"They tried," he said, as he drew back from her and looked down into her eyes. He gave her a quick smile. "But that's not as easy as it looks."
"What happened?"
"It was Castellano, just like I thought."
"Was?"
"He's dead."
"Then this is over?"
He took a deep breath and shook his head, mouthing the word no. She buried her face in the flannel shirt he wore, found in the back of the stolen SUV, and sniffed away tears.
"Let's get inside," he said, placing his hands on her shoulders and guiding her towards the front door.
On the porch, he turned and scanned the area around the house as she stepped inside. The inky darkness of the mountain night made it quickly apparent that there was nothing to see and even if there was, seeing it would be nearly impossible. He stepped inside and closed the door behind him, silencing the sound of the grasshoppers in the trees.
Inside the cabin a glowing red log crackled in the fireplace and emitted warmth that felt good after standing outside. He unbuttoned the flannel shirt and removed it, revealing the prison jumpsuit he'd been given at the Franklin County Jail. Spots of dirt and blood covered the torso and knee areas of the green garment and Constance made a face as she looked at him.
"It's not mine," he said, although he thought she probably knew that. "I tried to save Castellano after he'd been shot, but I couldn't."
"You didn't shoot him?" The crestfallen look on her face said everything about how she was feeling. Slowly, she took a seat in the Adirondack chair next to the stone hearth.
"Whoever these people are," he said, "they decided he was expendable if it meant getting me."
"Did you get what you needed, did you find out who those men from the other night were?"
"Aye, but I don't think it's going to do us any good now that Castellano's dead. Maybe it will help provide some proof of what's going on if there's ever a real investigation launched, but without Castellano, the identities of the people he was working for are going to be impossible to determine. I don't even have an idea about where to begin searching."
She sat forward and reached for his hand. Gripping it softly she asked, "What do we do now?"
"We can't stay here," he said, looking over the rustic interior of the cabin. "We have to get to a place where we'll be safe as long as we need to be. I'm not giving up on this. There's a conspiracy going on and sooner or later someone is going to figure that out. We'll be able to get back to our old lives." He squeezed her hand a couple of times and smiled. Inside he was beginning to feel concerned, they were running out of options, but he couldn't let her know that. He had to maintain the appearance of confidence if he was going to keep her from completely falling apart. In the last seventy-two hours she'd been through more danger than in the previous thirty-five years combined.
"Have you heard anything from Osman or Nazari yet?" she asked.
"Not yet. The problem is that I'm calling their American cell phones, which I'm not even sure will work in Israel where they're currently located."
"Why wouldn't they work?"
"Because there can be a big difference between American cell networks and those of other countries, it all depends on the carrier. I don't know a whole lot about it but I know that they're incompatible with each other in a lot of cases. Just like when we travelled to France and Spain, remember?"
She nodded. "What about the place that Dad and Mom have near Hilton Head? It's on a private island. We'd be okay there and it's a lot more comfortable than this."
He shook his head. "We can't. It's too predictable. We can't go near anyone we have an obvious connection with. It would only get them hurt, or worse."
"So we're going to just keep running from place to place?" she said, starting to sound desperate. "You can't have hidden that many cabins in the woods from me."
"No," he said, trying hard to maintain a calm appearance despite the emotions he was feeling. At this point it looked like the only realistic choice they had was to run, at least for a while. "There are two more people I can reach out to, but it means leaving the country."
"Where would we go?"
"Home," he said looking at her, "to Ireland."
Chapter Forty
9:06 a.m. Local Time – Wednesday
Her Majesty's Government, Whitehall
London, England
Lane Simard sipped a steaming cup of dark blended Creole coffee from his weekly stop at Carluccio's as the late model Range Rover glided smoothly onto Horse Guards Road from Great George Street. His driver sounded the horn several times as a group of gawking tourists scattered away from the front end of the vehicle as the two car caravan pressed towards the gated rear entrance of Downing Street. Like many other people that were milling around Whitehall Road with cameras and sightseeing maps, the tourists were probably wondering if it was a member of the royal family sitting behind the deeply tinted windows of the SUV.
The driver lowered the passenger side window and handed the necessary credentials to one of the Custodian helmeted officers standing at the wrought iron gate holding MP-5 machine pistols across their chests, a staple at the two entrances since the mortar attack in 1991 by the Provisional IRA. The police officer leaned down and glanced into the back seat. Simard lifted his coffee cup in acknowledgment and the officer gave a curt nod before standing up and waving the vehicles on.
As the wrought iron gate opened and the officers stood aside, the Range Rover began to vibrate as the driver pulled onto the cobblestones of Downing Street and passed the black wooden door bearing the famed number ten at the front of the Prime Minister's official residence. Turning into the narrow entrance of a parking lot next to the three story black brick townhouse, Simard readied himself for another meeting of minds as the two Range Rovers pulled to a stop.
A blue uniformed police officer stepped off the stone staircase that led to the first floor of the Whitehall Government Complex and said, "Good morning to you, Mr. Simard," as he opened the rear door of the government-owned SUV.
"Good morning to you, constable," Simard said with a nod and a smile, as he stepped from the vehicle and buttoned his suit. The meeting he was about to attend was the highlight of the London CIA Station Chief's job and the gray cobblestoned area between the Prime Minister's residence and the four story concrete complex known as the Cabinet Office always amazed him.
It wasn't the expensive sedans, or the suited drivers of the various committee members, or the tall oak trees that covered the lot from above that impressed him, but rather the sheer amount of hard work and years of networking that had finally landed him one of the most coveted positions in the Central Intelligence Agency. He was now, and had been for the last four years, able to count himself among a precious few foreigners who had passed through the gates at either end of Downing Street into the heart of the United Kingdom's government. Presidents, vice presidents and heads of state from around the world were the members of this exclusive club and the fact that he, an Iowan farm boy, was among them was a source of great pride.
One of the four agents responsible for transporting him through the capital city stepped around the back of the vehicle and handed him his briefcase as he turned and climbed four marble steps to a green wooden door and pulled it open. While the four agents with him might be able to describe the setting in the courtyard, only he could pass through the doors and into the massive complex of conference rooms and offices that made up number seventy, Whitehall.
"Good morning, sir," a guard sitting in a black leather chair said as he stood up. "I'll show you in."
Simard nodded as the guard led the way down the white hallway to a narrow elevator and inserted a key. The surroundings inside the Cabinet Office were as bland as anyone would expect of a government office, but the fact that no camera had entered the building in recent history gave credence to the constant speculation as to what went on behind the green doors on Whitehall Road, one block from the River Thames in the heart of London.
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br /> The bell on the elevator let out a hollow ring as the car arrived on the first floor where Cabinet Office Briefing Room A, more commonly known as COBRA in the media, was located. The guard stood aside as Simard stepped off directly in front of the briefing room's heavily secured door. With a set of metal rods that secured the door closed in the case of a national emergency, the room appeared to be a bunker, and in fact it was. Only one picture had ever been published of the empty room beyond and no one beneath the position of a member of parliament had entered while the weekly Joint Intelligence Committee meeting was taking place. Two more guards stood on either side of the door and one leaned over and inserted a large metal key, like that of an antiquated jail cell, into the center of the lock causing the metal rods to unlatch with a thonk. Without making eye contact or allowing his face to change from the blank stare he was required to hold, the second guard pulled open the door and Simard stepped inside.
Eight people seated around an elegant marble table looked up as he entered. Some murmured a good morning and others just nodded as he passed and took his seat at the corner of the table near eight LED screens used to monitor emergencies and intelligence throughout the entire country. Just before the doors were closed after his entrance another figure stepped past the guards and into the room. Everyone adjusted themselves in their seats knowing that the arrival of the Joint Intelligence Committee's chairman meant the meeting had begun.
Sir John Morris, a white haired and rounded man with thin-rimmed spectacles seated on his nose, set down a leather briefcase and took his place in the green upholstered swivel chair at the head of the table as the doors latched behind him. "Good morning, everyone," he said in a thick English accent, "we'll begin straight away by hearing your individual reports of the Requirements & Priorities discussed at last week's meeting–"
"Mr. Chairman, if I may?" Simard interrupted raising his hand slightly.
The seven men and two women present looked in his direction, curious as to the reason for his interruption.
"The committee recognizes the CIA's London Station Chief," Morris said slowly, with a wave of his hand in Simard's direction. "You have the floor, Mr. Simard. Proceed."
"Thank you, Mr. Chairman, members of the committee," Simard said with a nod, as he clicked open his briefcase, withdrew a file and stood up. "As you all likely know my country has again been the target of international terrorism in recent days. The detonation of a car bomb outside of a prominent university has been responsible for thirty-seven deaths and one hundred and fifty-three injuries. Many of those inside the building were policymakers of one sort or another, but we believe the target was this man," he said, holding up a picture from the file. "Dr. Abaddon Kafni, an Israeli national with dual citizenship in both the U.S. and Israel. Prior to the detonation several members of Kafni's security detail were drawn away from their posts. The investigators in charge of the case believe that the bombing was a diversion designed to elicit an emergency response from the remaining members of the detail so that the perpetrators could attack Dr. Kafni while he was without his usual protection. Again, as you all likely know, this was successful and Dr. Kafni as well as his chief of security, Levi Levitt, were executed at a house a few miles away."
The heads around the table nodded, indicating that they had all heard the news reports and were aware of the situation. Simard leafed through the papers inside the folder and withdrew several.
"Now I'll get to the part where this concerns the government of the United Kingdom," he continued. "The investigation into the matter has proceeded quickly and has become centered on a particular individual named Declan McIver, who is a former member of Dr. Kafni's security detail. We believe that fact allowed him to move about without suspicion and to set up the attack that has cost so many lives. As you've probably guessed by his name, McIver is a British citizen, or at least he was until about ten years ago. The problem we have run into is that his history prior to his immigration to the U.S. is a black hole, there's nothing there. He was simply born and then fell off of the grid. Now, as everyone in this room knows very well, that's not possible unless you're dealing with a particular type of individual and McIver's actions to date support the idea that he is just such an individual."
Simard stopped talking and allowed the idea that Declan McIver was a military operator of some kind or another to sink in.
"I'm assuming from his name that this McIver is one of our Irish cousins," Chairman Morris said, from the head of the table.
Simard nodded. "The immigration paperwork obtained from our Citizenship and Immigration Service supports that, although we had to go to great lengths to uncover his real place of birth. The paperwork originally filed with our government was full of fraudulent statements indicating he was born in the Republic of Ireland. McIver was actually born in a place called Ballygowan," he said, as he read the name of the town from a piece of paper in his hand.
"Northern Ireland," someone at the table said, though Simard hadn't seen who. He turned and looked at the people seated at the table.
"You say this man's actions support the notion that he is some kind of military agent," the man continued, revealing himself to be the head of the Secret Intelligence Service, a broad man with bushy gray eyebrows and severe facial features. "Can you be more specific?"
"Yes, of course," Simard said, nodding and turning to face the U.K.'s spy chief. "McIver was initially hospitalized for an injury he supposedly received trying to save Dr. Kafni's life, but the truth of that has been in doubt since his first interview with an FBI agent. Since it became obvious to McIver that his ruse had failed, the actions that he has taken to avoid being caught have made it obvious that he is a man of some experience. Those actions include murdering four men that we believe were working with him at the university's event and that we have established a financial connection with, as well as the murder of a business owner whose company provided additional security at the university and whose family was being threatened. It was shortly after that last murder that McIver was cornered and arrested. However, during his transfer yesterday morning to a federal facility where he would have awaited trial, he escaped, taking the life of agent Seth Castellano, the lead investigator on the case, in the process."
"I see," the director of MI6 said, "and do you have any idea as to what kind of experience you think it is that has enabled him to do these things?"
"The reports that have been given to me by my government indicate that two of the murders were carried out hand to hand and the other three by gunshot, all showing signs of precision with the firearms used. In addition to the deaths of these men there were numerous weapons found in his home that were modified in ways that only an individual with military experience could achieve without considerable expense. We're considering all the possibilities. Obviously with him being Irish, connections to groups like the IRA and the INLA are being looked at, but without a paper trail to go on, we're quite frankly flying blind. Every hour that goes by is an hour that a terrorist with obvious international ties is at large and a danger to the populace of the world. For all we know this guy could be well outside of the United States by now."
"So your government wants this committee to unseal any records the intelligence-gathering agencies of the United Kingdom have on him and to provide you with that information?" Chairman Morris asked.
Simard nodded. "Yes, sir. That is what we are requesting."
"Well, I for one don't see any detriment to the United Kingdom or to its overseas interests by agreeing to such a request. Our problems with certain elements within Northern Ireland are ongoing, but from the sound of it any connections this McIver has with that community date back quite a way and are unlikely to affect any current operations. Does anyone else present see this as a problem or have any questions?"
"The fact that he is actively involved in a terrorist act would call that observation into question, Mr. Chairman," one of the ministers said. "We cannot afford to risk our current operations against the ex
tremist elements in Northern Ireland until we know more about this individual."
"I can appreciate your concern, Minister," Simard answered, "but my government would handle this information with the utmost delicacy. It would only be used to effect an arrest within our borders and any international actions required would, of course, be cleared with the governing authorities of that nation or territory."
"Dr. Kafni was an Israeli Jew who had made quite a few enemies in the Islamic parts of the world. Those enemies have threatened him on more than one occasion," a female voice said from the chair diagonally adjacent to Morris. "Why is it that you think an Irishman is responsible for his death instead of one of the more radical Muslim groups? The only benefit I can see coming from Kafni's death would be to one of those groups."
"You're correct, Madame Advisor," Simard said. "That is why we are looking at possible connections with terrorist groups like the IRA. Their previous dealings with Islamic militants are well documented. I don't want to speculate about what McIver's motivation may or may not be, but I think it's clear that he's a danger. Having access to his past, his real past, would provide us with any potential connections that he may use to hide out and will reinvigorate an investigation that has essentially hit a dead end at this point."
The Prime Minister's advisor on foreign affairs nodded her satisfaction with the answer and Morris looked around the table for anyone else to speak. When no one did, he said "Then it's settled. The Joint Intelligence Committee approves the request by the CIA for access to its records relating to Declan McIver. Since Mr. McIver was a British citizen, those records would be held in Thames House by the Security Service. Can you see to it that this request is handled, Dennis?"
Simard looked towards the end of the table to a thin man with graying blonde hair that he knew as Lord Dennis Allardyce, the acting Director-General of the United Kingdom's Security Service. Allardyce nodded. "I'll inform the head of our Irish and Domestic Terrorism Department as soon as this meeting is concluded. He'll see to it that you have what you need by the end of the day."
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