The SUV had been crashed into the wide concrete wall of an apartment block, and Cole realized that he must have flown straight into it when the car hit. His body told him the story, the entire left side in agony. But the vehicle hadn’t crushed him at least, so he found himself grateful for small mercies.
As he picked himself up, he stretched out his arms, his legs, his ribcage and – although it hurt like hell – he didn’t think there was anything broken. His head felt woozy, and when he put his hand to his face, it came away covered in blood; but on the whole, he was happy to be alive and relatively in one piece.
He started moving, the aches and pains melting into the background as he rushed past the horrified onlookers who had been heading up the narrow pedestrianized area toward the mall. Some came toward him, scared but willing to help; but Cole only raced past them, following the path pointed out to him by others, who raised fingers to show Cole where the other man had gone.
He was at the mall only moments later, pushing past the people going in and out, a mostly young crowd who were happy to be out shopping despite there being a national day of mourning. The independent shops might have closed up for the day, but it would take more than a terrorist attack on a local school for the big chains to lose a day’s business; and with all the schools off, there was plenty of money to be made from teenagers who had nothing else to do.
As he entered the mall, he quickly scanned left and right, up and down, searching for Javid Khan. How far could he have gone?
He remembered the police cars on Lakeside Way, knew that they would be cordoning off the site from the other side, cutting down on Khan’s options.
He scanned again, his attention suddenly drawn to movement.
To screams.
He pushed through the crowd to the source, saw the scene outside a busy café with a feeling of pure dread.
Javid Khan was there, one arm wrapped around the neck of Elizabeth Morgan, a handgun – her handgun – pressed to the side of her head. A few feet away from them stood Tom Cranshaw, his own pistol out, hands shaking noticeably.
It was another bloodbath waiting to happen.
In an instant, Cole’s mind processed how the situation must have arisen – Morgan and Cranshaw must have taken the lead on the pursuit of Khan, reached the rear entrance first and raced through, probably as the exits were being secured by other officers. They must have seen Khan, got nervous and pulled their weapons. Khan, almost certainly having seen one hell of a lot more real action than either MI5 agent, would have approached slowly, getting to a safe distance before exploding forward, disarming Morgan and using her own weapon against her.
Cole had heard shouting as he’d approached, but now – at the scene – there was merely a deathly silence.
Time seemed to stand still – Cranshaw frozen, handgun extended; Morgan’s face impassive, perhaps with shock; Khan’s furious visage a picture of controlled aggression.
And then – just as Cole was reacting – there was movement.
Morgan’s head reared back, striking Khan in the face; as he grunted in pain, and Cranshaw desperately tried to get a sight picture, Morgan’s hands gripped hard onto Khan’s gun arm, trying to wrestle the weapon from him.
Cole was moving toward the scene, pushing past the crowd of teens – some terrified, some filming everything on their smartphones – when he saw the gun twitch in Khan’s hand, heard the supersonic crack of a pistol shot. A moment later, he watched in horror as Cranshaw jerked back and dropped hard to the floor; he heard the crowd screaming as one as they watched the blood pumping from the gunshot wound in Cranshaw’s chest.
He was almost there, but his progress was impeded by the people running in the other direction, right toward him. He weaved in and out of the fleeing bodies, watching as Morgan and Khan wrestled for the weapon, which was now right between them.
And then he heard it, another supersonic crack, and for a moment he had no idea what had happened, who – if either of them – had been hit. But then he saw Khan’s body sag, saw the appalled horror on the face of Morgan, the intense pain and disbelief on that of Khan, and knew that the man had been shot.
He was glad Morgan was okay, but he hoped beyond hope that Khan wouldn’t die, that he would live, live and be capable enough to answer questions.
He prayed that their only lead so far in this case hadn’t just been killed.
And then he was there, at the same time as a cohort of armed officers stormed down the hall, submachine guns at the ready.
Morgan pulled away from Khan, Sig pistol still in her hand, her face ashen in shock, unable to move, to talk, hardly even able to breathe.
Cole rushed in to support Khan’s weakened frame, which was sinking slowly to the floor, and he knew immediately that it was too late; the light had already gone out of the man’s eyes, and then he saw why.
The 10mm round from Morgan’s pistol had hit Javid Khan directly in the heart, a lucky – or, on reflection, actually a terribly unlucky – shot made during the heat of battle, in the thrashing melée of the wrestle for the gun.
As he lowered the already-dead body gently to the floor, he watched as the armed officers raced over, taking the Sig from Morgan’s numb hands and escorting her gently away from the scene.
Cole’s hands were already in the air, all too aware that they might not know who he was; and as the cops put him down on the floor, hands behind his back as they cuffed him, he watched one of the cops check Cranshaw’s body and shake his head.
Cole couldn’t believe it – one of his partners was dead, the other near-catatonic, and the only lead they had in the case had been shot straight through the heart.
For a moment, Cole thought that the outcome couldn’t possibly have been any worse; but then he realized that he was still alive, and – while there was breath left in his body – he would do everything in his power to find the people responsible for these terrible attacks.
17
‘So,’ FBI Director Noah Graham said, ‘who exactly is Special Agent Mark White?’
Ellen Abrams sighed. She’d heard the whole thing, almost as soon as it had happened; Bruce Vinson had listened in to the acrimonious conversation between Noah Graham and Bryce Kelly in real-time, and had immediately informed her.
Cole had done the unthinkable, brought massive undue attention upon himself in London by becoming involved in a chase which had destroyed several vehicles, damaged property, injured several civilians and killed an MI5 agent and a promising lead.
But to hear Vinson tell it – after a secure call made to Cole at Thames House – he had been left with little choice.
But whatever the rationale, the end result was that now there were one hell of a lot of questions being asked about FBI international liaison officer Mark White; and when Graham had begun to make internal inquiries of his own, he’d been faced with the fact that one of his own officers might not even exist.
‘Mark White is an agent of the FBI,’ Abrams explained, knowing that she was treading on dangerous ground – although she was president and commander-in-chief, Graham still had the power to impeach her if he thought she was involved in unconstitutional activity. ‘His record checks out, all the paperwork is there. I understand that some people might not remember him, but the FBI is a big organization.’
Graham merely smiled at her, without saying a word, one eyebrow slightly raised.
Abrams would not take the bait, and merely held his gaze, refusing to elaborate further.
After long, protracted moments of silence, Graham could hold himself in no longer. ‘With all due respect,’ he said at last, ‘I’m afraid that’s not how it appears. I’ve yet to meet an agent that remembers him, for starters.’
‘I’m sure we can find someone who remembers him, if we look hard enough.’ Her subtext was clear – are you with me, or against me?
‘Yes ma’am, I understand that we can do that. Indeed, we almost certainly will do that, if only to make sure the Bureau doesn’t look bad.
But if other people start digging, and I mean really digging, then they might unearth more questions than answers. And they’ll come to me first. I want to help ma’am – I didn’t sign up for this job for the paycheck, after all – but I deserve to be in the know, so I can help you deal with it. I need to know who Mark White really is.’
Abrams pushed back in her chair and steepled her fingers together as she thought. Graham had a point, she supposed – she’d used his agency to get a foot in the door, and it had backfired. She owed it to him to be straight. But would that endanger Cole? Force One? Her?
She wasn’t a woman who often contemplated her own political safety – indeed, much of her success had been down to her explicit renunciation of tribal politics; but at the end of the day, she realized, she was a politician. And one of the primary jobs of a politician was to cover their ass. Abrams had no desire for her legacy to be tarnished, after such a successful first term. It was arrogant perhaps, selfish certainly, but she was only human, subject to the same passions and vanities as anyone else.
If she gave Graham the inside story on Cole, could she keep the rest of Force One out of it? Could she protect Vinson, dos Santos, Olsen? Maybe Graham would be okay if he knew about it, could even come in useful on future operations?
But there was also the risk that he would not, that he would start an investigation that would result in impeachment for her, and jail sentences for the others.
She owed Graham something for using his agency, yes – but, on balance, she owed the others somewhat more.
‘Mark White is a federal agent – from an undisclosed agency which, I’m sorry, for security reasons has to remain nameless – who has been authorized directly by me to find out what he can about the London attacks, and to report his findings directly back to me. And that’s all I can tell you.’
Noah nodded slowly, then hung his head on his chest as he digested what he had been told. Eventually, his eyes looked back up at the president. ‘Ma’am,’ he said, ‘I like to think that you assigned me my position because you trust me. It concerns me slightly that I might have been wrong to think that’ – Abrams moved to interrupt him, but he calmly raised a hand to stop her – ‘but, I will still back you up on this, if only to protect the FBI. We’ll backstop his story, I’ll ‘find’ some people who will vouch for him.’
‘Thank you,’ Abrams said, relieved. She took her first sip of coffee since the meeting began, and they went on to discuss how they were going to bring Mark White back home to the US, as he had clearly outstayed his welcome in London.
Finally, the meeting was adjourned and Graham let himself out, leaving Abrams alone to think.
Graham was a patriot, yes; and she did trust him, which – as he’d indicated – was the reason she had supported his directorship of the Bureau.
But in this job, she knew, it always paid to dot your i’s and cross your t’s.
She picked up her secure telephone and called the Paradigm Group.
‘Bruce,’ she said when Vinson answered, ‘we might have a problem with Director Graham.’
Damn, that woman was one arrogant bitch, Graham fumed as he exited the White House with his protection detail.
He wished he could take a stroll back to FBI headquarters to clear his head – after all, it was only five blocks away, northwest on Pennsylvania Avenue.
But, he knew, the Director of the FBI didn’t idly walk the streets of Washington by himself; that was a sure-fire way to end up dead, or a kidnap victim at the very least. Just one more way that his job kept him from having any sort of a normal life.
It wasn’t that he disliked his job, however – on the contrary, he loved it. He’d gone up through the ranks the hard way, one of the only directors to have made it to the top slot after starting at the bottom as a lowly Special Agent hotfooting it around Dallas neighborhoods trying to catch bank robbers. It gave him a unique perspective for the job, and he was proud of the way he had risen to the top of the tree; and in the same way, it pained him when he was cut back down to size, like he just had been.
What the hell was Abrams doing anyway? Using his Bureau to put in one of her own covert agents? And who the hell was Mark White, really? Despite asking, he still didn’t know, and that pissed him off. The guy was bringing the reputation of the Bureau into question, and Graham didn’t like it one little bit.
But he would do as he said, he would be as good as his word, and he would backstop Mark White’s cover story. Like he’d said to the president, he wanted to protect the Bureau at all costs – and, however unwittingly, he had already helped this covert agent to get into the UK, and was therefore already implicit in any ‘unconstitutional’ activity that was going on.
As he stepped out of the cold late autumn chill into the hated limousine, he started to think about how he would handle this situation if White genuinely was an FBI agent.
The funny thing was, he would probably back the man all the way. Vehicles had been destroyed, yes; property had been damaged, yes; people had even died. And yet what else was White supposed to have done? From what Graham had been told, the target had been alerted by the British agent, Elizabeth Morgan – and when he’d turned tail and made a run for it, White had done what Graham would have wanted any FBI agent worth his salt to have done.
He’d chased the bastard down.
That grumpy old sonofabitch Bryce Kelly had been upset by what had happened, but Graham understood now that it was probably a reaction to the failure of his own agents. After all, it was the woman who had caused the whole thing by shouting, and it was her who had actually killed the two people, including her own partner.
Unbelievable.
What the hell had MI5 agents been doing with handguns anyway? Graham knew that an inquest would prove that their training was insufficient, and Kelly’s own organization would be forced to defend its policy, a policy that had clearly resulted in tragedy.
On balance, White was probably the best thing about the whole incident.
So, Graham decided, he would treat White exactly as he would any other FBI agent who had tried to chase down a terrorist under incredibly stressful, dangerous conditions.
He would back him all the way. Hell, he might even suggest putting the guy in for some sort of medal.
The thought brought a grim smile to his lips.
Sure, he thought. An FBI medal for a guy who’s not even in the FBI.
Still, he figured, it could work.
So Mark White was safe, for now at least.
But in the long term, Graham wasn’t happy about the way he’d been treated, the way his beloved organization had been treated.
And so he was going to keep a close eye on President Abrams and her secret operations.
A very close eye.
18
Mark Cole lay back on the soft double bed, arms behind his head and eyes closed.
He was, in effect, under house arrest; although in this case, the house in question was his hotel room at the DoubleTree.
Although his identity had been verified by the armed police unit back at the mall, he had still been brought to the nearest police station. He’d been involved in an armed incident within the British capital, and – despite his credentials – none of the officers were going to release him without higher authority.
Cole had languished in an eight foot by eight foot cell for over an hour before Dylan Travis arrived, along with a British agent who didn’t bother to introduce himself, and only concerned himself with signing Cole’s release papers.
Travis himself didn’t have a great deal to say either. ‘You’re in the shit, my friend,’ was the best he could manage as they walked to the car which would take them back to Thames House. Cole didn’t bother to ask where Morgan was; he’d seen shock before, and knew that was what had happened to her. She’d be in a hospital now, without a doubt.
When Cole had been dropped off outside Bryce Kelly’s office, the British agent had already left and Travis wasn’t too far behind him; i
t was clear that they didn’t want to be found guilty by association.
When he’d entered, Cole had seen a second man in Kelly’s office, and recognized him as Sir Ian Riley, the Director General of MI5; but the older man remained silent as he let his subordinate lead the debrief.
‘Just who the fuck do you think you are, White?’ Kelly had burst out, almost before the door was closed. ‘You think it’s acceptable to instigate a chase around the city without authorization? Smash up vehicles? Apartments? Injure innocent civilians? Create a situation that killed one of my own fucking men?’
The JTAC director was angry, and Cole – despite being the subject of that anger – could sympathize to a certain extent. Tom Cranshaw had been a good man – one of Kelly’s men – and any half-decent leader would take such a loss personally.
But on the other hand, Cole also felt that he had done nothing wrong. After all, it had been Morgan who’d blurted out the man’s name, who’d alerted him to their presence; and it had been the knee-jerk policy reaction of arming people who had no real idea what they were doing that had caused both deaths. He’d tried to chase down a lead, nothing more.
And it angered him that the incident had occurred hours ago and he still had no idea who Javid Khan was.
‘Sir,’ Cole said evenly, ‘I didn’t create the situation.’ He was careful not to mention Morgan’s role in what had happened – she’d have enough on her plate dealing with the death of her partner without having to also defend her earlier actions – but also wanted to make it clear that he wasn’t responsible for the situation. ‘The subject was alerted to our presence, and – with no time to officially alert anyone, or to make plans – I set off to try and catch him.’
‘And who authorized you to take action in the United Kingdom?’ Kelly demanded. ‘You’re a liaison officer, a diplomat. What were you thinking?’
‘Who authorized me?’ Cole asked, starting to get angry despite himself. ‘Who authorized me?’ He turned to Riley and pointed. ‘Why don’t you ask him that question?’ He paused for a moment, and when the director general didn’t respond, he ploughed on. ‘At the request of the President of the United States of America, I’ve been authorized by Sir Riley here, acting on the orders of the Home Secretary, who was instructed by Adam Gregory. You might have heard of the man, he’s the prime minister of your precious little country here.’
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