Countdown, p.20
Countdown, page 20
Winnie moves a couple of switches and the familiar high-low of a British police siren erupts. From the reflection off nearby cars and trucks, I can see the van has hidden flashing blue lights in the front grille and above the windshield. Jeremy reaches under the dashboard and retrieves a communications device with an earpiece and a lapel mic; he clips the latter to his jacket.
Felicity calls out, “A squad is waiting for you, Jer, right at the first-floor entrance. Inspector Collins is lead.”
“Great.”
Winnie says, “Here we go,” and he squeezes between a large lumbering bus and a white delivery truck, their horns blaring, and pulls right to the curb.
Jeremy says, “Amy, you—”
“I’m coming along,” I say. “No way I’m staying here.”
He and Winnie get out, and as I’m climbing over the seats Felicity turns and says, “Get the bastard.”
I just nod, because there’s not much else to say—and because I now see that Felicity has no legs; her black trousers are pinned back just above the place where her knees would be.
Outside the air is thick with diesel and the sounds of near traffic and the heavy roar of jet engines. We go through sliding-glass doors and meet up with four heavily armed men dressed in black fatigues and combat boots. Each carries my old friend, the Heckler & Koch MP5, and wears a ball cap with black-and-white checks. One steps forward and says, “Collins.”
And Jeremy says, “Windsor.”
“What do you have?” he asks.
“A terr holed up in the Club Aspire lounge.”
He nods, face set and hard. “Right. That’s near Gate Nine. Off we go.”
My pistol is in both hands. Jeremy and Collins are leading the way, Winnie is beside me; from under his jacket he pulls out a cut-down Israeli-made Uzi 9mm submachine gun.
Then Jeremy holds up a clenched fist, whispers, “Halt,” and we all stop. There are flashes of light as some brave tourists take photos of us.
I turn my head.
I don’t need the attention.
Jeremy drops his hand. “He’s moved! We have a bearded Saudi national, about six feet tall, in the loo right next to Burberry’s.”
A young man in jeans and a black jacket emerges from the bathroom, dragging a suitcase. Collins and another armed Met officer grab him.
“You!” Collins says. “How many more are in there?”
The man’s eyes widen right up. “Shit, mate, I just went in there to piss. I wasn’t keeping count.”
He gets pushed away. Two more male passengers come out.
Neither of them is Saudi or bearded.
We wait.
I hate waiting.
Jeremy says, “We need a dynamic entry, and now.”
Collins shakes his head. “My airport, my rules.”
“This is a security matter.”
“No,” Collins says, “this is an airport matter, which means it belongs to me. We’re getting additional forces here, and soon.”
“We can’t wait!” Jeremy says.
Collins says, “Sorry, mate—that’s the rules.”
I take a breath and push past them, going straight into the men’s room.
“Not mine,” I say.
Chapter 64
THERE’S LOTS of cursing behind me, and someone’s hand—I’m sure it’s not Jeremy’s—brushes my right shoulder like he’s trying to pull me back. Lucky for the both of us, he misses grabbing onto me.
I lower myself and glance around the corner. Two dark-skinned Asian men in suits, white shirts, no neckties are at separate sinks, one brushing his teeth, the other washing his hands. The one maintaining good dental hygiene spots me—halts with the toothbrush in his mouth—and nudges the man next to him.
I put a finger up to my mouth—the international sign for Keep your damn mouth shut!—and with my other hand, holding my 9mm, I gesture them to move outside.
“Slowly,” comes a whisper, and I don’t turn.
It’s Jeremy.
There are sinks and mirrors to my right; to my left, a row of stalls.
Every one of them is open save for the one at the end.
Door closed.
I turn and point to the stall with the closed door. Jeremy nods. He points to himself, then to the far end of the bathroom. He gestures at me to stay behind.
I give him that.
He slowly walks down the bathroom like he’s waiting to do his familiar business, but his eyes and pistol are on the last stall. In a few seconds I move as well, following him, then I duck down and peer under the door.
Empty.
I wave and catch Jeremy’s attention, point to the bottom of the stall, then shake my head.
He gets the message.
He goes to the end and swiftly turns, then hammers the door open with one well-placed kick.
“Hey!” comes a shout, and the next few seconds are a confusing mess of Jeremy reaching in to grab a man squatting on the toilet seat with his feet. As he starts to drag him out, I reach in, grab a shirtsleeve, and tug him out as well. The man flips and falls to the floor, hands held up in terror.
It’s not Rashad.
He’s in his twenties, dressed well, and from the corner of my eye I spot a gray suit jacket hanging from a hook. The man’s right shirtsleeve is pulled up above his elbow, and a length of rubber hose is tied around the upper bicep.
“Hey…hey…hey…” he protests. “Come on…please…”
I look inside the stall, spot a hypodermic and small plastic cap, and a cotton ball.
“Just a junkie,” I say. “Just a goddamn junkie.”
The bathroom is then crowded with armed men, and Jeremy repeats again and again, “He was here, our guy was here, damn it…we had good intel!”
Before Inspector Collins can object, I go to the end of the sinks, where’s there a paper-towel dispenser and an open trash can.
I peer into the bin.
Spot something.
Gingerly pull it out.
“Hey,” I say.
I pick up the bloodstained gauze. The small metal object inside it is about the size of a fat rice kernel, with a millimeter or two of wire sticking out.
“Rashad was here,” I say. “And he left his calling card.”
“He’s gone,” Jeremy whispers, looking at my hand.
I say, “Gone—and with no way of tracking him.”
Chapter 65
TOM CORNWALL is in his home office, digging through the top drawer of his desk once again, automatically looking for a particular business card, but also recalling the oh-so-brief conversation he had earlier with Amy.
Ticonderoga.
Time to pack for the trip to Ticonderoga.
Years back, when Denise was just a toddler and Amy’s career in intelligence was beginning, over glasses of a fine Australian merlot one night in front of the fireplace at their old home in Virginia, Amy had said, “Just to be clear, you’re not to ask me anything for any story you’re working on. Not a damn thing.”
“Agreed,” Tom had said, but Amy had taken it one step further.
“But…” She had hesitated briefly, then plunged ahead: “But if I ever come across something that I think will mean immediate danger to you and Denise, I’ll warn you somehow. A word, a phrase.”
“Like ‘Alas, Babylon,’ from that old World War Three novel?” he had asked.
“No,” Amy had said. “Too many people know that one. No…if the time comes that I think you and Denise need to head for the hills, I’ll tell you to plan for a trip to Fort Ticonderoga. How does that sound?”
The wine had made him feel fuzzy and agreeable, so Tom had said, “Sure.”
But Amy wasn’t going for a snap answer. “Tom, this is what you’re agreeing to, all right? If you hear me saying ‘Ticonderoga,’ then there’s no arguing, no debate—just agreement.”
“Sure,” he had said, and later that night they had sealed the deal with a wonderful bout of lovemaking that their infant Denise had slept through.
Now Tom finds what he’s looking for: a ConEd business card with the name JOHN CORNWALL on the front and, on the back, a local number. His Uncle John, a ConEd retiree, now living at the southern end of Staten Island—a place Denise loved to visit because of Uncle John’s boating and fishing expertise.
A slight electronic ding disturbs him, and his iMessage chat icon is flashing on his MacBook screen.
He puts the card down, double-clicks, and sees it’s his Russian associate, Yuri.
TOM: Working late, are we?
YURI: Or early, depending on my time zone.
TOM: Oh, and where’s that?
YURI: Hah. Good try tovarisch. How are u?
TOM: Fine. Working on a story, ready to head out.
YURI: Head out why?
Tom pauses, wondering why he let that bit of information slip. He resumes his typing.
TOM: The story I’ve been working on…the possible attack on NYC. It’s getting too real. I’m taking my daughter and getting out of town for a bit.
There’s now a pause on the other end, the icon blinking.
YURI: Losing your nerve?
Ouch, that stung.
TOM: Doing my job as a dad. Taking my daughter to safety.
Another pause.
Longer.
YURI: Is this the same Tom Cornwall who shared rations with me in Syria? Who stood up for me against the Kurds? Who refused an evac because the story wasn’t done yet?
TOM: Same Tom. Different responsibilities.
YURI: You head out, you’ll miss the story.
Screw you, Tom thinks.
TOM: I stay, my daughter might miss her father. Forever.
Yuri quickly replies.
YURI: Sorry to see you lose your nerve. Reporters like us stayed in Leningrad, landed in Normandy, ran to the Towers, rode into Baghdad.
Tom is slowly getting more and more irritated. He quickly dips into a file folder marked KURD PIX, finds the photo he’s looking for, and sends it along to Yuri.
TOM: Reporters like this? Believe me, I’ve not changed. Not at all.
A silence. To reacquaint himself with what he just sent Yuri, Tom opens up the photo. It shows a squad of Kurdish peshmerga fighters resting against a dirt berm, smiling for the camera. At the right side of the squad is Tom, also smiling, and Yuri, seemingly distracted, digging into a green knapsack.
The pause grows longer.
YURI: Didn’t know you had this photo. Who took it?
TOM: Correspondent from CNN, a souvenir. That’s who I am. Even if I’m here in New York. But this time the story’s on my front doorstep, with my daughter right next to me. That’s the big difference, friend.
Then comes the abrupt and final message:
YURI Has Signed Out.
Tom stares at the blank screen, then looks around his office, with its books, newspapers, and notebooks. Plaques and awards clutter the far wall.
Damn that Yuri.
He sure knows how to needle a guy.
He picks up the phone and makes a call. When a gruff voice answers, he says, “Uncle John? It’s Tom. Hey, I was wondering…something’s come up at work. Would you mind keeping Denise for a few days?”
His old uncle coughs and clears his throat. “Sure. She’s a handful, but she keeps me moving. You coming with her?”
“No,” Tom says.
Chapter 66
I SLIDE away from Terminal Three at Heathrow and climb into the red van lettered EXPRESS LONDON DISPATCH.
Felicity is sitting in her chair, pointing a pistol in my direction.
She shrugs, lowers it. “Suspicious sort,” she says. “Sorry. When you can’t move around well, you tend to get paranoid about being stuck in one place.”
I settle down in the second chair in the rear and get a better view of her lower legs. She notes my gaze and I say, “Iraq? Or Afghanistan?”
“Neither,” Felicity says. “Tavistock Square, about 25 kilometers from here.”
It comes to me almost like a slap to the face.
“The July 7 London bombings,” I say. “You were in the double-decker bus?”
Felicity looks pleased that I know the reference. “That’s right. The blast took off both of my legs, sent shrapnel through the rest of my body. More than fifty were killed, about 700 injured…and it’s discussed in historic terms, like the Coventry bombing in 1941. It’s all forgotten…but I don’t forget. Can’t, actually. I had been planning a boring career in the civil service. But plans change.”
I say, “Rashad’s not in there.”
“I figured as much, with the tracking chip staying in one place after you lot raced in. Did he dig it out of his wrist himself?”
“Yes,” I say. “Tricky son of a bitch, isn’t he?”
Felicity says, “Oh, but he has a weakness. And it’s the same as what he regards as his strength—his determination and focus—such that he’ll plan the deaths of thousands while taking a knife to his own skin to dig out that tracker. That sense of superiority can lead to overconfidence.”
More horns and honks, the high-low sirens of additional police vehicles roaring in. “You said earlier that you had spotted him in Paris, then on a section of…”
“Uxbridge Road,” she says, returning to the video screen. “I managed to narrow it down to either a fish-and-chips takeaway or a function hall owned by a local charity, the White City Relief Association.”
“Wait,” I say, something coming to me. “That function hall. What was there tonight?”
Back to her keyboard and screen, and in just a few moments Felicity says, “A historical society.”
“What group?”
“The…Queen Elizabeth II Railroad Society.”
Railroad.
Yes!
“Felicity, can you locate Jeremy and Winnie? We need to get going. Now!”
And then I look and—
No keys in the ignition.
Damn it!
A soft tinkle. I turn. Felicity is dangling a set of keys in her hand.
Chapter 67
RACING EAST along the M4, heading back to London, I recall the power of my first driving lessons back in Maine. The worst part of driving this van is its gearshift, and using it with my left hand; but I wasn’t intending on going into reverse anytime soon.
“Hey,” I say to Felicity, “can you print out a photo of Rashad before we get there?”
“Of course,” Felicity says, “but first can I give you a bit of advice?”
“Please,” I say, as a white tractor trailer cuts me off and my right foot flails for a second, seeking out the brake pedal.
“In the States, where you drive on the wrong side of the road, it’s easy to visualize your left tire being aligned with the center line because the steering wheel is on the left,” she explains. “Here, just flip it: visualize your right tire hugging the center line, and—Jesus Christ, look out for the lorry!”
More horns, another tap of the brakes from me, and then Felicity shouts, “We’re coming up to the roundabout! Take the second exit, to Great West Road!”
In addition to the horns, there’s an awful screech of metal as a black taxicab sideswipes us, but I don’t brake.
This section of Uxbridge Road has two- and three-story brick buildings.
“Here, here,” Felicity says. “Right there, the place with the sign hanging down over that picture window.”
I slam on the brakes but don’t see any parking spots, so I make do by driving up on the sidewalk. And then I’m out and running.
I burst through the swinging glass doors, into a foyer with a coatroom, and beyond is a short hallway that takes me to a large banquet hall. There’s the smell of stale beer and tobacco smoke, and two young women are on stepladders, taking down UK flag bunting. Even as waiters fold up tables and chairs, four older men in formal evening wear with miniature medals over their left breasts linger in the far corner with their drinks.
I thrust the freshly printed-out photo of Rashad toward them. “This man,” I say. “He was here tonight.”
The tallest man among them takes the photo and says, “Oh, yes, of course, that’s Randy.”
“Randy?”
He nods, hands the photo back to me. “Yes. Randy Hussain. A great train enthusiast, supporter of the Society, and friend to Perkins.”
“Who is Perkins?” I ask.
“Perky was in the war, a true hero,” he says. “He was in the SOE.”
It comes to me then.
“Special Operations Executive,” I say. “Behind-the-lines spies and commandos.”
A man with a white, walrus-style mustache speaks up. “Perky was probably the best saboteur Churchill ever had. Killed hundreds of Krauts.”
The taller one corrects him. “Not hundreds,” he says. “Thousands.”
Chapter 68
WINNIE HALTS the police cruiser just beside their van, turning on the blue flashers, and he gets out and Jeremy is right next to him just as Amy Cornwall runs out of the building.
“Hey!” she says. “Good to see you’ve caught up with us. I’ve got a good lead on Rashad.”
Jeremy says, “Good God, woman, do you have any idea what—”
“Perkins Gloucester,” she says, breathing hard. “Lives in a nursing home about five klicks away. Best friend of Rashad’s while he’s been in London. Now. We can get a good lead on what the hell that bastard’s up to.”
While Winnie is speeding their van along, Amy says, “Hey, Felicity, if you can, dig further into those tracking sightings of Rashad in Paris. See if he was anywhere near something of interest. I’m sure you’ll know it when you see it.”
