Less than three hours, Harry thought, glancing at his watch. Scarce more than that. “Keep talking.”
3:05 P.M.
The A93
Banchory, Scotland
Forty minutes, Farid thought, checking his mirrors as he turned right, navigating his way through the streets of the quiet Scottish town. Forty minutes and they would be at the staging area outside Ballater, where he would turn over control of the delivery van to the shahid who had volunteered to drive it up to the gates.
Keep it slow and steady, stay below the speed limit. No one was going to touch them in this land of laws. Rules. A country that imposed fairness and justice on its citizens while dropping bombs on the heads of innocents half a world away, he realized grimly—his dark eyes smoldering as he saw the first of the SUVs containing his men swing out into the street to follow him, hanging a couple cars back.
That was, after all, why he had left this land of his birth four years before—leaving behind his family. His job as an engineer. To fight in God’s struggle, plunging himself into the maelstrom of a Syria that had descended further into chaos with each passing year.
Four years of fighting, first against Assad, then the Kurdish Peshmergea and the Iraqi Army. Long years of blood and terror, finding themselves fighting against overwhelming odds. Losing many recruits in their first battle—arms blown off by artillery shells, bodies riddled with machine gun bullets.
When the opportunity had finally come to leave, he had taken it—making his way first to Hungary, then across the EU before arriving in the UK with nothing more than the clothes on his back and the few remaining euros on a debit card issued to him by the Bundesamt für Migration und Flüchtlinge at a refugee camp outside Leipzig.
But the one thing no man could take from him was the knowledge he possessed. The skills of a man who had survived again and again in battles against the safawi regime of Bashar Assad, battles where his fellow mujahideen had fallen around him like grain before the reaper.
He shook his head. Fate. That was what it truly was, the hand of Allah guiding him, shielding him from harm.
Preserving him for this day.
3:09 P.M.
The safehouse
Leeds, West Yorkshire
Mehreen was on the phone almost before it could ring a second time, recognizing the number of Nichols’ burner. “Yes?”
“I need you to put a call through to Roth at once,” Harry’s voice responded, his words terse. Clipped. “Hale talked—the attack is going down yet this afternoon, 1800 hours. An attack on Balmoral Castle itself. He has nearly forty men, according to Hale. That’s more than enough to overwhelm the Queen’s detail. It will be a bloodbath.”
She closed her eyes. The audacity of such an attack…the propaganda coup should it succeed—was well-nigh inconceivable, equaled in impact by only 9/11 or the Christmas Eve attacks on Vegas. Perhaps worse.
Enough to send the UK over the brink, careening into the abyss. “They’re going to tear this country apart,” she whispered, finding her voice at last. “This is real, isn’t it?”
“It is.”
The intelligence officer’s nightmare, come to life. Not on my watch. “And the Shaikh?” Mehreen asked, taking a deep breath. Focus. “Was Hale able to give you a location?”
“No,” he replied quickly. Almost too quickly, she thought, the idea leaving her mind almost as soon as it had entered it. “I can only assume he’ll be leading the attack. Hale knows nothing more that he hasn’t told me.”
“Are you sure of that?” she asked, her mind racing as she stared across the room. “We’re going to need every last scrap of intel we can get.”
“I’m sure,” he responded simply, a chilling assurance in his voice. What he had done to obtain such certainty, she didn’t know. Didn’t want to know.
“Very well. I’ll contact Darren immediately—make sure he briefs the DG.”
3:11 P.M.
The farmhouse
Harrogate, North Yorkshire
“Solid copy. We’ll be back on our way back, then.” Harry thumbed the button to END CALL, slipping the phone into his pocket. “Let’s get moving. Go get—”
He turned to find Flaharty regarding him with a keen, questioning gaze. “What are you playing at, boyo?”
“What do you mean?” he asked, knowing very well what the Irishman had meant.
“Oh, you’re a cute hoor, aren’t you just?” Flaharty observed, chuckling softly. “The widow Crawford…you lied to her—told her you’d gotten nothing from Conor Hale concerning the location of Tarik.”
And so he had, yet another lie among the many. Almost easier than the truth, these days. Perhaps they always had been, for him.
“You have a problem with that?” he asked, meeting the man’s eyes in a hard, unyielding gaze.
Flaharty shook his head. “Not in the least, but I’d like to know why. If I’m going to be backing your play, I need to make certain I’ve seen all the cards.”
“Tarik Abdul Muhammad is mine,” Harry responded coldly, turning away from him. “Killing him is the reason I came to this country. And there is no way I’m going to risk Five taking him into custody before I can get to the port.”
The Irishman nodded, seeming to accept the response. “All right, then. So what’s our next move in this grand scheme of yours?”
“We go cut down Hale—give him some of the sedative I found in his kit and put him in the trunk.”
“We’re bringing him with us?” Flaharty asked, the look in his eyes finishing the question for him.
“You’ll have your revenge,” Harry responded, pulling open the door of the Vauxhall, “soon enough. But I’m not done with him just yet. Let’s get moving.”
3:17 P.M.
The port of Aberdeen
Scotland
“Go with God,” Tarik Abdul Muhammad said, staring into Sayyed Hassan’s eyes.
When he had first met the leader of the London cell twelve days earlier in the brothel, he had been unimpressed by the bookstore owner. But now, he saw nothing but resolve written in the man’s face.
Surely it was true, that Allah would give unto each man the strength required to play his part in His struggle.
He reached out, drawing the man to him in an impulsive embrace—feeling the rough bulk of the suicide vest against his chest as he did so. “Mashallah,” he whispered, tears shining in his eyes. For what was more beautiful than the life of the martyr?
“Nadeem will drive you to the shopping centre,” he said finally, pulling back. “From there, it will be left to you. Buy us time, brother.”
“Insh’allah.”
Tarik turned back to the makeshift command center they had spent the night setting up—laptop after laptop laid out on metal tables, wires running across the floor.
One man’s sacrifice…all they needed to assure themselves of victory.
As God willed, indeed.
3:24 P.M.
The Home Office
2 Marsham Street, London
“…and the CIA will, of course, disavow all his actions. That’s not an answer the PM will find acceptable, Julian. He’s going to demand that—”
You’ll have to excuse me for a moment, Home Secretary,” Marsh said apologetically, pulling his phone out as it vibrated insistently. Third time now. “I have to take this.”
It was Darren Roth’s number.
“Of course,” she responded, dismissing him with an annoyed wave of the hand, as if shooing a fly. He had seen Napier in worse humors, but this time she had ample reason to be.
They were sitting on a bomb. Once the details of Rahman’s death made the news…
3:25 P.M.
MI-5 Regional Office
Leeds, West Yorkshire
Pick up the sodding phone, Roth thought, staring impatiently at the screen as it continued to ring.
It was his third call to the DG since he had heard from Mehreen. All of them going unanswered. He had to be—
“Given that you’ve taken me out of a meeting with the Home Secretary, Darren,” Julian Marsh answered finally, acid in his tone as he came on the line, “I trust I can assume this is about a matter of great importance?”
Thank God.
“I apologize, sir,” Roth said, getting up from his desk and pacing across the small temporary office to the window, “but this couldn’t wait. I have just received credible intel regarding a threat to the Queen’s life.”
“And the nature of the threat?” He could hear the skepticism in the DG’s voice. They dealt with threats against the Queen on a daily basis, as a matter of course. But none of them were anything like this.
“There is going to be an attack on Balmoral Castle within the next two hours,” he responded, still scarcely able to believe the words himself, “carried out by a jihadist cell under the command of Tarik Abdul Muhammad.”
“My God,” Marsh responded after a moment of stunned silence. His usual patrician reserve seeming to have deserted him. “You’re bloody well serious.”
“Never more so. According to the intel I’ve received, he has nearly forty men.”
The DG swore softly. “COBRA will have to be convened at once, SO-14 alerted to handle the threat. This intelligence—who is your source on the attack?”
And there it was. The question he had hoped wouldn’t be asked.
“With due respect, sir,” Roth began slowly, aware that he was treading on thin ice. “Given the urgency of the situation, the identity of my source is less than material. If we are to act promptly—”
“I’m going to need full assurance that I can rely upon the information I’m passing along,” Marsh responded, not giving an inch. “You’re a good officer, Darren, and under any ordinary circumstance, I would rely upon your unsupported word. But this is no ordinary circumstance—I’ll be taking this to the PM himself. Who gave you this, a credible asset? A walk-in?”
No way out. He took a deep breath, knowing the risk he was taking. “Mehreen Crawford.”
“She’s your source?” Marsh asked, pausing for a long moment—the incredulity only too audible in his voice. “I know you are close to Mehreen personally, on account of her husband—but, for God’s sake, Darren—you’re as aware as I am that she is suspected of having jeopardized our intelligence operations on behalf of Harold Nichols, the CIA’s rogue officer. She has to be considered compromised.”
“I’m aware of that.”
“Then where is she getting this kind of intelligence? Do you know who her source is—or did you simply take her word for it?”
Roth shook his head, running a hand across his jaw. It didn’t get any easier from here, but Marsh was a veteran intelligence officer. Lying to him wasn’t a viable option—he’d see through a deception in a moment. “It’s Nichols himself…”
3:27 P.M.
The Home Office
2 Marsham Street, London
Marsh glanced back down the corridor toward the closed door of Napier’s office, scarce able to believe he had heard his senior field officer correctly.
“I met the man last night,” Roth went on after a moment’s pause. “At a decommissioned Five safehouse here in Leeds.”
“And you simply decided, on your own authority, to let Nichols go. To not to tell anyone about him.” The DG swore, lowering his voice as a Home Office functionary hurried past. The level of damage that this could do—that this already had done—was immeasurable. “Why?”
“He was still gathering intel on the attack. Based on the evidence he presented to me, I deemed it a justifiable risk. Give him rope.”
No. That wasn’t how this worked, Marsh thought. Every meeting with a foreign intelligence officer—even from one of the “Five Eyes”—had to be reported, logged.
Kept on record. And for good reason.
In the recruiting of a fellow intelligence professional, extraordinary care had to be exerted to make sure that you weren’t the one actually being recruited. As had happened here. To Mehreen. And Roth.
“And I suppose that among the evidence he presented to you,” Marsh demanded caustically, “he mentioned torturing, and subsequently executing, Hashim Rahman?”
Silence. “He didn’t, did he?” he pressed, shaking his head at the folly of it all. He’d seen this sort of thing play out so many times before. Back in West Berlin, attempting to run agents across the Wall—finding your own network penetrated at the last. Not again. “He’s playing you, Roth, and through you he’s trying to play all of us. Buy himself time.”
“With due respect, sir, I don’t believe that to be the case. The attack—”
“With due respect,” Marsh fired back, “you are in no position to be making that decision. You’ve allowed your relationship with Mehreen to compromise your judgment—cause you to extend trust to a rogue foreign officer responsible for the torture and death of a British citizen. Do you comprehend the gravity of what I am saying?”
“I do, sir. But what about the Queen’s—”
“SO-14 will be apprised that we have received intelligence of a threat against Her Majesty’s life while she is in residence there at Balmoral and will receive all the details we currently have in our possession,” the DG replied, his tone biting. “It will be up to them to take what action they see fit, given the unsubstantiated nature of the threat. As for you, I want you back in London. Immediately. We need to get this sorted—find a way to recover Nichols. And handle the repercussions. Do you understand?”
3:30 P.M.
MI-5 Regional Office
Leeds, West Yorkshire
“Yes, sir,” Roth nodded, swallowing hard as he glanced at his watch. Just over two hours until the attack was to begin. “Perfectly. I’ll be back in London within a few hours.”
He just stood there for a long moment after the call ended, torn by indecision.
The threat to the Queen was real, he could feel it in his bones—the instincts that had kept him alive in Afghanistan rising once again to the fore.
And if that was the case…he couldn’t stand idly by and watch it happen.
His hand moved back to the phone, hesitating only briefly before dialing a number from memory.
“Mehreen,” he announced the moment the call connected, “the safehouse has been compromised—you need to get out of there at once. I’m on my way to meet you.”
3:35 P.M.
North Yorkshire
So close. He could almost taste it, bitter and metallic against his tongue. The taste of blood. Of revenge.
Love kills, Harry thought, his knuckles whitening around the steering wheel of the Vauxhall as it sped down the trunk road.
It had killed him, that night in Vegas—Carol’s blood staining his hands, his tears running down her lifeless cheek. “Don’t give up, don’t you dare give up.”
Both their lives claimed in a single moment, only his body refusing to acknowledge the truth hers had accepted so willingly.
And now this was all that mattered. Dig two graves.
“The port of Aberdeen is a six-hour drive,” Flaharty observed quietly from the passenger seat, his attention seemingly focused out the window. “You honestly think you stand a chance of getting there before they do?”
No, a small voice from somewhere deep within warned, reminding him of the futility of all this. The voice of reason, long since banished.
Because the idea of failure was impossible to face. Not now. Not after everything he had done. The lives he had shattered.
“We pick up Mehreen at the safehouse,” he responded, his voice brittle as ice, “collect the rest of our gear. Then we start driving north. Once we’ve—”
The burner in his pocket began vibrating with an incoming call, cutting him off as he reached for it. Mehreen.
There was no reason for her to be making contact. No reason. Unless…
“Yes?” he answered cautiously, listening as she began to speak. His face growing darker the longer he listened. No. It wasn’t possible.
> He thought he had prepared for the worst case, but this…it was like looking down into an open grave, waiting to swallow you whole.
“What’s going on, lad?” Flaharty asked, his voice sounding faint, far away.
How to answer?
“We’ve been sold down the river,” he responded numbly, holding the phone against his chest. “Five isn’t taking the threat against the Queen seriously. The safehouse has been compromised—Mehreen’s getting ready to bug out.”
The Irishman swore viciously. “Who? This fellow Roth?”
Harry just nodded, his mind racing. Searching for a way out. An exit. Finding each one closed off in turn.
They no longer had six hours to reach Scotland—they barely even had two. And if Tarik carried out another successful attack…
It was a thought he couldn’t even bring himself to finish.
“Do you know of any way,” he asked, turning to look at Flaharty, “of reaching Balmoral in time?”
“There might be one way,” the Irishman began slowly, a shadow passing across his face. “One of the lads—name’s Liam—owns a farm about thirty minutes west of here, just south of the moor near Keighley. He has a small plane, off-books. Used it for smuggling, back in the day. Hasn’t been in the air in a decade, like as not.”
“We’ll have to try, it’s our only shot,” Harry responded, pulling the phone back up to his ear. “Mehreen, you still there? I’m going to need you to meet me at a farm northwest of Leeds—there’s a plane we can use. I’ll text you the address.”
He listened for another moment before ending the call, turning to Flaharty as he tucked the phone back in his pocket, the Vauxhall slowing as it entered another small English village. “This friend of yours, is borrowing his plane going to present a problem?”
“Shouldn’t be,” the former terrorist replied after a moment, shaking his head. But there was something there in his eyes that belied the gesture.
There was no time for this. “Don’t play with me, Stephen,” Harry snapped, his eyes flashing a warning of danger. “Out with it.”
“Liam…well, he’s Davey’s little brother.”
Embrace the Fire (Shadow Warriors Book 3) Page 62
