She was partway through the first quadrant when her phone rang. She answered it without looking.
“Hello?”
There was nothing but a hiss on the line. She glanced at the screen – the number was blocked.
“Hello?” she repeated again, and the caller disconnected.
Maybe a wrong number? She stopped in her tracks. Or possibly an accomplice of the dying man calling to see how the exchange had gone?
Maya was more than aware that the phone could be easily tracked by anyone with the right equipment. Which meant that she could be in the crosshairs even as she believed she was the hunter.
She moved erratically, speeding up and then slowing, hoping to flush out any follower as she surveyed the campers for French plates. A peek at her watch confirmed that she was on borrowed time – a motivated terrorist could detonate a device at any time now that the festival had officially started. She picked up her pace and began on the second quadrant, moving between rows of vehicles, concentrating on the gleaming tops of motor homes and campers as she wended her way along.
Maya rounded a van and almost ran headlong into a mountain of a man with square shoulders and a flat face pocked with acne scars. He looked her up and down with cold eyes, and she was reminded of a shark or a wolf. Her finger slid along the trigger guard of her weapon, and then he laughed loudly, a harsh bray, startling her.
“Pretty lady. Pretty, pretty lady,” he said loudly, his consonants soft.
Maya smiled back at him. He was obviously developmentally disabled. “Thank you.”
“Roger, come on, boy. Don’t bother that lady,” a matronly woman, easily three hundred pounds, called out from his right as she trundled toward them. “I’m sorry. He don’t mean no harm. Isn’t right in the head, he isn’t.” She neared and grabbed the man by the arm. “Let’s go, Rog. I’ll get you an ice lolly if you behave yourself.”
Maya watched the unlikely pair move toward the area where vendors had set up tents and awnings, selling every variety of junk food and knick-knack. Her nerves were too close to the surface, the lack of sufficient sleep and the tension of the situation skewing her judgment. She’d almost terminated two innocents and was seeing danger behind every tree. While some operational paranoia was appropriate, it was getting in the way, causing surges of adrenaline that were interfering with her objective. Her memory returned to the obstacle course in Israel, and the nun she’d shot, and a chill ran through her.
She shook off the feeling of being watched and concentrated on the vehicles. She knew Abreeq was there somewhere. She could feel it.
Maya spotted an aluminum camper near the vendor area, a few steps from a row of blue portable toilet enclosures. There was something about it…the styling or the markings looked…different. Foreign.
French.
As she approached it, she saw the license plate on the rear bumper. France.
Gotcha.
Maya moved swiftly to the door on the side of the unusual-looking vehicle and, abandoning any pretense of caution, pulled it open as she whipped the pistol from her purse.
And found herself staring at an empty interior.
She stepped into the camper, gun at the ready, her pulse as loud as kettle drums in her ears, and crept to the small toilet enclosure. When she opened it, the interior was empty – except for a bloody sweatshirt stuffed into a corner.
“You were here,” she whispered, sniffing the air in the camper for a clue as to how long ago her quarry had been there. Not long, she thought. His presence, his aura, was immediate, oppressive and evil as any she’d encountered.
She did a quick search of the storage, but found no device. Not that she’d expected to – she had long before decided that it had to be disguised as a beer keg, given the compartment that had been built for it in the beer truck. But it was possible that Abreeq had removed it from the container, so she was taking no chances.
Two minutes later she’d confirmed her fear – the device was not in the camper. So now she was looking for an individual amidst thousands. Far more difficult than locating a caravan.
She dialed the London office on the cell phone. When the now familiar voice came on the line, she quickly explained the situation. “We have confirmation he’s here. It’s no longer theoretical.”
“I’m afraid there’s some other bad news. The beer truck that was modified? The compartment was lined with lead. We believe that’s because the device is a dirty bomb. It’s one of the most disturbing possible public-safety scenarios, right at the top of our list of nightmare situations.”
“How soon until the team you sent arrives?”
“We’re doing the best we can. Forty-five minutes. Maybe longer.”
“What about MI5? Or the tactical squad that was at the MSA? They’re closer.”
“I’ll check. They might still be in the vicinity.”
“I’m going to look for him. Maybe I can spot him.”
“Be prepared to get out of there. If the British have any sense, they’ll evacuate the area.”
“Do what you have to do.” She explained about the mystery call. “I’m going to lose the phone, so I’m going dark. I can’t take the chance they’re tracking me. I’ll call as soon as I can on a new cell,” she finished.
Maya powered the phone off and removed the battery and SIM chip as she passed a nearby rubbish bin. She dropped them in and perused the crowd, wondering which one, if any, might have been the caller. A tall man on her left was looking her over, his eyes locked on her, and she felt a shiver of apprehension as he reached into his windbreaker. Her hand wrapped around the pistol stock in her purse and she flipped the safety off, and then exhaled roughly when an adolescent boy ran to him as he fished for money in the wallet he’d retrieved.
If she was being watched, there wasn’t much she could do about it, she realized, with so many people swarming around. The mystery call had distracted her focus from her objective, and she needed to prioritize what she was going to do – run countersurveillance against a possible threat, or look for a madman with a dirty bomb.
Maya slipped the pistol back into her purse and walked toward the vendor stands, her eyes narrowed to slits, her choice made. She was looking for a beer keg. And there was only one obvious place it could be.
Chapter 48
Maya scanned the throng in front of the booths, even at the early hour lined up three thick to purchase treats and drinks. On the stage at the far end of the wide expanse, the first comedian was starting his routine, which as far as Maya could make out was largely ad-lib wisecracks in a heavy Irish brogue while he prowled back and forth in size thirteen shoes.
She moved amidst the press, peering between bodies at the vendors, this one selling cotton candy, that one toffee, another, meat pies. As she neared the center of the stalls, she could barely get through – she’d reached the T-shirt area, where every sort of memorabilia was being enthusiastically hawked to clamoring customers. Maya practically ran into the back of an obese man wearing a leather jacket, and she craned her neck to see what the holdup was.
One of the marquee name comedians was signing his latest book, and the unshaved, long-haired celebrity was grinning like a chimp as he took requests from women, mostly Maya’s age, who seemed entranced by him. Maya edged past the queue of overexcited femininity to another aisle of food and beverage vendors, the cloyingly sweet smell of caramel hanging in the air like artery-clogging incense.
She slowed as she neared the beverage section and eyed at least a dozen booths, kegs of beer stacked in tubs of ice beside cylinders of compressed air and soda dispensers. This was the likely spot her quarry would be hiding – but how to find him? She believed she’d recognize him from the tape and the gunfight, but she also knew too well how simple it was to alter one’s appearance, especially for a man. Cotton in the cheeks, facial hair, hats and glasses were standard parts of any covert operative’s repertoire, and she had no doubt that Abreeq would have taken every
possible step to conceal his identity. The bungled roadblock had put him on alert, and he was now forewarned – which made him more dangerous than ever.
Her only edge was that he didn’t know her. Maya hoped it would be enough.
“Whaddaya want, luv?” a man asked from behind a folding table, a box of cash resting on it along with several dozen drink options.
“I’m…I’m trying to decide,” she responded, her eyes moving down the line of sellers, her scrutiny hidden by her sunglasses.
“Don’t have all day,” the man complained, and looked over her shoulder at the next patron.
Maya was watching the area behind the booths. Three down, there was a woman in a baggy saffron top, her long hair covered by a blue scarf, sporting large Jackie O sunglasses, who was shifting a keg next to an ice chest with a hand truck. Something about her attracted Maya’s attention. She didn’t know what, but in her gut she sensed something…off.
She watched as the woman straightened, the merchants in the booth in front of her attending to customers, and Maya simultaneously registered two things as their eyes locked: the woman hadn’t put the keg into a tub with ice, instead resting it on the grass, and her hands…her hands were too large.
They were a man’s hands.
She’d spotted Abreeq.
The problem being that he’d also spotted her, although Maya told herself there was no reason to believe her brief glance should alert him. She forced herself to look beyond Abreeq and continued edging through the crowd, aware that any further attention she paid him might cause him to set off the bomb. She allowed herself to be jostled by impatient customers until she was one booth down from where he’d been standing.
Maya looked over another woman’s shoulder and saw that the keg was still on the grass.
But Abreeq was gone.
She looked around, trying to spot him, and her eye was drawn by movement on the periphery of the booths. Maya pushed past an annoyed man with a belly that resembled a watermelon hanging over his belt, who grabbed her arm.
“Not so fast, my lass. Where do you think you’re going?” he demanded.
Maya twisted away from him and squeezed through a gap between the booths, pulling her gun from her purse as she did so. A woman screamed behind her at the sight of the weapon and a couple of male voices shouted warnings – one of them in Arabic from the booth Abreeq had just left.
“Look out. She’s got a gun!”
“Gun! Gun!” the woman shrieked, and then all hell broke loose as a stampede started behind her.
Maya ignored the commotion she was causing, her eyes locked on the rear of the booth. When she broke into the sunlight, she glanced around, but didn’t see the terrorist. At her feet was the head scarf. Her vision narrowed to exclude everything else, and she spotted the saffron blouse discarded fifteen meters away, and a man hurrying into the crowd at the other end of the aisle. She didn’t dare try a shot, and instead sprinted for where Abreeq had merged into the fray, confusion now spreading as word of danger traveled through the crowd like an electric current.
Realizing her tactical error, she slid the pistol into her purse as she pushed past confused fairgoers and looked for the anomaly of someone moving faster than the rest.
There.
A shaved head gleamed from ten meters away, barely visible among the others, but edging relentlessly away from her. Abreeq had pulled off the wig he’d been wearing and jettisoned it, obviously aware he was in trouble, but unsure as to whether his description as being disguised as a woman had been circulated to unseen pursuers.
She broke free of the crowd just in time to see him darting for the line of portable toilets. Pandemonium reigned behind her as the throng rushed for safety, unaware that they were all dead if she couldn’t stop the terrorist. For all she knew he had set a timer on the device, allowing him just enough time to get away before it vaporized them.
That’s how she would have done it. Suicide bombs were for amateurs. Professionals wanted to live another day, and were too valuable to waste their lives on senseless acts of martyrdom.
Abreeq was making for a pickup truck that was offloading crates of crisps. Maya drew the pistol and aimed, but hesitated – he was weaving, creating an almost impossible-to-hit target.
The truck driver stopped with an armful of boxes, and Abreeq clocked him with the pistol, knocking him to the ground. Maya risked a shot, but it missed and blew out the truck’s driver’s side window. Abreeq jumped into the cab and tore off in a spray of gravel and dirt, honking to clear his way of pedestrians. He plunged full speed at a temporary barricade that had been erected on the perimeter of the field to keep traffic contained and blew through it without slowing, sending a spray of black and white painted wood into the air.
With all the pedestrians around now, Maya didn’t dare shoot again, and instead ran toward the lot as fast as her legs would carry her.
A biker in full leathers, the logo of a local club on the back of his jacket, stood by a vintage shovelhead Harley Davidson motorcycle, talking on his cell phone. He stopped mid-sentence at the apparition of Maya screeching to a halt in front of him, pistol in hand.
“What the–”
“Give me the phone and the keys. Now,” she said, her voice tight.
“Are you out of your mind, luv?”
“Hang up, give me the keys, or I’ll put a bullet in your skull and take them. Your choice.”
He held her emerald gaze for a long beat and then nodded and laid the phone on the seat of the motorcycle and tossed her the keys. She caught them with her left hand, her eyes never leaving his, and gestured with the gun.
“Take a walk.”
“You won’t get away with this.”
Her lip pulled up into a half smile. “Watch me.”
The biker shook his head and stepped away, and then turned and made tracks for the crowd. Maya didn’t wait and within seconds had the Harley burbling, the phone in her pocket, pistol in her belt, baseball cap reversed and wedged tight on her head. Sirens screamed in the distance and she nodded to herself. Hopefully they’d get everyone out of there before the bomb blew – the problem was she had no idea whether it was on a timer or remote detonated via a wireless or a cell phone signal. Her only option was to track Abreeq and beat the information out of him.
Assuming she could catch him.
She dropped the heavy bike into gear and gave it gas, peeling off toward where Abreeq had disappeared, her gaze locked on the disappearing truck. Maya jumped the dirt rise by the barricade and landed hard on the grassy stretch, nearly going down before catching herself and hurtling toward the road, her face set in grim determination.
The pickup made the turn from the small road onto a larger artery on two wheels, and Maya followed it around the curve with ease, ducking down and twisting the throttle, closing the distance on the straightaway. The terrorist must have seen her approaching, because he stomped on the brakes and fishtailed, his intent to knock her off the road with the truck’s rear end.
Maya had anticipated the move and braked hard, easily avoiding the vehicle’s bumper. She was reaching for the pistol in her belt when Abreeq floored the gas and surged ahead, three crates tumbling from the truck bed from the acceleration. She swerved and downshifted, chirping rubber as she dodged them, and gunned the motorcycle forward.
Abreeq wove back and forth erratically, slowing and speeding up in an effort to make pursuit more difficult. He arrived at an intersection and ran the red light, and a Japanese sedan grazed the truck’s rear quarter panel as it attempted to dodge him in a flurry of honking. Maya followed him through, accelerating hard as she barely missed a red double-decker bus filled with wide-eyed tourists.
Abreeq scraped a green sports car with the truck’s flank, sending it into an out-of-control spin. Maya clamped down on the brakes and jumped the sidewalk, narrowly avoiding the hood as she fought to keep the Harley upright. A woman with a shopping basket pressed herself against
the façade of the building as she roared by, and Maya guided the wheels back onto the road as the truck pulled away from her.
It was obvious that Abreeq had no destination – he was just trying to lose her however he could. But the task was an impossible one. The delivery truck was underpowered and ill-suited to the challenge, whereas the bike was in flawless condition and had nearly effortless acceleration.
At the next intersection, he abruptly turned into oncoming traffic, leaning on his horn. The maneuver was a risky one, but smart, because the ensuing chaos as cars he passed collided in their efforts to maintain control made following him almost impossible. Maya jumped the meridian and downshifted as she urged the big motorcycle forward, and as she drew alongside the terrorist, freed the pistol with her left hand and targeted the truck.
Four shots in quick succession thumped into the front fender, and the passenger-side tire popped. The rubber shredded off instantly and a shower of sparks fountained from the steel rim skidding on the asphalt. Abreeq tried to keep the truck on the road, but it was a losing proposition, and the pickup smacked into the curb and executed a slow-motion flip, seeming to hang in the air for a second before crashing onto its roof and sliding upside down for a dozen meters. A lorry slammed into it as it skidded to a halt, sending it spinning like a pinwheel.
Maya pulled even with the wreckage as it came to a stop and swung her leg over the motorcycle seat. She took measured steps toward the crumpled cab and stopped several meters short, gun drawn and trained on the terrorist’s bloody head, barely visible in the cab, hanging upside down by the seatbelt. His eyes opened and tried to focus. Maya took in the pool of gasoline spreading beneath the truck, and the smoking oil trickling from the white-hot engine, and fixed her stare on Abreeq.
“End of the line,” she said in fluent Arabic. “You failed,” she said in an effort to draw him out. She had no idea whether he had a remote trigger or not, and he looked like he’d be dead within seconds – she needed to know.
Ops Files II--Terror Alert Page 23