I was out on the street seconds later. There was very little automobile traffic, the odd jogger or two, and an elegant woman in a long fur walking a dog that looked like a relative of the coat. I found a cab waiting on Eaton Square. It was almost too easy, and my senses were heightened. I did not use the phone and glanced behind us as unobtrusively as possible. Everything seemed normal but the accessibility of the cab. I had the driver drop me at the Ritz on Piccadilly. I walked around to Arlington Street and through the elegant lobby, glancing around as though I was looking for someone, and avoiding registration or the hall porter. After killing enough time for the cab to leave, I slipped out and walked over to St. James’s Street and down to the Stafford.
Back in my room, I took the notepad and pen from the bedside table and started to make a to-do list. Dell was my best bet, and I decided to call him first. He was the one among us with the ability to get forces in motion. Alison was on the run from the only forces she could possibly rally, and my own influence was zero.
It was five a.m. on the East Coast. I decided to give Dell another hour of sleep. There were a lot of scrambled facts to consider, but it might be critical to intercept the next mule. The first step of what all the planning and practice runs were leading to might have been set in motion this morning. This morning . . . only two hours before my arrival. I was close, but all I knew was to be on the lookout for a male posing as a female with recent, potentially lethal, breast implants.
We would have to convince the British authorities to redefine body search, and that wasn’t going to happen, at least not on the hunch of a New York police surgeon with no hard evidence. But passenger-profiling could significantly narrow the field, and we could bend the rules for a few flights. I had to talk to Tahani again. I scrolled the call log on my phone and hit his number. Tahani answered on the third ring. He hadn’t added me to his contact list, which was probably smart, and he didn’t recognize the number.
“Dr. Tahani, this is Dr. Black.”
Silence.
“Dr. Black, from New York. I called to thank you for the coffee. I’m sorry I couldn’t eat, but I am not feeling very well. Speak to you soon.”
“Sorry. Yes, of course. You are quite welcome. I shall speak to you soon.” I broke the connection before Tahani said anything obvious and waited for his call. He was as good as his word and returned my call within five minutes.
“Sorry I took so long. I had forgotten where call boxes were located. Mobile phones, you know.” He was right. I hadn’t used a pay phone in years. I’m not sure I even know how much a call costs. I took down the number of the pay phone and returned his call from the mobile.
“A quick question, if you don’t mind, Dr. Tahani. How long after the operation do the patients fly?”
“Hmm. I am not certain. I expressly forbid it for forty-eight hours; of course, it is probably safe immediately—after recovery, of course.”
Shit. That was a very small window. I thanked him and reminded him to feel free to reach me at the number he was using.
I was spinning. If the mule could fly, now he was gone. There were no rules here. No malpractice issues, and surely no concern for the well-being of the patient, at least not the one carrying anthrax. Expendable. If they sent out their own people to be martyrs for the cause, what would they care for nonbelievers? It didn’t matter to the terrorists. They were vehicles, human pack animals, mules. Some of them, or at least the one I saw, judging by the signs of prior implants, had probably made more than one pass. But this wasn’t their game. Just unhappy people clutching at straws and trying to turn their lives around. Round and around and around, I thought. It wasn’t so easy getting life straight.
I wasted enough time until it was a few minutes after six in Bethesda, and Dell should have been about to begin his Saturday morning. He answered after a few rings and must have had a peek at the screen.
“Wendell, give me a break.”
“Sorry, Dell. This is the real thing. Couldn’t wait.”
I gave him the short version of my conversation with Tahani and my conclusion. “This is it. I feel it.”
“This is what, Wendell?”
“The payoff. The drug shipments were practice runs to the target. They are going in with the anthrax or neurotoxins, or whatever WMDs they packed into those implants, and New York is the target.”
“Slow down, man. You’re way ahead of the facts. I agree. The heroin is a red herring. And yes, something is going down. But we have no hard information. None. No humint, no intercepts, nada. What we have is you and a burned MI6 asset. Tell me how to present those facts. I mean . . . I have to go pretty high to get action on this. I’d be hanging out in the breeze. Things are good at home. I’m too young to retire.”
“Hey, I get it. I know. But wouldn’t you be a sad sack of shit if they poison the water supply or dust Grand Central with anthrax.”
“You certainly have a way with words.”
“Sorry about that, but I’m serious. We can’t look the other way.”
I continued beating Dell across the head with suppositions and hypotheses, until he gave in to what he knew he also believed to be a real threat.
“It sounds too much like the real thing to ignore. But if we go for it, we have to do it right. I’m going to take it to the top of Homeland. If I can’t get to the secretary, then I’ll get to whoever can get to the secretary on a Saturday. There’s also ICE and CNE. It might be smart to go there first.”
“What is CNE?”
“Right. Counter-Narcotics Enforcement.”
“Dell, this isn’t about narcotics.”
“It is until it isn’t. Better to jump in at the top. I hope you can put in a good word for me at the NYPD. I may need a job. Call you back.”
That left me with nothing substantive to do. I had to wait. I called Alison but couldn’t reach her. It was almost seven in New York, and she was probably still asleep. I didn’t want to return to Tahani’s flat, but I had more questions. I called and went through the “thank you” routine again, and Tahani returned my call quickly, and in turn I called the pay phone. Our conversation had taken a number of turns, and I probed the few things that seemed promising. Tahani’s knowledge of the network beyond his own involvement was negligible, but I was convinced that they must be very well organized on the New York end. They were getting in and out of the airport and disposing of the product, and yet there was not a whisper about this type of trafficking. When organized crime is involved, there are always rumors. It was a business, and the new product had to hit the streets and make waves. Retail dealers were always the weakest link. They were the most exposed and the most willing to trade information for a free ride or to kill competition. It didn’t take long for buzz to start. The DEA has known the intimate details of the Mexican and Columbian cartels since they elbowed the Mafia off the streets. But as far as I could tell, our guys hadn’t heard a whisper of a new source or different-quality product. It was a closed circle.
“How long have you been working for these people?” I asked.
“Ten months.”
“Was anyone else doing the work before you?”
“I don’t think so. The system worked smoothly at my end, but it was not really organized in the beginning, like we were inventing it as we went.” That wasn’t the picture of an organized-crime drug operation. Still, they were awfully confident about getting through customs. Someone in the operation was very sophisticated or very well connected.
I asked some more questions but didn’t learn anything worthwhile. Tahani made some noises about his own future. I listened with a sympathetic ear, but I couldn’t help him. No matter what I had said, that kind of thing took place much higher up. No question, he crossed the line, but deals do get made and things are allowed to slip by. I reassured him as much as I could, which wasn’t very much, and he knew it. There was a sadness about his voice and even in his choice of words. I found myself liking him and feeling sorry for the mess he had gotten himself in
to.
My return ticket was for Sunday, and I considered changing it and heading home later today. Given the hassle of concierges, phone calls to airlines, and the Byzantine, punishing rules governing last-minute ticket changes, it was simply too damned much trouble for too little gain. I wanted to do something useful. It seemed to make sense to connect with Scotland Yard or MI5 and get the airports covered, only I had absolutely no one to connect with. In New York, that wouldn’t get in my way. You always know somebody who knows somebody. It’s probably the same here, but much as I love it, I’m a visitor, a tourist. London is not my town. The connections would have to wait for Dell. Maybe, when I reached Alison, she would put me on to someone she trusts at Vauxhall Cross, who might help overcome the inertia. Meanwhile, there was nothing to do but lunch. I didn’t need much convincing. As usual, I was starved. I am firmly convinced that anyone in London, with time to spare and a few extra bucks, had no choice but to head out to Hammersmith and the River Café. Simple as that. It might be the best restaurant in the city.
On the long taxi ride out to the restaurant, I began to feel guilty about fiddling with lunch while Rome burned, but what were the options? Marching around Hyde Park Corner in a sandwich board predicting the end of the world wouldn’t solve anything, and I was hungry. It took thirty-five minutes to make the trip. The Hammersmith side streets were lined with rows of working-class cottages, which had been gentrified about as far as their modest dimensions would allow. Mid-level BMWs and Mercedes sedans had replaced the Civics and Fords on the street, and even the estate agents’ signs were more upscale than they had been a few years ago. The day was drab and drizzling, as it always seemed to be along Thames walk, at least when I’m around, and garden seating at the restaurant was a bad joke. I was glad to shake off and be seated near the blazing fire set midway up the white wall at the end of the restaurant. It wasn’t at all cold out, but the fire seemed just right. Everything about the place made it impossible to think of anything but pleasure. The food was just right as well, and I polished off more than half of the modest Brunello I had ordered. I was feeling no pain.
A mini-cab called by the restaurant brought me back to the hotel with the usual fits and starts, but I managed to doze off anyway. Unfolding myself from the backseat of the old Honda made me appreciate real London taxis all the more, but most of the phone service cars at the fringes of town were another class of transportation.
Back in the room, I brushed my teeth and threw some cold water on my face. Dell hadn’t called, and I was too antsy to wait patiently. He answered before the phone had a chance for a second ring.
“Expecting somebody important?”
“Yes, I was. Not you, buddy.”
“True enough. What’s happening?”
“I think we’re doing well. The secretary was all over it. Really surprised me. There has been enough chatter about something going down that they were considering raising the alert level. Enough of your story rang true for them to take it seriously.”
“Great.”
“Hard to think of a genuine terror threat being great, but I know what you mean. Now maybe something will get done. I’m waiting for word from up the chain of command. Get right back to you when I do.”
“Is it okay if I tell Alison the news? She was key in all of this.”
“I don’t see why not.” He hesitated for a split second, then continued. “But maybe just hold off until I check with the task-force leader. No need to step on toes so early in the game.”
“Right. But get back to me, man. I’m on pins and needles here, and she is on the front line at home. We have to find the mule and break this thing up.”
“I get it. Hang on. Be back to you ASAP.”
It wasn’t entirely clear what we were trying to break up, but I had the overwhelming feeling that something bad was about to happen. Something really bad, and we were all that stood in the way.
34
Alison woke me from a really lovely nap. I must have been doing some serious snoring. My head was cranked forward on two pillows. My chin was on my chest, and half the bedspread was folded back over to keep me warm. I must have been working on an insoluble psycho-dilemma when the phone rang. My neck felt frozen at ninety degrees as I sat up. I patted my pockets for the phone and tried to localize the sound. But it was lost among the bedcovers and had stopped ringing while I scrambled to find it. After orienting myself, I rubbed my eyes and concentrated on the caller ID. It registered an unfamiliar number. By the time I had a sip of water from the bedside bottle, the voice message symbol came on and Alison identified herself. I lay down again and returned her call. She sounded edgy or distant. Or maybe I was too sleepy to know the difference.
Alison listened quietly as I started to run down the day’s events. I was about to mention Dell and the feds, when I remembered that he had asked me to hold off. She chimed in with an “uh-huh” or two, probably to show she was still on the line.
“I was thinking that it might make sense for me to head over to Vauxhall Cross.”
“Whatever for?”
There she was again, so English. So much more impact than how come or, simply, why.
“They have to know more than they’re letting on, and if I get them up to speed, we might learn something important. There is no more time to waste. Who was your contact . . . control, or whatever you call the person running your portfolio?”
“But, Wendell, Marshall won’t know anything at all about this. We weren’t drug enforcement people. And I couldn’t breach protocol and send you in.”
“Fuck protocol. This is a crisis. Who is he?”
“Oh, Wendell. You are putting me in a difficult position.”
“Difficult position. You are dead smack in the middle of this. You know all the players, and unless I was hallucinating, someone looking for you shot up my car.”
“Perhaps they were looking for you.”
“Nonsense. I didn’t know anything or anybody. You were the target. You must know something that can hurt them. We need to brainstorm with everyone. New information and a fresh point of view can make the case. Let’s get on this.”
“Okay. Okay. Let me think for a second.” During the seconds Alison was pondering, I drifted back to the moment. I heard the tires squeal, the windshield shatter, and maybe I saw the muzzle flashes. But I didn’t remember ducking, and I couldn’t understand how neither of us had been hit. Amazingly good luck or lousy shooters, or was someone warning us?
“Who was trying to warn us, Alison? Think about it.”
“What?”
“Sorry, I was back on Forty-ninth Street, when they shot at us.”
“Warning? Why warning? We were almost killed.”
“No we weren’t. Any half-decent Russian hood or any gangbanger could easily have hit us both and gotten away. Think about it. I could have done a better job.”
“I . . . I don’t know. Who would do that? It might have been the terrorists. Amateurs.”
“Not exactly amateurs. Think about Farzan.”
“My God. Poor Farzan. Right. I have to think.”
Alison sounded frightened, which is definitely not her natural state. Nor did vulnerability or coy dependence have anything to do with Alison. For me that was part of her allure.
“Let me make a few calls and get back to you.”
“Yeah. Okay.” But it wasn’t okay. “The clock is ticking.”
I did what circling was possible in my tiny, over-furnished room and thought it through. I didn’t like the way this was going.
I did nothing but wait for people to return my calls. After an unrewarding hour and a bit of dozing, I called Alison. She didn’t answer. I wasn’t doing very well. I left a short message for her, and then Googled the Secret Intelligence Service. In England, the Secret Intelligence Service, SIS or, as it has become commonly known, MI6—or the Firm, to insiders—was no longer very secret. In 2010, Sir John Sawers, the director of MI6, emerged from the shadows to offer public interviews o
n his professional life. It wasn’t all that surprising. Few things remained secret in the information age. The British way was not ours. In the U.S., the head of the CIA is appointed by the president, testifies before Congress, and often changes with administrations. The working division heads operate in shadow. The Brits are different. Their spooks and analysts are out of sight like everyone else’s. But every once in a while, when it hits the fan, we get a peek inside. Despite a generation of Cold War scandals culminating in the unmasking of the highly placed, upper-class, double agents Guy Burgess and Donald Maclean, and the notorious “third man,” Kim Philby, MI6 survived and thrived, and with it a level of civility unthinkable in the United States and silly to contemplate in Russia. The “fourth man,” Sir Anthony Blunt, had secretly confessed in 1964 to being a Soviet spy. He was publicly exposed by Margaret Thatcher in 1979 and finally suffered the horrendous indignity of being stripped of his knighthood by Queen Elizabeth.
I found the general information number of the Secret Intelligence Service on the website and copied it onto the bedside notepad. My call was answered promptly in the visitors center, which wasn’t exactly what I had in mind but definitely what I had expected. It was Langley all over again. No surprise.
“Hello, duty desk, Marshall speaking, which spy would you like to discuss” was more what I was looking for. I stumbled and made some dopey noises and, after reaching several other public-access areas, finally got into the guts of the place. I explained my position to the operator, managed to get transferred to the duty officer, and tried to work my way to Marshall, not that I thought there was a chance in hell of that happening. Mr. Evan St. Clair, the duty officer, heard me out and seemed genuinely interested. He would pass the information along, and he invited me in for an interview. Same old story. No way I wanted to spend the next twenty-four hours being grilled like a suspect. How do you shake the trees enough for these monkeys to take the situation seriously? Small wonder so much important intelligence slips through our fingers. There were countless instances of good intelligence going unprocessed, the tragedy in Boston being a prime example. Mining all that humintel and electronic intercepts was a coup; sifting through it was an impossible task. I understood, but I was still frustrated.
Wendell Black, MD Page 15