Countdown, page 17
“Ladies, if you please?”
Heather steps up, slipping into performance mode, and says, “C’mon, Nancy, I’ve been waiting for you since we got here.”
Nancy giggles, comes over and grasps her hand, and the two of them get onto the bed. When Heather starts kissing Nancy, she’s happy her companion has recently brushed her teeth.
She glances over at their client. Sitting in his chair, stolidly watching them both. Heather still has her eye on his suit coat that’s heavy on one side. She hopes he’ll take off the jacket at some point and join them.
And that’s when she plans to earn a nice bonus by stealing the man’s phone.
Heather’s not sure who’s paying her extra to steal the iPhone—the CIA, the FBI, the Israelis, the Brits, the French—and she doesn’t care. She’s done odd jobs like this in the past, sometimes just later repeating pillow conversations from rich and prominent men to intense young men or women who take extensive notes. The extra under-the-table bonuses help provide for her elderly and ailing parents.
This job, though—there’s an edge to it. The man who set it up had said, “It’s vital that you get his iPhone. I can’t emphasize how important it is.”
How important? Twice-her-usual-fee important.
Wonderful.
And when the man joins the two of them, frenzied with lust, stealing his phone will be a breeze.
Rashad checks his watch.
An hour has passed.
The two women are nude, their skin is flushed, their bodies are glowing with what appears to be satisfaction, and Rashad is satisfied as well.
Not once during their performance has he stirred.
Not once has he gotten aroused.
As the two paid women performed for him, he sat quietly in his chair, repeating ayats from the Koran as they giggled, laughed, sighed, and moaned. Allah had surely been with him this past hour.
Rashad gets to his feet and the two women look up at him with open expressions of lust and submission. An intoxicating mixture to be sure, but Rashad pays them no attention.
Instead he says, “You have both done so well, have pleased me so much, that I will give you both a bonus.”
The one on the left—Heather—looks on with keen interest as he puts his hand into his right suit-coat pocket, and the other one, Nancy, covers her mouth as she yawns.
He quickly takes out an Emerson Bulldog combat-grade folding knife, snaps it open, comes forward. Heather yells, “Girl, run!” as he plunges the knife between the soccer mom’s right ribs, causing her to cry out in pain and fall back. As the former cheerleader tries to run, Rashad grabs her long red hair, yanks her back, and slits her throat, blood spurting up into the air, over the sheets, and onto the rubber mats.
He moves and the other girl, growing pale, both hands trying and failing to stop the blood flowing from her side, looks at him. He’s surprised to see no begging in those soccer-mom eyes.
Rashad reaches into the left pocket of his trousers and removes his iPhone, which he takes special delight in displaying before her rapidly graying face.
“Looking for this?” he says, moving it back and forth in his hands. “How do you feel, having failed to succeed at what you were paid to do? Do you think I have lived these long years among killers, thieves, and betrayers in a desert kingdom to be fooled by a woman?”
The dying American woman spits, and whispers, “You bastard.”
Rashad nods. “My father was a Saudi prince and my mother a Yemeni maid, so what you say is a matter of record. No offense taken, whore.”
Then he slits Heather’s throat as well.
Chapter 55
WE DUMP the stolen Saab about a five-minute walk away from the Lognes train station, a two-story concrete-and-glass building. After each paying our fare of two euros, we’re soon heading west on a train from the RER A line, the cars colored white with a gray stripe bisecting each one.
Jeremy and I locate an empty corner of the near car, sit down, and Jeremy says, “In about a half hour, we’ll get to the Châtelet–Les Halles station. From there, a quick transfer and five minutes later we’ll be at Gare du Nord, catching a Eurostar to London.”
“Got everything planned out,” I say.
He shakes his head. “I wish.”
A number of Vietnamese women and their children huddled at the other end of the car. Outside the windows, the passing French countryside is a depressing mix of factories and government housing, the buildings all covered with graffiti. Even in French, the painted scrawls and marks look barbaric.
One after another, we quickly stop and restart at a number of stations: Noisiel, Noisy-Champs, Noisy-le-Grand–Mont d’Est.
“Tell me what Rashad said to you, when, and why you believe him,” I say.
“When?” he says. “At first I thought it was an accidental encounter…but later I realized Rashad is not one for accidents.”
“Where was this?” I ask. “In some slum outside Damascus? A mosque in Riyadh? Dinner in Soho?”
“No,” he says. “At the British Consulate on Second Avenue, in Manhattan. The United Nations were in town and the consulate was having a reception for the ambassador and about a hundred of his closest and dearest friends.”
“Including you?” Amy asks.
“No, not me,” Jeremy says. “At the time I was seeing a woman at the consulate, an agricultural attaché. Amanda Trevor.”
“Not much agriculture in Manhattan.”
“Please,” he says. “Let me go on.” He pauses, takes a breath. “As you can imagine, the reception was crowded. Very posh. I found a quiet spot near the windows, looking over Manhattan. And then there was a hand on my shoulder.”
“Rashad.”
“Quite,” Jeremy says. “I turn and I’m…shocked. I hadn’t seen him since that day in Saudi Arabia when both of our fathers were killed. And he just smiled and nodded to the lights out there, and said, ‘Someday soon, my friend, someday soon, the lights down there will be snuffed out. And I will be the one doing it.’”
“Quick question?”
“Sure.”
“Why didn’t you take the bastard down to the consulate’s cellar and waterboard him right there, find out what he had planned?”
“I was sorely tempted to, but then he went back into the reception, and after a few inquiries I learned that Rashad was there as a guest of BAE Systems,” Jeremy says. “Couldn’t quite cause a diplomatic row over someone there as a guest, now could I?”
Our train briefly stops at Val de Fontenay, then resumes. More residents of Asian descent board the car. I say, “If I had to, I would have followed the son of a bitch back to his hotel room and then have the proverbial frank and open exchange of views.”
“That was a thought,” Jeremy says. “Still, later, after the reception was really under way, I tried to locate him…but he was gone.”
“And you’ve been looking for him ever since.”
Jeremy doesn’t reply, which makes sense, since I already know the answer.
We make a quick transfer at Châtelet–Les Halles. As Jeremy predicted, five minutes later we’re at Gare du Nord, the huge transportation hub of Paris. It’s one of the largest train stations in the world and certainly fits the bill. We emerge into a mass of shops, wide hallways, and overhanging video displays. I stick close to Jeremy as he purposefully strolls through the chaos of all these people leaving trains and getting onto them.
It’s noisy from the PA systems, music, people talking loudly. Jeremy leans in and says, “Watch out for pickpockets—this is one of their favorite playgrounds.”
I reply by saying, “They should be watching out for me,” but then something catches my eye: two French gendarmes in body armor and black paratrooper boots, carrying FAMAS G2 automatic rifles. Seeing these officers slowly walking through the crowd reminds me that I’m currently violating probably half a dozen French gun-control laws with the SIG Sauer in my rear waistband, along with the handful of spare 9mm cartridges rattling around in my left jacket pocket next to a spare magazine.
“This way,” Jeremy says, and we step onto a crowded escalator beneath a large video display of a British flag, with signs pointing the way to the Eurostar. A sign to the right says BIENVENUE DANS LE HALL LONDRES and its English translation: Welcome to the London Hall.
When we get off the escalator, a number of Eurostar automatic-ticket kiosks are set in a line, and as we stroll past them, I say, “I get the feeling we’re not getting on the Eurostar via the traditional method.”
He smiles. “Has anything these past few days been traditional?”
I understand Jeremy’s pleased look—he’s acting as my escort through Paris and then on to London—but I confess I’m also irritated by his cocky attitude, shepherding this seemingly helpless woman at his side. Okay, this woman is a former Army captain and currently a former field officer with the CIA, but it still ticks me off.
I wish for a moment that I could take him down a peg or two.
We go past the kiosks to a gunmetal gray door with a large sign warning DÉFENSE D’ENTRER and a doorknob with a key-card entry system below it.
Jeremy once again shows the rules don’t apply to him: blocking the keypad from my view, he taps in the correct code and opens the door.
“This way, Amy,” he says.
We enter a narrow corridor with overhead fluorescent lights, and the door slams shut behind us. The floor is scuffed tile and there are three doors before us: one at the end of the short hallway, the others to our left and right.
Jeremy starts to say something when the two nearest doors fly open and the corridor quickly fills with nice-looking young men in fine suits, all of them pointing pistols at us.
I remember my earlier desire to take Jeremy down a peg, and with it that old, wise saying.
Be careful what you wish for.
Chapter 56
AFTER A long, refreshing shower, Rashad Hussain is enjoying a traditional afternoon tea with his trusted associate Marcel Koussa at the Millennium Hotel London Mayfair, directly across the street from Grosvenor Square.
When he was at boarding school in Scotland, the afternoon tradition was lukewarm tea, stale scones, and sour jam. Here, costing more than thirty pounds, the service includes homemade sandwiches; warm, home-baked fruit; and plain scones served with Devonshire clotted cream, lemon curd, and preserves.
“Here,” Rashad says, pouring Marcel a cup of tea. “My turn to be mother. How did the cleanup go?”
“It went well,” Marcel says, drinking the tea with just a touch of cream. “A dedicated forensics team, with the latest equipment and lots of time, may find trace evidence, but I doubt it. My cleanup crew is from Chechnya. They know how to do a good job and keep their mouths shut.”
Rashad nods in satisfaction, but there’s an edge to Marcel’s voice that he doesn’t like. Marcel is a good boy and for the most part can be entirely trusted, but Rashad wants to know what he’s thinking.
“You don’t approve,” Rashad says quietly.
Marcel replaces the teacup on the table. “It’s not my place to either approve or disapprove, sir.”
“But I sense you seek an understanding. True?”
“If you wish to give me one, sir, I will not object.”
Rashad lowers his voice. “For years I have been a warrior, and a warrior—above all—must be dedicated to his service, to his God, and not allow any distractions or obstacles to get in the way of completing his mission. I’ve had success upon success these past years, with your assistance and that of others, but as always, there can be doubts. Am I doing the right thing? Am I understanding God’s word? And…above all, do I still have the drive to remain focused?”
Marcel seems to consider this, and Rashad continues.
“My encounter with those two whores was a test. A test to see if I could resist their wiles, their flesh, their sexual temptation. Through God’s power, I was able to resist on all fronts. And then…well, there must be no witnesses, at such a delicate stage. Correct?”
“Absolutely.”
Rashad picks up another small sandwich, the crusts cut away. “Are you ready for your trip? And the meet-up?”
“All is in place.”
He starts to talk and spots a quiet bustle at the other end of the hotel dining room, past the curtained windows and paintings hanging on the pale blue walls. Rashad has a shock of recognition as he spots an older man talking to a hostess, with two younger men behind him. Rashad turns his head, but it’s too late.
He’s been spotted.
Marcel says, “Sir?”
“A man is coming over here who thinks he’s my friend. Act accordingly.”
Marcel nods and the approaching man says, “Rashad! What an unexpected surprise!”
Rashad stands up, extends a hand, receives a quick shake in return. The man is stout, dressed in a fine dark-gray suit half a size too tight, with a white shirt and regimental tie. His thick white hair is combed to one side, and there are fine webs of broken capillaries on his nose.
“Sir Mark,” Rashad replies. “A pleasure. Care to join us?”
“Oh, no, no, no, can’t do that,” he says, eyes flicking around the room. “Here for a brief meet with a writer from Jane’s. Really hate to waste the time but one does what one has to do.”
Marcel is now standing, and Rashad says, “Sir, if I may, my associate, Marcel Koussa. Marcel, this is Sir Mark Robathan, Minister of State for the Armed Forces.”
Marcel’s face grows pale as he shakes the man’s hand, and Robathan gestures for the two of them to sit down. “Well, I need to depart and wait for my guest. A delight meeting you like this, old boy, and you know, I still miss your father. What a grand fellow.”
Rashad says to Marcel, “They both attended Sandhurst.”
“Yes, yes,” Robathan says, now turning around. “Quite the time back then, quite the time. Well, must be off. Enjoy your tea. Will we see you later, at the society’s get-together?”
“Wouldn’t miss it,” Rashad says.
“Ah, wonderful,” Robathan says, and he adds, “A pleasure meeting you, Marshall.”
Rashad doesn’t correct him, and neither does Marcel. The old man turns and nearly bumps into a chair, and Rashad feels the gaze of the other two men upon him. They are tough-looking men with short haircuts, with earpieces and bulges under their jackets signifying weapons, and Rashad returns their hard stares.
They are the guard force for the minister, perhaps MI5 or officers from the Ministry of Defence Police. Like well-trained guard dogs—Dobermans or Belgian Malinois—they are taught to respond to emerging threats or danger, and Rashad knows that deep down these two men recognize him as a threat, as a danger, something to be immediately dispatched.
But all they can do is stare.
They have no proof, no evidence.
Smiling, Rashad stares right back, daring them to do something.
“Later,” Robathan says.
“Oh, yes,” Rashad says. “Later.”
Chapter 57
NOW HE and Amy Cornwall are in a small, cramped office at the end of the hallway. There’s a metal desk, phone, four metal chairs, and another closed door. A photo of the current president of France is on the cracked plaster wall. A slim woman in black slacks and a white blouse is sitting at the right side of the desk, a thick black leather briefcase at her black high-heeled feet. Behind the desk is a short, plump man in a dark blue suit, with thin black hair and mournful eyes behind black-rimmed eyeglasses.
The moment Jeremy was escorted into this room by the four armed men and quickly and expertly disarmed—his weapons going into one paper sack, Amy’s 9mm pistol going into another—Jeremy recognized the man behind the desk. The man motions to the two empty chairs, and he and Amy sit down.
For all that’s going on, he’s thankful Amy is allowing him—at least for now—to take the lead.
“Sir,” he says. “This is unexpected.”
The man sighs, places his hands across his belly. In only slightly accented English, he says, “Jeremy, I have been talking to your boss. He is not a happy man.”
“Not many happy men in his line of work.”
The man turns his attention to Amy. “And you are Amy Cornwall, late of the American Army, and recently of the Central Intelligence Agency.”
Amy says, “Charmed, I’m sure…more if I knew who you were.”
Jeremy says, “Amy, this is Maurice Richard. Head of the DGSE.”
Amy says, “Based on what happened a few hours ago, I bet you’re not a very happy man either.”
He smiles. “Quite an observation.” Then his smile disappears. “Now. Jeremy, this morning’s matter at the runway…a very bad business, very bad all around.”
“How many did you lose?”
“Officially, four brave men of the DGSE died in a training accident today, with several others injured. No nuclear device, no Rashad Hussain. Quite the muck-up, was it not?”
“A shared muck-up,” Jeremy says, “between Victor and me. And Rashad was there. He just managed to get away.”
“Yes,” Maurice says, rubbing at his nose. “And now your great white whale has swum off to parts currently unknown, although there is a report of a private jet departing the area soon after the shooting began.”
“That must have been him, because he’s in the UK,” Jeremy says.
“Really? Quite fortunate for us all, eh, that he has left France? And that I can rely on you and Horace to resolve this situation to everyone’s satisfaction?”
“Fortunate for you indeed,” Jeremy says, knowing that while Maurice Richard is an ally, he’s also a wily old bureaucrat who is keen on defending his turf, both literal and in the halls of government.
Richard says, “But before you leave, in the interest of French-Anglo relations, I wish to share something with you.” In rapid French he speaks to the woman next to him, who nods, dips down to her black leather case, and removes two glossy color photos.
