it.”
“Then an attack is coming,” Darren murmured, his face grim. “It’s only a question of how soon.”
Mehreen nodded. “I concur. And it’s an interpretation supported by references which are common among jihadists on the Internet. But coming from someone with the alleged background of Tarik Abdul Muhammad…”
The inference was clear to all. This was something to be taken seriously.
“Time to get to work, people,” Darren announced, closing his folder of notes as a signal that the conference was over. “I’ll run this up the flagpole to Thames House and see if we can secure additional resources.”
He motioned for Mehreen and Simon to remain behind as the room emptied, waiting until the door had closed behind the American. “The meet is all set for tonight, correct?”
“It is,” Mehreen replied. “I’ve arranged to meet him at the restaurant at 1900 hours.”
“Good.” The concern was clearly visible in Darren’s eyes. “With these developments, Besimi’s intel is going to be more critical than ever.”
9:47 A.M.
A warehouse
Blackpool, England
“Are you out of your bleedin’ mind? Bringin’ him here?”
Flaharty pushed his glasses up on his nose. “Don’t fret yourself, Davey. I know what I’m doing, as ever.”
From the dark look on the big man’s face, Flaharty knew he was unconvinced. It was a look he knew all too well—and Malone’s skepticism had saved them both more than once over the years. Not this time.
He glanced down the length of the warehouse, eyeing Nichols’ figure among the crates. “He’s not a man I want as an enemy.”
Malone snorted, unzipping his jacket to reveal his FNX-45 in its shoulder holster. “That’s easily solved.”
“Not as easily as you might think,” Flaharty warned, placing a hand on the arm of his lieutenant. “And if half of what he has said is true, having him around could be useful in cleaning up the mess.”
“And if it isn’t?”
A shadow passed across the bombmaker’s face. “Then things will have to be…sorted.”
10:49 A.M. Eastern Time
The National Mall
Washington, D.C.
International relations. Kranemeyer grimaced, tucking his hands into the pockets of his windbreaker as he gazed up at the towering columns of the World War II memorial standing stark in the light of the morning sun. A reminder of a simpler time—a better world.
The niceties of diplomacy were not his forte…nor his job under ideal circumstances.
The circumstances of the last few months had been anything but ideal.
“Men everywhere walk upright in the sunlight,” the man at his side intoned in heavily accented English, reading MacArthur’s words chiseled into the granite. “The entire world is quietly at peace.”
He paused, dark eyes hidden behind an expensive pair of Raybans as he glanced at Kranemeyer. “And how long did that peace last?”
“It never began, your highness,” Kranemeyer responded, turning to look the Saudi intelligence chief in the eye. The man was dressed in Western clothes, as were his bodyguards. Nothing that would attract attention here on the Mall in the mid-morning, despite their relative solitude.
Aside from a few joggers, the Mall was largely deserted. Most public places had been in the months since 12/24, as the media had already started calling the Vegas attacks.
On the other hand, the prince’s bespoke suit likely cost as much as Kranemeyer earned in a year, the DCS thought wryly. Just another reminder that the Kingdom had more money than it knew what to do with. Money for fine suits, fast cars, exotic women…and the widows of the martyrs. In all the years he’d dealt with Prince Badr, there had never been a suggestion that he was tied to the jihadists—but when it came to the House of Saud, certitude was an impossibility.
“That,” Kranemeyer said, gesturing toward the inscription, “well, that was just flowery language from a general who knew better in his own heart.”
He turned away from the monument, beckoning for the prince to follow him. “Because any old soldier knows that war never ends. Walk with me.”
It wasn’t a request.
“You know why I have come to Washington, Mr. Kranemeyer,” Prince Badr announced suddenly as they began to walk across the well of the memorial toward the Reflecting Pool, his bodyguards fanned out behind them.
Of course he did—they both did, although they had been carefully avoiding the subject for the past three hours. It was the Arab way…and Kranemeyer had spent enough time in the Middle East to know that there was no hurrying it. No more than one could hurry the onset of spring.
“You wished to inquire further regarding the unfortunate death of Prince Yusuf ibn Talib al-Harbi, I believe?” Kranemeyer asked, glancing keenly at his counterpart.
“Indeed.”
“Then why are you talking to me, your highness? I believe the police of Monaco might be able to give you more answers than I.”
The prince inclined his head, his expression unreadable. “If I shared your belief, I would be in Monaco.”
“To the best of my knowledge,” Kranemeyer began, measuring his words carefully as he walked, “the prince died of natural causes.”
The Saudi intelligence chief stopped stock-still, surprise washing across his swarthy face as he stared at Kranemeyer. “The prince,” he began—almost spitting the words out, “was shot twice between the eyes.”
The DCS shrugged. “Like I said…natural causes.”
4:01 P.M. Greenwich Mean Time
The MI-5 Safehouse
Leeds
It had been years since she’d worn the hijab, Mehreen thought, looking down at the square piece of black fabric on the counter before her. Her parents would never have b
een known as fundamentalists, but growing up there had been the cultural pressures and she had begun to cover her hair in her early teens.
Then had come their flight to the UK, and everything once thought certain had been turned upside down. Lives spilled out as they fled the growing influence of the Taliban—the darkness of those who permitted no variance of conscience in the worship of God.
A darkness that had now spread itself over Britain. The island her parents had called “sanctuary.”
“I want you to wear a wire,” Darren announced, appearing in the doorway just as she finished adjusting the hijab around her face, glancing at her reflection in the mirror. So many years. Nick would never have heard of her covering her hair, but so much had died with him. And this was necessary.
“No,” she replied firmly, meeting his eyes in the mirror. It wasn’t the image of submission that the hijab had been meant to convey. The world she had left behind.
“That wasn’t a suggestion.”
“I knew it wasn’t, and my answer is still ‘no.’ My recruitment of Besimi was built upon trust—mutual trust. The knowledge that he could speak freely before me and not have his words parsed and re-interpreted by some chair-warming boffin in London.”
There was something small in his hand. “I had MacCallum send this up from Thames House. He’ll never know you’re wearing it.”
She looked over at him. “I’ll know. Which means he will as well. Look, Darren…Besimi was my asset. If you’re going to ask me to run him again, we’re going to do it my way. Otherwise, you can roll the dice and send in your own officer.”
11:03 A.M. Eastern Time
The National Mall
Washington, D.C.
“So you’re telling me that you had him killed?” Prince Badr asked, seeming to recover himself as they stood there, looking out across the Reflecting Pool toward the Lincoln Memorial.
Kranemeyer shook his head, only too aware that he was treading on dangerous ground. “Not at all…only that there is a certain level of risk that must be accepted when one makes the decision to finance terrorism. I trust you can appreciate the distinction?”
“Mr. Kranemeyer,” the prince began, removing his shades for the first time so that Kranemeyer could see his eyes. The eyes of the desert—dark. Enigmatic. “The stance of the Kingdom against terrorism could not be more unequivocal, as we have ourselves been victim. We stand with the West in solidarity against religious extremism of all kinds.”
“The families of our dead appreciate your empathy,” the DCS replied, his words biting, “but when was the last time your ‘unequivocal stance’ ended in you beheading a jihadist in Deerah Square?”
“The Kingdom has,” Prince Badr paused, “…begun to move away from public beheadings. We prefer the firing squad.”
Welcome to the eighteenth century, Kranemeyer thought, but he didn’t voice the sentiment. There was only so far he could go in sending this message. “May I speak freely, your highness?”
There was no change in the eyes of the Saudi. “I believe you have been so speaking.”
“There’s an old saying—I believe it came to this country from Europe. ‘If every man swept his own doorstep, the whole world would be clean.’ What I am saying is that if the Kingdom does not sweep its own doorstep, it will be swept for them. Swept clean.”
4:49 P.M. Greenwich Mean Time
The warehouse
Blackpool, England
There was a beauty to Semtex, Harry thought, molding the plastic explosive between his fingers as Flaharty looked on.
“Well, will it actually work?” the arms dealer asked, glancing at his watch. They were on the clock.
Harry ran his thumb across the top of the “brick”, smoothing out the imperfections until even the closest inspection would have revealed nothing out of the ordinary. “Patience…we’ll know in a moment.”
“Patience?” Flaharty swore under his breath. “Patience, boyo, is me not putting a bullet in you for being a royal pain in the arse.”
He picked up his phone, looking back toward the flatbed trucks, the crates Flaharty’s men were loading aboard them. Pound upon pound of Semtex—along with Heckler & Koch assault rifles, old G3s that had been phased out by European militaries in the years before. They were military surplus now, being sold off to a score of little countries in the developing world. Still dangerous in the right hands—or the wrong ones.
And somehow Flaharty had diverted several hundred of them here.
It was enough weapons and ammunition to start a war. Letting such a shipment reach its buyers, it would have been categorized as “unacceptable risk” back in his days with the Agency.
Now…well, now nothing seemed “unacceptable” to him. Not any more. Not if it meant once again locating Carol’s killer. Stopping him.
“Something you said last night,” he began, hesitating ever so slightly. “That I couldn’t reach out to Langley—what did you mean?”
The Irishman gazed keenly at him. “I mean you’re out, Harry. I suspected it from the first, but I know now. The account of mine you transferred your payment into? Bloody frozen within twenty-four hours. Agency fingerprints all over the place, poking into my business. Costing me money.”
The Korsakov accounts, Harry thought, struggling to conceal his surprise. They were flagged. They had to have been. He could have cursed himself for not thinking of it sooner. For taking the chance.
“There’s blood in the water,” Flaharty continued, “and I’m not doing myself any favors swimming nearby. But we’re both low on options right now, aren’t we?”
True enough. His phone powered on with a low buzz and he loaded the app, gazing intently at the screen as the tracking beacon came on-line.
There. He managed a grim smile as he turned the screen toward Flaharty. “The tracker’s live—we’re in play.”
5:12 P.M.
Thames House
London
“Do we have a name?” Alec MacCallum demanded, glancing over his shoulder back at one of his analysts.
“Nothing yet—the mobile was purchased as part of a group plan. Hard to pin down exactly who is using it.”
“Well, get on it. We need to know who he was talking to.” MacCallum looked up to see the director-general standing in the doorway of the operations centre.
“My office,” Julian Marsh instructed, turning back without another word.
MacCallum shook his head for a moment, setting down a stack of folders on the nearest workstation before turning to follow the DG. Marsh closed the glass door firmly behind him as he entered, transfixing him with a shrewd glance. “I just came from a meeting with the Home Secretary about PERSEPHONE. She was…unamused. Is there something more I should know?”
“There is.” The head of analysis took a deep breath. “Rahman wasn’t the only person Tarik Abdul Muhammad called. He placed five other phone calls over the same thirty-minute window.”
“And?” Marsh asked.
“We’re working as rapidly as possible to determine the recipients and obtain transcripts of the calls.”
The DG nodded. They both knew how this went—you could only move so fast. Some days, it just wasn’t fast enough. Don’t let it be this day.
“Put more people on it—anyone you can spare,” Marsh responded, moving behind his desk and taking his seat. “Has there been any more progress in determining who contacted Tarik in City Station two days ago?”
“No, there hasn’t. Even being able to narrow it down by the timestamps and likely keywords, there were thousands of texts. GCHQ Cheltenham has put their people on it—it’s only a matter of time.”
“And that,” the old spook said, leaning forward on his desk, his fingers tented as if in prayer, “is something we have not a great deal of. The powers that be are in motion.”
6:29 P.M.
Sheffield, England
Paul Gordon knew which building it was—Hale’s instructions had been quite explicit, but it seemed if the for
mer Para stood on the sidewalk forever staring across the street, his rucksack thrown over his shoulder.
Just looking on.
All those years, all the lives lost. We’re fighting them over there so that we don’t have to fight them here. That had been the bloody mantra of the politicians, every sodding one of them that had urged Britain to war.
And while his brothers had been bleeding and dying in Iraq, those same politicians had been busy giving away their jobs—their homes. Their birthright, usurped by immigrants and asylum seekers.
The same animals that had raped Alice.
Hot tears sprang to his eyes at the thought of her and he wiped them away with the back of a rough hand, moving quickly across the street. There was work to be done.
6:43 P.M.
A council tower
London
It seemed as if he had been waiting for this day all his life, the young man thought—staring into the broken mirror that hung over the washbasin.
It had been that way for the two years he had lived there since he had first started attending the university—maybe longer. Nothing got repaired in the council flats these days…the money simply wasn’t there.
Or so they said. Perhaps it was just another example of the way the West chose to oppress the faithful. Another reality of the house of war. Money intended to help the impoverished, diverted into the pockets of the Jew.
As ever.
He laid aside the scissors, splashing water over his face, his now close-cropped beard.
A noise, footfalls in the corridor outside and he started, his body tense. Rigid, his gaze stealing back toward the small bed, the long knife—more of a machete, really—concealed beneath the mattress.
Another moment, and the footsteps moved on by. Calm down, he told himself, reaching for the razor at the side of the washbasin. The hour was coming. It was time to follow the green birds.
Insh’allah.
6:56 P.M.
The warehouse
Blackpool, England
“Flaharty says you’re to ride with him in the lead SUV,” Malone announced, a Remington shotgun held loosely in one hand as he came up to Harry.
Embrace the Fire (Shadow Warriors Book 3) Page 17
