Andrew Britton Bundle

by Andrew Britton

  Raseen was out of her chair in an instant. Moving close, she rested a light hand on his chest and whispered urgently into his ear. “The Security Service may have your picture, Will, but they have this man in their sights right now. He knows your name, and he knows about Rühmann. He knows too much. You have to kill him. It means forfeiting the explosives, I know, but there’s no other choice.”

  Vanderveen turned his face into her fragrant hair, lowering his voice to a murmur. “I agree, but losing the gear means changing the plan, and it’s a little bit late in the game for that.”

  Her eyes drifted away for a moment, and then she snapped back to reality. “I might be able to get what we need, but I’ll have to place a few calls.”

  “You have a supplier in Germany?”

  “Yes. I worked with a man in Dresden three years ago. If he’s still active, he should be able to meet our needs.”

  He looked at her, questioning. This was the first time she had mentioned another possibility, a contact of her own. The information would have been useful earlier, but there was no point in getting into that now. “Okay. We’ll follow him out, but then I want you to walk away. Don’t go too far, and keep the phone…I’ll call you once it’s done.”

  “Very well.” She was about to say something else, but the courier was back in the room, reaching for his suit jacket. He pulled it on, grabbed the black case, and moved to the door. Vanderveen replaced the documents, sealed the envelope, and slipped it under his coat before following them out.

  They left the hotel separately, as instructed. Khalil was the first to depart, nodding politely to the doorman as he stepped out into the rain. Raseen followed two minutes later, wearing the bright red anorak. As she approached the doors, she pulled the hood over her head and shot the doorman a little smile, which he eagerly returned. Vanderveen was wearing the black windbreaker, the ball cap pulled low over his blond hair. Raseen took a right after leaving the building, heading back down toward the Embankment, but Vanderveen crossed Savoy Street, poked around a newsstand for half a minute, then walked quickly back down the Strand.

  He already knew why the courier had asked them to take a taxi. The British Museum was well out of the way, and the unnecessarily long trip could only mean that he intended to reach Charing Cross on foot. The station was located on the other end of the Strand, and if they had followed his instructions, they would have arrived at roughly the same time. Vanderveen’s suspicions were confirmed after a short while, when he again spotted the dark head of the man named Khalil weaving in and out of the crowd.

  At least, it looked like the same man. Vanderveen knew he would have to get closer to make a positive identification, but he had done this kind of thing before, and he trusted his instincts. He was getting ready to close the gap when the courier solved the problem for him, pausing to examine a window display of expensive watches. A little break in the crowd gave Vanderveen a clear view of the other man’s profile. It wasn’t much, but enough to make a solid ID, and there was the last piece of evidence: the black case, dangling loosely from his right hand. The gap suddenly closed, obscuring the view. The street was no less busy now that the lunch hour was over, a great rush of humanity sweeping by on the sidewalk. The rain had started to clear a little as well, a few errant drops angling down from the low gray clouds.

  He kept moving, letting the crowd carry him forward. Having spotted the courier, Vanderveen was now looking hard for signs of surveillance. The green Opel appeared on schedule, and this time, he got a good look at the license plate. He was slightly chilled to see that Raseen had been right; it was the same car. The sedan passed him once more in the space of five minutes, but it was the only visible sign. Vanderveen couldn’t pick out any familiar faces on foot, but that didn’t mean a thing; he could be surrounded by watchers and never know it. Unfortunately, he couldn’t drop back in the hopes of picking them out; Charing Cross was less than five minutes away. If he was going to act, it had to be now.

  The courier was 30 feet ahead of him. He picked up the pace, closing the distance rapidly.

  In the driver’s seat of the Opel, Ian Haines leaned on the horn, angrily scanning the traffic that was currently snarled along Maiden Lane. The rain had started to slow, so he flicked off the wipers and leaned back in the seat, where he took a deep breath and tried to resign himself to a long wait. He still couldn’t believe the Arab had decided to leave the hotel before the shift change. The fucking nerve of these people…If the inconsiderate bastard had stayed in his room for another five minutes, they would have had time to move the next team into position. Unfortunately, it hadn’t worked out that way. Now they could easily end up spending the next several hours trailing him around the city, just waiting for an opportunity to switch out the surveillance teams. Judging by the terse, humorless transmissions coming over the radio, Scott was just as unhappy with the situation as he was.

  “Ian, he’s still moving southwest on the Strand. Where the hell are you?”

  “Maiden Lane. Some kind of accident…Christ, I don’t know. Any idea where he’s going?”

  A crackle of static, then, “Your guess is as good as mine, mate. But I’ll tell you one thing. If he gets on the tube, we’re fucked.”

  “Got that right,” Haines muttered to himself. In spite of the situation, he could console himself with one fact: if they ended up losing Banker, it probably wouldn’t mean much to the people in charge of “A” Branch, Section 4 at Thames House. After all, he reasoned, the man couldn’t be that important; if he was, a full team would have been tasked with trailing him. Then again, that might have been wishful thinking on his part. Haines knew the Service was spread too thin on the ground, despite the constant threat of terrorist activity and a marked upsurge in public interest following the London bombings of July 7, 2005. Manpower wasn’t the only problem, either. The Service was also badly in need of additional funding; the annual budget, which was shared with MI6 and the Government Communications Headquarters (GCHQ), had risen a scant 250 million pounds over the past year. At the same time, expectations had risen tenfold.

  Yet another impediment was the public’s ignorance when it came to matters of national security. Many people tended to forget that MI5 had no arrest powers, which meant that it was entirely dependent on actual government entities, such as Special Branch, to act on domestic intelligence. Haines had learned firsthand how hard it was to let others take the credit after months of thankless surveillance, but generally speaking, he didn’t mind operating in the shadows, and he didn’t mind the hard work…at least not most of the time. Right now, however, he wanted nothing more than to get on with the weekend; the Temple Bar was calling his name. He shifted in his seat wearily. If the little shit would just sit down for a meal somewhere, they could bring in the next shift and get this over with….

  Haines was jolted out of his daydream by a horn blared from behind. The traffic had cleared up ahead. Easing his foot off the clutch, he rolled forward and turned onto Southampton. Twenty seconds later, he stopped at another light, ready to make the right turn onto the Strand. He had just finished relaying his position to Scott when the light turned green, and he swung onto the busy street for the fifth time that day.

  Vanderveen had closed to within 5 feet. Everything else had fallen away: the jostling crowd, the cacophony of voices, and the constant roar of the cars sweeping by. All he could see was the man named Khalil: the elegant cut of his Savile Row suit, the attaché dangling from his right hand, the hair curling over the back of his collar. He had stopped somewhere to purchase an umbrella, a lime green monstrosity, which was now bobbing over his head. If he had put it up earlier, it would have made Vanderveen’s task much easier, but the rain was only now starting to increase in tempo and force.

  He paused to sweep some water out of his eyes. The courier, clearly accustomed to large cities, was an expert at navigating the packed sidewalk, sliding from left to right, avoiding the crowd with surprising grace and agility. Vanderveen realized he was
falling behind. Adjusting his pace, he looked to the left, waiting for the right moment. The vehicular traffic was moving far too fast for these narrow roads. The city officials seemed to have considered this inevitable, as their preventative measures were mostly passive. Police constables were positioned at the major crosswalks, and white letters on the cement warned tourists to “look right.” Khalil was passing one of the crossings now, and with a start, Vanderveen realized that they were drawing close to Villiers Street. The entrance to the station at Charing Cross was less than two blocks away.

  As if reading his mind, the courier dipped a hand into his suit jacket and came up with a cell phone. He held it in front of his body as he dialed, obscuring Vanderveen’s view. Then he lifted it to his ear. Vanderveen looked past his target, checking the road. Traffic was hurtling past him at full speed. Coming up were a white Rover sedan, a Renault wagon, a black cab, and beyond that, a double-decker bus. Khalil stepped to his left to avoid an elderly woman with an armful of bags, and Vanderveen seized the chance. Coming up on the courier’s right side, he let the Rover go racing past, along with the Renault and then the cab. Khalil, with the phone raised to his ear, was giving Raseen instructions when his head turned to the right and his eyes went wide. At the moment of recognition, Vanderveen used both arms to shove him as hard as he could, directly into the path of the bus. Then he turned and disappeared into the crowd as the brakes squealed and the screams rose behind him.

  “Fucking hell!”

  Haines swore viciously and slammed on the brakes as the cars fishtailed in front of him. Craning his neck, he could see people running toward a double-decker bus. The vehicle was three cars ahead of his own, and every instinct he had told him that this was relevant. Pulling out his earpiece, he turned off the ignition and got out of the car, jogging toward the commotion. As he approached, he could see a few people stumbling away from the scene, their faces white, eyes wide in shock. To his right, a young woman was bent over at the waist, vomiting noisily onto the pavement. Her friend, looking nearly as sick, was standing by her side, rubbing her back and murmuring calming words.

  Pulling his eyes away from this strange scene, Haines skirted another car and pushed to the front of the building crowd. An older man in uniform was standing front and center, hands wrapped in his ginger hair. He was screaming something that didn’t make sense. Listening closely, Haines heard a few words cutting through the hysterical rant: “…wasn’t my fault. I swear to God, it wasn’t my fault. They just fell right into the road. You all saw it….”

  And then he saw the front of the bus.

  It looked as if somebody had splashed red paint all over the grill. Despite the obvious signs, it took him a few seconds to realize what had happened. His eyes involuntarily moved down to the wheels, and he saw the twisted remains of a human body, part of it wrapped up in the axle, the rest scattered along the street. Moving forward, Haines caught sight of another body, that of a teenage boy. He was lying behind and to the right of the bus, his limbs broken and resting at strange angles. A middle-aged woman—presumably the mother—was draped over the lifeless form, sobbing uncontrollably. As he watched, a pair of police constables moved out of the crowd. One went to the woman, gently lifting her up and away from her son, while the other started ordering people back from the scene of the accident. Haines felt somebody tap his arm, and he turned. It was Scott. His animated expression was difficult to read; there were equal measures of horror and excitement on his young, unlined face.

  “Did you see it?”

  “No,” Haines replied slowly. “Did you?”

  Scott grabbed his arm and pulled him away from the crowd. People were milling about, talking in low, horrified tones, and it was difficult to hear over the babble of voices. When they were far enough away, the younger man said, “I saw it all. Christ, I was right behind the poor bastard when it happened. The driver dragged him halfway down the fuckin’ road before he had the sense to stop.”

  Haines did not respond. All he could think about was the woman hunched over her son’s body; he couldn’t get her anguished face out of his mind. Finally, the words leaked into his head. “What happened?”

  “He was pushed. I—”

  “Pushed? Are you sure?”

  Scott nodded firmly. “Like I said, I saw it clear as day. The kid was just in the way. Wrong bloody place and time, is all, but the Arab was definitely pushed. It was deliberate as hell.”

  Haines allowed himself to be dragged along, still thinking about the woman. He couldn’t understand his reaction, as he had seen much worse in his years with 2 PARA. He had seen men torn apart by machine gun fire on a shingle beach in the Falklands, the aftermath of a mortar attack during the Battle of Goose Green, and the destruction caused by a pair of massive bombs in Warrenpoint, Northern Ireland. In that incident, both the primary and secondary devices had been strategically placed on a dual carriageway near the border. The bombing claimed the lives of 18 men in Haines’s regiment. He had been among the first to arrive on the scene—indeed, he had nearly been killed by the secondary blast—but it all seemed like a distant memory. More to the point, it had been war, and the people who’d died were trained soldiers, brave men who knew the risks. None of it seemed as bad as the stunned look of shock and despair he had just witnessed, and even now, just minutes after turning his back on the scene, he knew he’d be seeing the woman’s face in his dreams for years to come.

  “Who pushed him? Why didn’t you follow?”

  “The crowd closed up right away, and I lost him in the confusion,” Scott replied. “I didn’t see much, anyway. He was wearing a baseball cap and a black jacket, and I think he was blond, but I couldn’t swear to it….”

  Scott continued to relay what he’d seen as they turned off the Strand. Soon they were moving northeast on Chandos Place, heading toward Bedford Street. “What about the car?” Haines asked.

  “Fuck the car. No one’s getting off that street for at least an hour, mate. We have to get back and make a report. Robeson won’t be happy, but if you ask me, there wasn’t a damn thing we could’ve done to—”

  “The pictures.”

  Scott turned. “What?”

  “The pictures,” Haines repeated. “You’ve got shots of our man, right? Whoever shoved him in front of that bus will be in the background.”

  “Jesus, you’re right.” The young watcher thought for a minute, then shook his head. “No, I don’t think it’ll work. You saw how busy the street was…There’s no way we’ll be able to pick him out. I didn’t even get that good a look.”

  “Maybe not, but that falls to the techs, not us. If there’s anything there, they’ll find it.”

  A Vauxhall sedan pulled up to the curb, and Scott said, “That’s us. I called before you arrived on the scene.”

  Haines moved toward the back of the car, pulled open the door, and got in. Scott found a seat in the front and tapped the driver’s arm. “Let’s go.”

  CHAPTER 34

  LANGLEY, VIRGINIA

  It was just after 2:00 in the afternoon as Jonathan Harper reluctantly entered the room on the seventh floor of the OHB at Langley, pulling the door shut behind him. The sound of the secretary’s typing was blocked out instantly, replaced by an uneasy silence. He had expected the summons, but as he crossed the deep pile carpet, there was something about the resigned look on the director’s face that threw him off-guard. He had expected anger, bluster, and shouted accusations from the start. Anything but this quiet, restrained anger.

  Rachel Ford’s demeanor was much easier to read. She was staring at him intently from the seat opposite his. Her mouth was set in a straight, thin line, her eyes glittering dangerously behind a pair of elegant reading glasses. Her presence could only mean one thing: she had been brought up to date on the contents of Anthony Mason’s hard drive, and she had learned about the previous day’s meeting at the White House.

  It had been Harper’s decision to keep her out of the briefing, based on Kealey’s req
uest. He had called in every favor he could to keep Science and Technology out of the loop, as Roger Davidson, the head of the directorate, was one of Ford’s staunchest supporters. Harper had then persuaded Andrews to go along with the idea, based on the fact that somebody had slipped the Bureau information about the laptop’s whereabouts. Harper had pointed out Ford’s relationship to Samantha Crane, the FBI agent tasked with the raid in Alexandria, and the subsequent accusations she had leveled at Kealey. This evidence, while extremely circumstantial, was enough to convince the director to keep Ford out of the way, at least temporarily. It now appeared Andrews had changed his mind; otherwise, the deputy DCI would not be present.

  Harper took the proffered chair and ignored Rachel Ford’s unwavering stare. Instead, he looked past the large mahogany desk as the DCI arranged a few loose papers. It was midday; through the large, soundproof windows, pale sunlight flitted over the tops of the trees. It was a pleasant scene, but hardly fitting. An autumn gale would have been more appropriate to the dark, strained mood that enveloped the room.

  Finally, Andrews looked up and appraised his guest. “So, have you seen him yet?”

  The opening question was not what Harper expected, but he recovered quickly. “Yes, I saw him this morning.”

  “And how bad is the wound?”

  “Not bad, but painful…You can tell just from looking at it. The bullet scraped a rib and left a nasty gouge. He’s lucky as hell. A few inches to the right and he never would have made it out of the building.”

  “And this situation would be much worse,” Andrews added, running a tired hand over his face. He leaned back in his chair. “Of course, it’s already a complete disaster. Worse would be…well, unthinkable. What happened out there?”

  Harper cleared his throat, bracing himself for the coming storm. “I can’t say for sure. What I do know is that we have a location for Thomas Rühmann. He’s living in Berlin under the name Walter Schäuble. If we move quickly—”