“Come on, you piece of junk. Don’t do this to me…,” he said in quiet Arabic, and then his eyes drifted to the gas gauge.
Empty.
“That’s impossible.”
He tapped it with his finger, but the needle didn’t budge, and the motor hesitated again before regaining its composure. Abreeq looked up at the street sign and did a quick calculation. He was nine blocks from the station. He had fifty minutes before the train left.
His train.
He had to be on it.
Abreeq spotted a car park on the right and pulled the vehicle into the darkest recesses. When he got out, he removed his bag, shouldered it, and walked to the trunk.
The bullet hole was small, but the projectile had obviously done its job. The gas tank was empty, drained by the slug, throwing a serious wrench into Abreeq’s schedule.
He didn’t dwell on it, but instead pulled his sweatshirt hood over his head and set off at a brisk pace in the direction of the station. Once there, it would take him ten minutes to change and adopt his disguise. With fifteen minutes of walking, he would still have time to make it onto the train and settle in. He’d already bought his ticket, leaving nothing to chance, which had been a prudent move.
A police cruiser roared by, lights flashing, and Abreeq didn’t look up, his breath steaming in the frigid air. At least it had stopped raining. He’d spent years in some miserable hellholes, but never in a country where it rained nearly nonstop. No wonder the population was as pasty white as ghosts – they only saw the sun a few times a year.
He ran a mental inventory as he marched along, and by the time he was halfway to his destination had reassured himself that he’d taken everything from the loft above the shop he’d called home since arriving in Manchester, and that there was nothing that could be used to identify him. If the police got around to dusting the loft for prints and ran them through Interpol’s database, at some point they would get a hit, but that would be days, or more likely a week, minimum.
Not that he wanted to have to depend on the sloth of the Manchester police department, but it had been a safe bet so far, and there was no reason to get worked up about a sudden burst of efficiency that would probably never occur.
At the next corner, he saw a group of five youths hanging around outside of a run-down pub, smoking and laughing too loudly, their language as coarse as their tone. He couldn’t risk becoming a target of opportunity for the local thugs, and knew that as a foreigner he’d be asking for it, in this neighborhood, alone after dark.
He waited for the light to change, keeping his head lowered so the traffic camera didn’t record his face, and made a left after crossing. Once out of range of the camera he broke into a run, the burst of movement feeling good as the crisp air bit at his skin, relieving some of the residual tension from the gunplay.
Headlights swung onto the street, and Abreeq slowed to a walk. Another police car drove by, this one at a moderate pace, patrolling the area rather than racing to the crime scene. The police had no reason to stop him, but then they didn’t really need one, and he forced himself to maintain an easy stride, no skulking or averting his gaze.
He could feel the policeman’s eyes roving over him as the car passed, and his heart skipped a beat when the brake lights illuminated and it slowed. If they stopped him, he’d show them his rail ticket and explain that he was late. Most blue-collar workers would sympathize with a fellow traveler racing for a train, and his hope was that they’d give him a quick once-over and allow him to continue on his way.
Abreeq heard the radio inside the car bark static, and then the roof lights illuminated and it accelerated to the next intersection and hurried around the corner. He smiled to himself at the near miss and increased his speed again. Everything was going to be fine. The fools didn’t suspect a thing. Here he was, one of the most notorious terrorists in the world, within steps of British law enforcement’s finest, and they’d not so much as given him a second glance.
He recognized the victory was a minor one, but right now, operating alone in a strange country minutes after being ambushed, he’d take it.
Hopefully his luck would hold for a little longer. Once out of the Manchester city limits he’d never return, and his experience here would be nothing more than a bad memory of substandard food and abysmal weather. That he was leaving with his tail between his legs rather than in anticipation of the successful culmination of the operation of his career didn’t faze him.
He was a professional, and this time the current had moved against him.
It happened.
It was meaningless, signifying nothing. He didn’t believe in omens, unlike his superstitious brethren, who saw the hand of fate in the shifting sands. This was a setback, but it wasn’t the end, by any means.
The station’s lights illuminated the sky as he neared, and when he reached the boulevard that fronted it, he exhaled a sigh of relief. He would make his train, and the game would begin anew. And in the end, he would have the last laugh.
Of that he was sure.
Chapter 36
Maya ducked down as another slug slammed into Jeff’s car and one of the tires popped from the ricochet. As long as she was in the vehicle she was a sitting duck, she knew, and she had to move – sooner rather than later. She checked the magazine of the weapon she’d retrieved from the dead man, and after confirming that it had sufficient ammunition, rolled away from the car as she swept the darkened street for a target.
The third gunman was limping toward her, gun held before his advancing form like a divining rod leading him to water, and she emptied her pistol at his silhouette. Most of the shots went wide, but she saw that her final round caught him in the throat and he fell backward, arms outstretched. His head made a sickening smack when it hit the pavement. He gurgled and groped at his throat for a few moments, and then his legs shuddered and spasmed before falling still. She rose, pistol clenched in a two-handed combat grip, and walked toward him, keeping her side presented in case he still had a final trick up his sleeve.
When she reached him, a quick glance confirmed that he presented no further danger to anyone, his lifeless eyes staring blankly to the side. Maya retrieved his gun and checked the magazine – he had six more rounds of 9mm. She hefted the pistol and tossed her empty one by his side, and then turned to the shop. Lights had come on in some of the surrounding buildings, confirming her fear that there were people living above the shops even though it was an industrial area – which would bring the police.
Maya fished for Jeff’s cell as she neared the building. Her heart sank when she felt it – a stray bullet had seared a hole through her windbreaker and blown through the phone, rendering it a paperweight.
The interior of the shop was empty. She gave the truck a quick once-over before methodically scanning the desk near the door. Nothing but receipts and a telephone book.
She peered further into the shop and spied wooden stairs along the back wall that led up to a loft area walled in with planks and sheetrock. Maya took the stairs two at a time and found herself in a simple living space with a twin bed, a card table with a printer on it, a sink and a small bathroom enclosure the only furnishings other than a cheap dresser and a nightstand with a lamp.
Maya made short work of the dresser, which contained a few clothes and nothing else. The nightstand was empty, and she was shaking with frustration when she spotted a phone jack shoddily mounted near the printer.
A cord dangled beside it. She approached the table and saw another cord stretching from the back of the printer.
The bastard had taken his computer. Like any professional, he’d had his things packed in a go bag, and when it had become obvious that he was pinned down, he’d grabbed his gear and made for the hills.
Her thoughts returned to Jeff bleeding out in the alley, but with their phones out of commission there was nothing she could do for him but keep him company as he died. The bitter taste of failure soured her mouth �
� she’d allowed the ringleader to escape while her superior sacrificed his life. Abreeq. The master terrorist who’d outwitted her as easily as he might a child.
Maya’s eyes drifted back to the printer and she crouched before it. She eyed it and then turned the device so she could see the back, mind processing furiously.
“The hard drive,” she whispered, her hand reaching into her backpack for her multipurpose tool. Most printers stored their last few jobs in memory, which was something not everyone knew.
Four minutes later she had the disk out and was connecting it to her laptop computer. She typed in a series of commands and then squinted at the image that appeared on the screen – a street map of Dover with an address neatly typed at the bottom, along with a time. She checked her watch and swallowed hard – the printer kept a record of the images it had printed, and the last one was the map.
The time written below the address was barely four hours from now.
Sirens keened in the distance. She rose, quickly packed her laptop away, and shouldered the backpack before making her way down the stairs. Maya looked around the shop and her gaze settled on an ancient BSA motorcycle by the rear door. She checked the tank and then twisted the ignition key and stepped on the kick start.
The old motor sputtered to life on the third try and she guided the bike toward the rear door. The sirens were drawing nearer. She’d have to be quick if she were going to evade the police. The only good news was that if Jeff could be saved, help would arrive shortly; but she couldn’t spare the time to check on him – his fate was in the universe’s hands now.
The door swung open and she bounced down the step on the back of the bike, a cheap helmet pulled over her head.
She didn’t switch on the headlight until she was three blocks away and a stream of emergency vehicles had passed her, leaving her to find her way to Dover in the cold dark of the English night.
Chapter 37
Abreeq settled back into his seat and watched Manchester blur by as the last train of the night to Dover picked up speed. As he’d ambled through the station, he’d thought through the events of the last hour and came to the conclusion that he was in the clear, at least for now – the assault on the shop couldn’t have been directed at him personally. If the authorities had known he was in England, much less at the garage where he’d been living since his arrival, they would have shown up with considerably greater force than a couple of gunmen armed with only pistols.
He didn’t know who the gunmen were or what their ultimate objective had been, but it smacked of unofficial action, which meant it was most likely his nemesis, the cursed Israeli intelligence agency: the Mossad. If he was correct, they were likely tracking that idiot Kasra, not him, which meant they had no idea Abreeq was involved. If they did, they would have nuked the place, not taken potshots with peashooters.
Somehow, though, there had been a slip, and the operation was blown. Months of preparation down the drain, mere hours before the big match tomorrow night. It was inconceivable that it could happen, but Abreeq had been involved in enough missions to know that nothing was ever guaranteed. And just as with wartime bombing runs, he always had a plan B – an alternate target he’d researched in meticulous detail.
He hated having to walk away from the stadium attack, but his sentiment was nothing in the scheme of things. It would have been nice to see his plot come to fruition, but no matter. He’d escaped unharmed, and, he believed, unidentified – although he’d still taken the precaution to glue on a goatee and don heavy black-rimmed glasses in the bathroom, in case the security cameras at the station platforms were being monitored more aggressively than normal. With his newly trimmed hair shaved close to his head with his electric razor, and after changing into the business suit he’d packed, he was a completely different man – a weary mid-level functionary on his way to the Dover ferry.
That his network in Manchester was compromised was now a given, but Kasra had been the only one who had known all the elements of the plan, and even he hadn’t been told where the device was entering the country or how it would arrive in Manchester – only that he was to wait for it at the shop, with the beer truck.
Now Kasra was dead, taking the fragments of knowledge he’d possessed with him to the grave. A shame a loyal warrior had fallen, but a relief in the sense that dead men told no tales.
Abreeq checked the time, and after looking around the almost empty rail car to ensure he had sufficient privacy, he slipped a cell phone from his pocket and placed the call he’d been dreading.
Ajmal Kahn answered on the second ring, his voice flat over the long-distance line.
“Hello?”
“It is I,” Abreeq said quietly in Arabic.
“Yes?” Kahn’s tone revealed nothing.
“We have a problem. We can’t proceed as planned.”
“What! What has happened?”
“There was a wrinkle. You must trust I am making the right decision.”
“I…this is most troubling.”
“I understand. To me as well. But have no fear, I will keep my part of the bargain.”
“How?”
“As we discussed before. It is less spectacular, but will be sufficient to strike fear into the hearts of our enemies.”
“I trust you have thought it through. But I am still…disappointed.”
“As am I. On your end, tell no one we have spoken. I have no idea how this happened, but assume that the jackal is at your heels. Trust no one.”
“You have my word.” Kahn paused. “Call me once it is done. Or if you need anything in the meantime.”
“I appreciate your understanding.”
“We are in this together.”
Abreeq disconnected and thought about his next steps. He was safe, for now. He hadn’t been apprehended at the station, which is what would have been done if they’d suspected his destination or means of transport, so he was in the clear. If he was correct about the Mossad, they would stir up a fuss, but the fact that the stadium threat had been thwarted would lull the British into a false sense of security.
And his alternate target was one nobody would suspect.
Abreeq rose and walked along the aisle, swaying slightly with the motion of the train, and made his way to the club car, where drinks and snacks were being served. After the surge of adrenaline from the gunfight, he was starting to feel shaky, and a sandwich and soda seemed like just what the doctor ordered.
~ ~ ~
When Vladimir’s cell phone rang, it startled him – nobody had the number, so he’d never heard the annoying screech that filled the marine repair shop. He felt for the phone in his pocket and got it to his ear by the fourth ring.
“Yes?”
“You have a serious problem.”
“Sergey!”
“Listen. Don’t talk. The stadium operation has been canceled. I just got word from one of my contacts in Manchester – it’s all over the police radios. A gunfight. A beer truck with a suspect compartment. The Arab is compromised.”
“What do you want me to do?”
“We have to either make delivery or return the funds, which I’m not prepared for. So you must deliver, and once the confirmation code is sent to his people…terminate him. He knows too much, and if the authorities are after him, we can’t afford for him to be captured.”
The terrorist was supposed to make a call to his sponsor when he’d taken possession of the device, at which point Vladimir and his people were out of the loop, the deal done. Whether or not Abreeq could go on to use the bomb for another purpose was immaterial to them. If he just disappeared with it, the imam would suspect a double-cross by him, not the Russians; or alternatively, would believe that he’d been captured and the device neutralized but the entire affair kept out of the papers for national security reasons.
Either way, it was imperative that Abreeq confirm he had the device.
After which, his career as a mercenary kill
er would meet with an abrupt end.
Vladimir grinned. “I understand.” They would still have the device, which they could then sell to another group of zealots, but without the annoying costs involved in securing the raw materials, transporting them, and creating the bomb. It was perfect, and the only thing Vladimir would have to do was put a bullet in Abreeq.
A million-dollar bullet.
“Call me when our business is concluded.”
Sergey sounded tense to Vladimir, and he suspected that his banker friend had more at stake than the money involved. But it wasn’t his business. Sergey had proposed the stadium match as the perfect event for the terrorists, and had spoon-fed them the idea and the plans. Vladimir had never understood why, but it wasn’t his concern. Maybe he disliked one of the teams. Or perhaps one of the important spectators was one he’d accepted a contract on. Visitors were flying in from all over Europe; perhaps one of Sergey’s competitors would be in the VIP suite, or maybe there was a functionary who was blocking a lucrative contract he needed to move forward.
Sergey always had wheels within wheels, and a smart man attended to his affairs and left those of others to them.
Dmitry pushed through one of the garage doors with the meals, and Vladimir sniffed the air with disdain. “There’s been a change of plans,” he said, and both of his henchmen froze, waiting for his next words. “The Arab must die.”
Dmitry’s expression remained blank, and he shrugged and handed Vladimir one of the greasy paper bags filled with fried cod and chips. “Fine by me. How do you want to do it?”
Chapter 38
Maya twisted the throttle of the old BSA Rocket 3 and grimaced as rain pelted her. The highway southeast to Birmingham was by now familiar, and the old 750cc engine delivered a throaty roar as it climbed in speed. She’d managed to avoid a sobriety checkpoint in Manchester as she made her way to the roadway and now resisted the urge to open the ancient bike up. It would do her no good to get stopped by an overzealous traffic cop, and even under extenuating circumstances she doubted the Mossad would approve of her incapacitating one if she was.
Ops Files II--Terror Alert Page 18