The Lost Codex (OPSIG Team Black Series Book 3)

by Alan Jacobson

  41

  By the time Vail and Uzi arrived at the Home Office, the clouds had broken enough to allow the sun to stream through. That would make surveillance easier in some respects, more difficult in others.

  DeSantos switched places with Uzi, who continued on with Fahad to Thames House. The buildings were close—blocks from one another—but this was MI5’s ballgame. Their role as covert operatives, DeSantos explained, was to observe from a distance for any unusual activity—and capture Yaseen or Aziz, or both.

  Defined more specifically, “unusual activity” consisted of a terrorist with a sniper rifle or several glass bottles of osmium tetroxide.

  “You’re not serious.”

  “Stranger things have happened,” DeSantos said. “But no, these guys are smart—and skilled. I don’t think they’re as dumb as the idiot serial killers you chase, the ones who get pulled over for a busted taillight with a body in the trunk.”

  “If you think my job’s so easy, why don’t you try doing it for a month?”

  “I’d be too bored.”

  “Another time, I’d take that personally.” She turned right and glanced around the street. “I don’t think we should even be here. We’ve done our duty. All we needed to do was the right thing—and that was to notify the British authorities. The Security Service is now doing what they’re supposed to be doing.”

  “So you want to leave.”

  “I think that’s what I just said.” Vail found a spot to park the car and pulled to the curb. “We’re not welcome in this country. No, that’s not true. It’s worse than that. We’re considered enemies of the country. If we’re caught, we’re in deep trouble. This area, with a ton of government buildings around, blocks from MI5 headquarters no less, is filled with surveillance cameras. Police cameras. Not private cameras that the Met has to jump through hoops to access.”

  DeSantos nodded slowly, as if seriously considering Vail’s comments.

  She kept her gaze on his face but his eyes were scanning the streetscape. “So why aren’t we leaving if you agree?”

  “Because I don’t agree. We’re after Qadir Yaseen and Tahir Aziz. We know from visiting their flat and hacking their computer files that they’re hitting one or both of these buildings. If our mission is to secure these two bastards—and the documents their organization’s holding—why would we leave?”

  Dammit. I can’t argue with that.

  Her lack of an answer apparently gave DeSantos all he needed because he nodded and said, “That’s what I’m talking about.”

  “What are the probabilities that senior guys like Yaseen and Aziz are going to be executing this attack? Wouldn’t they have underlings doing it?”

  DeSantos shrugged. “Don’t know enough to say. This isn’t a serial killer case where if you guess wrong, another two or three or five people die. If we guess wrong, thousands will die. In some cases, hundreds of thousands.”

  “That’s the second time you dissed my unit.”

  “Not disrespect. Simple mathematics. The scale is just different.”

  She stepped onto the curb. “Where we headed?”

  “There’s a Caffè Nero around the block, right opposite the building. One of us can hang out there and keep an eye on that entry point. The other can go around the other side and try to look inconspicuous.”

  “I’ll take the coffee shop.”

  “Figured you would.”

  “You realize this is a needle in a haystack thing.”

  “Let’s say you’re right,” he said as they headed toward the café. “That means fewer important people will be inside pulling the strings, releasing the toxin. You’re the leader of the op, wouldn’t you be nearby to make sure all goes according to plan?”

  “Too risky.”

  “You’re thinking like a cop chasing a killer who doesn’t want to die. These guys don’t care. Success is what matters. I think they’re going to be nearby quarterbacking the op.”

  Vail parsed that as they walked. “Maybe you’re right.”

  “We may get nothing. Or we may get our men.”

  VAIL SPENT LONGER THAN SHE WANTED inside the café ordering. In reality it was only about twenty seconds, but she felt intense pressure to get back out, to get eyes on the target. She loosened her navy muffler, the warmth inside the store causing her to perspire.

  She checked her watch: nine minutes.

  Her flat white was ready and she carried the “takeaway” cup outside to the small patio out front. There was one vacant table and she sat down in a chrome and wicker seat. Two blue Caffè Nero banner signs stretched between metal stanchions, separating the sidewalk from the small inlaid glass-block piazza.

  The Home Office building across the narrow street in front of her was divided into two distinct sections. On the left was a near-all glass modern structure, architecturally pleasing with a large curving corner. The right portion, connected to its adjacent cousin by a multistory glass bridge, was its design opposite: flat, rectangular, and fronted by metal framework that in itself was ugly but when taken in its totality gave off an artsy sensibility. It was topped along its roof by large rainbow colored glass panels: blue, white, and orange hues were dominant. The edifice was best considered an attractive sum of disparate parts.

  Her eyes roamed the exterior as people moved about, many dressed well and moving purposefully toward the building’s entrance, about to start their workday. Time check: six minutes. Assuming the terrorists were punctual. Assuming Uzi’s Arabic was not flawed. Assuming they had the target right.

  Reid had to have contacted his superiors by now. How long does it take to issue an emergency evacuation order?

  Vail realized that the Met or MI5 needed to verify both anonymous tips—their legitimate evacuation warning to escape osmium tetroxide inhalation and thus save lives; and the ruse, designed to lure the workers to their deaths.

  Vail became aware of a man seated two tables to her right. He had a newspaper open and he was holding it up, but he was not reading it—a ploy for staring straight ahead.

  At the building.

  He could have been admiring the architecture, just as Vail had done a moment ago, but his body language looked different. She glanced in his direction, noticing that he had looked at his watch repeatedly in the space of a minute.

  Just then an intermittent buzzer emanated from inside the building. And then Vail’s cell vibrated. She looked over at the man. His neck stiffened and he sat forward, his eyes darting left and right, taking in the situation as he pulled out his phone.

  Vail lifted her Samsung and read:

  fire alarm going off. bad feeling.

  looking for snipers. you got anything

  She tapped back to Uzi:

  strange buzzer going off.

  eyes on potential suspect

  DeSantos:

  look sharp. whatevers going down

  it will be now

  It was clear the tangos’s anonymous call did not have its desired effect—a forced evacuation of MI5’s Thames House—so Yaseen, Aziz, and company switched to a contingency plan to get the people out in the open.

  Someone setting off the fire alarm meant an insider. At MI5’s headquarters? Shit, if they’ve got a mole in the British Security Service, why can’t we have one in the FBI? Or the CIA?

  As that thought caused a cramp in her stomach, sirens in the distance pulled Vail’s focus back to the Home Office. People were starting to file out of the building, some running. But this buzzer was not a fire alarm. Maybe it signaled the workforce to evacuate quickly due to an imminent and dangerous incident as part of a crisis management plan. Many large buildings, corporations, and government agencies drew up such procedures in the wake of 9/11.

  She texted Uzi, DeSantos, and Fahad and described the suspect—a man in his forties of possible Middle Eastern descent. Hard to tell,
since she did not want to let her gaze linger too long.

  Seconds later, the man rose from his seat, folded the newspaper, and left it on the table alongside the coffee he barely tasted. Either he’s MI5—one of Reid’s colleagues who was alerted to the threat and doing what she was doing—or he was a threat, an accomplice to what was going down.

  Stay or follow?

  Vail waited a moment, occasionally glancing to her right to keep tabs on him. She rose and went over to his table and rifled through the newspaper: nothing written on it, no coded messages on a note buried within. A Caffè Nero receipt. Paid cash. His coffee cup had the name “Ryan” on the side.

  So, Ryan, what are you up to?

  She started down the street. He had a thirty yard lead on her, a safe distance that protected her from being spotted.

  He turned right almost immediately, into what looked like an alley. Vail passed the Romney House apartment building and hesitated, concerned about pursuing him down a narrow lane where there would likely be only the two of them. But she did not know what lay beyond. He could disappear into a building and that would be that.

  No choice. Follow him.

  Vail hung a right onto what was at best a pedestrian way, with entrances to the apartment buildings that lined both sides. A street sign indicated it was Bennett’s Yard. She didn’t know who Bennett was and she was not sure about calling it a yard, but it was modern, the brick new and the mortar perfectly pointed.

  Ryan was making his way down the path at a good clip, but it kicked left a bit and he disappeared from view for a second. Vail texted the group:

  headed down bennetts yard, away from

  home office. suspect in view. name

  might be ryan. doesnt look irish

  She thought of pulling her Glock—or her Tanto—but remembered she was an illegal alien in England and did not want to get flagged on a surveillance camera with a weapon. It was the fastest way to get surrounded by CO19, the Met’s “gun squad,” a scaled-down version of SWAT that circulated the city looking for trouble. She also hoped to avoid the tactical Trojan trucks that deployed a team of armed officers as well as the three-person police units that patrolled in speedy BMW sedans, always at the ready and never far away from trouble.

  Ryan passed the building’s parking garage on the left and emerged on Tufton, another residential road with apartments on both sides. He hung a right and then a quick left onto Dean Trench Street.

  He suddenly glanced over his shoulder and saw Vail, made eye contact, and then took off on a run.

  Shit, shit, shit.

  Vail followed, no longer concerned about preserving her cover.

  Fortunately, she was a little faster than Ryan because she was closing the gap.

  They emerged on a circular street—ironically called Smith’s Square—featuring­ a large majestic building directly ahead, which looked like a church with a columned bell tower.

  Text from Fahad:

  shots fired uzi was right sniper somewhere

  Followed immediately by another message, from DeSantos:

  karen status re your suspect

  She glanced down and read the display, but couldn’t reply. A fleeting thought flashed through her mind: had they evacuated the building in time? If it was a gas released into the ventilation system, with a delayed onset of symptoms, it would be impossible to gauge the fallout until later. The employees would be walking dead—without knowing it.

  Ryan, or whatever his name was, was onsite to monitor the osmium tetroxide’s release. Instead, what he witnessed was the building’s evacuation—which might have meant the attack was ineffective … or perhaps he knew it came too late.

  I should’ve taken him when I had the chance, when he was just sitting there. What’s done is done. Focus on the here and now.

  But focusing was not something that would have helped her. Because as she emerged on Smith’s Square, a pipe swung out toward her face from behind the edge of the building.

  42

  Vail ducked at the last second and avoided the blow.

  She followed with a backhanded chop to Ryan’s throat. He stumbled sideways toward a pay bicycle rack and fell, both hands gripping the front of his neck. It would do no good, of course, but it was a reflex.

  Vail pulled a flexcuff from her pocket and strapped it around Ryan’s wrists. She pulled them tight, then yanked him onto his back to face her. Her jacket got stuck on the handle of the Glock, and she quickly freed the coat, pulling it around and zipping it, covering the weapon.

  “So, Ryan, you and I are gonna have a little chat. I’m Xena the Warrior Princess. Who are you?”

  He shook his head, trying to regain his voice. “None of your business,” he said, clearly finding it.

  “It is my business. Because I think you and your buddies just released osmium tetroxide gas inside the Home Office.”

  His eyes narrowed: a look of genuine surprise. And he clearly knew what the toxin was. “Who are you?”

  “I told you. But the question was, ‘Who are you?’”

  He did not respond.

  “Is Ryan your real name?”

  He snorted. “About as real as Xena.”

  “Didn’t think so. What is it?”

  “If you know it’s not my real name, you know I’m not gonna tell you shit. To use an American idiom.”

  His speech was clear, his English neutral: not multicultural London English­. In fact, not a British accent at all. Not practiced. Natural.

  A siren groaned in the near distance: it was only a couple of blocks away. Crap. Please don’t come near here.

  Two bobbies appeared ahead, along the traffic circle, wearing their traditional navy top hats with the prominent silver badge. The scene must have looked odd, with a woman hassling a handcuffed man—and Vail not looking the part of a British police officer.

  “What’s the problem here?” one of the cops asked.

  Normally she would laugh and tell them to go away, since the bobbies famously were not armed. What could they do, yell at her? Scold her? Ask her nicely to stand down?

  “She’s yampy,” Ryan yelled—with a perfect British accent. “And she’s got a gun!”

  The bobbies pulled side arms—which looked like X-26 Tasers.

  Oh, shit. When did they start carrying those?

  As if that was not a bad enough development, a white BMW sedan with orange and blue striping screeched around the corner to her right, a block away.

  CO19, the armed response vehicle that Reid called in. Lovely. That plan certainly backfired.

  Ryan seemed to grasp its significance. But Vail was at a loss of what to do. If the unit stopped, she would not be going up against a Taser. They’d be locked and loaded. With lead projectiles.

  And then the worst case scenario presented itself: the BMW pulled to a stop and three men jumped out.

  Vail pulled Ryan upright and stood slightly behind him. “Stop right there!”

  The CO19 officers did as instructed. But they also had Glock17 pistols pointed at her.

  “Help me,” Ryan said again. “She tied me up, she’s demanding money. I’m just a software developer for the Home Office, border division.”

  Fuck. What do I do? I can’t tell them my name or why I’m here or why I have this guy in cuffs. Or that it was actually my idea to call in CO19.

  Or why I’m carrying a gun and a lethal knife. Shit, shit, shit.

  “Back away from your hostage,” one of the Kevlar-vested CO19 officers said, his weapon trained squarely on Vail, a black tactical helmet obscuring part of his face.

  How the hell did this happen? “I’m the good guy,” she wanted to shout.

  That was only partially true. She was on foreign soil on an unsanctioned mission, with a rap sheet in the UK that included the murder of a government official. If they figured th
at part out, her finch was cooked.

  Hector … Uzi … where are you when I need you?

  The cops were still a half block away, a long line of blue bike rentals between her and Ryan and the officers.

  “Uh, this man is a terrorist,” she stammered. “He just launched an attack on the Home Office. Osmium tetroxide. Check it out, you’ll see I’m telling you the truth.”

  “And how would you know that?” one of the officers asked.

  If I told you that, buddy, I’d have to kill you. Crap, I’m starting to think like Hector. “Check with MI5,” she said. “Agent Clive Reid.”

  One of the bobbies cocked his head, then looked at his partner.

  Oh, shit. I just blew Reid’s cover. My god, can this get any worse?

  Reid was an MI5 agent embedded with Scotland Yard—that is, until now.

  Vail started sweating. Her face was slick, her underarms hemorrhaging perspiration.

  “I’m Officer Manning,” the lead CO19 man said. “What’s your name?”

  Xena the Warrior Princess. “You can call me Al.”

  “Al,” Manning repeated.

  Thank god he didn’t get the Paul Simon reference.

  “Are you armed, Al?”

  Only with wit and wisdom. But, apparently, sometimes not both.

  “Answer me, Al. Weapons? And I’m not talking about diamonds on the bottoms of your shoes.”

  Ooops, guess he did get it.

  “One more time. Are you armed?”

  Well, there’s my Glock. And my Tanto. “You’re focusing on the wrong problem. This man here’s a liar and a terrorist.” Will diversion work?

  “We’ll sort it out, no worries, Al.” Manning took a step toward her.

  “That’s far enough.”

  She immediately realized that was a stupid statement. She had no weapon trained on them—or her “hostage.” Why shouldn’t they advance on her?

  Vail could not continue holding them off. Stalling was not going to work with these highly trained officers. And they were clearly more concerned with her than with Ryan. She would be asked to provide identification any moment now, and then they would approach and pat her down, and, well, that would not be a good thing.