Maya stumbled to the bed, shut off the bedside lamp, and rested her head on the pillow, staring mutely at the overhead light fixture in the near total darkness. She willed her eyes to close, but her mind was still redlining, churning over the events of the evening, searching for meaning in the random chaotic events.
She turned over and sighed. She was missing something. Some niggling detail that was important, but she was too tired to recognize. The sense of having overlooked a critical element was powerful, but in the end her body’s need for sleep won out, and she drifted into restless slumber, tossing and turning as an occasional foghorn or buoy bell sounded in the distance like a lament for her fallen peers.
Chapter 45
One kilometer southwest of Northiam, England
Abreeq shifted and grunted as sun streamed through the stolen camper’s windows, and then sat up on the uncomfortably thin mattress and scowled at the sunlight. A quick glance at the time told him he’d been asleep for a little over three hours, although he felt like he’d just nodded off. He stretched his arms over his head and his hand bumped the hard edge of his pistol as if to remind him of his duty. He reluctantly swung his legs off the bed and slipped his shoes on, and then moved to the cab.
The fog was burning off, revealing a long expanse of shimmering green grass wrinkled by a mild breeze. There was nobody in sight, so he checked the small caravan refrigerator and found a bottle of orange juice along with enough food to feed a small army. Apparently the French had no more interest in England’s culinary delights than he did and had brought their own from Paris. He spied a wedge of mild cheese and several rolls wrapped in plastic, and settled in for a quick breakfast before getting on the road.
His repast was interrupted by a banging at the caravan door. He froze with his food halfway to his mouth, and the banging sounded again, accompanied by an annoyed British voice.
“You, in there. Come on, wake up.”
Abreeq chambered a round and shifted his gun to the small of his back before pulling his shirt over it. He rose and headed for the door.
“Yes?” he called out, peering through the windshield with a sidelong glance. No police vehicles.
“You’re on private property. Open the door.”
Abreeq debated telling the man to get lost, but decided that appeasement was the best approach, and so unlocked the door and swung it open. A reed-thin man with white hair and a face tanned the color of bark glared at him, a bird gun cradled in his arms.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t realize,” he said, affecting his version of a French accent.
“There’s such a thing as trespassing, you know,” the man growled, obviously angry. “We have laws over on this side of the water.”
“Yes, yes. I’ll just be moving on, then,” Abreeq apologized. “I meant no offense.”
“I don’t have to tell you how worrisome it is to find strangers using your land for a toilet.”
“I didn’t do that.”
“Next bloody thing, I’ll wager.”
“Again, I am sorry. I will go.”
“Best make it fast before I lose my temper. You lot think you can do whatever you like. Seen enough of it to last me two lifetimes.”
“Okay,” Abreeq said. “I can pay you for staying here.”
He immediately saw his error as the color flushed the old man’s face. “Bloody cheek. You squat on my land, then offer to toss me a few coins? Go on. Get out of here with your gypsy mobile.” The old man spat. “Bloody wogs.”
Abreeq’s pupils contracted to pinpoints. “What did you say?”
“It’s my land. I can say whatever I want. Get off of it, now.” The geriatric raised the shotgun.
Abreeq’s reflexes were far faster than the old farmer’s, and before he had consciously thought about it, he’d twisted the gun barrel away from him, dislocating the man’s trigger finger and knocking him backward. The farmer stumbled a few steps and tripped over a small rock, howling with pain and outrage. Abreeq watched as he pitched backward in slow motion and hit the dirt with a grunt.
Abreeq moved toward the man, intending to help him up and apologize, but quickly saw that the man was hurt. Something had broken when he’d fallen, and he was writhing in pain, hate radiating from his eyes. “You filthy wog bastard. I’ll see you behind bars for this–”
The thread of control that was holding him back snapped in Abreeq’s brain, and he grinned menacingly as he raised the shotgun over his head like an axe. The old man realized what he was about to do and threw his arms up defensively, but the gesture hardly slowed the stock as Abreeq brought it down with all his might, shattering the farmer’s forearm and slamming into his collarbone.
The farmer screamed in agony and Abreeq kicked him in the ribs. “There. You like that? What was it you called me? A filthy wog bastard? I’ll show you what I really am. The angel of death,” Abreeq hissed, and aimed the heavy wooden stock at the farmer’s head like a home-run hitter swinging at a fastball.
The old man’s skull twisted to the side with a sickening crack, and he convulsed. Abreeq watched him die, twitching in his beloved dirt, and as the farmer grew still, he unzipped his pants and peed on the man’s face – a symbolic gesture, as he was already dead, but a satisfying one for the terrorist.
When he was done, Abreeq tossed the gore-crusted shotgun by the farmer’s side and walked to the rear of the caravan, where a fifty-year-old pickup truck was parked. Abreeq shielded his eyes from the rising sun and looked off down the road into the distance. Nothing moved but a crow taking to the air a hundred meters beyond the truck’s bumper. The terrorist watched its flight until it disappeared into a far grove of trees, and then calmly returned to the camper and climbed aboard.
He snatched up his roll and cheese and took a bite as he slid behind the wheel and started the engine. After a long pull on the orange juice, he put the transmission in gear and let out the clutch. The camper lurched along the shoulder, and then it was on the pavement with a bounce. Abreeq looked in the side mirror at the dead man lying in the dirt and shook his head.
“So much hate and anger. Didn’t anyone ever tell you it was dangerous to carry that around with you?” he murmured in Arabic, and then repeated it in English with a pronounced British upper-crust accent. “Bloody wog. Bloody wog bastard.” He caught a glimpse of his eyes in the rearview mirror. They looked wild, but he didn’t care. He laughed out loud. “Who’s the bloody bastard now?”
The hysterical edge slowly receded as he drove, and as he finished his breakfast, he cursed silently. “Stupid, stupid, stupid,” he whispered, slamming the steering wheel with his hand. He shouldn’t have killed the old man. It was always possible that he’d called someone before confronting Abreeq. Said something about a French caravan trespassing on his land. Out in the country, it was likely that a landowner like the farmer knew everyone. When he was found, there would be a manhunt.
Another manhunt.
His concern was interrupted by a roadside sign marking a tributary to the left. He laughed again, the tension leaving him as he read it out loud.
“Hastings, 15 kilometers.”
Abreeq directed the caravan onto the larger road and smiled to himself as the last of the fog burned away, leaving a relatively warm, cloudless morning in its wake.
“Looks like a beautiful day for it,” he allowed, and then bit back any further talk. It wouldn’t do to be driving along, talking to himself. He needed to get his mind back on the job at hand, not free-associating with whatever caught his eye.
After all, today was the big one, the culmination of his efforts.
And for several thousand pampered, smug infidels, it would be the last day of their miserable, privileged lives.
The thought gave him great joy, and his spirits soared as he picked up speed. A tractor shimmied toward him on the lane and he offered a wave to the driver, who returned the gesture with a smile.
No point in being unfriendly.
&n
bsp; Chapter 46
Dover, England
Maya shot bolt upright in bed, her respiration fast and her heart racing, instantly wide awake. She eyed the glow of sun around the blackout curtain and stared at her watch, and then pushed the covers off and moved to her bag. Her brain had continued processing even as she’d dozed, and had solved the puzzle that had been worrying at her subconscious in her sleep.
“The disk,” she muttered as she retrieved her laptop and plugged it in, and then connected it to the printer hard drive. The screen flickered as it booted up, and then she was staring at the map of Dover – the last item that had been printed.
She clicked on the prior file. An invoice. The next a list of accounts, all automotive related. She continued through the printer queue and stopped at a stylized rendering of medieval monks holding their hands over their mouths, laughing, as a modern-dressed man with five o’clock shadow, a pint of beer in one hand and a cigarette in the other, spoke into a microphone on a raised stage. The lettering at the top announced the Hastings Comedy Festival, and at the bottom was a who’s who of British comedians.
And the festival’s first day was today. She checked the time again, blinking away any residual punchiness. It would begin in…less than an hour.
Her knowledge of English geography was limited. She opened another window and looked up Hastings on the Internet. When she found a map, she zoomed out and then sat back with narrowed eyes.
Hastings was sixty kilometers down the coast.
She fumbled the cell phone to life and dialed the Mossad number. After yet another annoying wait on hold, the station chief’s tired voice came on the line.
“Yes?”
“I know where he’s headed. There’s a comedy festival in Hastings. If it’s well attended, it’ll be packed, but security will be nothing like at a stadium. It’s in a field somewhere on the outskirts of town.”
“Whoa. Slow down. How do you know this?”
She told him about the flyer on the hard drive. “It has to be his alternative target. We know he’s methodical and fearless. And he’s in country with a bomb. Tell me that if you were in the same situation you wouldn’t have researched an alternate target.”
“That’s speculation.”
“It’s under an hour’s drive from here. He was headed southwest. Down the coast. Toward Hastings. It all fits.”
“Maybe,” he acceded grudgingly. “Or it could be unrelated.”
“Dammit, the man’s a killer, and he’s out for blood. He’s going to try to slaughter as many people as he can, make the biggest splash possible. He has to know that any big public gathering in a major metro area is going to be suspect. London, Liverpool, Birmingham, Leeds…all too risky. But Hastings? Tell me that the security there is going to be top notch.”
“I’m not saying you’re wrong. I’ll contact MI5 and alert them to your concerns.”
“I want to head down there.”
The station chief sighed. “I suspected you might.”
“If I’m wrong, where’s the harm?”
“I suppose there isn’t any.”
“Then I’m on my way.” She paused. “Anything more on the mystery couple?”
“Yes. We have an ID. Bertrand Felix and Caroline Aliers. Parisians. On holiday, per their entry docs.”
“What were they driving?”
“We’re still trying to access that database. It was listed as a caravan on their entry form, but they store the license information elsewhere.”
“Damn.”
“I want you to report in every hour, do you understand? If you see anything suspicious, call. I’ll see about getting a team to Hastings as soon as possible.”
“How long will that take?”
“A few hours.”
“It could be all over by then.”
“Assuming you’re right.”
“I am.”
Maya was showered and out the door in five minutes. Thankfully the Rover started, albeit with a reluctant stutter that didn’t bode well for its longevity. She mashed the accelerator to the floor at the highway on-ramp, and the heavy old car lumbered up the grade like a drunk on its last legs before steadying into a rough shimmy as she pushed it as hard as she dared.
Abreeq had to be planning to bomb the festival. It made sense. A target with laughable precautions, unlike a higher visibility target like a subway station or a stadium or government building. Plenty of celebrity darlings in attendance, guaranteeing added horror at the result.
And best of all, the apathy of the authorities after an exhausting series of false alarms and near misses.
It was perfect.
Diabolically so.
And as far as she could tell, unless she got luckier than a lotto winner, nobody would be able to stop him, because the British were slower than turtles, and the Mossad not much better.
She was halfway to Hastings when the temperature warning light on the Rover’s dashboard illuminated.
“No. Do not do this to me,” she warned. “No, no, no.”
Stalling out in broad daylight thirty kilometers short of her destination would be the final insulting blow to her notions of competence, so she pulled off the highway and found a filling station. The attendant joined her as she opened the hood, and they both stared at the steaming motor.
“Probably out of coolant or oil, I’d wager,” the man said.
“How can I tell which?”
“Shut it off and I’ll check the oil. If you’ve got plenty, then it’s the radiator.”
A minute later she knew that the engine had a full oil level, and that in the attendant’s opinion it could do with a change.
“Then let’s fill the radiator up,” she said, and stared at the attendant as though he was mad when he slowly shook his head.
“Needs to cool down.”
“I don’t have time. I have to be in Hastings…now.”
“Well, start it back up. I can spray the radiator and see if we can get it cool enough to pop the cap. But it would be better to give it time.”
“I told you – I don’t have time.”
She glared at the man and went back, crossed the ignition wires, and then wrapped them together. He stood with a hose, running a stream back and forth across the radiator. After several minutes of this the warning light dimmed and went out, and he tried the cap with a rag.
Steam shot skyward as the cap blew off from the pressure, and the attendant jumped back.
“Gore. That was a near one,” he said, and directed the water into the radiator. “Newer ones have a reservoir bottle. Damn near took my hand off, that did.”
When the radiator was filled, he retrieved the cap and screwed it back into place, and then pointed to the underside of the car. “There’s your problem. Leak.”
She inspected it. “Doesn’t look fast, though.”
“Right. You should be able to make it. Your luck that it isn’t blazing hot.”
She threw him a dark look as she handed him a five-pound tip. “Is it ever that hot around here?”
Maya could hear him laughing as she pulled away. She urged the car forward, aware that she’d lost almost ten minutes she didn’t have to spare. Her stomach knotted with tension, she kept to the speed limit in town and then floored the throttle once on the highway. The azure of the English Channel glistened to her left, and the hills rose into the heavens to her right. The vista was breathtaking – one she would have enjoyed considerably more if she hadn’t been racing to stop the senseless murder of God knew how many innocents.
Chapter 47
Hastings, England
Maya found her way to the comedy festival grounds, which were festooned with colorful flags mounted along the perimeter of the parking area, red, blue, and yellow, flapping in the wind. A parking attendant directed her to a slot near the entrance and smiled as he took her money.
“Filling up fast. Another hour and you’d be out of luck,” he said
, his accent the more laconic country English that spoke to an easier pace than that of city folk. “Right over there, next to the red Renault.” He looked the Rover over. “They don’t make ’em like this anymore, do they? Don’t see many on the road.”
“It got me this far,” Maya agreed, one eye on the dark temperature light. “Are there many French cars here? Caravans?”
“Oh, I wouldn’t know. I just arrived, but I wouldn’t think so.”
“Have you seen any?”
“Honestly, I don’t look at the plates. Not my job.”
“Thanks,” Maya replied, disappointed.
She pulled onto the grass and parked between a Renault and a vintage Jaguar E-type, and after chambering a round, slipped the sound-suppressed Beretta she’d filched from the dying man into her purse, praying that she’d get a chance to use it sooner rather than later this morning. Maya emerged from the Rover, the sun a welcome relief from the previous day’s chill, its rays warming her face as she pulled on the baseball cap and sunglasses and did a slow turn, scanning the expanse.
There were easily hundreds of vehicles of all shapes and sizes, and myriad campers and caravans like the one Abreeq had stolen. The scale of what she was hoping to achieve – spotting a needle in a haystack – dawned on her as she took in the magnitude of the challenge, and her heart sank. What did she think she could accomplish? One woman, a junior agent, no less, in a crowd of thousands?
Clusters of attendees roamed through the parking area, stopping to chat with one another, everyone smiling and laughing, in good humor on a fine day. Maya saw a little girl of five holding her mother’s hand, her hair in pigtails, a smudge of red candy on her cheek from the sucker in her mouth, and was reminded of the stakes. She had to succeed. The alternative was too awful to contemplate.
Maya paused at the edge of the field and decided that the best way to approach her search was to divide the area into a grid, and work each section as she looked for the dead French couple’s camper. She’d originally thought it would be relatively straightforward, but the number of recreational vehicles staggered the imagination – apparently weekend outings like the festival were a perfect excuse to dust off the caravan and hit the road.
Ops Files II--Terror Alert Page 22