Countdown, p.16
Countdown, page 16
With Amy keeping pace with him, Jeremy Windsor walks with assurance and coolness to the closest Land Rover Defender not damaged by the earlier blast. Amy says, “What’s the plan?”
This woman, he thinks. She has saved his life three times in the past few days, and if she’s been shocked or rattled by what’s happened—by the travel, the shooting, the desperate moments of being under fire—well, she’s very good at hiding it.
“Getting out of here is the plan so far,” he says. “Not much beyond that.”
He goes to the Defender. All four tires are inflated and in good shape. At the rear, on the pavement, are a used fire extinguisher, some clumps of bloody bandages and a crumpled-up balaclava, and a scattering of empty brass cartridges.
Perfect.
“Amy, I—”
“Hey!”
He turns, and a red-faced, sweaty French paramilitary officer is standing there, MP5 in his hands.
In rapid French the man says, “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
“Just looking things over,” Jeremy replies.
The officer moves his head, his face angry. “Then come with me. My superior wants to talk to you and the bitch.”
Jeremy says, “Please, can you just give me a minute—”
“No!”
“I really don’t—”
“Move!”
Then, in English, Amy—quietly standing half a meter away—says, “Jeremy, are we being serious now? Are we?”
The Frenchman is still staring at Jeremy with rage.
Jeremy nods. “Quite serious.”
Amy moves quickly: she grabs the red metal fire extinguisher and with one hard swing she hits the French officer right in the back of his head.
He drops like a sack of cement. Amy strips him of his weapons, tosses them in the rear of the Land Rover, then rolls the groaning man over. She binds his arms behind his back and shoves the discarded balaclava in his mouth.
Amy slams the rear door shut.
“I’m serious, too,” she says, moving around to the front. “And I’m driving.”
Chapter 52
FORTUNATELY FOR all concerned, this Land Rover Defender starts up with just the shove of a button. In ops like this one, you don’t want to fumble around in an emergency, asking, “Who’s got the keys?”
The Defender’s transmission is manual, and I get savage satisfaction from hammering the clutch and accelerator and making a quick U-turn. Hard to believe, I know, but when I went through my CIA training at The Farm, some of the recruits had to be taught to drive a standard.
Jeremy doesn’t even buckle in as we roar off to the end of the runway, heading for the access road Rashad had used. We travel off the pavement onto a dirt area, then get on a narrow, rough road. Tree branches whip the vehicle’s sides as I drive as fast as I dare. The interior smells of gun oil and stale cigarette smoke.
I say, “Hopefully that guy’s friends will see him on the ground and think he was one of the KIAs. We should have about ten minutes or so of grace time before they figure out we’re gone.”
“Maybe not,” Jeremy says. “Look what’s ahead.”
Up ahead are two blue-and-white French police cars, parked at an angle and partially obstructing the road. Two officers in standard uniform stand between the cars, blocking the way to the country road that leads to the D5 highway, based on what I had seen earlier on that large map.
I say, “They’ll recognize this Land Rover as belonging to the DGSE, right?”
“They should,” he says.
“Well, we’re about to find out,” I say. “Hold up an identification card, wave it at them.”
“What? I don’t have an ID card like that!”
“Then use your National Health ID or anything…Now, Jeremy.”
I hold on tight and keep our speed up, and Jeremy is waving something back and forth. I join the action, gesturing brusquely with one arm, and when we’re a few meters away, the two policemen step back.
We blast through without hesitation. A few minutes later I make a turn and we’re heading toward the D5.
I say, “Tell me again about the bravery of the French?”
“Not a good example,” he says sharply. “Some are, some aren’t.”
“I know,” I say, speeding up the Land Rover. “I was just busting your chops. And some brave men back there are dead because they protected us.”
Jeremy says, “Go faster, Amy”
“Okay.”
An hour later we’re at a rural cottage south of Lognes—to the east of Paris—in a dark green Saab sedan Jeremy had quickly and expertly stolen from a Super U supermarket parking lot about twenty kilometers away. He directs me down the dirt driveway to the overgrown rear yard, and I switch off the engine.
“You drive well,” he says. “Glad you knew how to use a standard.”
“Always full of surprises,” I say, and we get out. The tiny rear yard is nearly overgrown with brushes and small saplings, and there’s an uneven brick patio covered with moss next to the Saab’s front wheels. Jeremy goes to a specific brick, pops it up, and removes a key. We go to the rear door of the cottage and Jeremy keys open the heavy-duty lock, and we go in.
Very unimpressive.
Dusty old furniture, a kitchenette that’s filthy, and piles of French books and magazines on the carpeted floor. I pick up a copy of Paris-Match; it’s three years old. The Oriental carpet in the center of the living area looks like it last got vacuumed when de Gaulle was running the place.
“Charming,” I say. “But safe houses don’t need to be charming.”
“That’s right,” Jeremy says.
“And why do we need to be in a safe house? I thought you were best buds with Victor and the DGSE.”
“Victor’s section of the DGSE, not the whole agency,” Jeremy says. “And there’s France’s General Directorate for Internal Security, and their military intelligence. We could be scooped up to embarrass the DGSE or MI6, or for any other reason. I don’t want to present anyone that opportunity.”
I go in farther as he switches on some lights. The illumination doesn’t make the place look any finer. I find a toilet with a brown bowl and a shower stall that has mold growing up the walls. A tiny bedroom with a single bed, absent covers or blankets.
Nothing else.
He looks to me, smiling slightly. The abrasion on his left cheek looks better.
“Move, will you?” I ask.
He takes one step to the left.
“Further,” I say.
One more step.
“Get to the rear door, will you?”
He smiles once more and heads for the rear door.
I go and move the heavy couch and two chairs off the dull brown Oriental rug. I pick up a corner of the rug and dust flies off, and then I roll it up.
The floor is cement.
Save for a smooth rectangular metal hatch in the center. It has a recessed ring and a keypad.
Jeremy says, “Nicely done.”
“Mind telling me the combination, or do you want to open it yourself?”
He strolls over. “I need to keep a few secrets, otherwise my boss will give me quite the dressing-down when this op is finished.”
Jeremy squats down, his fingers fly, there’s a muffled click, and he stands up and pulls on the recessed ring. The heavy-looking hatch—counterweighted somehow—easily comes up, revealing metal stairs descending into a well-lit basement.
“After you,” he says.
“Oh, no,” I say. “I insist—after you.”
His smile remains the same, and he goes down with me following him. The hatch slowly descends behind us, and just because, I have my SIG Sauer out and behind my back.
Chapter 53
THE BASEMENT is clean and well-ordered, and after we both take turns visiting a bathroom that’s not slippery with filth, Jeremy goes to a metal cabinet in a small kitchenette that also contains a small table and two chairs and removes a light-green cardboard box with French lettering. Across the top in large type is RATION DE COMBAT INDIVIDUELLE RECHAUFFABLE. In smaller type below that is the translation: Reheatable Individual Combat Ration.
I ask, “What? Not supporting Queen and country with your own rations?”
He starts opening the cardboard. “I will sacrifice almost anything for Queen and country, save for my digestion. Especially when the host country makes the best combat rations in the world.”
A while later we’re eating at a small kitchen table. My meal today is a duck mousse appetizer, followed by Alsatian pork stew. Across from me Jeremy is dining on an appetizer of venison terrine and a meal of white bean, sausage, and duck casserole. We’re both drinking warm flat water with our meals.
There are black locked cabinets against two of the walls, shelving, and two single beds. The lighting is recessed and comfortable, and the air is dry and cool.
Jeremy says, “While you were using the WC, I checked in with the home office. Rashad is in the UK. Possibly going to London.”
“Then let’s get moving,” I say.
He nods. “Over in that corner there, we have photo equipment to give us both new passports. You feel like being Canadian?”
“Why not, ’ey?” I ask. “But I need a bit more information before we head out. That runway attack. Nice way to spoof you and the French, and come close to killing you and maybe Victor. But was that a one-off? Was it just Rashad looking for revenge? Are you still certain he’s planning a mass attack?”
“I am,” he says.
“Then share,” I say. “If this op is going to nail Rashad Hussain before he attacks New York City, I’m in one hundred percent. I don’t care if I’m smoked and depending on you for food, shelter, and travel. The stakes are that high. But if this is just a deal to settle a grudge because he killed your dad, then I’m out.”
Jeremy says, “Fair enough.” He takes another bite of his casserole. “We’ve been following him for years. Rashad was always one to be in the shadows, staying aside, not even pulling the strings…but pulling the strings of someone else who was pulling the strings. A suicide attack on a hotel in Mumbai. A bomb at a cruise-ship terminal in Marseilles. A sarin-gas attack in the Tokyo subway. The perpetrators would be captured, and their paymasters and organizers would be identified, and then…the trail would stop. But always, always, Rashad Hussain was there in the far background. One of his corporations or companies or business interests would be nearby, serving as a paymaster. A place for research. Or a gathering point. But nothing that would stand up in the usual court of law.”
“What kind of businesses is he involved in?”
Jeremy smiles. “Not oil or anything petrochemical. Amusing, isn’t it? Plastics, software development, transportation, computer hardware…even construction equipment and machinery, like the bin Laden family. And for the past year the chatter has increased, saying those working with Rashad were going after something big, something to happen on May 29. And this time he won’t be in the shadows. He’ll be right in the middle of it. Almost like all of his earlier activities were just practice drills, until this, the main event.”
“And your father? And his father?”
“They both attended Sandhurst. He was from Saudi Arabia, my father from…well, what passes for the nobility in dear old England. They both went into their respective militaries, and then into government service. They kept in touch over the years—both of them using each other, I suppose, in the service of their nations.”
“Were you and Rashad friends?”
Jeremy grimaces. “That would have been a storybook tale, correct? Two lads from different worlds, finding a common bond from their fathers. But we never got along, because Rashad hated his father and couldn’t understand why I didn’t have the same attitude toward my own. You see…Rashad is illegitimate. He couldn’t get over the shame. He has three half-sisters, but they’ve always ignored him. I think he hated me for having a relatively normal family life, and he hated my father because he was friends with his own pater.”
I finish off my stew, wondering if I can order these French rations for my future overseas ops—that is, if I ever get my smoke order reversed. “And he killed both of them?”
A slow nod. “Yes. Rashad’s father was a pilot. One day during a visit, he took my father up for a flight from Jeddah, over the Red Sea, flying his private Learjet 40. A nice, safe, routine flight, but they never came back. A wing was found, nothing else. And later…when I met with Rashad following the air-and-sea search, he smiled and shrugged and said, ‘Engine failure. Poor repairs, no doubt.’”
I think about that and say, “He was taunting you. The aircraft they were on…it was sabotaged. By recent maintenance work.”
Jeremy says, “By an aircraft-maintenance company owned by Rashad.”
“No real proof.”
“Real enough,” he says.
I take in our comfortable little safe house, eager to get the hell out, and look to the stairway leading up to the first floor. Just one way in and one way out. I don’t like it.
“And what of New York?”
Jeremy now looks troubled—a look I’m not used to. “I know he’s after it.”
“How?”
“Because he told me,” Jeremy says.
Chapter 54
RASHAD HUSSAIN is sipping from a small cup of tea in the foyer at the Claridge Hotel in London’s Mayfair section when Marcel Koussa sits down across from him. The ivory-colored room has high windows, sculpted arches, and Roman-style columns in the corners.
“Are they ready?” he asks, gently setting the teacup down in a fine China saucer.
“Yes,” Marcel says, looking uncomfortable. “But sir…it’s such a risk. Again, I don’t think it’s wise. After the events of last night, wouldn’t it make sense just to…avoid entanglements?”
Rashad says, “It’s not up to you, or to me. But it is up to God.”
Marcel nods. “As you wish.”
“Very well,” he says. “And all is ready for tonight’s festivities?”
“It is.”
“Good.”
In a three-room suite upstairs, Heather Morrissey is patiently sitting with her coworker Nancy Pullman as they both wait for their client. Like her, Nancy is dressed like a typical American tourist: mom jeans, loose plain blue sweatshirt, minimal makeup and jewelry. But even with the sweatshirt, Heather can tell her redheaded companion is curvy and bosomy.
Nancy says, “He should be here in a few minutes.”
“He should,” she says, flipping through the fashion magazine Grazia. “But you know the drill…the client is never, ever wrong.”
Aside from the few years in Los Angeles when she tried and failed to get an acting career going, Heather has spent her entire life in Montana, except for work travel like this. She has a horse ranch with a detached house that allows her elderly parents to live safely and comfortably, and this job—and its high pay—has allowed a good life for the three of them.
Nancy says, “My gig is cheerleader. What’s yours?”
“Soccer mom.”
“You got kids? You know he’s gonna check.”
“No,” Heather says. “But I’ve got photos of me with my two nephews. So relax already.”
Nancy looks at the large bed nearby, and the black rubber mats placed around it.
“I am relaxed,” she says. “But that rubber…and the rubber sheet under the covers. Makes you wonder how weird he is.”
Heather was going to say, Girlfriend, if you’re still concerned about weird clients, you sure are in the wrong business, but the room door opens and a handsome man strides in, with a relaxed, open, and inviting smile.
“Good day, ladies,” he says, nodding. “I trust you’re both doing well.”
Heather quickly scopes him out. He stands a good six feet tall, trim and well-built, in his mid- to late thirties. Fine tailored gray suit with white shirt, no necktie. Gold cufflinks and Italian shoes. The suit-jacket pocket on his right sags just a bit, like he’s got an iPhone secured there. Trimmed beard, closely cropped black hair.
Middle Eastern type, which is fine by Heather. She isn’t prejudiced in the least, but she wants to give those brown eyes a steady gaze.
He returns her stare, still smiling.
Heather relaxes. Some clients, they have cold lizard eyes. That’s when you know there is going to be trouble, and that’s when you walk, no matter the penalty fee.
She says, “Doing fine, thank you, sir.”
“Same here.” Nancy chimes in, arching her back just the slightest, which Heather thinks is a tad crass. Too soon, she thinks, let’s wait awhile.
“Very nice, my ladies,” he says, and he walks over, still smiling. “I trust…well, I had requested two very specific American women. I hope you’re not offended.”
“Nope, not at all,” Heather says, although a deep part of her that remains a stubborn teen girl from Montana wants to say, Screw you, what are you looking for, a couple of breed sows?
“Same here,” Nancy says. “I don’t mind reliving my cheerleading days.”
From a small black leather clasp purse, Nancy removes three photos and the man examines them, pursing his lips, nodding. From her vantage point, Heather can make out a teenage Nancy in a skimpy high-school cheerleader’s uniform, the kind that exposes a flat and tanned stomach.
“How sweet,” the man says, handing the photos back. “I bet you got a lot of attention from the school boys back then.”
Nancy accepts the photos, smiling. “And some of the teachers, too.”
The man laughs and moves next to Heather. She offers up photos of her standing with her twin nephews, Justin and Paul, at a soccer field, both young boys grinning with satisfaction into the camera. “Ah,” the man says. “The proverbial…what do you say, soccer mom?”
“One hundred percent,” Heather lies, putting the photos away in her own small handbag. The man goes to the other side of the room, retrieves a chair, and puts it near the end of the king-sized bed. He makes a polite gesture.
