The vicar, p.23
The Vicar, page 23
Brennan began to wail, now knowing what was coming. “I don’t know!” he screamed. All I know is she’s from Belfast!”
“Fucking bullshit,” replied Terry. “Do you think he’s bullshitting me, Captain?”
“I think he’s bullshitting you, sir,” replied the officer.
Brennan watched in horror as the agent began to slowly pull the trigger. “Wait, wait, wait!” he screamed. “The only name I ever heard anyone call her was An Dailtín.”
“An Dailtín?” asked Huntington. “What the fuck does that mean?”
“It means ‘The Terror’ in Gaelic,” replied Terry, easing off the trigger.
“Sounds like my mother-in-law,” replied the captain.
“Why is she called that, Congressman? What’s so bad about her?”
“She rules with an iron fist. You screw with her, even in the slightest, you’re done, gone, no mercy, just gone.”
“Oooh, she’s got me scared, Captain. How about you?”
“Shaking in my boots, sir,” Huntington replied with a smile.
“How did you get hooked up with this mob?”
“The woman’s loaded. Got more money than God and the connections to match. She helped me get elected.”
“Why? I mean you’re a US congressman. How does that help her?”
“Being a congressman from New York means I have a lot of pull and can help grease the skids, get things done in the city, if you know what I mean.”
“You mean you’re her little errand boy,” piped in Huntington.
“I guess that’s one way of looking at it.”
“Where in England did she fly into, Congressman?” asked Terry.
The man looked terrified. “If I tell you that, I’m a dead man. She’ll have me killed.”
Terry began to pull back the trigger again. The man struggled to pull his leg out of the way, but Huntington forced it against the ground; his grip was like a vice. “Don’t you get it yet, Brennan, you’re a fucking dead man no matter what you say. The only way you have a chance is to cooperate, and the only question you should be asking yourself is ‘Do I cooperate with a limp . . . or without one.’”
“Okay, okay!” he wailed. “Biggin Hill, they flew into Biggin Hill! That’s all I know.”
“Good boy,” replied Nolan. “And one last thing. Where are the bombs going to be set off?”
“They never told me. Like you said, I’m just the errand boy.”
“Ah, but you have ears, don’t you, you sneaky little bastard? So I know you heard something.”
“I didn’t hear anything. I really don’t know.”
Terry squeezed the trigger all the way this time, but instead of shooting Brennan in the ankle, he shot him in the foot. Brennan started screaming again.
“Shit, I’m losing my touch, I seem to have missed his ankle.” Terry ignored the screaming and returned the tip of the barrel to the congressman’s right ankle. “Don’t worry, I’ll fix that right now,” he laughed. He started to squeeze the trigger again.
“You’re a fucking bastard!” screamed Brennan.
“And here I was, thinking I was being nice,” said Terry to Huntington. He got in the congressman’s face. “You have no fucking idea, mate,” he spat. “You think you’re scared of her? I make her look like Mother Fucking Theresa. Now tell me where the fucking bombs are going to be set off in Manchester and London, you fucking maggot.”
Brennan could have sworn he saw Terry’s eyes grow red—he knew his death would be very slow and incredibly painful. He moaned, followed by a deep breath. “All I know is that I heard them talking about vans and boats.”
“Boats?” said Huntington. He shot a glance at Terry.
“Yes, boats,” he replied. “Please, that’s it, that’s all I know.” Brennan looked at Terry, pleading.
“Get this piece of shit out of my sight,” Terry said to Huntington.
57
stratton property, long island, new york,
3:20 a.m. edt
What was taking so long? Terry was tempted to call K but decided to wait until he had news about Shae. He was tired now. The adrenalin surge had passed, and he could feel his energy level dropping. Feeling his age, his father would have said. What he needed was about a gallon of coffee or a comfy bed, but neither would be happening for hours. As he walked back toward the front of the house, he lit a cigarette and inhaled deeply. A nice cold glass of vodka wouldn’t go amiss either. Maybe I can hitch a ride on that nice NYPD helicopter and have it drop me at the Plaza.
Looking over at the area where the East Hampton Town police cars were gathered, he could see that the Navy SEAL medic was patching up the congressman. Across the other side of the wide driveway, SAS soldiers were brewing tea. Now that is exactly what the doctor ordered. As he was walking over toward the men, out of the corner of his eye he noticed a pissed off chief of police walking toward him. Here we go, he thought with an exaggerated eye roll. He knew what was coming.
“What can I do for you, Chief?” he asked with a smile.
“What can you do for me? You have got to be joking!” he yelled. He got about two inches from Terry’s face and waved his hand back toward the congressman. “Who the fuck do you think you are? You’re going to fucking jail for this, and I swear to God, I am personally going to see you prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law.”
Terry saw a couple of the SAS men get to their feet and walk toward them. He waved them off. The last thing he needed was a dead chief of police and a half dozen of his men in PlastiCuffs.
“I suggest you calm down, Chief, or you’re going to give yourself a coronary.”
“Fuck you,” he replied. “Now turn the fuck around, I’m taking you in.”
The MI5 agent noticed the chief unclipping his holster. “I really wouldn’t do that,” he said. The smile was gone now, replaced by the expression of a man who could badly hurt people. He nodded toward the two SAS men, who now had their weapons in their hands, ready to go.
The chief looked over his shoulder and scowled. “Do you think I really give a shit about those two? My men . . .”
Nolan had taken out his phone. It was time to shut this down before it got out of hand. He dialed K.
“What’s your cell phone number?” he asked the officer.
K answered the phone. “Nolan, what’s going on?”
“What?” asked the police chief. “Why do you want my number?”
“One second, K,” replied Terry. He put the phone on speaker. “If you want to keep your job, you’ll give me your full name and phone number.”
“I, I . . .”
“Now.”
The chief seemed utterly confused and deflated. He spoke the information into the phone.
“You get that?” Terry asked K.
“Yes. What’s the matter? Trouble in paradise?”
“You could say that. The gentleman seems to think he can arrest me for asking Congressman Brennan a few questions.”
“Oh, he does, does he? I’ll take care of this. Let me give the prime minister a call, and she will call the relevant parties over there. Hang tight, lad.”
“Yes, sir.” Terry hung up. “It will just be a few minutes,” he said to the chief. They stood there, looking at each other, not speaking. The chief’s attitude went from belligerent to puzzled to curious to apprehensive, an impressive display of nonverbal communication. Terry’s face remained placid, inscrutable.
It took seven minutes for the chief’s phone to ring. He looked at the number and saw that it was blocked. He looked at Terry as he answered; all the agent did was smile benignly and light a cigarette. A woman’s voice came on the line.
“Chief Senters?”
“Yes.”
“This is the White House. Please hold for the president.” There was a click on the line.
“Chief Senters?”
Terry could have cried laughing as the chief’s eyes widened. “Yes, Mr. President?”
“What’s this about you wanting to arrest one of our British friends?”
“Well, yes, sir. It appears he shot Congressman Brennan, once in the hand and once in the foot during an interrogation.”
“Hmm, really?”
“Yes, Mr. President.”
“I’m sure you’re wrong about that, Chief. It is my understanding the congressman was wounded during the assault on the house.”
“I believe you’re mistaken, Mr. Pres . . .”
“I don’t think I am, Chief. Do you understand?”
“Uhhh . . . yes, sir. I understand.”
“Good man, Senters. Now about the drugs you found.”
“Drugs, sir? But there weren’t any—”
“Oh, but I think you will find there were, Senters. You, with your men and the FBI, after a prolonged raid where your lives were very much in jeopardy, brought down one of the largest methamphetamine labs ever discovered on the Eastern Seaboard, seizing over a ton of the finished product. Unfortunately, the FBI helicopter that was helping with the raid suffered an engine problem and crashed. Thankfully, there was no loss of life. It also appears that United States Congressman Nathan Brennan and businessman Kevin Stratton from New Jersey were an integral part of the production and distribution of the drugs. Congressman Brennan, who suffered non-life-threatening wounds in the assault on the property, will be brought up on charges as soon as he is able to appear in court. Does that sound about right, Chief Senters?”
The chief had just been given his morning press release by the president of the United States. “Yes, that is precisely what happened, sir.”
“Good, good. Now you see that our British friends and my Navy boys are looked after. Is that okay with you, Chief Senters?”
“Absolutely, Mr. President.”
“And let’s keep any mention of them out of the press, shall we?”
“Totally, sir. As far as I’m concerned, they just happened to be in the area.”
“You are a good man, Senters. Have a good rest of your night, Chief. Please put our British friend on the line.”
“Yes, Mr. President, and thank you sir.” He handed the phone to Terry. “He wants to talk to you.”
“Yes, sir,” said Nolan.
“Hello. Just what can I call you?”
“Terry’s fine, sir.”
“Terry, okay. How are you holding up? I hear you’ve been through the wringer.”
“You could say that, sir, but I’ll live.”
“Good. Where are you off to next?”
“It seems the trail goes cold here now, sir. So I will be going back home to see this through.”
“Good. I was beginning to wonder if anyone would be left alive on the East Coast by the time you were finished.”
Terry laughed. “I was beginning to wonder along those lines myself, sir.”
“Now make sure, when this is all over, you and your boss come over and give me a private briefing on all this, okay?”
“Yes, sir. If you could just run it by the prime minister, we should be good to go.”
“Great. I’ll look forward to it. Now if you don’t mind, Terry, I’m going to get a little more sleep. Thanks again for all you’ve done. Good night.”
“Good night, sir.” The line went dead, and he handed the phone back to Senters.
“So, are we good, Chief?”
“It appears we are. I hope you got what you needed out of Brennan.”
Terry smiled. “We’ll see, Chief. He’s still alive, so that says something. You may never know the half of it. As for the congressman, I suggest you offer him a deal of, say, fifteen to twenty years, as long as he keeps quiet about what he and his group were really up to. I’m sure the Feds will want a piece of his ass as well, so we should be good as far as keeping this under wraps.”
“If you don’t mind my asking, how bad is it?”
“It’s about as bad as it gets, Chief. Let’s just say, if we don’t stop this, I wouldn’t plan any vacations to my country for a very long time.”
“How long might that be?”
“Thirty years. Maybe a little more, maybe less.”
“Jesus,” replied the Chief.
“Unfortunately, Chief, I think the Son of God is on vacation right now. So, it’s down to me with a little help from my friends.”
58
mi5 headquarters, thames house, london,
8:45 a.m. gmt
K was in his office trying to catch up with the mundane paperwork that seemed to constantly gather on his desk. He wasn’t really accomplishing much, but it helped keep his mind off the dire situation the country was in. What he really needed was an update from Nolan, as that would give him an idea for what their next steps should be. He signed his name at the bottom of a requisition for a country estate in West Sussex that was part of the National Trust; it would become MI5’s new home if they failed to prevent the upcoming attack on the capital. He sighed heavily as he placed it in his out tray; this was something all the government department heads were doing, although most would never know why unless the unthinkable were to happen.
The government’s main concern was the civilian population and the support services needed for a mass exposure of radiation.At a cabinet meeting the day before, which had been attended by all the major commissioners of the regional police forces, the head of the National Health Service, and himself; the discussion had focused on what to do with the people. There were plans in place on what to do in case of a nuclear or biological attack, but the writers of those plans had assumed a large death rate and therefore a much more manageable number of survivors. The problem with a dirty bomb going off in a major city was that the initial casualty count would be fairly low, but the area affected by the radiation could be vast depending on the strength of the wind and its direction.
At first, they had discussed decontamination and hospital care for the very sick. It was decided that all current patients in NHS facilities who couldn’t be sent home would start being moved to outlying hospitals. Excuses such as an E. coli breakout or a flu epidemic were floated round as an explanation for the moves, as the press would be all over the government within twenty-four hours. This plan would free up doctors and nurses to be moved to field hospitals and clearing stations that were already being set up to the north and south of London and Manchester.
Then the topic of evacuation had been raised. Some of the cabinet members had insisted they warn the public and that they should self-evacuate as soon as possible. K told them that was insane, and the room exploded. After a few minutes of outrage, K calmly explained that it was highly likely that both of the bombs were already in the designated target cities and could be moved at a moment’s notice into position for detonation. If any public warning was given, the terrorists would certainly detonate the bombs, or even worse, move them to cities that weren’t being evacuated.
“Then what do you suggest?” asked the prime minister.
“Have the population shelter in place and then evacuate them in stages. The most affected areas first, then moving outward into other areas. We can even bring in enough CBRN suits to protect them from further exposure,” replied K.
“And the sick and injured?” she asked.
“We can funnel people through decontamination stations around the city at a manageable rate and treat those with severe radiation poisoning at our field hospitals,” replied the head of the NHS, who had discussed this with K and the police commissioners before the meeting. “Those needing less care can be shipped off to other regional hospitals.”
“And how do we get millions of people to shelter in place, might I ask?” said the deputy prime minister.
“Use the emergency broadcast system. After all, that’s what it’s there for,” replied K.
“But that will still alert the terrorists,” said the secretary of state.
“Yes, it will,” replied K. “But we wouldn’t do that until the day we think they are going to launch the attack anyway. That will give us time to prepare. We need to open every mothballed military base and set up tent cities for the evacuees. We can also have the police and Army cordon off every road out of both the cities the day before the announcement. Every vehicle will be searched, just to make sure that they haven’t got wind of anything.”
“But the death toll will still be high given the amount of radioactive material,” replied the deputy prime minister.
“Yes, but small in comparison to what you’d have if millions of people were out on the streets trying to get out of London and Manchester on congested roadways. Plus, can you even comprehend the difficulties for our emergency services trying to rescue people during a mass evacuation fueled by full-scale panic? It really would be disastrous.”
“Right,” said the prime minister. “You’ve given us a lot of information to discuss. We will get back to you by the morning with our decision on how to proceed. I pray none of this will prove necessary.”
“Me too, Prime Minister.”
A day after meeting with the prime minister, he was even more exhausted and frustrated with the way things were progressing. He yawned and looked at his watch yet again. Five past nine, and still nothing from the prime minister. Or Nolan. K pushed the intercom button for his secretary to make him another coffee when his phone rang. It was Nolan.
“Jesus, lad, you had me worried there. I thought you might be in a cell by now.”
“Thank you, sir, but no. The call the president made did the trick.”
“So what’s going on, Nolan?”
“Like I said earlier, sir, I had a little word with our congressman.”
K could imagine what a little word from Nolan, given the circumstances of the mission, could entail, and he had to admit, he was surprised the man was still with the living.
“The problem is the woman—her nickname is ‘The Terror,’ by the way.”
“Oh, that’s just icing on the cake, isn’t it?”
“She and Patrick O’Keith flew out yesterday by private jet for Biggin Hill. Unfortunately, sir, I don’t know if they flew into another EU country first to clear immigration. I really wouldn’t be shocked to find out they landed in Shannon first, then flew on to Biggin Hill.”
