by Ted Bell
Congreve clambered back up into his seat just in time to see the red-and-white-striped barriers of a roadblock a mile or so straight ahead.
“What’s that barrier?” he asked, seeing the speed at which they were approaching the barrier. “Security for Highgrove?”
“No. I’d have been warned beforehand. It’s part of this ambush. Meant to trap us. Deliver the coup de grâce if need be. Hold on.”
The Jag pulled right alongside the Locomotive on Congreve’s side. “Get down below the window and stay down!” Hawke ordered, grabbing the Python from the tray with his left hand. Seeing the hefty revolver in Hawke’s hand, Congreve slid down, getting his head well below the window frame. The masked thug in the rear seat sprayed the passenger-side windows at point-blank range. None penetrated. When the would-be assassin paused to reload, Hawke lowered the front passenger window electrically. He took a firm grip on the wheel with his right hand. For this to succeed, the Bentley’s line would have to be unwavering.
Both cars were traveling at well over one hundred miles per hour, making the shot a bit more interesting. His firm grip on the wheel keeping the big car rock steady, he quickly raised his left hand and sighted down on the shooter. Squeezing the trigger of the Colt twice, he put two shots into the bastard’s forehead just as he was bringing the ugly snout of his weapon up to fire again. Put a deadly end to him. Probably made a bloody mess of the Jag’s interior as well.
Hawke raised the completely glazed window, replaced the Python, and the drawer disappeared back into the fascia.
“Hold on, I’m going to open her up.”
“What? I can’t hear a damned thing! You’ve blown out my eardrums!”
“I said, hold on, I’m going to speed up!”
“Alex, if you say ‘hold on’ one more time—”
Hawke accelerated, watching the speedometer needle climb toward 120. There was the barricade ahead and it was coming up fast. Two hooded men were standing behind it, automatic weapons at the ready. An older car, maybe an old Rover, was parked halfway on the road beyond them, its doors ajar. The road had straightened, and Hawke floored the accelerator to the firewall for this final bit. The Locomotive surged ahead and the high whine of the Arnott supercharger kicking in made normal conversation useless. The needle brushed 130 mph and kept climbing.
“You’re not going to stop?” Congreve screamed.
“No! We’re going right through them,” Hawke shouted above the noise. “There is massive security at the entrance to Highgrove. The boys behind us won’t come near it.”
“You’re going to kill those two men!”
“I’m certainly going to try,” Alex said with great solemnity, glancing sideways at his friend. And there it was in his stone-hard eyes, if Congreve needed any further proof. Hawke had buried the pain, buried the hurt, buried the bygone days. The world had tried, God knows, but it could not starve the tiger from those eyes.
Congreve, his ears still ringing, closed his own eyes and braced himself.
Hawke accelerated violently, even as his windscreen went opaque in the hail of bullets blazing from behind the barricade. He was now being fired upon from both front and rear. Unswerving, he put the car on the centerline and aimed straight for the two assailants standing in the road, waiting for them to leap aside.
Or not.
At the last second, one shooter dove to the side.
The other stood his ground, boots planted on either side of the centerline, defiantly firing directly into the windscreen of the onrushing Bentley.
The man’s life story, ended abruptly by a massive automobile going over 130 miles per hour, was punctuated by two tiny but distinct bumps in rapid succession as the front and then the rear tires steamrolled over what remained of his corpse.
A second later, the left-side front bumper of the speeding Locomotive caught the rear end of the Rover and sent it cartwheeling through the underbrush beside the road like a toy tossed aside. Hawke glanced at his wing mirror and saw the Rover smash into a huge oak and explode into flame.
Hawke pulled out his mobile, speed-dialed a number, and handed it to Congreve, saying, “This is security at the entrance to Highgrove. Tell them exactly what’s happened and ask them to alert both the local police and MI5. Say we’ll be at the house in less than fifteen minutes. Bit difficult to see, by the way. Hold on.”
Congreve gave Highgrove security the details.
And, for dear life, he held on.
SIX
LONDON, ONE YEAR EARLIER
DR. SAHIRA KARIM LOOKED AT HER WATCH. Nearly eight o’clock on a Saturday night. Instead of being where she should be, or, at least, where she dearly longed to be, namely, out at Heathrow putting her fiancé, Anthony, on his night flight to New York, she was sitting at her work-cluttered desk at Thames House. Reams of intercepted cellular transcripts and stacks of neighborhood surveillance reports loomed before her.
It promised to be a long night.
At least her newly acquired corner office came with a spectacular view of the Thames River, flowing beneath the gracefully arched Lambeth Bridge just to her left. Tonight the bridge was aglow with slow-moving traffic, wavering halos of white headlamps, and flashing red taillights crisscrossing in the misty rain.
Completed in 1930, Thames House, the stately buildings where Dr. Karim had worked ever since leaving university, were designed in the “Imperial Neoclassical” tradition of Sir Edward Luytens. Headquarters of MI5, or Five, as it was called, the massive complex was a huge improvement over the Secret Service’s former digs on Curzon Street and, later, at 140 Gower Street.
Standing almost directly across the Thames, on the Albert Embankment at 85 Vauxhall, stood the headquarters of MI5’s “sister” intelligence agency, MI6. This edifice was an unashamedly modern affair, architecturally controversial, and sometimes referred to as “Legoland” by the wags across the river at Five.
In the British Secret Service, there are two distinct entities: MI6, which deals with international intelligence and security matters; and MI5, which deals strictly with domestic affairs, including Northern Ireland. Both halves of the equation had become increasingly complex since 9/11 and the rise of radical Islam, hence Dr. Karim’s preposterous workload on this rainy Saturday evening in June.
Dr. Karim was a striking woman, tall, with olive skin, gleaming black hair that brushed her shoulders, full red lips, and dark, liquid eyes beneath long black lashes. She dressed conservatively, as befitted her position, but there was always a startling flare of color just at her neck, flaming scarlet or shimmering yellow silk. Born an only child some thirty years ago in the grim slums of New Delhi, she emigrated with her family to London, and a tiny flat in Fulham, when she was ten. She’d embraced London on sight and had thrived in it ever since.
She’d moved up a bit in the world since her humble origins in the squalid back alleys of her childhood. Sahira had recently been named MI5’s new director of domestic intelligence. Her primary responsibilities included Northern Ireland–related terrorism as well as the domestic Islamic extremist groups active in London and throughout the country. Since the most recent London tube and bus bombings, everyone in the building had been on edge, waiting for the next attack.
MI5’s counterterrorism section, under Sahira’s direction, had foiled more than a few potentially devastating bombings, but that was not common knowledge outside Thames House, nor would it ever be. One of Sahira’s primary qualifications for the job was her scientific background in nuclear and nonnuclear weaponry.
In addition to her international affairs credentials, Dr. Karim had a nuclear physics and engineering background, and she sometimes dabbled in weapons design at MI5. Her proudest achievement was a “warbot,” an “unmanned ground vehicle” she had nicknamed “Ugg.” A few had been produced and were in use by the British Army in Afghanistan. In addition to guns and cameras, Ugg had sensors capable of detecting poison gas, airborne bacteria, and nuclear radiation.
ONE VERY TROUBLING
THING CURRENTLY on her radar was an IRA splinter group, which called itself the “Real IRA” or the “New IRA.” Ignoring the long-standing peace since the Good Friday Agreement, the New IRA cell had recently been stirring up a lot of trouble in Northern Ireland. Their strategy was simple: if they killed enough British soldiers, members of the former Royal Ulster Brigade, and civilians, they would surely invite loyalist retaliation, and thus reignite the violent struggle for a unified Ireland.
A year ago, dissident Republicans had murdered two British Army soldiers. More recently, a six-hundred-pound bomb had been discovered, buried just outside the village of Forkhill, in south Armagh, Northern Ireland. Meant to kill a Police Service of Northern Ireland patrol, it had been located and disarmed by Dr. Karim and her MI5 Weapons Disposal team just before it exploded. In addition to the deaths and injuries, it would definitely have generated fierce reprisals, and a tidal wave of renewed violence.
Daily, new and ever-increasing threats from Northern Ireland surfaced, and they whistled over Sahira’s head like a scythe.
Closer to home were the radical Islamic terrorists born to immigrant parents right here in Britain. Ever since the horrific London transit bombings in the summer of 2005, Sahira’s section had been focused on suspicious activities in the heavily Pakistani inhabited regions of East London. And working-class towns like Leeds and Birmingham.
After years of study, she knew this highly volatile domestic Muslim population demanded constant vigilance and never-ending surveillance. The United Kingdom was now home to the largest immigrant Arab population in Europe, one that was always simmering. And one that could boil over at any given moment.
That’s why she was sitting here tonight instead of out at Heathrow kissing Tony, her fiancé, good-bye. They had managed to squeeze in a quick farewell lunch at the Ivy, and he’d given her a lovely string of antique pearls from Asprey’s, but still. She already missed him. They were to be married in less than a month.
A high-ranking minister in the P.M.’s cabinet, Anthony Soames-Taylor normally worked at Downing Street. But he would be in Washington for three whole weeks. He was scheduled to attend a series of secret CIA meetings on Anglo-American joint security measures against urban weapons of mass destruction. This emergency session had been called in light of the latest intelligence coming out of Pakistan and Afghanistan.
Number one concern on the Western intel community’s list: the radical Islamic takeover of an unstable Pakistan. Besides granting radical Islam a home base, at least one hundred nuclear weapons would fall into the hands of the West’s avowed enemies.
The repercussions would obviously be devastating. Not only the nuclear threat posed by the rogue nation, but the encouragement of homegrown terrorists in both America and Britain to engage in more violence.
Sahira was deep into a close inspection of a transcript when one of her two desk phones began blinking red. Shit. It meant the director general of MI5, Lord Malmsey, was calling her. At this time of night on a Saturday, it was most likely not good news.
“Dr. Karim,” she said cheerfully, picking up the receiver.
“Sahira, glad I caught you; we’ve a situation on our hands. Not sure how serious it is yet, but it certainly has that potential. I’ll need your immediate involvement. Are you quite busy?”
“No, sir, not at all. How can I help?”
“Well, here it is. A flash emergency signal has just been received from one of the British Air ticket agents out at Terminal Four, Heathrow. But I’m now looking at live feeds from all the T-4 CCTV security cameras out there and I can’t see a damn thing out of the ordinary.”
“Someone hit a button accidentally?”
“Possibly. Nevertheless, I’ve already spoken to Heathrow’s head of security and ordered our own team out there to Level One readiness, with instructions to stand by until we know what the hell, if anything, is going on. Could be a false alarm, of course. The permanent Heathrow security forces have also gone on alert standby. No one makes a move until we have an accurate threat assessment.”
“How can I help, sir?”
“Had a thought. Just occurred to me. I recall that at our breakfast meeting this morning you mentioned your fiancé was flying BA to Washington Dulles tonight on the nine thirty. Correct?”
“Yes, sir. Anthony is probably checking in at Terminal Four as we speak.”
“Flying first class, I imagine?”
“No, sir, Tony always flies economy. Says screaming babies are character-building. He’ll be in the main hall.”
“I’d like you to ring his mobile. Casual chat, good-bye and that sort of thing. But ask him if he’s aware of anything at all out of the ordinary out there. Anything we should know about. Don’t alarm him, no panic, just say you got an odd call you’re running down, probably nothing, you know the drill. Ring me back as soon as you’ve spoken.”
“Will do,” she said, hanging up, grabbing her shoulder bag, and tossing her mobile inside as she headed for the door. Her black Mini was parked in the Thames House underground garage. She would call Anthony as soon as she was en route to Heathrow. At this time of night on a weekend, she could be there in less than half an hour. She’d tune in to BBC World News radio and monitor the situation on the way.
Tires squealing as she tore around and around the endless parking garage levels, she speed-dialed Anthony on her Bluetooth handsfree.
“Hullo?”
“Anthony, darling, it’s me. Missing you already, if that’s not inappropriate. You okay?”
“Fine, fine. Just missing you already, too, if that’s not too pathetic.”
“No, no. It’s good. Missing is good. Listen, we got this call a few minutes ago about a possible situation at Terminal Four. Anything weird going on out there that catches your eye?”
“Nope. Nothing but the glamour of modern air travel and those of us lucky enough to be in the queue, so far. I’m snaking along in a human conga line that will ultimately dump me into the bosom of our so-called security checkpoint, whereupon I shall duly remove my shoes and tiptoe through the tulips. I think it would save a good deal of time if everyone went through security naked and then got dressed at the other end, don’t you?”
“OK, good, nothing to worry about then. But, darling, if you do see anything even slightly odd, do ring me right back on my mobile straightaway, will you, sweetie?”
“Yes, of course. If you don’t hear from me, I’ll call you when I land at JFK in the morning. Love you.”
“Love you, too.”
Sahira downshifted as she exited the garage at a high rate of speed, nearly taking the turn on two wheels.
MR. AND MRS. H. B. BOOTHBY, first-class passengers to New York on BA Flight #44, were next in line to check in. They’d been in London for a week, staying at Claridge’s, sightseeing, doing a little shopping, and taking in some theater. They were going home tonight only because Henry had a one o’clock tee time on Long Island, out at Shinnecock tomorrow afternoon.
“Henry,” Dottie Boothby whispered to her husband, “do you notice anything odd about the fellow right behind us? Don’t look now…”
Henry Boothby took a deliberately casual quick peek over his right shoulder and saw a perfectly ordinary-looking young man, late twenties, nicely dressed in a dark suit, white shirt, navy tie. He had one of those Bluetooth devices in his ear and was speaking into a little microphone extending near his mouth. The young man caught him looking and smiled, not in an unfriendly way at all. He carried on speaking quietly with someone on his mobile phone.
Henry said to his wife, “No. Perfectly decent-looking young man.”
“He smells.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean he stinks, Henry. Like he hasn’t bathed in a month, that’s what I mean.”
Her husband leaned into her and smiled.
“Dottie, I don’t smell a thing. Your nose is just too sensitive that’s all and—”
“You know what it is? I’ll tell you what it is. It’
s fear sweat, that’s what it is.”
“Dottie, if I didn’t know you better, I’d say you were guilty of racial profiling. And, dear, you know how I feel about that kind of—”
“Next in line, please,” the attractive blond BA agent said. Her name tag said “Rosetree.” A perfect English rose, Dottie Boothby thought, all that golden hair piled neatly atop her head, the sweet blue eyes, the rosy bloom on her dewy cheeks. She looked for a ring and was amazed some rakish young man about town had not taken this prize.
The Boothbys advanced to the counter and placed their passports in front of her. She was as efficient and friendly as she’d been trained to be and it was only a couple of minutes before they had their boarding passes and were en route to engage the modern nightmare of boarding an airplane.
“I’m going to find Airport Security, right now,” Mrs. Boothby said as they moved away from the counter.
“Why?”
“You’re supposed to report anyone suspicious, that’s why.”
“Dottie, don’t be ridiculous. You can report someone who acts suspicious. You simply cannot report someone who smells suspicious.”
“Next in line, please,” Agent Allison Rosetree said as the bickering Boothbys disappeared into the crowded main hall.
“Good evening,” the young man said, putting his British passport on the counter. She noticed he had a medium-sized aluminum suitcase with wheels and a pull handle. She also noticed strong body odor and a slight sheen of perspiration on his face and filed it away, a fact to remember. Fear of flying was the number one cause, she reminded herself.
Miss Rosetree routinely ran his passport through the scanner, smiled at the result, and said, “Seat 3-A, a window, Mr. Mahmood. You don’t start boarding until nine p.m., so please feel free to enjoy our first-class Speedwing Lounge to your right after you pass through security. Everything looks lovely for a smooth flight across the Atlantic, arriving on time at JFK at eight a.m. Eastern Standard. Do you wish to check that luggage or carry on board?”