He could see the angry reply forming on her lips, but she seemed to suppress it with an effort. They had both been at this long enough to know he was right. The realities of the life they had chosen for themselves. And those around them.
No man is an island.
“So where does that leave us with Aydin?” Harry asked, breaking the awkward silence that hung between them after his statement.
“I wish I knew.” She shook her head, seeming to pull herself back together. Refocus on the objectives before them. “If I had Five’s resources, I’d at least have a starting point, but with MacCallum’s defection…even accessing them is impossible. Let alone diverting them.”
That would have been hard to do in any case, he thought. Not without drawing down the kind of attention none of them could well afford. “As it is,” she continued without waiting for him to comment, “I don’t know where to begin. I’m his estranged aunt. I don’t know his habits, his routines—where he spends his time. I don’t even know who his friends are.”
“But I do,” a voice announced from the doorway and Harry swung around to see the imam standing there. “There was a young man from the university—one of Rahman’s young wolves. A good friend of Aydin’s. I have been trying to think of his name. It was Nasir…I believe.”
“One who gives victory,” Harry mused. It was a fitting name for a shahid. “Do you know where he lives?”
“No,” Besimi grimaced, running a hand across his beard. “But I once visited his parents shortly after he came to the mosque, and I believe I could locate them again. Perhaps he is still with them.”
Harry stood, reaching for his jacket and pulling it on over the holstered pistol. “It’s enough.”
7:01 P.M.
A studio flat
Leeds
“You can sleep over there,” Nasir said, indicating the worn, faded couch with a gesture. “I have to make sure you get to that bus in the morning.”
Aydin nodded mutely, his eyes taking in his surroundings—there was scant room for even the most basic furniture in the small, dimly lit flat. Loud rap music came pounding through the thin walls from the neighboring flat, each lewd profanity only too distinct—reminding him of why he was here.
The corruption of the West, spreading across the earth like a stain. Contaminating all it touched. Even the faithful.
“The loo is back there—through the bedroom.” He glanced back at the college student, acknowledging his words with another nod. They had met the previous summer at the mosque, in one of Imam Rahman’s classes. Kindred spirits, despite the difference in age. Brothers.
Nasir smiled, as if sensing Aydin’s disquiet. “You should be proud, bruv,” he said, coming over and drawing the teenager into an embrace. “The Shaikh is placing a lot of faith in you. Remember the words of the Prophet, right? ‘A single endeavor in God’s Cause is better than the world and whatever is in it.’”
And that was all he was to have. A single endeavor. He smiled with an effort, withdrawing from Nasir’s embrace. “Alhamdullilah,” he murmured. Praise be to God.
Turning away, he pulled the explosive vest from within the duffel bag he carried, laying it on the low table before the couch. Where it would be easy to put on when he dressed in the morning.
He ran his hand gently over the front of the vest as the music’s insistent beat continued to pulsate through the walls around him, feeling its bulk—the hundreds of ball bearings embedded in a sheet of plastic explosive beneath the fabric.
It was time to follow the green birds…
9:25 P.M.
A pub
Leeds
“The wedding gift has arrived.” Tarik Abdul Muhammad read the message twice before sending a message of acknowledgment. The boy was now safely under wraps until the moment he boarded the 6:40 AM bus to London.
A bus filled with businessmen headed for the city. For London’s bustling Victoria Station.
Once Aydin had boarded that bus, it would be too late for anyone to stop him. Too late for him to stop himself, the Shaikh thought, eyeing the one unused number filed under Contacts.
The number which would detonate the vest.
He closed the phone and tucked it into the pocket of his jeans, catching the eye of a young British woman sitting on a stool by the bar, her skirt riding perilously high on smooth, bare legs. Blonde hair falling over her shoulders.
She had been there for nearly an hour, clearly working. He met her bold gaze for a long moment, then looked away, feeling the ache keenly. It had been three long weeks since he had been with a woman—the teenage daughter of one of the families with whom he had sought refuge.
A beautiful girl, if completely inexperienced. Her innocence so very…tempting. He smiled at the memory.
“Having a good night, luv?” a feminine voice asked from above him and he looked up to see the woman from the bar slide into the booth across from him. A challenge dancing in her eyes.
So bold. He reached forward across the table, his decision made in that moment—taking her hand in his, his eyes searching her face. “Oh, yes.”
10:39 P.M.
Allerton Bywater, West Yorkshire
This was England, Harry thought, scanning the quiet village street as he sat behind the wheel of the darkened Audi. The way all the tourist websites described it.
Rows of modest brick dwellings, gated courtyards facing the street. The tranquil waters of the Aire, wending its way through the village only a few hundred meters from his position.
They had been inside for over an hour, he realized, checking first his watch and then the burner phone. Nothing from Mehreen.
You stayed alive in the field by knowing when to press and when to hold back. The art of fieldcraft.
She had persuaded him to stay outside—gambling that a known face and a woman from the community might succeed where the mere presence of an American could doom them to failure.
It was the voice of experience…she knew her people. As did he. There was nothing more sacrosanct in the Middle East than a man’s home.
The phone buzzed in his hand and he glanced down to see an incoming call glowing on the screen. It wasn’t Mehreen. “Yes?” he asked, keeping his eyes on the house.
“We need to meet,” came the abrupt response. No greeting, and no identification, although neither was necessary. Flaharty. “I’m on the coast.”
He thought about asking which coast, but decided it didn’t make a difference. Either coast was hours away.
“It will have to wait—I’m in the middle of something.”
“Aren’t we all?” came the Irishman’s caustic response. “Heard anything from your soldier boy?”
Paul Gordon. “That’s a negative.” It wasn’t surprising—whatever Hale was planning, he was clearly playing it all very close to the vest. It would take time for the former Para to fully gain his confidence, even longer for him to pass the word along.
Developing assets wasn’t something you expected to pay off within hours. Not in the real world.
“When Hale contacted me the first time, he did so through a cut-out. I’ve had a…talk with them.”
“And?” Harry asked, his face impassive. He knew only too well what that “talk” might have consisted of, wondered for a brief moment if the cut-out had survived. The Provos had been one of the most brutal Republican groups in the years of The Troubles, and Flaharty had learned his craft well.
“And they gave me a lead on Hale. He’s tied to a feeder that’s lying at anchor in the port of Grimsby. The MV Percy Phillips.”
“What’s his connection?”
“He didn’t know,” Flaharty responded, an ominous certainty in his tone. “But it’s worth looking into.”
“I’ll meet you in Grimsby come morning.”
“No. We need to do this tonight. Bugger whatever else you’re up to, Harry, I stuck my bleedin’ neck out for you.”
Harry shook his head in the darkness. Never allow an asset to play you—the mome
nt you let that happen, you were dead. It was a delicate line.
“That was about you extricating yourself from a very bad situation.” A situation the Irishman had gotten himself into, he didn’t add. He had to have known just how hazardous dealing with those who sought to bring weapons into the UK could be—hazards he was sure had been reflected in Flaharty’s price.
“Sure an’ now it’s about revenge,” came the response. He wasn’t giving an inch. “They butchered my lads and they’ve come after me. All I need to know is if you’ll be there.”
“Not tonight. There’s an attack imminent.” He hadn’t voiced it to Mehreen, but if Aydin was involved with one of the Shaikh’s cells, there was only one reason they would have pulled him from his family, and it was one they both knew. It was coming soon.
“So?” Flaharty challenged. “They’ve been hunting me and mine for decades—do you honestly think I care? I want Hale.”
“And we’ll both get him. In good time.” Movement out of the corner of his eye and he glanced over to see Mehreen coming out the front door of the house. “I have to go.”
Flaharty started to speak, but Harry cut him off, closing the phone without another word. There was no right call…he needed both Flaharty and Mehreen. And he bid fair to lose one of them no matter what decision he made.
It was a choice you didn’t get to make twice.
“What do we have?” he asked Mehreen as she slid into the passenger seat of the Audi, the back door opening to admit Ismail Besimi.
“An address for Nasir’s flat.”
11:06 P.M.
Thames House
London
He should have gone home two hours before, but no one at Thames House had been keeping regular hours for the last week. And it wasn’t as though he had anyone waiting for him.
“Come on,” MacCallum whispered, rubbing his forehead as he sifted through another series of images from Westminster Station—the security cameras overlooking the deep platform, the escalators from the surface. No sign of her.
He checked the timestamps once more—the cameras had clearly captured Mehreen’s descent into the station. Then nothing.
She had boarded no trains, that was clear enough. She hadn’t gone home. And she had disappeared off the grid only fifty minutes after entering the station.
The only thing that remained to be answered was where. “Working late?” He glanced up to see Norris standing there, a question written in the analyst’s eyes.
“Earlier this evening,” MacCallum said, minimizing the open windows with the surveillance feeds before Norris could see them, “North Yorkshire Special Branch took into custody five men suspected of organizing the riots in Leeds. All of them Moroccans. I need to get their names, photos off to the DGSE before I leave. See if they recognize any kunyas.”
When it came to Morocco, they were heavily dependent on the French—and whatever they could pick up from M.I.-6’s people on Gibraltar.
Sometimes it was easier to get information from the French.
A kunya was the component of an Arabic name meant to denote the name of a man’s eldest child, but fictitious kunyas had crept into use by Arab terrorists as far back as Yasser Arafat.
“Need any help with them?” Norris asked, shrugging the sling of the messenger bag off his shoulder.
The section chief shook his head. “No, almost got it wrapped up. Just a couple more things to run.”
He waited until Norris had disappeared through the doors of the Centre before he brought the feeds back up, guided by a sudden impulse as he shifted his focus to the cameras on the street outside Westminster.
A sea of faces in the illumination of the streetlights. And then…he paused the feed, rewinding it a few seconds. There.
Mehreen Crawford’s face, staring up into the very eye of the CCTV camera. He checked the logs once more and then the timestamp on the video. The picture had been taken ninety seconds before her phone went off-line.
“Got you…”
12:08 A.M., April 1st
A hotel
Leeds, North Yorkshire
Tarik Abdul Muhammad rolled over onto his back, letting out a contented sigh as he leaned into the pillows.
Sated, that was the word for it, he thought—hearing the water of the shower come on from within the suite’s small bathroom. The blonde had been good, perhaps even more skilled than the Russian whore he had enjoyed in Vegas the night he had met with Valentin Andropov.
The bodies of women…the taste of fine wine—pleasures he permitted himself. Were they sins? Perhaps, but he had confidence that they would count as nothing when the deeds of his life were weighed at the end of time.
Grains of sand in the balances.
Nothing to be compared with the work he had done to advance the cause of God. The holy jihad.
He could be allowed a few sins.
12:24 A.M.
The Seacroft council estates
Leeds
“What do you think?”
Harry didn’t answer for a long moment, continuing to scan the face of the tower block with the NODs Flaharty had loaned him. It wasn’t good.
“I think we only get one chance at this,” he replied slowly. And not a good chance, at that. To do this right, he would have needed a tactical team—his team, preferably.
Mehreen was a good intel officer, but she wasn’t an assaulter. Didn’t even have the benefit of the minimal firearms training CIA case officers received. This would have been a crapshoot even with Flaharty.
“What’s the demographic makeup of the council estates like?” he asked, the building showing up as a dark green in the view of the night-vision. Lights from a few of the flats, glowing bright splotches that distorted his view.
“Young, poor. Heavily Asian.” He winced. Hostile territory, possibly gang turf—assuming nothing more formidable. That meant they were going to need to get out quickly once they had secured Aydin.
“Nasir al-Kutobi’s flat,” he began, “where is it located in the tower block, precisely?”
“The top floor.”
He swept the NODs from the bottom of the tower block to the roof. Ten stories up.
This just kept getting better.
12:37 A.M.
The studio flat
Seacroft council estates
He should have been sleeping—he knew that. He would need all his strength for the morning. Aydin rolled over onto his side, eyes wide open as he squirmed deeper into the cushions of the couch—struggling to get comfortable to rest.
He had never felt more alert in his life, every fiber of his body seeming to hum as if with electricity, with excitement.
They had stayed up late, making a video to be released over the Internet once he had given his life—the black flag of the Prophet unfurled across one wall of the flat, an index finger raised to the camera in recognition of the tawhid, the belief in the singularity of God. And it was only as he had stared into the unblinking electronic eye of Nasir’s small video camera that it had hit him…this was real.
He had watched so many such videos over the last year, read so many testaments of faith.
And now, it was to be his turn. Bringing the war home to those who had raped the house of Islam. The justice of God upon the kaffir.
He reached over the suicide vest for his phone, briefly checking the glowing screen in the darkness. Only a few more hours.
Insh’allah.
12:49 A.M.
Almost there. Harry rounded the landing of the dimly-lit stairwell and took the final remaining flight of stairs two at a time—his hand resting on the butt of the suppressed pistol within his coat.
The pungent smell of khat permeated the building, evoking memories of his time overseas. The mild narcotic was to the natives of the Middle East what coffee was to Americans—a well-nigh ubiquitous stimulant.
They had passed a group of young Asian men on the landing two stories below—their cheeks bulging with the leaves, regarding them with susp
icion as they moved toward the next floor.
“Are you ready for this?” he asked, turning to Mehreen as he paused just within the door leading out of the stairwell.
Once they were out there, they were committed. No way back. She nodded quickly, not looking him in the eye, and Harry reached out, putting his left hand on her shoulder.
“You know that I will do whatever is within my power to ensure Aydin’s safety,” he said, his voice low and urgent, “but there is no way for me to guarantee it.”
She nodded her understanding, her face drawn and pale in the faint light, and he went on, “Stay behind me when we go in—and do not fire unless you’re forced to.”
His Sig was the only suppressed weapon they had—the moment she fired the HK, their advantage of surprise was going to go straight out the window.
And depending upon the reaction of the tower block’s residents, they might go out the window right along with it.
He looked past her to the imam, who had paused on the steps just below them to catch his breath. “I’m going to need you to remain in the hall.”
12:51 A.M.
Thames House
London
There had been no signs of Mehreen on any of the other cameras beyond the station. Nothing that he could confirm was her.
It was as if she had vanished into the darkness of the London night, like the trained spy she was. Like the spy they had trained her to be. And only hours before Ismail Besimi had vanished as well.
MacCallum shook his head. It was the moment any intelligence officer dreaded—when he found himself facing off against one of his own. A friend.
And so much that remained to be answered. How could she have known?
But there was no more to be done tonight. He stood, gathering his coat and briefcase before checking once more to make sure his workstation was closed down and secure—his evening’s work under wraps.
He had nearly made it to the keycard-access doors that sealed off the operations centre from the rest of Thames House when he heard a man’s voice calling his name.
“Yes?” he asked, looking back to see an analyst hurrying after him.
“We just got this in from North Yorkshire,” the man said, handing him a grainy print-out of a photo. “They picked up the Audi on traffic cameras entering the city an hour ago.”
Embrace the Fire (Shadow Warriors Book 3) Page 41
