Andrew Britton Bundle

by Andrew Britton

  “We’re going ahead with it. Just stay on your toes, and be ready to do what I say.”

  Five minutes after Vanderveen and Raseen entered the lobby of the Savoy, the green Opel sedan shuddered to a halt on Southampton, a narrow road feeding into the Strand from the north. Ian Haines, the man in the driver’s seat, picked a Starbucks container out of the holder between the seats, shook the empty cup, and scowled. Cracking a window, he unbuttoned his blue flannel shirt, pulled it off, and tossed it into the backseat. Underneath, he was wearing a plain gray T-shirt. The rain was starting to come harder now, rattling against the windshield as he thumbed the TRANSMIT button on his two-way radio. “Mike, what do you have?”

  A hiss of static, then, “Nothing at the moment. I’ve got eyes on the front of the building.”

  “Good. You get anything useful?”

  Mike Scott was easily the best photographer in the unit. He ran his own successful business on the side, shooting family portraits out of a small studio on the east end of Fleet Street. “I got him from both sides of the road. Kind of hard to pick out his face in the crowd, but I think we’ll end up with some usable shots.” A pause, then the other man said, “I’m bloody soaking out here.”

  Haines chuckled mildly. “Our relief shows up in an hour. You can hang on ’til then, right?”

  “Whatever you say, mate. You’re the boss.”

  Haines laughed again at the inside joke. He and Scott had worked together for six years, yet strangely enough, neither man knew where the other fell on the government pay scale. Both had served in the British Army, Scott with the Blues and Royals, Haines with the 2nd Battalion of the famed Parachute Regiment. Scott was by far the younger of the two, having left his unit as a corporal in ’98. Haines, on the other hand, finished two tours in Northern Ireland during the late seventies, then went to the Falklands to play his part in the brief war with Argentina. He nearly applied to the Special Air Service—God knows his commanding officer had suggested it often enough—but more than a decade of sustained, bloody combat was enough for the young sergeant.

  Instead, Haines decided to get out altogether, leaving the regiment in ’84. After years of mediocre, unsatisfying jobs, he decided to apply for a position with the Security Service, otherwise known as MI5. The Service was primarily tasked with countering terrorist activity, both at home and abroad. He wasn’t expecting much, considering he’d never attended university. Much to his surprise, he was vetted after an intensive screening process and assigned to a mobile surveillance unit.

  Haines took to the work immediately; his only regret was that he hadn’t applied sooner. The work was interesting, the scenery changed, and the job was not as physically challenging as he’d been led to believe. After his time with 2 PARA, everything else was easy by comparison, including the seventy-five-day training course the Service had put him through. Even now, at fifty-two years of age, Haines was by no means the oldest member of the unit. Watchers came in all shapes and sizes, and for good reason. Variety made a good surveillance team almost impossible to spot.

  Looking over to the passenger seat, Haines lifted his copy of the Times and stared at the full-color photograph underneath. Generally speaking, members of the mobile surveillance unit were given very little information about the people they were assigned to track. Such was the case here; with respect to the man they were trailing now, Haines knew only the basics. Samir al-Askari was twenty-seven years old, a graduate of Eton College and the London School of Business. Currently, he was an account manager for the Export & Finance Bank in Amman; for this reason, he had been assigned the code name “Banker.” He had flown into Heathrow that morning on a Jordanian passport, and was immediately picked up by one of the watchers who staffed MI5’s airport office. Interestingly enough, the watch list that named al-Askari had been generated by MI6, but it fell to the Security Service to keep tabs on him on British soil. Haines wasn’t sure how al-Askari had earned himself a following, but to be honest, he didn’t really care. All they had to do was keep track of him until the relief showed up, and then they could get an early jump on the weekend.

  Haines glanced at his watch, then ran a hand through his iron gray hair. Fifty minutes to go.

  They had used their time in the lobby efficiently. The shop on the ground floor offered a small selection of exorbitantly priced clothing, most of it bearing the Savoy logo. After a few minutes of searching, Vanderveen managed to find a plain navy ball cap and a black windbreaker, which he brought to the counter. Raseen picked out a bright red anorak with a detachable hood. Vanderveen frowned at the color, but there wasn’t much else to choose from. Once he had paid, they made their way up to the fifth floor. Raseen tapped lightly on the door. It swung open, and they stepped inside.

  Vanderveen moved into the room and looked around quickly, vaguely taking note of the cream-colored walls, dark wood, and opulent furnishings. The door from the hall opened into a small sitting room. Passing through, he poked his head into the bedroom, finding it empty. Closing the door, he turned and walked to the rain-streaked windows, where he pulled the drapes shut, blocking out an impressive view of the Thames and the South Bank. Then he opened the credenza, turned on the television, and upped the volume to a dull roar. Finally, he flicked on the lights and turned back to their host.

  The courier had been watching all of this with a slight smile on his dark, narrow face, as if amused by the American’s paranoia. Vanderveen was instantly annoyed; everything he had just done was based on common sense, and it should have already been taken care of. His mind was still locked on the car Raseen had pointed out, and the courier’s seemingly lax attitude was doing nothing to improve his disposition.

  “What do I call you?”

  The courier shrugged. He had removed his suit jacket and loosened his tie. “It doesn’t really matter, does it? I suppose you can call me Khalil.”

  “You have what I asked for?”

  “Of course.” He pointed toward the desk facing the windows. The black briefcase was on top, along with a large brown envelope and the torn remains of a FedEx overnight box.

  Walking over, Vanderveen picked up the envelope and withdrew the contents. The first ten pages were typed. These would be notes thoroughly detailing the Austrian’s security measures. Setting them aside for the moment, he picked out a stack of 8 x 10s. Each full-color photograph was taken from a different angle, though they all depicted the same building. Finally, he got to the last two shots. One bore the image of Rühmann’s assistant. The other was a picture of Thomas Rühmann himself, obviously taken from a distance, but with a high-quality telescopic lens. The image resolution was remarkably clear.

  “What’s in the case?”

  “Nothing. Just a few earnings reports to satisfy customs at Heathrow.”

  “Have you examined this file?”

  “Of course,” Khalil repeated. The knowing smirk returned to his face. “Who do you think took the pictures? I was ordered to compile an extensive dossier when we first entered into our relationship with Mr. Rühmann. You see, a group such as ours has to be prepared for all eventualities. As I’m sure you know, Mr. Vanderveen, information is the greatest commodity of all.”

  Vanderveen’s head shot up, his eyes boring into those of the man standing 4 feet away. He could not disguise his astonishment, and as the seconds ticked past, it was a struggle to keep his control from slipping away…This man, this courier, who in all probability was being watched by the Security Service, knew his real name and his next target. Looking over to Raseen, he could see that she was equally stunned.

  Khalil, misreading their shared expression, raised his hands in a placating gesture. “Please, don’t be alarmed. I’m only here to help. I’m flying back to Amman tomorrow morning, and once I board that plane, you will never see me again. But as I’m here, I have something else for you. Look in the newspaper. It’s on that chair over there.”

  Raseen was closest. Picking it up, she flipped through the large pages awkwardly unti
l a single, smaller sheet slipped to the floor. She picked it up, turned it over, and froze.

  “What is it?” Vanderveen asked, struggling to keep his voice even.

  Raseen looked up, her face stricken. “It’s you.”

  He motioned silently, and she walked over, handing him the sheet. Vanderveen didn’t need to read the fine print to know what it was; the header said everything, as did the photograph.

  He studied it carefully, though he recognized the picture instantly. It had been taken ten years earlier during his army service. He scanned the text, looking for the distribution date. When he found it, his chest tightened, and a jolt of anxiety passed through his body; the Red Notice—an international arrest warrant—had been issued by Interpol a full two weeks earlier.

  “Every airport in Western Europe has one of those,” Khalil said quietly. The airy attitude was gone, and his face had settled into a grim expression. “Both commercial and private, along with most of the major hubs in South America, Africa, and the Middle East. The information was being tightly held until a few days ago, but somebody made the decision to give it wider distribution, which is how we learned about it. England is no longer safe for you. MI5 has watchers at train stations and ferry crossings. It’s a miracle you weren’t picked up this morning…As it stands, you look exactly like the picture. You have to change passports as soon as possible.”

  Vanderveen barely heard a word, still trying to wrap his mind around this newest development. His most recent information indicated that the U.S. government believed he was dead. Dead for the past year, drowned in the Atlantic, off the coast of Maine. Something had happened in the past couple of weeks to change that, something that even his contact in Washington didn’t know about.

  Then something else occurred to him. Lifting the sheet, he said, “You had the newspaper at the café. Have you been carrying this around all day?”

  “Yes. I didn’t want to leave it lying around for a maid to find.” Khalil paused uncomfortably, then said, “There’s more, I’m afraid. You’ve been placed on the 1267 Committee List. I have the documentation, if you want to see it.”

  Raseen had taken a seat next to the windows, looking distinctly unhappy. Turning toward them, she said, “Committee List? What is that?”

  Khalil was the one to explain as he handed Vanderveen the relevant paperwork. “The 1267 Committee,” he began, “was created under a UN resolution in 1999. Its sole purpose is to enforce sanctions that have already been imposed by the Security Council. The sanctions are limited to people and companies controlled by the Taliban, al-Qaeda, and Osama bin Laden, and the Committee List is simply a list of everyone who falls under that designation. Individually speaking, the sanctions are used to restrict travel and seize assets….”

  The courier was clearly enjoying his little recital. In the meantime, Vanderveen had found his name on the last page of the 1267. He was flanked by a senior lieutenant to bin Laden and a Moroccan financier being detained in Italy. He read through the entry quickly.

  204. *Name: 1: WILLIAM 2: PAULIN 3: VANDERVEEN 4: na

  Title: na Designation: na DOB: 6 July 1966 POB: Piet Retief, South Africa *Good quality aka: a) Jason March b) Nathan Camden c) Joseph O’Donnell, born 1 Dec. 1968 Low quality aka: “the American” *Nationality: South African *Passport no.: a) Counterfeit Danish driving license no. 20378893, made out to Michael Jørgensen b) Swiss birth certificate, issued for Ernst Baumann, born on 24 Sept. 1968 in Lausanne c) German travel document (“Reiseausweise”) A 0064881 National identification no.: SSN: 438-91-5391 (U.S.A.) Address: na *Listed on: 08 Sep. 2008 *Other information: Reportedly killed in November 2007 in the United States (amended on 07 Sep. 2008)

  When he reached the end, he set down the document and ran a hand over his face, thinking it through. He was slightly relieved. Almost all of the information Interpol and the Security Council had compiled was worthless. He had discarded the German papers in 2004 after using them once. The same was true of the Swiss and Danish documents, and he had ceased to be Jason March eight years earlier in Syria. Somehow, they had managed to verify his involvement with Al-Qaeda, but that was old news. The aliases, while accurate, were severely outdated. Still, seeing his name on a document of this nature was hardly reassuring, and the tables had undoubtedly turned. The opposition knew he was alive, and that took away his greatest advantage. Khalil was right; he had to change passports—and his appearance—at the earliest opportunity.

  “I don’t understand,” Raseen was saying. “Why would they issue a Red Notice and put you on the 1267? Isn’t that sort of…redundant?”

  “No,” Vanderveen replied. “In fact, it makes perfect sense. Wider distribution means more attention. In a way, they’re simply covering their bets.”

  Raseen suddenly went rigid in her seat. “Can I see the list?”

  He handed it over and watched as she sped through the pages. It was interesting that she wanted to check for her name, Vanderveen thought. At the very least, it meant that she had worked directly with Al-Qaeda at some point in the past.

  Finally, she seemed to heave a sigh of relief and slumped back into the chair. Apart from their strange encounter the previous night, it was the most emotion he had seen her exhibit since their first meeting in Paris.

  “Good,” Vanderveen said. His satisfaction was genuine. “At least one of us can move freely. You may need to take on a larger role when we get to New York.”

  Khalil nodded slowly. “Everything is working as expected. The Iranian—that is, the informant in New York—has performed admirably. He has convinced even the senior members of the FBI, and they are undoubtedly working to sway the president. Moreover, the meeting at the UN has been finalized. It will take place on the expected date and time. The specifics will be sent to you once you arrive in the city, which will be…”

  “In three days’ time,” Vanderveen said. “Barring any unforeseen complications. Are you sure that Rühmann is still in Berlin? He hasn’t been warned?”

  “He’s still there, but he knows you’re coming.”

  Vanderveen looked up sharply. “What?”

  “I informed him that you wished to discuss the arrangements in person,” Khalil clarified. “Anywhere in Western Europe. He was reluctant, but agreed after I threatened to terminate our business arrangement. As you know, he’s earned a great deal of money through our organization.”

  Vanderveen nodded slowly. Using cutouts such as Anthony Mason, Thomas Rühmann had provided more than fifty tons of small arms to the Sunni insurgency over the past six months. Nearly all of the weapons were currently being stored across the border in Syria. The day before the Iraqi delegation was to be taken out in New York, the weapons would be distributed to Sunni insurgents and Syrian-based members of Hamas and Hezbollah. Appropriate targets in the western provinces of Iraq had already been selected by Izzat al-Douri and members of his senior staff. With the Iraqi Parliament in complete disarray, the wave of attacks would have a profound effect, further devastating the integrity of the government and creating a vacuum of power. At least, this was what al-Douri and his advisors anticipated. Vanderveen had his doubts, but he had his own reasons for going forward with the plan; namely, money and the chance to launch a devastating attack on U.S. soil.

  “Rühmann will meet you tomorrow in Potsdam,” Khalil continued. “Three PM at the Brandenburg Gate. The details are in the envelope, and you’ve already seen the pictures. Needless to say, he can’t be allowed to live. We have more than enough weapons for the upcoming offensive, and Hamas will supply a good deal of their own. At this point, the Austrian is more of a liability than an asset.”

  “I understand that,” Vanderveen replied coldly. It had been his suggestion to kill the man in the first place. “What about the other materials I requested?”

  “Yes, an interesting list,” Khalil murmured. He could barely be heard over the roar of the television. “A very interesting list. I can understand the handguns, but why do you need a long-range weapon?
Why do you need explosives?”

  “That is not your concern.” Vanderveen had asked for a quick description of Rühmann’s residence in Berlin the previous night. The list of items he’d requested was based on what he’d been told. “Can you supply them or not?”

  “Yes. There is a man waiting to meet you now. Do you know the city well?”

  “Well enough.”

  “Take a taxi to the British Museum, then another to Charing Cross. Hold on to the phone, and I’ll call you in ten minutes to give you further instructions. A car is waiting to meet us, but it’s best if we leave here separately. It’s also better to take different routes. Once we reach the final destination, he will supply what you asked for.”

  “That doesn’t help at all,” Raseen said. Her unsettling gaze was locked on the courier. “How are we supposed to get the explosives from here to Germany? We can’t exactly take them through customs, you know.”

  “I understand that,” Khalil replied. “And so does the supplier.” His voice was tight; clearly, he was sorely tempted to put Raseen in her place. That he could not bring himself to do it said much about the woman’s place in the organization, Vanderveen thought. It was yet another indication of how important she actually was.

  “This man has a way to bring the explosives and the weapons into Germany by boat. He’ll explain it to you once you’ve examined the goods. Is that satisfactory?”

  There was an edge of sarcasm there, but Vanderveen ignored it, nodding his agreement. “When are we supposed to meet him?”

  Khalil looked at his watch. It was a flashy Breitling chronograph, perfect for drawing unwanted attention. “In less than an hour, so we’d better be going. Are you ready to leave?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good. I’ll just be a minute.”

  Khalil walked into the bathroom and shut the door. A few seconds later, they could hear him urinating noisily.