“I’d applaud your sense of irony, Barney,” a voice said from off to his right, the traffic flowing over US Route 29 behind him masking the sound of approaching footsteps. “If the whole thing weren’t so unspeakably…macabre.”
He glanced over to see the figure of Roy Coftey standing there a few feet away, the senator’s face shadowed in the glare of passing headlights.
He was right, Kranemeyer thought, his eyes following Coftey’s down to where the dark waters of the Potomac lapped against the arches nearly a hundred feet below. It was from almost this very spot that CIA Deputy Director Michael Shapiro had plunged to his death scarce three months prior. Just before Christmas.
A suicide—that’s what the FBI had ruled his death. And so it had been, after a manner of speaking. A last honorable act from a man who had long since forfeited any claim to “honor.”
Kranemeyer pressed his lips together into a tight, bloodless line, remembering that night. All too well.
“What do you have for me, Roy?” he asked, shoving aside the memories with an effort. Bringing them both around to the reason for their meeting here this night.
“Here,” Coftey responded simply, handing over a massive sheaf of papers secured with a binder clip. “Thought you could use a look at what’s bearing down on us.”
“What’s this?”
“SB286, the Senate version of what is being colloquially referred to on the Hill as the ‘NSA bill’—although I’m sure some intern will be dragooned into coming up with a cute backronym for it before this is all over. All six hundred and seventy pages of it.”
Bureaucracy. Kranemeyer snorted, flipping through the first few pages in the dim light—his eyes scanning down the sheet.
“I’d need five days and as many lawyers just to understand what I’m reading,” he said finally. “Why don’t you give me the highlights?”
“Highlights?” The senator looked as if he might laugh, but there was no mirth in his eyes. “There are none, just a laundry list of goals from starry-eyed idealists who have spent their political careers communing with the good idea fairy and whom the voters have, in all their omnipotent wisdom, finally entrusted with the power to bring their vision to pass.”
He turned to look out across the river, his face solemn—his voice raised scarce high enough to be heard above the sound of the passing traffic. “They’re going to tear the Clandestine Service apart, Barney—dismantle the Special Activities Division—fold its capabilities back into the DoD. Force the Agency to come calling on JSOC for whatever they need in the direct action arena, Title 10 the whole of it. Just like the 9/11 Commission recommended back in ’04. Just like they’ve been doing with the drone program.”
Madness. Kranemeyer shook his head, his eyes flickering back toward the lights of the city. The capital of the nation he had defended for so very long. But Coftey wasn’t done.
“And they intend to extend the Fourth Amendment beyond the borders of the United States—to the ‘citizens of the world’, to use the President’s language. You want to spy on anyone, anywhere, for any reason—you’re going to need a FISA warrant. With the Select Committee granted far broader powers of oversight over the entire process.”
“Something like that, it’s going to virtually destroy SIGINT-enabled HUMINT,” Kranemeyer responded, struggling to keep the anger out of his voice. It was a rare Agency recruitment these days that wasn’t facilitated by—if not originated from—a targeting package developed by Fort Meade. Identifying potential assets. And it worked the other way too—or had.
The senator just nodded. “That’s not by accident, but by design. People on the Hill are frightened of the power wielded by an intelligence community working together in the way it has since the ‘walls’ came down post-9/11, even as limited as we both know that to have been. Rendition…enhanced interrogation, it’s all going to be a thing of the past. And they’re talking about pursuing retroactive prosecution against officials and officers who have been involved in such activities.”
Kranemeyer swore under his breath. “That’s not even constitutional.”
“If you think any of this is about the Constitution,” Coftey said, a grim, hard smile crossing his face, “you haven’t been paying attention.”
He paused, a clear note of regret entering his voice as he continued. “And there’s nothing I can do to stop it. Had a meeting with leadership—their message couldn’t have been more clear. If I oppose the bill, they’ll strip me of my chairmanship.”
The most unkindest cut of all, the DCS thought, turning toward his old friend. “Wouldn’t have thought that would stop you, Roy.”
“It wouldn’t,” Coftey replied sharply, meeting his gaze, “but my hands are tied. My influence as chairman is what enables me to mount an effective opposition. Without it…”
“How does the Vice President feel about all this?” Kranemeyer mused. Nearly twenty years the President’s senior, Kenneth Havern had himself been a part of the intelligence community back in the ‘80s, a CIA deputy director for two years before leaving that world to enter politics, becoming the governor of his home state of Ohio.
And when Norton had received the nomination, he had tapped Havern as VP in a gesture to the Republican establishment. A gesture that was, in retrospect, increasingly resembling a middle finger.
“Like his pitcher of warm piss just got emptied over his head. But his hands are tied. He can’t come out and publicly oppose the President. Not this early.”
Because the political costs are too high, Kranemeyer thought, the unspoken message all too clear. Politicians.
“The devil take all of them,” he snarled—tossing the bill over the bridge with a sudden movement. Hundreds of white sheets of paper fluttering in the darkness as they descended toward the river below.
His eyes flashed as he turned on Coftey, the senator standing there in shocked disbelief as Kranemeyer’s finger jabbed out toward his chest. “There has to be a way. Find it. Or else this is war.”
11:59 P.M.
The industrial park
North of Leeds
“I really don’t enjoy doing this, Hashim,” Harry said, his tone almost conversational as he stared across the table into the imam’s half-closed eyes. The man was barely strong enough to sit upright, moaning in agony as he leaned back into the metal of the chair. “It goes against everything I believe—violates every precept of my faith. But I do it all the same…why? Because there are men like you in this world. And no amount of peace and righteousness is going to stop you. So instead, there’s me.”
He took Rahman by the wrist and pulled his hand across the tabletop until it was resting palm-down on the metal, fingers spread out. He saw the man’s eyes flicker nervously to the hammer lying a few inches away, and nodded.
“The human hand is such a fragile thing, Hashim—surprising, really, when you think about it. The bones splinter so easily. And are so very difficult to repair.”
Sniveling sobs escaped Rahman’s lips as he began to tremble, trying to pull his hand back, but finding himself helpless in Harry’s grasp. “No, no, no…please. Don’t.”
“That’s not my decision, it’s yours. All this stops, the moment you give me the location of the Shaikh. You’ll be free to leave—go back to your family, your wife and baby girl.”
“I don’t know where he is.”
“So you’ve said,” Harry responded coldly, reaching for the hammer. “What do you say—start with the little finger and work our way in?”
“No, no,” Rahman whispered desperately, jerking against Harry’s grip. “Please, please, no. I don’t know where he is, I swear it before Allah…but I know where he is going to be.”
“You have my undivided attention.”
Chapter 24
3:03 A.M., April 3rd
The council estate
Seacroft, West Yorkshire
There. He felt the last of the tumblers click into place, the handle of the access door giving under his hand as Harry pu
shed outward, holding his breath for a moment. No alarm system. Or at least none he had been able to detect.
No doubt considered pointless, given the neighborhood.
He tucked the lockpicks back into their pouch and stepped out onto the roof of the tower block, taking in his surroundings for a moment—the dull roar of the ventilation systems filling his ears.
The cool night breeze struck him in the face as he set the case to one side, moving to the parapet of the roof, a chest-high balustrade made of the same stark concrete as the rest of the building.
He pulled out Flaharty’s NODs and began a scan of his surroundings, sweeping down to the street seventeen stories below, leading in from the bus station—back to the west and the other two, smaller, council blocks.
From the vantage point of the rooftop, he had a clear field of fire on either approach from the bus station, sweeping back along the roads into the council estate.
Fire. He lowered the binoculars and walked back from the parapet, stooping down to unzip the long soft case he had brought up with him, pushing it open.
His fingers finding the long, thick barrel of the Accuracy International L115A3, closing around the buttstock as he pulled—lifting the heavy rifle in both hands and unfolding the bipod, setting it aright.
He took the single magazine and the box of ammunition, leaning back against the parapet as he began to feed one 8.59mm round after another between its steel lips.
No rush. Once he got started, Rahman had been eager enough to talk. Telling the truth? Well, that had taken another two hours and three fingers—along with the realization that his release was only going to happen after the Shaikh was dead.
Or not. Harry shook his head, grimacing as he forced the final long brass cartridge into the mag, feeling it spring into place.
Over time, lying became as natural—as effortless—as breathing. You lied to enemies, to allies, to friends, family…to yourself.
Until you found yourself alone at the end of it all, standing on a windswept roof with a rifle in your hands. The end of all dreams.
It seemed fitting, somehow.
He removed the compact range-finder from the case and walked back to the edge of the roof, aiming it down at the entry roads as he calculated the range.
Wouldn’t be much over a hundred and fifty yards, still south of two hundred if the other road was used. Could have made that shot over open sights, let alone with the British army rifle’s high-powered optics.
He lowered the range-finder and looked out into the darkness, allowing himself the faintest shadow of a smile. His first in months.
If Rahman’s intel had been correct, Tarik Abdul Muhammad would come walking down that road at 0700 hours, to meet up with a small Islamist cell in the tower blocks behind him.
At 0701 hours, he would be dead. Blood for blood.
4:12 A.M.
The MI-5 surveillance van
Leeds
“I understand, sir,” Darren said as he listened to Marsh’s words, glancing over at his fellow intelligence officer, their faces lit by the glow of the electronics. The Home Secretary had given authorization for the apprehension of Tarik Abdullah Muhammad. Finally. This is it. “And your orders?”
“A pair of SO-15 Firearms Units are inbound on your location via helicopter from Battersea,” the DG responded over the phone. “Upon arrival, Scotland Yard will assume operational command of PERSEPHONE.”
And we fade into the backdrop, Darren thought. That was ever the way. Gathering the intel and turning it over to others for action to be taken. Five didn’t have powers of arrest. “How soon will SO-15 be with us?”
“Within the hour.”
4:28 A.M.
Seacroft Council Estate
West Yorkshire
The uniforms were laid out before him on the small table, the inner linings removed as he worked with needle and thread, securing the wires tight against the fabric—wires leading up to the crude pipe bombs now concealed within the front of the bulky uniform jacket.
There was little heat in the small flat—it only worked sporadically—but he was sweating. His brow beaded with perspiration as his fingers arranged the wiring, his eyes flickering back and forth between the jacket and the small tablet at his side, the wiring schematics he had downloaded weeks before displayed on its screen.
“Alhamdullilah,” the young man breathed, leaning back in exhaustion, feeling his fingers cramp from the tedious work. God be praised, the worst was over.
“You already up, bruv?” came a sleepy voice from the sofa, a form stirring beneath the blankets. “What time is it?”
“Time for us to be about our work,” Jawid reproved as his roommate emerged from the semi-darkness, rubbing his eyes. They were both students at Leeds Trinity, with Jawid in his second year of a journalism degree. Second and final, he thought grimly. “The Shaikh will be here in a few hours.”
A smile spread across his roommate’s face. “Tomorrow morning…we will wake in Paradise.”
“Insh’allah.”
4:42 A.M.
The MV Percy Phillips
Grimsby Harbor
Lincolnshire
No plan survives contact with the enemy. Hale shook his head, staring out over the water out past the quay toward the North Sea, Colville’s voice coming through his earpiece.
That was the reality of any war, but the more he listened to the publisher—the more it became apparent that he hadn’t grasped that. Civilians.
He cleared his throat. “Do we have an alternate plan to execute, should he be taken out of play?”
Only silence answered his question, in itself answer enough. He swore under his breath. “We’re in too far to turn back now—have to bloody well find a way to go through with this, come what may.”
“The Sword,” Colville said after another long moment. Clearly referencing their deception ploy with the Libyan sniper. “It might be time to offer a demonstration of his talents. Our friend on high…may have outlived his usefulness to us.”
Friend on high. Daniel Pearson, the nationalist MP. Their ally. Hale’s breath caught in his throat. “Are you serious?”
“If our piece is taken off the table,” Colville replied, referring to Tarik Abdul Muhammad, “yes. You’ve seen the interviews he’s been giving these last few days, as the violence has grown. He’s lost his nerve—and there’s no place for that in the world to come. He’s giving a speech in Birmingham this afternoon.”
The implication was all too clear. “If you wait to make this decision, it won’t give me the time I need to do a proper recce.”
They had never intended to play this card more than once. To do so twice—was an unlooked-for gamble.
And he could hear the indecision in Colville’s voice as he replied slowly, “Go to Birmingham, take up positions. I’ll keep you informed as this develops.”
5:05 A.M.
The flat
Leeds
It wasn’t the first time she had stayed with a client through the night—some men valued the physical contact afterward as much as the sex itself. And were prepared to pay for it.
That was the most important thing, of course, Sarah Russell thought—the sleeping man’s arm draped around her waist as they spooned, his breathing low and rhythmic. Such a contrast with the animalistic passion he had displayed only a few hours before.
Men…they were all the same. If she’d wanted love, she would have bought a dog.
She just laid there, wide awake but motionless, staring at the wall, feeling his breath against her neck. A part of her wanting to get up and leave—to run, to be anywhere but here.
Only too aware that the police outside were listening to every word. Every sound.
The clangor of mobile’s loud ringtone startled her, piercing the stillness of the room. She heard a muffled groan from her client, his hand sliding back across her bare stomach as he roused, sitting upright in the bed.
Stay still, her mind warned—something in her subcons
cious deadly afraid of this man knowing she was awake. Stay very still.
5:08 A.M.
The surveillance van
“Hold up a minute. He’s getting a call,” the British intelligence officer announced suddenly, motioning with his hand.
Darren reached for the headphones, slipping them on as he heard the jangle of a ringtone, followed by the Shaikh’s voice—sounding distant, muffled. Sod it.
This was the part of the spy business they never showed on the telly. Your bug was never placed quite where you needed it…God only knew where that thong had ended up.
His face twisted into a grimace of concentration, focusing on the words in an effort to make them out. The Shaikh was speaking Arabic, but he was painfully rusty and this was a different dialect than he remembered from Iraq. Mehreen, this is when we needed you.
But he couldn’t let himself think about that, not now. Not in the aftermath of her betrayal. Her collaboration with these people.
He grabbed a piece of paper and began scribbling down words, his face changing as he listened.
Another moment and he ripped off the headphones as the call ended. “What’s going on?”
Darren ignored his partner’s question, keying his mike to bring in Thames House. “What’s our status on SO-15?”
“On the ground at the heliport,” MacCallum’s voice responded, “They’ll be staging on you in fifteen.”
He shook his head. “Negative. We may want to hold back on the assault…our man just got a call from another cell, confirming a meet this morning. My Arabic’s not what it was, but I believe he was referencing an attack. Today.”
“I’ll brief the DG. Parker and the Americans are on their way up from Grosvenor Square—Washington requested a presence on-hand when the Shaikh was taken into custody.”
Roth’s face darkened as he remembered his confrontation with the CIA officer only the previous morning, after the abduction of Hashim Rahman. The arrogance of the man. He brushed it aside with an effort. There was no time for any of that. “Good,” he managed, “we’re going to need the manpower.”
1:23 A.M. Eastern Time
Embrace the Fire (Shadow Warriors Book 3) Page 49
