Embrace the Fire (Shadow Warriors Book 3)

by Stephen England

  “Yes,” she responded, forcing a smile to her face as she glanced up into the grey eyes of her supervisor, Alec MacCallum. “A lot of people on the Tube this morning.”

  Which was true, if not the reason for her delay. She’d delayed leaving her flat until the last moment, second-guessing her decision regarding Nichols. Wondering if he had any plans to return.

  Her boss nodded, seeming to accept her response. “The weekly threat assessments are on your desk, fresh in from GCHQ. Get them worked up as soon as possible.”

  She watched as he moved on, winding his way through the maze of workstations in the Centre, pausing to speak to several of the other officers. Having spent twenty-one of his fifty-six years with SO-13, the Anti-Terrorist Branch of the London Metropolitan Police Department, MacCallum had been a natural choice to take charge of Five’s Section G, one of Marsh’s first appointments upon arrival.

  Aside from the Director-General, she and Alec anchored the old guard among the Security Service’s predominantly youthful workforce, a fact that had resulted in the two of them working closely together since his arrival at Five.

  Her fingers flickered across the keyboard, entering her system passcode. There’d even been a time when she had thought he fancied her, in the years since Nick’s death. There was comfort to be found in the friendship—a lonely divorcee, a grieving widow—but the professional reserve had proven impossible to strip away. The walls each of them had built far too high.

  She let a heavy sigh escape from her lips as she turned to the thick stack of threat assessments. New threats…and they never stopped coming. Assessing their credibility—that was her job.

  There was no time to reflect on the past, and as she opened the first folder, her eyes scanning down the cover sheet—she found herself wondering why she had done so this morning.

  Nichols.

  11:04 A.M.

  Northwest London

  “He’s moving,” the man in the chase car announced, raising a camera surreptitiously to his eye and snapping a quick picture as their target emerged from the door of the flat, looking first left, then right. “I repeat, I have eyes on CERBERUS. On foot, and moving east. Sierra Two, do you copy?”

  A moment passed before his earpiece crackled, a voice announcing, “Aye, Sierra One—taking up a following position.”

  Tarik Abdul Muhammad shoved both hands deep into the pockets of his jacket as he moved down the sidewalk, lost in his own thoughts.

  His friend was dead. It seemed impossible to comprehend, to process the reality of what had happened. He could still remember the first meeting with Prince Yusuf in Lahore all those years ago, scant weeks after his release from Guantanamo Bay.

  It had been a meeting ordained of God, a communion between a man with vision and a man with the money to bring that vision to pass.

  A vision which had come to fruition only a few months before as the skies over Las Vegas erupted in fire, bits and pieces of Delta Airlines Flight 94 raining down over the city. As his mujahideen stormed through the doors of the Bellagio, seeking death and meeting their own.

  Bellagio. His fingers met the ridged edge of the poker chip, turning it over and over as he walked. The Americans had killed his friend, and now they were sending him a message.

  The message that no matter where he ran, no matter where he sought refuge, they could find him. They could kill him.

  As though they thought themselves God, he mused, staring up into the eye of a surveillance camera as he stood at the edge of a crosswalk, waiting for the traffic to pass.

  The arrogance of it was unbelievable, the hubris of the West. Vulnerable as they had been proven to be, and still they exalted themselves.

  His eyes flickered over the busy street, serene calm radiating from their blue depths as pedestrians jostled around him. Yusuf’s death was no doubt a test, all just another part of God’s plan for him.

  And if he knew nothing else, he knew this. No matter what the Americans schemed in their pride, the time and the place of his death would be of Allah’s choosing.

  Not until.

  12:24 P.M.

  Thames House

  Central London

  It felt like he was back in Somalia again, Darren thought, spreading out the PERSEPHONE briefing folders on the desk of his workstation as he reflected on Marsh’s words.

  Working with allies you couldn’t trust, having to keep as close an eye on your “friends” as your enemies. That was reality.

  As was the enormity of a twenty-four-hour surveillance operation. You couldn’t run one with just a few officers, the way they showed it on the telly. From what he could see of the roster, there were nearly forty people read in on the mission already. More people than had even known he was in Somalia—nearly half of them brought on after Five had “lost” Tarik Abdul Muhammad in Leicester over a month previous.

  A trail that had run cold, until this morning.

  He glanced down at the hard polymer case at his feet, a “gift” from Marsh. If you wanted to call it that.

  “You’ll be liaising with SO-15,” Marsh had said, referencing the official designation for the Counter Terrorism Command, “but I want you to be prepared for any eventuality…no matter how suddenly it may arise.”

  Be prepared, indeed. The polymer case housed a Sig-Sauer P229 semiautomatic pistol chambered in 9mm Luger, along with a pair of thirteen-round magazines. And a suppressor designed to be screwed into the threaded barrel.

  MI-5 officers weren’t supposed to be armed. Not on British soil, at least. Something he had voiced to the DG.

  Marsh had shrugged, as if that were nothing of concern. “I secured a special dispensation for you in this case, despite much reluctance on the part of the Home Secretary. Just keep an eye on the cousins for me. Make sure they don’t do anything…untoward.”

  Darren glanced at his watch. Just under five hours until he was due at Grosvenor Square to meet with his opposite numbers with the Agency.

  He picked up Parker’s thin folder again, flipping it open to reveal the American’s picture. Did the man match the file? He’d know, soon enough…

  2:39 P.M.

  Hendon Cemetery

  Northern Greater London

  Cemeteries. They had always been a familiar part of his life, Harry thought, walking slowly amongst the tombstones. An all too familiar part.

  He’d been burying people for years. Watching as a flag-draped casket was lowered into the ground—holding a sobbing widow tight against his chest as shots rang out in final salute to her love. Row on row of white crosses standing in mute testimony to the lives departed.

  And yet he had lived, where others died. The unbearable grief of being left behind—the inescapable guilt of the survivor.

  Wishing more than words that you could have taken their place, stood in their shoes when the bullet came for them.

  A granite stone stood upright near the end of the row, his boots crunching in the light snow as he came abreast of it. It was an old stone, the name nearly worn away by the years, but the inscription remained. For she walked with God…and she was not, for God took her.

  The words hit him with the force of a physical blow, and for a moment he felt as if he might become sick, the foul taste of bile pervading his throat. For God took her.

  Carol. He could scarce bear to speak her name, but in that moment, he found himself transported back to that night in Vegas, those stolen moments just before their world fell apart.

  The taste of her lips on his, salty with tears, her back pressed against the door as he pressed her body close to his.

  “You have to promise me…this won’t be the end.”

  And yet end it had, he thought, running an angry hand across his face. For God took her.

  He gazed up into the slate-gray heavens, clouds drifting slowly across the face of the earth—blocking out the sun. He’d asked why, but found no better answer to that question than he ever had through the years. The one shall be taken and the other left.<
br />
  Far better to be the mourned than the mourner.

  Another twenty minutes of searching led him to that which had brought him here, a stone in a corner near the chapel—small, nondescript, the inscription reading Company Sergeant Major Nicholas Crawford, British Army. And then the line below, Who Dares Wins—the motto of the Special Air Service since its inception. The Regiment. The creed by which Nick had lived his life.

  Harry had half-expected the stone to have born the escutcheon of the SAS, the downward-slashing Excalibur wreathed in flames—but the granite was bare. Perhaps Mehreen had been unable to afford the engraving. That wouldn’t have surprised him, the salary of a civil servant was nothing to boast of.

  Kneeling down in front of the stone, he removed his glove, tracing a hand over the inscription.

  Good men die. Mehreen’s words from the previous night—and there had been none better than Nick. None braver.

  He’d been at home that weekend. For once. A rare moment of peace, of tranquility, in lives marred by war.

  So soon shattered. Nick had kissed his wife goodbye that bright spring morning, headed out the door. Off to work. Taking her car, for once—his own down with engine trouble.

  He’d tossed his kit in the back seat, opened the driver’s door and slid inside. Turned the key in the ignition…and it was all over, in the space of a moment. A blinding flash.

  There had been a bomb in the car, Special Branch confirmed later. Planted there by a previously-unknown splinter group of the Real IRA.

  It had killed him instantly, that much was sure—the shockwave rippling outward from the epicenter of the blast, shattering every window in the small Bromley flat he and Mehreen had called home.

  Dead. Long before she had pulled his broken body from the burning wreckage, her feet cut and bleeding. Tears streaming down her cheeks as she felt frantically for a pulse that wasn’t there.

  No goodbyes.

  “I’m sorry,” he breathed, unsure whether his apology was for past regrets…or what he was about to do, the steel of the Walther cold against his side, beneath his shirt.

  The faiths he was about to betray.

  5:04 P.M.

  The US Embassy

  Grosvenor Square, London

  “Always good to have you visit us, Jules.” Carlos Jimenez smiled, ushering Julian Marsh and his subordinate around the security checkpoints that guarded the Grosvenor Square building from unauthorized access. “Welcome to the United States of America.”

  It was true, strange as it sounded. An embassy was the sovereign soil of its respective nation, an inviolable refuge. Home court advantage.

  “A pleasure to meet you, Mr. Roth,” Thomas greeted, reaching out to shake the black man’s hand. Knowing a man’s name without being introduced, that was one of the benefits of being an intelligence officer.

  Knowing everything about him…was another. Darren Roth was a former Royal Marine warrant officer, part of the elite Special Boat Service and a veteran of both Iraq and Afghanistan, where he had been awarded the Conspicuous Gallantry Cross for his actions in the middle of a Taliban ambush in 2008. He’d left the military for the Security Service three years before, and word had it he was Marsh’s right-hand man.

  Word had it. For the moment, Thomas would content himself with the hard intel at his disposal. All the RUMINT aside, Darren Roth was a very dangerous man. Good thing he was on their side.

  Or something like that.

  “Likewise,” the MI-5 officer replied, a disarming smile crossing his face.

  That wasn’t going to work, Thomas thought, forcing a smile of his own as the CIA station chief turned, leading the way down the corridor toward the elevators.

  They were both old hands at this game.

  6:30 P.M.

  The flat

  Ealing, London

  The door of her flat had been locked when she left. She was always very particular about that…had been even when Nick was still alive.

  It wasn’t something she forgot.

  And yet, as she hung her coat in the small entry hall, she could smell chicken cooking, the aroma of ginger and curry filling her nostrils.

  Nichols was standing by the stove when she came in from the hall, his back to her. Black t-shirt and dark jeans, a not uncommon uniform for him over the years. But he looked thinner now, more fragile, somehow.

  “Didn’t know what to think when I found you gone this morning,” she said, running a hand through her damp hair.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, still not turning to face her—and the apology sounded sincere to her ears. Then again, it would.

  That was Nichols, and he was nothing if not good at dealing with people. It had been his job. “Dinner is almost ready, I picked a few things up at the market.”

  “You didn’t need to do that.”

  He looked back at her for the first time, a tinge of sadness in those blue eyes. “I did.”

  She shrugged. “It smells good, whatever it is. Smells like home.”

  “Murgh handi,” he responded, reaching a finger into the pot to taste his cooking. It was a traditional dish of chicken and spices, mixed together in a handi, a narrow-mouthed cooking vessel used commonly in Pakistani cooking.

  She smiled, pain clouding her eyes as she sat down at the table. Tasting the food with his fingers—it reminded her of Nick.

  The legacy of too many years spent out in the field. Squatting around a goatherd’s fire, nestling deep in a “hide” eating cold MREs with one’s bare hands. Only a rifle for company. The two of them had been so much the same.

  “You spent a lot of time in Pakistan over the years, didn’t you?”

  A nod. “Most of my career was spent in the ‘Stans,” he responded. “The best part was the food. Grew to love it.”

  Past tense. The ‘Stans…Afghanistan, Pakistan, the handful of countries between Russia and the sea, most of them former client states of the Soviet bloc and whose names ended in the Farsi suffix which mean “the place of.” But for her people—there was no place. Not anymore.

  “I went for a walk in the city today,” he said, setting the steaming bowl of meat between them as he took a seat opposite. It was a lie, she was certain of that—almost imperceptible, but she knew him. A lie…or a half-truth? Either way, he was hiding something from her. “Been longer than I thought. It’s changed.”

  “It has. More by the year,” she acknowledged, her lips closing around a piece of the spice-soaked chicken. Chewing it slowly as she watched him. “None of it good.”

  He forced a grim smile. “Change rarely is, these days.”

  “They’re here now,” came her observation, a distant anger entering her eyes. “But you know that, don’t you?”

  “The Islamists?”

  She nodded. “Like parasites, moving on to a new host after the pillaged body of the old has collapsed underneath their weight. At any given time, we’re monitoring up to thirty jihadi operations here in this country. Five of them in London alone, one not eight miles from where we’re sitting.”

  “Are you sure that’s something you should have told me?” he asked quietly.

  There was something in his eyes that nettled her. “No more sure than I was when I chose not to fill out a contact report when I arrived at Thames House this morning.”

  6:41 P.M.

  The US Embassy

  Grosvenor Square, London

  “We’re going to need an officer in the Centre,” Carlos Jimenez said, glancing up from his notes to look down the conference table at the director-general. “A round-the-clock presence, access to the complete operational details of PERSEPHONE as this continues to unfold.”

  “No.” Thomas saw Marsh’s eyes flash, drawing himself up in his seat as he transfixed Jimenez with a patrician glare. “Absolutely not. That’s out of the question.”

  “Now, Jules…” The CIA station chief shook his head, smiling the smile of a man certain he held all the cards. “I happen to know the orders you received from the
Home Office are to offer the Agency your full cooperation. We both know the authorizations on this op go way above my pay grade. And yours.”

  “And I will comply with my orders from the Home Secretary,” came the icy reply. “But cooperation is one thing, giving your people carte blanche to go freewheeling around Thames House is quite another—no. Request denied.”

  Jimenez let out a sigh of exasperation, catching Thomas’s eye as he replied, “I can’t stress enough how seriously you need to take the presence of Tarik Abdul Muhammad in this country, Jules, given his involvement in the planning and execution of the Vegas attacks. If you’re not going to take him down, you need to keep him under constant surveillance—monitor anyone he talks to, anyone he so much as passes on the street. Whether you choose to believe it or not, he poses a clear and present danger to the national security of the UK.”

  “As do many others,” Marsh returned evenly. “The Security Service faces threats on a daily basis, everyone from al-Qaeda to the Islamic State. Which is not to mention the stray Irish dissident and fruitcakes covering the political spectrum from Left to Right.”

  “But this is—”

  “And if the US government,” the director-general went on, raising his voice to cut his CIA counterpart off, “hadn’t decided to play catch-and-release with its Guantanamo detainees, Tarik Abdul Muhammad wouldn’t be one of them. So, no, Mr. Jimenez…laudable as your motivations may be—you don’t get to sit there and lecture me on not taking this seriously.”

  6:43 P.M.

  The flat

  Ealing, London

  “Why didn’t you, Mehr?” Still the same calm, as if the answer was of no consequence, instead of something that would decide his very fate.

  Why? Why hadn’t she? An impossible question to answer. As impossible as the decision between two rights. Two wrongs.

  For turning him in would have been both.

  Her hands balled into fists underneath the table, knuckles whitening as she struggled to maintain control. Or the illusion of it.

  With a rough motion, she pushed away the half-eaten bowl of chicken, suddenly no longer hungry. His very presence bringing back all the memories.