by David Archer
* * * * *
Charles Wimbley was a good operative, and he knew it. He’d started out in the Royal Navy, first as a common sailor, then finding himself tapped for some intelligence work because of a proficiency for languages. After his third tour of duty, as he was preparing to reenlist once again, he received a visit from a young lady who suggested his skills and experience might be better put to use in the SIS.
The thought of becoming an actual secret agent intrigued him; he had accepted the offer and had never regretted the choice.
His first few years had been spent on various forays into the Middle East, where his fluency in several different dialects made him almost invaluable. He had served as an interrogator, an interpreter, a propagandist, and in other capacities, but he had excelled in recruiting. He had the kind of affable personality that people tended to like, and often found it fairly easy to turn a potential enemy into a friend, and then into a double agent.
Since his return to England, he had put those same skills to use in cultivating sources of information. He could make himself comfortable in just about any setting, and the large influx of immigrants from traditionally Muslim nations had provided him with a large source of potential sources. Because he could speak from experience of his time in these various countries, and could often regale his contacts with stories of people they knew, at least by reputation, it wasn’t difficult for him to earn a healthy amount of respect in the various communities. As a result, he had one of the best informant networks in the entire agency.
The evening before, while everyone else was trying to rest and think of what to do, Charles had gone out looking for information about Tushar Balakrishnan. Quite a few of his sources had heard the name, but none seemed to know the man personally or even want to know much about him. After several hours of dropping into various Muslim-owned businesses, he had just about been ready to give up and go home for the night when a restaurant owner named Ahmad Sadiq had slipped him a note.
Rashad Ibrahim, it said. Nothing else.
Rashad Ibrahim was one of Charles’ contacts, a man who had immigrated to London ten years earlier and had made himself moderately wealthy by buying rundown buildings and renovating them. Most of them were rented to Muslim immigrants, naturally, and Ibrahim had been known to “suggest” to Charles that one of them needed the eyes of the government to pay close attention. Those suggestions had resulted in the arrest of more than a dozen potential terrorists, and Charles had been grateful for the tips.
He had gone looking for Ibrahim in the night, but he wasn’t to be found. He had finally gone home and gotten some sleep, but set an alarm to wake him early. As soon as he rose, he called Ibrahim and asked to meet him for breakfast, and the man willingly agreed.
Ibrahim enjoyed a traditional English breakfast now and then, so they met at a little restaurant called The Hare’s Den. The place was known for its black pudding, and was set in a district that didn’t have a lot of Muslim occupancy. Ibrahim was waiting when Charles arrived and looked up at his friend with a smile. They waited until they had placed their orders, then began to talk.
“I do not see you often these days,” Ibrahim said. “What is keeping you so busy, my friend?”
“We’ve been dragged into this mess of the poisonings,” Charles said honestly. “It’s rather ugly, I’m afraid, and there are indications that it might involve jihadists. I was wondering if you had heard anything.”
Ibrahim sucked on his cheek for a moment. “There have been rumors,” he said cautiously. “I have not known whether to believe them or not, but your question leads me to believe that there may be some truth to them.”
“What sort of rumors might those be? Would any of them involve a man named Tushar Balakrishnan?”
Ibrahim looked down at the plate in front of him. “That is not a name I like to hear,” he said. “There has been much talk about him, but I fear that he will cause my people great problems, great troubles.”
“He seems to be the man behind the poison,” Charles said. “We are desperately trying to locate him, old friend. Would you have any idea where we might find him?”
“I am afraid I do not. He is rumored to be in London, but no one seems to know anything more than that. It is always a friend of a friend of my uncle’s neighbor who has seen him, but no one seems to know who he is or what he looks like. There is only the talk that he will one day rule all of Islam, and that through him, Islam will rule the world.” He shook his head. “Such talk excites the young, but an old man such as myself knows that it will only bring death and heartache. If he has this poison that kills so quickly, the poison they talk about on the news television, then I fear that death is going to be his greatest legacy.”
Charles ate quietly for a moment, then looked up at his friend again. “If you needed to find him, could you do so?”
Ibrahim took another bite of his scrambled eggs before he answered. “I could probably do so,” he said slowly, “but even so much as asking could possibly cost me my life. I am not afraid to die, my friend, but I would hate to do so without very good cause.”
“I would not want you to die at all,” Charles said, “but I have nowhere else to turn. If you could find out for me where he is, I believe the situation can come to a successful conclusion without any risk to yourself.”
“The risk comes because Tushar Balakrishnan and I do not know each other. If he learns that I am trying to find him, he may decide that I am a danger and choose to kill me, rather than risk letting me know where he might be. In order to achieve this, I would need something of value to him. In fact, if I had something of value, he might be the one to reach out to me.”
Charles thought about it for a moment, then nodded his head. “Let me see what I can come up with,” he said. “Perhaps we can talk again later today.”
“Charles, my friend,” Ibrahim said, “I have come to love this country. If there is something I can do to help you preserve it, I am willing. I would simply like to be able to continue living in this wonderful country afterward, if that is possible. If you can find something that I could offer to him, something that might make him come to me, I am more than willing to put myself at risk. On this, you can have no doubt, for London has been good to me.”
“Let me work on it,” Charles said. “There may well be something I can come up with, something that will draw him to you and keep you from becoming suspect. The sausages are particularly good today, aren’t they?”
“They are,” Ibrahim said with a grin. “Only do not let my brothers know that I am eating them.”
Charles chuckled. They chatted about inconsequential things while they finished their breakfast, and then Charles shook his old friend’s hand as he went on his way to work.
FOURTEEN
Maps were slowly coming out of the printer when Charles Wimbley finally walked in the conference room. He caught Albert’s attention and motioned for him to step aside for a moment.
“What’s all this?” Albert asked when they were alone in a corner of the room.
“I met with one of my people this morning,” Charles said. “He says there are rumblings about Tushar being up to something, something that is going to put Islam in control of the world with Tushar running Islam. The youngsters seem to like the idea, but the old men see him as a threat. He’s agreed to try to locate Tushar for us, but we need to help him out.”
Albert glanced over his shoulder at the others, then turned back to Charles. “How are we supposed to do that?”
“I need something to give my man, something that will appeal to Tushar. If we can put my man in the position that Tushar comes to him, it will keep suspicion off of him.”
Albert blinked. “Well, you don’t ask for much, do you? I wouldn’t have the foggiest what might appeal to Tushar.” He narrowed his eyes as he looked at Charles. “You’ve given this some thought?”
Charles licked his lips nervously. “All the way here this morning,” he said. “There’s only one thing I can
think of, assuming we are correct about the investiture being a target.”
Albert, who always seemed to take things slowly, was actually capable of rapid deduction. In the space of three seconds, he ran over all of the possibilities in his mind and his eyes suddenly went wide. “Good heavens, you can’t be suggesting…”
“It’s the only thing I can think of that will make Tushar come looking for him.”
“But who on Earth is this man of yours? What would ever make anyone believe he could be invited to an investiture?”
Charles grinned. “It’s Rashad Ibrahim,” he said. “The man has done more to keep peace in the Muslim community than anyone else, and he’s given a bloody fortune to British charities. No one would be terribly surprised should he receive an OBE.”
Albert stared at him for a moment. “Ibrahim,” he said. “I know the fellow, but not well. You’re right, of course, he probably should be invested. Of course, if Tushar takes the bait, we are potentially giving him an opportunity to reach the queen. And then, you have the risk that Tushar will see through the ruse. After all, the candidates for investiture were published months ago. Don’t you think it will seem odd if Ibrahim were to suddenly be added at this time, just days before the event?”
“I thought of that,” Charles said, “but there is a precedent. Whenever a nominee in the past has passed away or rejected the award, the queen has been known to ask for substitutions. As this is the religious service of the Order, it would not be amiss for her to do so.”
Albert chewed on his bottom lip for a moment, then shook his head. “This is above me,” he said. “We need to take it to Catherine, let her think about it.”
“Think about what?” Catherine Potts asked, and both men suddenly realized she had entered the room and was standing just behind them. They turned quickly, and Charles quietly explained his idea.
Catherine listened in silence until he was finished, then cocked her head slightly to the right. “It’s true that Her Majesty can request a substitution, but you still run the risk that it may seem suspicious to Mr. Balakrishnan. Is Mr. Ibrahim willing to accept that risk?”
Charles nodded. “He is, ma’am. He sees the potential danger to our country, and to the world.”
“Very well. I shall call Her Majesty and explain, but she will still need his nomination. Who can produce that?”
Charles grinned. “Ma’am, Ibrahim is a close friend of the mayor, and they attend mosque together. I daresay that it would be quite simple to get the mayor to cooperate.”
A slow smile spread across Catherine’s face. “Make it so,” she said. “I shall do my part.” She turned and walked away, and Albert looked at Charles.
“Well? Why are you still standing here? You’ve been given orders, see to them.”
Charles’ grin turned into a smile, and he turned and walked out of the room. Albert returned to the rest, who were marking the maps that had been printed.
“How goes it, then?” he asked. “Have you got the city sliced up like a pie, yet?”
“We’re getting there,” Noah said. “Greater London is pretty large, but most of the industrial areas—at least the largest ones—are in Tower Hamlets, just to the east of the city. Considering how quickly the truck vanished yesterday, I personally think those are our best bet. We’ve broken them into four sections, and two of us will be visiting each of them. The only other area with a lot of industrial parks is down in Sutton, and we’ll take a look at it next, if necessary.”
“Nonsense, we have to move more quickly than that. I can detail a dozen men to look through Sutton. I tend to agree with you, however, that Tower Hamlets hold the most potential.”
“Let’s go, then,” Sam said. “We all need to keep in close touch, just in case one team runs into trouble.”
“An excellent idea,” Albert said. He snapped a finger and Liam jumped to his side. “Give them our radios. They can use one of the special channels, so that they can keep in close communication, and we can monitor from here.”
“Yes, sir,” Liam said. He left the room for a couple of minutes, then came back and handed a small, portable radio to each of them.
“We’re ready,” Sam said. “Let’s roll.” He and Denny walked out of the room first, followed by Noah and Sarah, Marco and Renée, and then Neil and Jenny. They went directly to the parking lot, and each pair followed GPS instructions to the part of Tower Hamlets marked on their maps.
“I don’t think he likes us,” Sarah said to Noah as she drove. “Mr. Prichard, I mean. I don’t think he cares much for us.”
“He doesn’t,” Noah said. “Our very existence is an insult to the world he thought he lived in. He’s a former policeman, so he probably still believes in justice. On the other hand, you heard what he said about Tushar. He completely agrees with letting us take him out.”
“Yeah, and I understand that spiders eat mosquitoes, but I still hate the damn things. All I’m saying, Noah, is that you need to watch your back with him. I’m not sure he wouldn’t try to throw you under the bus if he got a chance.”
“No, he wouldn’t,” Noah said. “No matter what he thinks of us, he’s an honorable man. He’ll do what he has to do, even if that means supporting us in our mission, but his goal is to get as far away from us as he can, as quickly as he can. He wants to forget we exist, and he can’t do that as long as we’re working on this together.”
In their own car, Denny and Sam were having a similar conversation.
“He’s the coldest son of a bitch I’ve ever met,” Sam said. “And that girl, Jenny—geez, she scares the hell out of me. Little Miss Cheerful, but she gets off on killing people and the government thinks that makes her useful.”
Denny grinned. “Sam, you do realize that I was a former government agent, right? Do you think I never received orders to kill? Assassination is an extremely useful political tool, but their outfit does a lot more than just political assassinations. Their purpose, as far as I understand it, is to eliminate threats to the national security of the United States and its allies. This world is probably a lot better place because of them. I know damn well it’s a better place without some of the people I had to take out.”
“Look, I know there are times when the only answer is to kill the person or people creating the threat,” Sam said. “I can even tell you that I’ve had to make that decision myself a few times, and I didn’t lose a lot of sleep over it. This bunch, though, they’re different. They only exist to go out and kill, and they never even think about due process of law. They don’t even have to think about whether the killing is really necessary, because somebody way up above them already made that decision. I just have a problem with people who will kill someone simply because they were ordered to do so. At least, when I make the decision to kill someone, I have to be certain that it’s the only viable way to stop the problem.”
Denny looked at him. “Some of us don’t get that luxury, Sam,” he said. “I was sent into Germany once, my orders were to locate a particular individual and terminate him. Nobody told me why he had to die, but that wasn’t my concern. Someone far above me had evaluated the risk this person posed, and decided that his death was the only acceptable solution. I arrived in Hamburg, located my target and followed orders. It wasn’t until more than a year later when I learned that he was a handler of the terror cell that was behind the Paris attacks that killed almost 140 people. That’s why people like me, and people like Noah and his team, follow the orders they’re given. Because somebody who knows a lot more has already determined that is the proper course of action.”
Sam shrugged. “I get it,” he said, and then he sighed. “I just hate the very thought that these things have to happen. The world has become a crazy place in the last twenty years or so, but I never thought my own country would get involved in assassination.”
“That’s because,” Denny said with a grin, “you’ve been living in a fantasy world. The real world, I’m afraid, is a lot more complex and dangerous, and som
etimes it takes the ugly parts of life to keep the beautiful parts alive.”
* * * * *
Catherine had gone back to her office and shut the door, then immediately called the queen’s personal secretary.
“This is Catherine Potts,” she said. “I need to speak with Her Majesty at her earliest convenience.”
“Just one moment, please,” the secretary said. Catherine was put on hold for a couple of minutes, but then she heard the voice of the queen.
“Catherine, my dear,” the old woman said. “I’m just about to have a morning tea. Would you care to join me?”
Catherine smiled. “That would be wonderful, Your Majesty,” she said. “I can be there in about fifteen minutes, is that all right?”
“Of course, my dear,” said the Queen. “It will take me almost that long to get there, myself. We shall see you then.”
The call ended and Catherine hung up. She rose quickly from her chair and hurried out of the building, got into her car, and drove directly to Buckingham Palace. She entered at the back gate, where the guard recognized her and stood stiffly at attention as she passed.
When she parked, she walked into the back entrance of the palace through a simple door, and was met by a young man dressed as a butler.
“Ms. Potts? If you will follow me, please?”
A moment later, Catherine was escorted into the Chinese Dining Room, the queen’s private dining area. While it was not the first time she had been there, she was, as always, amazed at the absolute beauty of the room. The walls were hung with three Chinoiserie panels by Robert Jones, from a set of four originally commissioned by George IV for the Brighton Pavilion. There was a large, flower-shaped chandelier hanging over the small, round table, while on the massive fireplace sat the famous Kylin clock, under a glass case. In the center of the room was the highly-polished circular table at which the Queen of England ate her simple meals.
