A man materialized at his side, all sound of his approach covered by a passing automobile—and Colville glanced over to recognize the face of his man inside the Security Service.
“The Thames is beautiful at night.”
“Indeed it is,” the man replied, delivering the pre-arranged response, “but you’d have a better view from the Tower.”
Colville leaned back against the concrete, his eyes searching the man’s face for any sign that he was playing them false. None. “Hopefully, we shan’t all end up there in the end.”
“You know,” he went on, gesturing toward the southern bank of the Thames, “hundreds of years ago, there was a gatehouse at that end of the bridge—it was where they’d mount the heads of traitors. William Wallace was the first, followed by countless others over the centuries. Now? The traitors to England can be found in the House of Commons. Did you bring the drive?”
“I did,” the man said, pulling a small thumb drive from his pocket and holding it up, visible in the glow of the streetlight above them. His hand trembling ever so slightly as he passed it over. “It contains…everything. Five’s files on PERSEPHONE, in their entirety. Every last piece of intel, laying out the history of the operation from its beginnings. Every time Thames House could have brought the Shaikh in—and didn’t.”
The keys to the kingdom.
“When you go to press with this following the attempt on the Queen’s life,” the intelligence officer continued, “the British people will be finally forced to wake up, to face how our national security has been jeopardized in the name of political correctness—of this sodding ‘multicultural experiment.’ It’s going to bring down the government.”
“You are going to be safe from reprisals?”
The man nodded slowly. “I have taken precautions. But what of you?”
“I’m prepared to go prison for publishing these documents, if necessary,” Colville replied, looking the man in the eye. True believers. In reality, the Security Service was going to be kept far too busy to worry about him…the next twenty-four hours would see to that. “If that is the price that must be paid. For England.”
“It’s really happening, then,” the man breathed, seeming almost overawed by the realization.
“It is.” The publisher smiled, reaching out to clasp his informant’s hand. “England confides that every man will do his duty.”
“Godspeed.” And the man was gone, vanishing into the night almost as quick as he had come.
Colville stood there by the balustrade for a moment longer, gazing down into the Thames—its waters glittering a blood-red hue in the lights of London Bridge, lights lit every night in memoriam of England’s fallen.
For that was what one did in the modern world. Mourned one’s dead, but left them unavenged. No more.
He felt the phone on his hip vibrate with an incoming call and he plucked it from its pouch, taking in the sight of an unfamiliar number. “Hello?”
“Our piece has taken its place on the board,” Hale’s voice responded, speaking carefully. “As of twenty minutes ago.”
“Good,” the publisher said, tucking the phone closer to his ear as a vehicle passed by on the bridge, its engine noise drowning out all other sounds. The Shaikh had arrived in Scotland to take command of his men. Behind schedule, but he was there. And that would have to be enough. “And the shipment?”
“Arriving in the port of Aberdeen in the next two hours. I’ll be flying up later tomorrow.”
That came as a surprise. “You haven’t left?” Colville asked, glancing quickly at his wristwatch. Hale was supposed to already be in Scotland, leading their team—to deviate from the plan at this critical moment…
“Not yet. Still wrapping up a few things on this end.”
And that could mean anything, the man’s tone giving him nothing to work with. “Anything that I should be made aware of?”
There was a barely-perceptible pause before the former SAS sergeant responded, “No.”
It was impossible for Colville to determine whether there was anything there beneath the man’s words, but Hale had been his first recruit, and he trusted him. Trusted him to carry out the work they had both committed themselves to. Knowing that death or imprisonment could well lie at the end of this road. “Very well,” he responded. “Communications will be kept at a minimum from this point in, but do not hesitate to apprise me if the situation necessitates it. Understood?”
“Of course, sir.”
Colville returned the mobile to his belt, turning away from the balustrade and walking back along the bridge toward north London. Less than twenty-four hours now.
Cry havoc…
10:31 P.M.
Brooks’s
St. James, London
“No,” Lay began heavily, looking across toward the painting over the mantel. He was starting to regret not having accepted that drink. “Nichols was forced to resign from the Agency after his actions leading up to the Vegas attacks.”
A skeptical raise of the eyebrows was Marsh’s only response for a moment, oppressive silence continuing to reign in the small upper room of the club. Finally, “And what actions might those have been, that you would have forced out a senior field officer?”
“He went rogue. Executed a young college student, the son of a Russian arms dealer, in the process of trying to obtain intel to stop the attacks. The kid was an American citizen.”
Marsh winced. In a world where they broke the law on a daily basis, there were some lines you could never cross.
“And,” Lay went on, his voice trembling with emotion, “he was responsible for the death of my daughter that night in Vegas.”
The DG’s face registered shock, complete and unfeigned. “I’m sorry, David…I had almost forgotten that you had a child. Forgive me.”
“Don’t apologize,” Lay responded, his voice sharper than he had intended. “She wasn’t much more than a toddler when we were in Berlin together, Jules—right after her mother left me. Had only been back in my life for a couple years when she died outside the Bellagio that night. A sniper’s bullet. Nichols was supposed to have protected her.”
He took a deep breath, attempting without success to collect himself. “You’re right if you believe I want to see Tarik Abdul Muhammad brought down. But if you think for one single moment that I would trust that man to do it…”
“I believe you,” Marsh responded after a long moment, reaching for the bottle of Glenlivet and pouring himself another drink. “All these years—but from what I see, they haven’t changed you that much.”
He leaned back in his chair, shaking the single malt gently to loosen the ice. “But this former officer of yours—he murdered a citizen of your country. Why isn’t he in prison?”
“Such a prosecution,” Lay began, shaking his head slowly, “would be…problematic, to say the least. There are aspects of the case which would be in the best interests of no one to have dragged into the public eye. You can appreciate the delicacy of such a situation?”
“What I can appreciate,” Marsh replied caustically, pausing for a moment to drain his glass once more, “is that had the American justice system worked properly, Tarik Abdul Muhammad would still be cooling his heels in Guantanamo Bay and Nichols would be in federal prison. Instead they’re both here, on UK soil. And your problem has become mine.”
That much was inarguable. “Perhaps there is a way we can help each other.”
The DG set his glass on the endtable and leaned back in his chair. “And that would be?”
“Arrange the release of the officers you detained this morning. Do what you need to—declare them persona non grata, put them on a plane back Stateside, I really don’t care,” Lay said, gesturing impatiently.
“And in exchange?”
“And in exchange, I’m prepared to offer you the full cooperation of the US intelligence community. In tracking down and effecting the capture of Harry Nichols.”
Chapter 28
3:07
A.M., April 4th
The safehouse
Leeds, West Yorkshire
“Promise me.” Low, desperate words. Soft lips melding into his, bodies pressed close together—her back against the door. His rough, callused fingers caressing her cheek. “Promise me this won’t be the end. That there will be a future—for us. Beyond all the fighting. All of the war.”
“Yes…did you really think I would leave you?” A voice filled with tears, her words punctuated by the sharp crack of a rifle. The sound of a bullet breaking the sound barrier—smashing through soft flesh.
And she was falling. Falling. Falling—
Harry’s eyes flickered open, his breath coming fast—his shirt soaked with sweat as he came off the sofa, his hands finding the butt of the Sig-Sauer and jerking it from its holster. The muzzle coming up as he brought it to level, a faint metallic snick as the safety was thumbed off.
Only the shadowy outline of the door met his eyes through the semi-darkness, and he found his hands trembling. Carol’s voice still ringing in his ears, haunting in its recrimination. “You knew. You knew.”
Get a grip. He safed the pistol, laying it on the low table as he stood—struggling to calm himself, his heart beating against his chest as though it threatened to break free. The weight of memories bearing down upon him. A crushing load.
There had never been a future. Not for him, no matter how much he had tried to deceive himself otherwise. There was only this.
Harry stumbled from the living room and down the hallway to the small bathroom, flicking on the light and turning the faucet on, full-blast. Splashing cold water into his face with both hands, eyes gazing back at him from the mirror. Haunted and staring.
Enough. He glanced at his wristwatch—Flaharty was due to arrive with the weapons in less than five hours. Time to get what rest he could, while he could. If he could.
God only knew what the dawn would bring. Roth…it was impossible to know whether the British officer was going to follow through on what he had promised—or give them up to Five.
Which is what he would have done. Back when he’d been with the Agency. Fighting for a flag.
But those days were over. Fallen to ashes. Just like the dreams of something more.
5:37 A.M.
The port of Aberdeen
Scotland
Salt water from the North Sea splashed over Tarik’s bare feet as he rubbed them vigorously up to the ankles, first right and then left, washing them carefully three times in the performance of the wudu, the ritual cleansing that ever preceded prayer. “O Lord,” he breathed, whispering the words of the du’a, “Keep me firm on the Bridge to Paradise on the day when feet will slip…”
A day when men’s hearts will fail them, he thought, reaching forward to take a small cloth from Nadeem. A day like unto today. I seek refuge in God from the outcast Satan.
He could feel his body fairly hum with nervous excitement as he stooped once more, drying his feet. A spiritual ecstasy the like of which he hadn’t experienced since Vegas, preparing to strike at the heart of the infidel. “I bear witness that none has the right to be worshipped save Allah alone, Who has no partner,” he said, reciting the shahada as he handed the damp cloth back to the black man. “And I bear witness that Muhammad is His slave and His messenger.”
The first of the five pillars of Islam, he thought, padding barefoot out across the cold concrete of the warehouse floor toward where his men had begun to assemble. The creed of his faith.
A faith which had become his stay through the long years at Guantanamo Bay, locked away behind razor wire on those cliffs overlooking the sea. A vision of God appearing to him in those darkest of hours. Setting him back on the path.
Keep me firm on the Bridge to Paradise…
He strode to the front, gazing out over the assembled company gathered in front of the vehicles they would use to mount their assault—the body of a delivery van already stripped in preparation for the packing of plastic explosive along its frame.
The mujahideen, nearly forty strong, some of them already armed—the rest awaiting the final shipment of weapons in a few hours. College students mixed in with grizzled veterans of the wars in Iraq, in Syria. The dark hijabs of a few women mingling amongst the men. Martyrs, all—the sight of the faithful overwhelming him with emotion.
Eyes shining with tears, he raised both his hands beside his head, whispering the takbir in a voice of awe and hearing the thunderous shout of “Allahu akbar!” in response.
For truly…God is great.
8:07 A.M.
Thames House
London
“…the cause of two more deaths overnight in Ipswich, as police continue to investigate the apparent murder of Sheik Ajmal Rafik, the imam of the Argyle Street mosque, who was found dead in his Priory Heath flat early yesterday morning. While no motive has been ascertained, Rafik’s death has stoked violent protests in the once quiet town, as rioters converged on city hall and burnt tires in the street. The mayor…”
Another day, Alec MacCallum thought wearily, pulling his eyes away from the BBC news report as he began to sort through the hourlies. Another day, and the violence showed no sign of abating. If anything, things seemed to be getting worse.
As if all it would take was a push. To send them hurtling over the brink. Into the abyss.
“You look bloody knackered,” Norris’ voice observed from behind him and he glanced back to see the analyst standing there, setting a steaming cup of coffee down on the edge of his workstation as he dropped his jacket over the chair.
“Didn’t go home last night,” MaCallum conceded, running a hand across his forehead. “Too many fires to put out. Not enough time, not enough personnel. My God, Simon…it’s getting mad out there.”
The younger man just nodded soberly, taking his seat. “There was a fight on the Tube last night—I had to get off a station early and walk. Some drunk footballers decided to mix it up with a group of young Pakistanis. One of the Pakis pulled a knife. Things got a little crazy after that.”
Insanity. Stories like that were becoming more and more common as the Met struggled to hold the line even in London itself. Places like Ipswich, the local constabularies didn’t even begin to have the resources to handle the storm bearing down upon them. “We’re nearing a breaking point.”
“And in the midst of the whole cock-up, a Yank on the loose. A Yank who’s managed to turn one of our own.” Norris took a sip of his coffee, pausing as he began to scan the cover sheet of the folder lying on his desk. “What in the devil’s name is this?”
MacCallum turned around, taking in the sight of the folder in the analyst’s hand. “That, is our solution to the ‘Yank.’ A directive from the DG—we’re to liaise with Grosvenor Square on this one.”
“Are they having a laugh?” Norris demanded incredulously, shaking his head as he opened the folder.
“Not so you’d notice it. The Agency has burned Nichols as a rogue—disavowed any connection to his activities here in the UK. And, frankly, we need their manpower.”
Norris raised a skeptical eyebrow. “What are they getting out of it?”
“Their team is being released from detainment at Paddington Green within the hour. Beyond that…ask Marsh. That’s well above my pay—” the phone on MacCallum’s desk rang at that moment, cutting him off. He reached for it, pausing as his eyes fell on the authentication codes flashing on the small display screen. “It’s Roth.”
8:12 A.M.
MI-5 Regional Office
Leeds, West Yorkshire
“Thames House.”
MacCallum’s voice. So familiar. Darren hesitated, glancing around the nearly empty regional office. It was hard for him even now to believe that the man could be playing them—could have betrayed an oath they’d all held so dear. Regnum defende.
“Are you all right?” the section chief asked after the silence hung in the air for a moment. What a question. “We lost contact with you yesterday not long after
the incident at Seacroft, there was concern—”
“I’m fine, Alec,” he replied, “met up with an old asset last night on a possible lead regarding the Nichols affair. Had to go dark, no comms.”
Another pause. “And?”
Was it probing? Twenty-four hours, the thought wouldn’t have even crossed his mind. But now…
“And it was a dry hole,” Darren lied, cursing himself for the thought. Was this exactly what Nichols had wanted? To have them turn on each other? Peter Wright all over again, tearing Thames House apart looking for a mole. Chasing shadows. “I need to speak with the DG.”
“He’s at a meeting with the Home Secretary, briefing her on the situation with the cousins. Is there a message I can give him upon his return?”
And there it was again—cautious probing? He couldn’t take the chance. “No, I’ll just try back later. It isn’t important.”
He just sat there, staring at the phone in his hand as its screen faded to black. Going to Marsh with what he had now—it wasn’t going to be enough to convince the DG. Not even close, not unless the Thames House intranet bore the electronic fingerprints of MacCallum’s tampering.
Sod it all. Darren reached into his shirt pocket for the scrap of paper Nichols had given him, spreading it out on the desk before him until the phone numbers were clearly visible. Was one of these the key?
Only one way to find out. Another number, dialed from memory—he raised the phone to his ear, listening as it rang once, twice, three times before a man’s voice responded. “Neil, I need you to do me a favor.”
8:45 A.M.
The port of Aberdeen
Scotland
Driving from one end of the harbor to the other. That’s all this was, Delaney told himself, tapping the artic’s brakes as the stolen lorry rolled to a stop at the traffic light—the former sapper’s muscled, tattooed arm hanging out the open window. Slate-gray buildings dating back to the late 1800s rose across the street from him, their color blending in with the low clouds moving in overhead, blocking out any sign of the sun.
Embrace the Fire (Shadow Warriors Book 3) Page 57
