“We both get what we want,” Harry retorted, his face hardening, “revenge. You for the lives of your men. And I for the death of the woman I loved.”
There was a harsh laugh from the other end of the line. “And your friend the widow Crawford? What about her? There’s no way this ends with all of us getting what we want, boyo.”
And there it was.
“You just leave that to me.” He took a deep breath, glancing down the street toward the abandoned Security Service safehouse where she had requested the meet. “I’ve known Mehreen for a very long time. I can handle her.”
It was hard for him to even know which of them he was lying to.
The door of the safehouse was unlocked, just as Harry had expected it to be—the knob giving beneath his hand with a moan of protest, the entry hall dark as he entered.
Light came from a doorway off to one side near the end of the hall, its rays illuminating the thick dust cloaking the bannister of the stairs to his right.
Safehouses were ever the same, all over the world. Desolate and sterile, devoid of warmth. The hollow shells of lies, just like the people who used them.
Lies, like the one he had just told Flaharty. Telling the man what he needed to hear, what he needed him to believe, more importantly.
The Irishman was in—on his way to retrieve the weapons Harry had requested from a cache…somewhere. That didn’t matter.
What mattered was that he believed he would be protected at the end of all this. Safe. When nothing could be further from the truth.
Harry stepped through the open doorway and into the light, finding himself in the kitchen. Glancing over to see Mehreen sitting at the table halfway across the room, just sitting there. Looking straight at him. The whistle of the teapot on the stove the only sound breaking the silence.
There was something wrong…he could see it in her eyes, he could feel it, a sixth sense warning him of danger. He took another step into the room, clearing his throat. “Mehreen?”
He sensed the presence there even before he heard the footstep against the floorboards behind him—turning on heel to find himself looking down the barrel of a Sig-Sauer, nothing but steely resolution in the eyes of the black man holding it. He was shorter than Harry by four or five inches, his head shaved clean. His bearing unmistakably that of a soldier.
“Keep your hands where I can see them, Nichols,” the stranger instructed, the pistol’s cold, dark muzzle never wavering. “No sudden moves.”
4:48 P.M.
Thames House
London
“Sir.” Julian Marsh looked up to see Alec MacCallum standing there in the doorway of his office, a strained look on the section chief’s face. “We may have a problem.”
“If there proves to be only one,” Marsh observed, a biting sarcasm in his tone, “it will be a delightful change of pace. Spit it out, man.”
“Word just came in. The CIA director has landed.”
“David Lay is here?” The DG shook his head incredulously. “In London?”
“Came into Heathrow on a private business jet an hour ago—we picked him up on CCTV. I would assume he’s on his way to the embassy even as we speak.”
“That didn’t take long at all,” Marsh observed, his face twisting into a grimace. They had informed the American ambassador of the team’s detainment scarce two hours before.
He hadn’t expected Lay to show up in person. “There’s no other reason he could be here, is there?” he asked, glancing up suddenly.
“None that we are aware of. It wasn’t a scheduled visit.”
Bugger-all. Well, there was no help for it now. Time to do what must needs be done.
“Reach out to Grosvenor Square on my behalf,” Marsh began slowly, “and arrange a meet. And make it clear to Lay…this isn’t a request.”
4:52 P.M.
The safehouse
Leeds, North Yorkshire
“Why are we spying on our allies?” Harry had once seen a TV news anchor ask in the wake of the Snowden leaks, self-righteously ignorant outrage burning from her eyes as she stared into the camera.
His own mind supplying what was, to him, an only too obvious answer: “To make sure they’re still our allies.”
Alliances…nothing more than shifting sands in the world of the spy. And salvation belonged to the man who stayed one step ahead of the quicksand. Moved his feet in time.
Like he had just failed to do, he realized, keeping his hands away from his sides as he glanced back at Mehreen.
Sold out. There was an irony there—in that only an ally could betray you. Only a friend get close enough to put a knife between your ribs.
“Your friend?” he asked, indicating the armed man with a small gesture. “I don’t believe we’ve met.”
She didn’t meet his eyes. “Darren Roth. He’s with the Security Services. Formerly of Her Majesty’s Royal Marine Commando, Special Boat Service.”
SBS. That told him what he was working with—gave him his odds of winning if this went completely pear-shaped.
Slim to none.
“Thames House.” He shook his head, gazing reproachfully over at her. “So that’s what this was about, Mehr. Telling me you were willing to help me get the Shaikh, to bring him down before he could launch his attack…all of it just a game, a ruse to get me here. Turn me over to Five—get yourself back on the inside.”
“Enough,” she whispered, nearly spitting out the words as she rose from her seat. “This has never been about me. And you’ve been lying to me since the very beginning.”
His eyes shifted from Mehreen to Roth and back again, his mind racing. Searching for a way out. Finding none.
The accusation was true enough, but what did she know? “I have no idea what you mean.”
“Come off it,” Darren Roth ordered, his weapon still leveled as he stared Harry down. “All the lies, all the deception. It ends here. Now. No point to it anymore—your team has already been taken into custody.”
“My team?” Harry asked, shaking his head in confusion. And then it hit him.
4:57 P.M.
The train station
Midlands
Even now, hours later, Tarik could still feel the panic-fueled adrenaline coursing through his veins as he stepped from the coach onto the platform—glancing about him at his fellow passengers.
It reminded him of the first time he had been shot at, coming under fire during the ambush of an American infantry platoon in the mountains of Afghanistan.
Those first moments of sheer, unadulterated terror when the rounds began flying.
Had the British publisher sold him out to Five? He thought, moving through the station toward the entrance. His eyes catching sight of a bus for Northamptonshire just starting to fill up on the street without.
Had this all been a set-up from the very beginning, some ploy of theirs to trick him? To lure him into exposing his people?
When he closed his eyes, he could still see the way Colville had looked at him that night of their first meeting—the unadulterated hatred burning from the Englishman’s eyes.
He had never dreamed of trusting the man, but he had thought their meeting might well have been ordained of Allah.
A clear pathway laid out before him, down which the faithful could advance.
And now everything which had then seemed so clear was clouded once more. Had he misjudged God’s will? Mistaken it for his own plans?
It felt as if he was standing on the brink of a precipice…so close to launching an even more devastating blow against the West than he had struck in Vegas. And yet so uncertain.
He boarded the bus, still lost in thought as he took a seat toward the back—closing his eyes as he leaned into the cushions, the bulk of the Beretta within his light jacket pressing against his ribs. The time had come to confront Colville. To get at the truth.
Then, and only then could they proceed with the attack. To bring the justice of Allah to one who had so long defied him.
> “This seat taken?” A strangely familiar voice asked and he looked up just as Colville’s second-in-command—the British soldier—took the seat beside him. His eyes boring into Tarik’s own for a brief second.
Ya Allah. He could feel his heart pounding against his chest—just as it had when the crack of the sniper’s bullet had split the air past his head in Leeds only hours before.
5:00 P.M.
The safehouse
Leeds, West Yorkshire
“Listen to me, Mehr,” Harry began earnestly, looking her in the eye. “Think about it. If I still had the Agency’s backing when I came to the UK—if I had a support network in place inside the surveillance operation—why would I have shown up on your doorstep? Asked for your help in tracking down the Shaikh?”
Everything—everything depended on bringing her over. On her believing the truth. Because that’s what this was. But when you made for yourself a life of lies…the day came, sooner or later, that even the truth wasn’t enough.
And you found yourself against the wall, with no way out.
“I don’t know,” she replied, shaking her head as she seemed to consider his words. “Because I don’t know you. I don’t know who you are anymore, Harry—it’s not like you trust anyone. Did you suspect that the Security Services would keep the Agency team in the dark, that they wouldn’t have the access you needed? Did you just need someone to take the fall when you took out Tarik? Was it because using Agency assets was too much of a risk?”
“Too much of a risk?” She recoiled as he took a step toward her, ignoring Roth’s weapon—his eyes flashing. “As if contacting a foreign intelligence officer wasn’t? Do you think the Agency would have ever sanctioned anything remotely like that? That they—”
“You’ve said enough,” the former Royal Marine interrupted, cutting him off. “Let’s say you’re telling the truth. If Parker isn’t still working with you, then why didn’t he—”
“Take me in?” Harry spread his hands in an expansive gesture. “How precisely was he supposed to do that? Not like you Brits let him carry a weapon—though I see you’ve managed to lay your hands on one, Roth. Hardly standard issue with Five, now is it?”
The man shook his head, his face hardening as he glared at Harry. “The patronization isn’t going to get you where you want to be, Nichols. I’m asking why didn’t he report it—give you up as soon as he could reach SO-15? We had tactical teams in place, could have pinned you down before you had gotten a hundred meters.”
That last was an open question, but there was no point in arguing. “Hard to say. Might have been loyalty…to me, maybe—to the Agency, more like. If you’ve ever worked with Langley, you know they prefer to clean up their own messes.” His eyes narrowed, shifting between the two of them. “Or maybe he just knew what I know.”
“And what would that be?” He could see the gears turning in the man’s mind—trying to figure out where he was going. Stay one step ahead.
“That Thames House is compromised,” Harry replied evenly. “Like I’m sure Mehreen has already told you.”
5:04 P.M.
The bus
Midlands
“You’re a long way from where you need to be, Shaikh,” Conor Hale observed in a low voice, his eyes facing straight ahead. Showing no sign of knowing the man he had just sat down beside.
“You tried to have me killed,” the Pakistani hissed, his voice equal parts anger and fear.
“I assure you…that wasn’t us.”
“I give that for your assurances,” the man shot back, spitting angrily on the floor of the bus. “How do you expect me to believe you?”
This is what it had been like in the Middle East, Hale thought—conducting “joint operations” with the rabble who called themselves the Iraqi Army.
Like trying to reason with a child. “Because,” he began slowly, with exaggerated patience, “if it had been us, you would be dead. And we wouldn’t have needed a sodding sniper.”
The Shaikh lapsed into silence, seeming to consider that for a long moment. “And our plans?”
“Still on track,” Hale responded. “The motor vessel will dock in the port of Aberdeen later this night. Your men began arriving in the city a few hours ago.”
A nod, as if in acceptance. “All they await,” the former SAS man continued, “is the arrival of their leader. And that starts with both of us getting off this bus.”
5:07 P.M.
The safehouse
Leeds
“We’ve already been through all that,” Darren replied, an edge of ice to his voice, lowering his weapon at long last. “Well before you walked in.”
Indeed they had, Mehreen thought—for the better part of two hours, with her laying out every bit of evidence she’d been able to obtain of MacCallum’s treachery.
And she still didn’t know if he believed her. Or if he still somehow suspected her of responsibility in the deaths of the British officers who had formed Ismail’s escort.
As reluctant to trust her as she now was to trust Harry. Perhaps there was an ironic justice there, somehow. As little of it as could be found in this world.
“I don’t know what to think,” he continued finally. “It just doesn’t add up.”
“Are you sure about that?” She saw Harry’s eyes flash with intensity as he pressed his advantage. This was Nichols in his element, and trust him or not, there was no denying his skills. “Nine days ago, you had Tarik under surveillance at Leeds Station—you had that place blanketed with personnel, officers all over. And he walked out, right past you. How did he do that—a man who had never been to Leeds before in his life—without help? And that hasn’t been the only time he’s been able to pull that off, has it?”
There was a moment’s pause before Darren responded, and then he nodded. “No, you’re right. It’s happened more than once. We had tracked him to the Queens in City Centre yesterday morning. By the time we had a team on-site, he had vanished.”
“Because he was warned,” Harry continued, not letting up. “Warned off by someone with access to Five’s internal networks. It couldn’t have been Mehreen, not then—she was no longer on the inside at the time.”
He could see the man waver, pressed on. “I don’t ask that you trust me, I only ask that you recognize that the stakes we’re playing for couldn’t be any higher. And in this, we’re both on the same side.”
“But Alec…it just doesn’t make any sense. I’ve worked with him for a long time—years. He’s a good man.”
“A ‘good man’,” Mehreen spat, unable to contain herself for any longer, “who attempted to have me killed. I considered Alec a friend as well—the closest of friends—but you have to face the facts, Darren.”
“The facts?” He turned on her, ignoring Harry for a moment, his face distorted with raw emotion. A dark anger, boiling there beneath the surface. “You mean like the facts that show you were turned by this man? That you became an Agency asset? Those facts?”
“My life has been devoted to the Security Service,” she retorted, her voice trembling—her dark eyes glittering as she met his gaze. “I lost my husband in the defence of this sodding realm. Turned my back on my family. You can’t honestly believe any of that.”
“Frankly, Mehreen, I don’t know what to believe. Not anymore.” Darren just looked at her for a long moment, shaking his head sadly. “But if anything you’ve told me is true…we’re in a very dangerous place.”
He turned back toward Harry, his face grave. “I’m told you’re in possession of intelligence concerning an impending attack. Here, in the UK.”
Harry nodded, adding, “An attack on the Royal family.”
She could feel the blood drain from her face, the shock in Darren’s eyes mirroring her own. “My God…”
Chapter 27
5:13 P.M.
The United States Embassy
Grosvenor Square, London
“Let me know the moment he arrives. The moment,” Carlos Jimenez emphasiz
ed, replacing the phone in its cradle on his desk. He needed a drink, but that hardly seemed the best of ideas, with the director set to arrive.
David Lay’s Agency transport was still fifteen minutes out, caught in heavy traffic that had snarled in the wake of five young “Asian” men rolling tires out into the middle of the A4 and setting them on fire.
This was turning into a career-ender of a nightmare.
Having your officers detained on the soil of an allied nation was bad enough. Having the DCIA come in to resolve the situation personally was even worse.
It implied incompetence, even where none existed. That he had, as yet, been unable to ascertain why his officers had been detained only furthered the perception.
Jimenez sifted through the stack of folders on his desk as if hoping they might contain the answers he sought. Parker’s last reports had been made nearly twelve hours before and indicated that the British had greenlighted the closing down of the surveillance operation—moving in to take Tarik Abdul Muhammad into custody pending the apprehension of another terror cell.
And then…silence. Social media had been awash all day with news reports of a bomb blast from the council estate where the operation had been conducted, but MI-5 itself had never been more close-mouthed. All the usual back channels closed down. An intelligence officer was well-nigh useless without access to intel, and he had never felt more useless than in this moment.
This wasn’t the ‘Stan, either—not like he could send out a patrol kicking down doors to get the information he needed.
He was still sitting there, lost in thought, when the phone rang a moment later. The voice on the other end informing him, “You have an incoming call from Thames House. Alec MacCallum.”
Jimenez was bolt upright in an instant, immediately alert. “Put him through.”
“Was any explanation given?” David Lay asked brusquely, one of the uniformed Marines leading the way past the security barriers as they entered the Embassy. There had been no pleasantries, the DCIA descending upon London Station like Christ come to cleanse the temple.
“None,” Carlos Jimenez responded, glancing cautiously over at the director. The two men had only met once before, three years earlier at Langley, but in that time Lay had aged…a decade, maybe more. “He simply relayed the request from Marsh for you to meet him at his club tonight at 2300 hours.”
Embrace the Fire (Shadow Warriors Book 3) Page 55
