Countdown, page 21
Jeremy waits for Felicity to seek permission from him to proceed, but the clicking of keyboard keys tells him she’s following Amy’s orders.
Winnie calls out, “Got it!” and halts the van outside a one-story brick building with white pillars, a wide entrance, and a sign reading NORTH ACTON CARE HOME.
Jeremy flashes a Metropolitan Police warrant card to the chubby receptionist, and within a few minutes he and Amy are led into the room of Perkins Gloucester, former Second Lieutenant of the Royal Engineers, detached to the SOE from 1942 to 1945.
There are two chairs and Perkins is sitting in one of them, a checked blanket over his lap. With his wrinkled face, pale eyes, and thin brown hair barely covering a freckled scalp, he looks like a shrunken gnome.
“Mister Gloucester,” Jeremy says. “So pleased to meet you. My name is Jeremy Windsor, and I need to ask you a few questions.”
Perkins nods and his smile widens at seeing Amy standing there. “How pleasant, how pleasant—and is this gorgeous creature your wife? Your secretary?”
Jeremy shakes his head. “No, sir, I’m with the SIS and Amy, she is with the CIA.”
“But on a day like this, sometimes I wish I was a secretary,” she says.
The old man looks at both of them and says, “Ah, I should have known—that American accent.”
Jeremy displays the photo of Rashad. “This man,” Jeremy says. “Randy. What do you know of him?”
“Ah, yes, Randy,” he says, settling back in his chair and smoothing the blanket. “Oh, he was an inquisitive sort, he was. He wanted to know all about blowing up trains. Managed to fatten up our society’s bank account, he did.”
Amy interrupts him. “Mister Gloucester…you have special knowledge, then, on how to blow up trains?”
An eager and satisfied nod. “We learned that quite early in the war. A small bomb or removing a piece of track, it’s only a small derailment. That’s all. Hunh. They get it fixed the next day. No, my real job was to sabotage different railcars and other stock so that you can destroy the whole train in minutes, tie up the entire rail line for days. And that’s what Randy was so eager to learn about, even though it’s still highly secret.”
Jeremy tries to get the conversation back to the present. “But why are your activities still classified?”
“Why?” Perkins asks, still smiling. “My dear boy, it wouldn’t do for any Tom, Dick, or Harry to know the best way to easily blow up a train line, now would it?”
Chapter 69
JEREMY AND Amy leave Perkins’s room and the care home to find Winnie coming at them from the open passenger door of their damaged van.
“Felicity dug deeper into the tracking hits we got from Paris. All but one turned up empty…nothing of any real interest. But that one hit, the one that lasted the longest—about five seconds of a strong signal—came from a little restaurant in Paris, the Café Falguière. Right next door to the Pasteur Institute. Where they do research on various infectious diseases.”
Jeremy sees Amy’s face pale. “Go on.”
Winnie says, “Felicity got deeper into the French internal-security computer servers, looking for anything odd or untoward concerning the Pasteur Institute,” he says, motioning them to a park bench near the entrance. “Like missing vials, a break-in—anything like that.”
Amy says, “And?”
Winnie shakes his head. “Nothing to do with the institute proper, but one of their microbiology techs, a woman named…yeah, here it is. Nadia. Nadia Khadra. She’s been missing for two days. And her credit-card statement shows she was having breakfast at that same restaurant, the same time Rashad’s tracking device pinged its location.”
“Winnie,” Jeremy says, “that’s all well and good, but—”
“Damn it, Jer, let me finish,” Winnie snaps. He takes a breath and goes on. “Like I said, Nadia’s been missing for two days. The local gendarmes went to her ground-floor flat, and when they checked the basement they found her landlady dead.”
Amy says, “How?”
“Multiple blows to the rear of the head,” Winnie says. “And it gets worse, much worse: They found she had converted the basement into a laboratory—petri dishes, refrigerators, autoclaves. And when they tested the area, they found traces of anthrax.”
Jeremy can’t say a word. He’s been in desperate firefights in hellholes across the world, has jumped from aircraft of all types into the freezing night, and right now, seeing the innocent and thankfully ignorant civilians strolling by him on this warm spring evening, he thinks of them crowding into hospital wards, coughing out their lungs and lives, and those thoughts scare him more than anything else ever has.
Amy says, “What now?”
Jeremy gets off the bench. “That bastard Rashad was saying so long to Nadia before she left to go to New York. Come along, we’ve got to get the word out.”
Amy and Winnie stand with him, and they start heading to the van. Amy says, “Trains? Blowing up trains?”
Jeremy says, “Could be a way to disguise the anthrax disbursement. Blow up a few trains in a crowded civilian environment, mix the anthrax into a cloud, and soon enough, chaos and death.”
They are about three meters from the van when it happens, and later, Jeremy has to admire how quickly and professionally it all went down.
On the sidewalk, a plump, older woman wearing comfortable clothes and pushing a pram takes something from her coat pocket and sprays Jeremy with a liquid. His eyes burn and his breathing freezes, and though he fights against the chemical he is forced to his knees, unable to catch his breath.
Winnie calls out as he falls as well, taken down by a slim woman jogging by, likewise holding a spray dispenser in her hand.
Jeremy tries to shout something but a white van screeches to a halt, the side door slides open, and three men in black clothing and masks pile out, grab Amy Cornwall, and put a sack over her head, and in seconds she’s gone.
Amy Cornwall is gone.
Chapter 70
ERNEST HOLLISTER watches in satisfaction as Horace Evans puts his phone down in its cradle and with a tired voice says, “It’s done. Amy Cornwall has been seized by your contract force.”
“Good,” Ernest says, feeling satisfied indeed, but not wanting to stay here much longer and revel in his win. This room is old, creaky, and damp, and he’s sure the air is filled with mold spores and dust. How in hell could anyone of worth stand working in this dump?
Horace says, “I trust you and your force will be discreet.”
“Absolutely.”
“And I imagine you will shortly return her to the States?”
“Perhaps,” Ernest says. “Then again, it may be worthwhile to keep her in place for a few days, to conduct an interrogation.”
Horace purses his lips. “That’s not discreet.”
“It’s discreet enough if no one knows about it, am I right?”
When Horace doesn’t reply, Ernest says, “Just to ensure that we have a clear understanding, you are to halt all operations—sanctioned or unsanctioned, official or unofficial—against Rashad Hussain and his associates. Is that clear?”
His MI6 counterpart seems to struggle with his temper. In a weak voice he says, “That is incredibly shortsighted. We have intelligence that Rashad is—”
“…that Rashad Hussain is a completely vetted and supported confidential source for our operations in Langley,” Ernest says. “He has been responsible for us disrupting three terrorist plots against civilian targets in the United States. What you have, in comparison, is idle chatter, suspicions, and what is most likely a personal grudge harbored by your Jeremy Windsor.”
“That still doesn’t mean—”
“Look, we’re done here,” Ernest says. “I told you politely to cease your ops against Rashad. Now I’ll be impolite: back the fuck off. All right?”
Horace gives the slightest nod, indicating a great surrender. Despite the dust and mold in the air, Ernest is looking forward to what he’s going to say next.
“Now, let’s get to Jeremy. I want him taken care of, just like Amy.”
Horace says, “I assure you, there will be disciplinary actions.”
“Tell me, Horace, is it my American accent that’s screwing you up, or are you that dense? We have a phrase on our side of the pond to smoke an officer, or Gitmo him. I know you have something similar—to be Faroe’d. Correct? I want Jeremy Faroe’d.”
“No,” Horace says.
Ernest says, “My boss is Malcolm Rooney, head of our Special Activities Division. Former Army general. I served with him in Iraq. He trusts me fully and explicitly. One of his duties is serving on a committee responsible for allocating funds to our fellow intelligence agencies, especially those who have fallen on hard times ever since their great and mighty empire collapsed. And if I give him a recommendation to cut your funding allocations in half, Horace, he’ll do it without hesitation.”
Silence in the dusty room. Then, in a low and nearly trembling voice, Horace says, “It might take some time. There are…procedures to follow.”
Ernest says, “I’m a reasonable fella. Take the time you need…as long is it’s quick, and it’s done.”
“But there’s the matter of the Parisian woman, the one—”
“Yes, the amateur biochemist,” Ernest says. “She’s French, her crimes took place in France—let France pull its weight for once. There’s no evidence she’s left the country.”
After spending so many days being ignored by this sad little man before him, Ernest takes pleasure in one last dig. “And in this mess you call an office, I’m sure a few things can be overlooked, Horace. So don’t overlook this: we have the deep means and resources to ensure that you keep your word. Uncle Sam will be watching and listening. So don’t screw this up. Stop hunting and harassing Rashad, let the French take care of their problem, and handle Jeremy Windsor. He aided and abetted one of our officers in going rogue. That can’t stand.”
Horace’s hands move across his paper-strewn desk as though he’s trying to hold on to something for reassurance. “This isn’t a good day for Anglo-American cooperation, now is it? Our special relationship.”
Ernest gets up, his skin nearly crawling from the dirt in this office. “Haven’t you heard? Since the last election, it’s a new world out there. We’re America, bitch. That’s all you need to know.”
Chapter 71
IT’S VERY late at night and Rashad Hussain is finishing a delightful meal in his first-class cabin aboard the RMS Queen Victoria, a cruise ship on its maiden voyage, speeding toward New York City.
His luxury cabin on Deck Six has twenty-four-hour personal concierge service and a king-size suite with floor-to-ceiling windows and a private balcony. In the private dining room Rashad is hosting Abdullah al-Fahd, a prominent Saudi imam who is an old family friend. At the far end of the cabin stand the imam’s two Russian bodyguards, their cheap and ill-fitting black suits not quite hiding the bulges of concealed weapons. Each has a fleshy face, short-trimmed blond hair, and dead blue eyes.
The imam is dressed in plain brown robes and an equally plain white kaffiyeh. His beard is dark brown, thick, reaching almost mid-chest, and his brown eyes are bright and full of warmth.
“A fine meal, my son,” he says, wiping his fingers again on a white napkin. “Hard to believe that a ship like this can produce such a delicious haneeth.”
Rashad nods in pleasure at the compliment for the traditional Saudi dish of spiced lamb and basmati rice. “I chose the chef myself—stole him from the Al Orjouan at the Riyadh Ritz-Carlton. After all, I own a good portion of this ship.”
He pours the imam another cup of sweet Saudi coffee, and the older man smiles. “Allah has graced you.”
“And you as well, ya sheikh,” he says, raising his porcelain cup in salute. The old family friend earned his knowledge at the Imam Muhammad ibn Saud Islamic University in Riyadh and is now a noted scholar and teacher at the Umm Al-Qura University in Mecca.
For years Abdullah al-Fahd has been ignored, shunted aside, persecuted because his view of Islam does not fit into the conservative Saudi tradition. But now, with a new prince leading the kingdom and a new openness to the West, the imam has gained power and influence.
The imam gently replaces his coffee cup on a saucer and says with wonder, “Look here: we are speeding across the Atlantic, yet the cup barely vibrates.”
Rashad says, “On our maiden voyage, I gave orders that we try to win the Blue Riband for the speediest crossing. The current record is just under three and a half days. I mean for us to smash it.”
The imam smiles, but it’s not one of pleasure or accomplishment; it’s the sad smile of a man about to disappoint his host.
“Ya akhi, I am so proud of you and your accomplishments, and your commitment to jihad, but I beg of you to please reconsider the life you have chosen,” he says in a soft and cultured voice.
“And what life is that, ya sheikh?” Rashad asks.
The sparkling and open brown eyes of his beloved guest harden. “Please, let’s not play games here, Rashad. I know of your commitment to Islam, your donations, your public acts. But your other acts…your other jihad. There is no true evidence, but you and I know the truth. There is the blood of many innocents on your hands, and I know that you have plans to spill much, much more.”
Rashad speaks carefully. “From whom do you receive such news?”
The imam speaks just as carefully in reply. “From brethren who have worked with you, and continue to work with you, and who are starting to have doubts.”
There is silence for a few seconds. After another sip of coffee, the imam says, “These are new days, new times. After decades of bloodshed, the car bombs, the hijackings, the civil wars…we are taking the first gentle, tottering steps toward peace with the West, toward an accommodation.”
“A surrender,” Rashad says.
The imam shakes his head. “Oh, no, no, my son. An understanding. A realization that compassion, friendship, and openness will serve us much more in our House of Peace—Dar-es-Salaam—than violence and bloodshed.”
“But jihad demands—”
The imam gently interrupts. “Jihad has meant many things over the centuries, my son. It does mean struggle, of course, but there is a realization now that it means striving or struggling on a personal mission, especially one with a praiseworthy aim.”
Rashad says, “And setting the stage for a new caliphate, that is not a praiseworthy aim?”
“Over the bodies of hundreds of thousands of innocents?”
Rashad wants to yell, What innocents? Who are indeed innocent in this world?
But he keeps his composure, steps up and away from the dining-room table, extends a hand. “Ya sheikh, will you join me for a breath of fresh ocean air?”
Imam Abdullah al-Fahd smiles. “That would be a delight.”
Rashad crosses the dining room and opens the doors onto the suite’s private balcony. Outside the North Atlantic air is brisk, and even with the running lights from the RMS Queen Victoria the stars overhead shine bright and crisp, as if from the depths of the Empty Quarter.
The imam slides his arm into Rashad’s. “Look at Allah’s glory and creation all above us. Do you think Allah wants us to live with hate, fire, deaths, explosions?”
Before Rashad can answer, the imam says, “Please, my son. Please tell me you will reconsider your actions. Choose the jihad of a commitment to understanding, to peace.”
Rashad pats the man’s hand. “I will consider it. Honestly, I will consider it, ya sheikh.”
The imam doesn’t reply, but Rashad can sense the man’s pleasure at his words.
A few moments pass and the imam says, “That prize you hope to win…”
“The Blue Riband.”
“Who holds the record now?”
Rashad says, “The record is nearly seventy years old, and was set by the ship the SS United States. Named after a place I still hate, old friend, even after my reconsideration.”
The imam breaks away from Rashad’s grasp, motions his hand and the two Russian bodyguards are now on the balcony. As they crowd him away from Rashad, the imam’s voice is sharp: “I have survived many years, with many enemies. It saddens me that I need protection from a longtime friend such as you.”
“It saddens me as well,” Rashad says. The two bodyguards advance on Abdullah, and in one smooth motion they toss the man of peace and love over the side into the unforgiving ocean.
Chapter 72
IT’S EARLY morning at Gatwick Airport near London, and Marcel Koussa is in the South Terminal at Gate 14, waiting for his British Airways flight to take him to America. He’s pacing back and forth in both anticipation and fear.
For the past three years Marcel has been at Rashad Hussain’s side, performing the oddest tasks—like traveling to Istanbul to purchase a mock-up of a steward uniform for the never-completed Berlin-to-Baghdad railway—up to and including the bloodiest of tasks, like disposing of that antiques dealer in Paris the other day.
Grim work, but all part of the job, all part of the actions that have led to a reasonably comfortable life and fat bank accounts secretly stored in the Cayman Islands, the Seychelles, and Bali. He has traveled far, has met with a number of desperate and determined characters, all in exchange for the comfortable life he is planning once Rashad’s latest—and deadliest—attack takes place.
But now that job and comfort—and his future—are threatened.
Marcel looks up at the display board.
His flight will begin boarding in about ten minutes.
He pulls from his carry-on the burner phone he had purchased yesterday at a Tesco store, and dials the memorized number once again.
It rings, rings, and continues ringing, until Marcel disconnects the call in frustration.
A woman’s voice breaks into his foul mood with the first boarding announcement.
A brief flurry of movement as families and the disabled start heading to the open gate door.
