Andrew Britton Bundle

by Andrew Britton

As the sound of gunfire faded into the night, replaced by the scream of approaching sirens, Naomi thought she heard a pair of sharp, brutal blows. She couldn’t be sure; for the moment, she was completely disoriented, her ears ringing, her head thumping. She found herself wedged against the door, trying to make herself as small a target as possible. She couldn’t see what was happening, and she wondered why, before realizing that her eyes were still squeezed tightly shut. Just as she found the courage to open them, the passenger-side door was pulled open, and a familiar hand reached in for hers.

  Naomi could see he was hurt from the moment her feet touched the pavement. He was favoring his left side, and as she pulled him into the light, she could see that his face was drawn, pale, and shining with sweat. There was blood on his hands and a large wet stain on his shirt, barely discernable against the dark material.

  “Oh, God, what happened?” she asked anxiously. She moved to examine the wound, but Kealey waved her away.

  “Don’t worry about it. Are you hit?”

  She looked down and performed a quick visual check. She didn’t see any blood, and nothing seemed to hurt except for her elbow, which was still throbbing painfully. “No, I’m fine.”

  “Good.” Still holding his side, Kealey pointed toward the unconscious officer. “Take his radio.” The words were pinched off at the end; clearly, he was in considerable pain. “Get rid of it, and cuff his hands. He’ll have the keys in his pocket. Make sure you get them, too. Hurry.”

  She was already moving. Kneeling, she stripped off the officer’s shoulder mic, following the wires to the radio itself, which she pulled off the belt. Wrapping it all into an untidy ball, she tossed it into a bush near the sidewalk. Then she turned over the body, pulled the limp arms back to the rear, and snapped the cuffs into place. After a second of rummaging, she found the handcuff keys in a spare magazine pouch and slipped them into her pocket. “Done.”

  Kealey was leaning against the front of the cruiser. Wincing, he straightened and started toward the passenger side of the Taurus. “We have to move. The responding units will be here in less than a minute. You have the car keys?”

  “Got ’em.” She hesitated. “Ryan, you have to get to a hospital.”

  He shook his head in the negative. “I already checked it out. Trust me, it’s not as bad as it looks.”

  “But—”

  “Naomi, we don’t have time to argue. Get in the car.”

  She did as he asked. Starting the engine, she put the Taurus into drive, accelerated quickly, and swung a hard right onto Reservoir Road. As the screeching alarm started to fade, it all seemed to catch up with her. The adrenaline dissipated quickly enough, but even as her breathing returned to normal, her hands just wouldn’t stop shaking. As she struggled to regain control, she turned in her seat and said, “So where are we going?”

  Kealey looked down at his side and grimaced. The options were few. A hospital was clearly out; the police would be monitoring emergency-room activity, watching for someone to be admitted with a gunshot wound. At the same time, he knew he needed immediate medical attention. The truth was staring him right in the face. He had shot a man in the German chancery, and he had brutally assaulted a police officer. There was only one place to seek refuge, just one place beyond the reach of the D.C. Metro Police Department.

  “Langley,” he said through gritted teeth. “We’re going to Langley.”

  CHAPTER 33

  LONDON

  Mid-afternoon in the heart of the West End. The skies above were gray and fatigued, the sort of overcast weather that promised rain, but would never deliver. They were sitting outside the Embankment Café, which was surrounded by bright green grass, towering hedges, and trees wielding their colorful autumn leaves. Beyond the trees and a dirty brick wall, the River Thames curved on a gentle, slow-moving arc to the south, Waterloo Bridge to the east.

  Vanderveen had ordered a full English breakfast of eggs, bacon, chips, and beans, but Raseen had settled on black tea. As she sipped from the steaming cup, she kept shooting him little glances across the dingy plastic table. Vanderveen was guessing they were based partly on what had happened the night before and partly on how he looked now, which was considerably different. He had decided to switch passports shortly after they checked out of the hotel in Calais, which naturally meant a change in appearance. Now he was traveling as Russell Davies, a British national. The dark hair was gone, as were the beard and the tinted contacts. As with Tartus, he had returned to his natural state, although his blond hair and green eyes were much better suited to the streets of London than they were to a dusty Syrian souq.

  Raseen had changed her persona as well, but her features were much less malleable, and her various passports reflected this fact. Anything other than her original hair color would look highly unusual, only increasing her visibility in a crowd. As a result, she had wisely stayed close to her natural look in all the photographs that accompanied her forged documents. The French passport she was using now—which had passed Vanderveen’s careful inspection—bore the name Nina Sebbar.

  She had suggested they check out of the hotel the night before, but he had refused, knowing it would look more suspicious to leave in the middle of the night than it would to wait for morning. At the same time, he had not gotten much sleep, as part of him had been waiting for the police to kick down the door. The raid had never come, but the restless night meant an early morning. They made the first ferry from Calais to Dover, endured the standard customs check on arrival, then caught a National Express bus to London. From Waterloo Station, it was a short taxi ride to the Embankment. They had arrived with an hour to spare, which was enough time to partake in a leisurely meal and watch for lingering eyes.

  Embankment Café at noon. A man will sit outside, gray suit, green paisley tie. He’ll be carrying a black attaché case and a copy of the Times. Follow him, and keep your distance.

  Vanderveen had no patience for these little games, but he had no choice but to play along. He needed what the controllers had to offer; namely, the specifics regarding Thomas Rühmann and his office in Berlin. The Austrian’s business relationship with the insurgency had started long before Vanderveen arrived on the scene. He had met Rühmann only once, and briefly at that. The purpose of the meeting was to describe the kind of weapon he needed for the attack in New York, and Rühmann had come through in spectacular form. Of course, circumstances had changed since then, and now, through little or no fault of his own, he had become a liability to the whole operation. The word had been sent up the line, sealing his fate.

  Time was the other factor here. For the moment, Vanderveen had no idea what Kealey was up to. He had to wait for the wheels to turn in Washington, which meant that he had to move faster than he might otherwise have liked. He had every intention of placing a second call to the States by the end of the day, but for now, there were other things to consider.

  Raseen lowered her cup to the table and leaned forward conspiratorially. “Russell, can we talk here?”

  Vanderveen cast a subtle glance around. Due to the weather, the tables on the terrace were nearly deserted. The closest patrons were four tables over, but judging by their advanced age, elevated voices, and blunt Estuary accents, they would not be able to understand—or even hear—a murmured conversation in French from the next table, let alone at a distance of 15 feet.

  Vanderveen smiled and said, “If you think it’s safe to talk, Nina, you don’t need to call me Russell.”

  She smiled back demurely but without hesitation, and Vanderveen shook his head in amusement. Her unflinching ability to blend into her surroundings was something that continued to amaze him. Despite the privileged upbringing that al-Tikriti had described, Yasmin Raseen had spent her youth in a country that hindered women at almost every turn. He had not seen her wear a headscarf, yet she appeared at ease without it. He had not seen her pray once—let alone five times a day—yet she appeared unrepentant. The holy month of Ramadan was scheduled to start in less th
an two weeks, and it was clear she had no intention of fasting. At every turn she had defied his ideas of how she should act. Her indulgence in Western behavior only made her presence more confusing. Her controllers, if they had their way, would severely limit the future liberation of Iraqi women. He could not understand her motivation in helping them.

  “Will, how much do you know about the man we’re going to meet?”

  “Next to nothing. Why do you ask?”

  She seemed to hesitate. “Doesn’t it worry you? Not knowing, I mean? This man could have switched sides. He could be working against us.”

  “Perhaps,” Vanderveen conceded. “But it’s not likely. Take my word when I say that your people have a great deal of money and time invested in this. They’re not going to risk the entire venture on a man they can’t trust.”

  “But how do they know?” she persisted. “What if—”

  “They can’t know.” Vanderveen leaned forward and lowered his voice, even though no one was close enough to hear. “The whole thing is a risk, but we don’t have a choice. We need what this man is bringing us. Rühmann knows too much; not the target, perhaps, but he acquired the weapon. He knows what it can do, and he knows how it’s disguised. He can’t be allowed to live.”

  “I suppose you’re right,” she murmured. A few minutes passed. She finished her tea and ordered another pot as Vanderveen picked at his meal. The waitress hovered nearby, a pretty girl whose gaze had been locked on their table ever since they’d arrived. She had just stepped up to clear their plates when a flicker of movement caught Vanderveen’s attention. A man in a gray suit and green tie was taking a seat on the other side of an enormous concrete planter, which, at this time of year, was filled with nothing more than sandy soil and cigarette butts. The newcomer placed his briefcase down by his feet, unfolded his paper, and signaled the waitress. Seeing this, Vanderveen leaned back in his seat and looked at Raseen.

  “You might as well make yourself comfortable,” he said. “I think we’re going to be here a while.”

  An hour slipped past. Raseen ordered a basket of scones as the surrounding tables started to fill, despite the overcast skies. Vanderveen both welcomed and despised the lunch-hour crowd, which was made up of weary tourists, well-groomed clerks from the Strand, and government workers from Somerset House. The other patrons helped them to blend in, but also made it much harder to detect surveillance.

  He had been watching closely since they boarded the ferry in France, and felt reasonably sure they had not been followed. Unfortunately, he could not say the same for the courier. To make matters worse, he was struck by the same tingling sensation he’d felt the previous night in Calais. His instincts were telling him something was wrong, and yet, he had no choice but to go forward with the meet. If they pulled out now, they would lose valuable hours—even days—setting up a second attempt. That was time they just didn’t have. More to the point, al-Douri might begin to question his commitment, and he would undoubtedly forfeit the second half of his fee. Vanderveen had no intention of letting that happen.

  Finally, the man in the gray suit called for the check. Vanderveen didn’t need to follow suit; he had already paid for their meal. From the corner of his eye, he watched as the courier stood, collected his briefcase, and left the terrace. He was clearly visible for some time as he moved northwest through the little park, heading toward the Strand. Once he was nearly out of sight, Vanderveen rose to his feet and slipped a few pounds under an empty glass. Raseen took his arm, and they left the terrace in turn, following at a discreet distance.

  The Strand, running from the west end of Fleet Street to Trafalgar Square, the site of the National Gallery, is one of the busiest streets in London. In a city with nearly 8 million inhabitants, “busy” can be a very misleading term. Although the Strand was home to a wide variety of shops, theatres, and restaurants, the congestive vehicular traffic should have done much to dissuade tourists, Vanderveen thought. Nevertheless, the street was completely packed. If there was any surveillance in place, it would be almost impossible to spot. It was this fact that was troubling him as he walked northeast with the flow, Raseen’s arm tucked loosely beneath his own. The man in the gray suit was 30 feet ahead of them, his dark head weaving in and out of sight. There was a constant din: the sound of rushing feet as pedestrians swept past, jabbering into their cell phones; the noise spilling from the open doors of the restaurants and pubs; and the steady rumble of traffic a few feet to their left. Exhaust poured over the sidewalk in a thick, constant cloud, but nobody seemed to notice. When a sound emanated from the folds of Raseen’s new coat, it took her a few seconds to realize her phone was ringing. She pulled it out with a puzzled expression. “Hello?”

  She handed it over, and Vanderveen lifted the phone to his ear. “Do you know the Savoy?”

  The voice bore the crisp, upper-class diction of Eton or Sandhurst, which was fitting; the Savoy was one of London’s oldest and finest hotels, located only a few blocks away, close to the river. “Yes.”

  “I need to collect a package at the concierge. Wait in the bar for twenty minutes, then head upstairs. Room 508. The desk will call up for you.”

  Vanderveen hesitated before realizing he could use any name he wished. The clerk would not ask for identification, just the number of the room he wanted to call. “Agreed. Twenty minutes.”

  The phone went dead, and he handed it back to Raseen. “You should have told me you gave him the number,” she whispered reprovingly. “I was going to get rid of that phone yesterday.”

  “We’ll dump it before we leave the city.”

  “What did he say?”

  He relayed the instructions, hesitated, then spoke his mind. “What do you think?”

  “I don’t know.” Her voice dropped a notch, and she leaned in close, switching to French. “Something doesn’t seem right. It’s nothing I can see, but still…”

  Vanderveen nodded uneasily. He slowed and stepped to the right, pretending to examine a shop window as people brushed past on the sidewalk. The overcast skies caused the window to act like a mirror, reflecting everything behind them. They stayed that way for about twenty seconds, looking for anything too familiar, ignoring the bright display of fall fashions. Raseen, looking deeply, deeply into the makeshift mirror, suddenly spoke up. “Green Opel. Right behind you.”

  Vanderveen tracked the car in the glass, straining to see through the slight gaps in the passing crowd. The small, two-door sedan was moving in the same direction they were, but apart from that, there was nothing unusual about it. There was one occupant—an older male, from what he could see. The vehicle was moving at a steady clip, and it passed from view a few seconds later, followed by a battered white van and a Renault hatchback.

  He turned to find Raseen had worked her way to the edge of the street and was staring after the Opel. As he moved next to her, she said, “I saw the license the first time…R313 CVG.”

  “The first time?”

  “The same car passed us about a minute ago. It was going in the same direction.”

  He had not seen her look for it, and she had been on his right arm, farthest from the street. “You’re sure?”

  “Yes, of course.” Her voice was insistent, but it caught at the end. “I’m almost certain. One older man in the driver’s seat, no passengers. He’s wearing a blue shirt, I think, but that doesn’t matter. It’s the same car.”

  Vanderveen kept walking, wondering how she could have seen all that, given the speed of the passing traffic. She followed reluctantly. “Maybe he’s lost,” he said.

  “He must have been driving very fast to make it around the block that quickly,” she replied doubtfully, her mouth very close to his ear. “I know what I saw. We’re being followed.”

  The whispered words sent a chill down his spine. He cast off the doubt and tried to think it through. What had she really seen? There was just one car. If they were using more than one vehicle, they wouldn’t have stood out so easily. On the other
hand, there might be watchers on foot, rotating in and out of the lead position. If that was the case, they wouldn’t know until the trap was sprung.

  Still, something didn’t make sense. The only place they could have been picked out was at customs in Dover, and if that had happened, they would have been arrested on the spot. The Security Service wouldn’t wait and risk losing its quarry. Neither would the Special Branch, and they certainly wouldn’t attempt to apprehend their targets on a busy London street, where hostages were plentiful.

  So if there was surveillance, Vanderveen realized, it was focused on the man they were planning to meet in less than thirty minutes. The realization filled him with a strange combination of apprehension, anger, and relief.

  They passed a group of noisy teenage boys lounging in the doorway of a Pizza Hut. The young men stopped joking around to leer at Raseen as she walked past, but she was oblivious, her face troubled. Vanderveen waited patiently, giving her time to reach her own conclusion. As they continued walking, the restaurants started to fade away, to be replaced by the historic, weathered stone façades of the West End’s theatre district. Finally, she leaned in and said, “It’s not us. They would have moved in already, Will. They would have arrested us in Dover.”

  “I agree.”

  “Then we can’t make the meet,” she said, stating the obvious.

  Vanderveen felt something cold and wet hit his hand, then his face, the drops coming down in rapid succession. The people passing by seemed to take it in stride. Umbrellas appeared out of nowhere, springing up into view like the bulbs in a flowering field. Raseen huddled close and pulled her hood over her dark head. “What are we going to do?” she asked, her voice muffled by the waterproof fabric in front of her face.

  He thought for a moment, weighing the risks. One car meant they were watching the man in the gray suit, but they weren’t ready to move. Pulling out was not an option; he couldn’t afford to wait. It was worth the stretch.