Flaharty had turned arms dealer, a career choice which had brought him across the path of the Agency. More than once.
“It was part of the bleedin’ deal,” Flaharty announced sharply, throwing back the lid of the gun case to reveal an Accuracy International L115A3, the thick barrel of the sniper rifle gleaming in the light. “I turned tout, and you sods stayed out of my business affairs.”
Tout. An informant, in the British parlance. And that’s exactly what Flaharty had been, in his last few years with the Provos—and since. An Agency asset.
Harry shrugged, lowering his voice. Only too aware of how risky this conversation was. For both of them. “In fairness, Stephen, we didn’t know it was you.”
And as odd as it sounded, he thought—it was the truth. Or at least he hadn’t. God only knew what Langley had known.
His own first clue that Flaharty was involved had come when he’d found himself staring down the sights of his Barrett REC-7 at the Irishman, oily smoke billowing up into the Malian sky, small-arms fire crackling through the early morning dawn.
Harry’s team had been in-country in covert support of the Touré government, tasked with destroying a convoy of weapons on their way to Anṣār ad-Dīn.
Flaharty’s weapons, as it turned out. Unfortunate.
“But that’s the past,” Flaharty announced, smiling as he gestured toward the rifle. “And business is business. Everything, just as you requested. I have…‘contacts’ at Brecon.”
The British Army sniper school. Harry lifted the rifle from the case, wondering for a moment how someone on active duty could have been persuaded to have dealings with a former Irish terrorist.
An irrelevant question in all likelihood—Flaharty might as easily be working through a cut-out. He hefted the big rifle in his hands, feeling the weight. Nearly fifteen pounds, unloaded.
“You were able to secure the ammunition I asked for?”
Flaharty nodded, reaching into a compartment of the case to extract a box labeled 8.59mm. “Just a single box—twenty rounds. Pick your targets wisely, boyo.”
“Always do,” Harry replied, working the bolt, his hand sliding along the receiver. It was a good weapon, more than sufficient for his purpose. The hardest part would be working without a spotter, but he’d done so more than once before. No reason he couldn’t do it again. “The scope is zeroed in?”
“It holds zero at five hundred yards, as you specified. And I’m telling you, finding a place to test it was a pain in the arse.”
“I’m sure you managed. And as for the other two?”
“I have them,” Flaharty acknowledged, motioning for one of his men to bring forward the final two weapons cases, setting them on the table between them. “And also the vehicle you asked me to procure. But first, I need to see my money in my accounts.”
All business. That was the Irishman. Always had been. There were times when Harry wondered how he had become swept up with the Provos. Revolutions didn’t tend to attract pragmatists.
“Of course,” Harry nodded, moving his hands slowly to open his jacket, feeling Flaharty’s eyes on him as he did so. No sudden movements.
It was to be the moment of truth, he thought, his fingers closing around the small USB thumb drive in the inner pocket of his jacket. Remembering where he had obtained it, remembering like it was yesterday that night out in the California oilfield. A night which had nearly borne witness to his death—looking down the muzzle of an assassin’s pistol.
Sergei Ivanovich Korsakov.
He remembered pulling the drive off the corpse of a young man in Korsakov’s employ—not knowing in that moment what it contained. Or how important it would become.
Routing information, access codes for over ten offshore bank accounts. Enough money to finance a small war.
He looked up to see the Irishman regarding him with a keen glance, the sharpness of the man’s eyes hidden not at all by the glasses. As if he could read Harry’s thoughts. No matter.
There was nothing but darkness to be read there. “All I need is a secure connection—you’ll be able to verify the transfer within the hour.”
10:25 P.M.
A pub
London, England
“I can’t even look at her now,” Paul Gordon whispered, raising the pint to his lips. It was the third time he’d said it, but the alcohol was finally numbing the pain, and he was losing track. “What sort of tosser am I? Alice needs me more than she’s ever needed me, and I can’t stand the sight of her. She was such a beautiful kid…”
His voice trailed off. “Those animals.”
He replaced the pint on the tabletop, his hand clenching into a fist as he looked across the booth into the eyes of his friend. Anger welling up within him. He shook his head. “This is the first time I’ve left the hospital since my mobile rang with the news. I rode the bus here—saw one of them get on. And I swear to you, Conor…I wanted nothing more than to rip that smirking Paki out of his seat and beat him till I saw the color of his brains.”
His friend nodded, draining his own beer and setting it back down near Paul’s. “You can’t be goin’ off and doing that, mate. You know that.”
He smiled sadly back at the man across from him. Conor Hale. They’d served together in Iraq, both of them Paras in that time, before everything that followed. A year before they’d both taken a shot at selection for the Regiment. The Special Air Service.
“And why can’t I?” he asked, more of himself than Hale. It had been hot out on the Beacons that summer, hot beyond reason. They’d made it through the first few days together—the cross-country marches growing in distance with each day. Farther, faster. Rifle in your hand and a full Bergen on your back.
“You don’t understand, mate,” Paul whispered, aware that the liquor was affecting him, his words slurring slightly. “Lost my job five months ago—been staying with her. And now…I don’t have anything left to lose.”
Lose. He’d made it, day after day.
Until they came to the Fan Dance—a brutal quick march up the Welsh mountain of Pen y Fan. He’d passed out halfway to the top from heat exhaustion.
To this very day, he could never remember breaking ranks. Just the sensation of lying there on his back, a medic leaning over him. The knowledge that he’d failed.
He’d been RTU’d two days later. Returned to unit. A failure.
And Hale had won where he had lost, going on to become an SAS sergeant. Decorated for bravery in Afghanistan. A sodding hero. Across the table from him, his old comrade shook his head. “Stuff and nonsense, mate. You have Alice, and she needs you now more than ever. Even if she doesn’t realize it. She doesn’t need you in prison. Besides, do you think beating up one wog is really going to accomplish anything?”
All he could see was her face, the way it had looked when they’d asked him to identify her—all eaten away with the acid, the wreckage of beauty. “Maybe not…maybe they’d go back to where they came from. Where their kind belongs. Maybe. I just don’t know anymore, mate. You have any ruddy better ideas?”
There was no answer, just a long searching look across the table, the stare piercing his consciousness as he slowly realized Hale was nowhere near as drunk as he was.
It was nearly midnight, the clock in one corner of the pub striking the quarter hour—a sound barely audible over the sound of the soccer match on the telly over the bar. Arsenal was winning.
The former SAS sergeant leaned back in the booth, nursing the last of his beer. He was alone now, having called a cab for his friend an hour before.
Paul Gordon had been a good man, Hale thought, looking down at the mobile in his hand, the number displayed on his screen. One of the best.
The type of man they could use.
After a moment’s further reflection, he leaned forward, bringing the phone to his ear as he pressed SEND.
“This is Hale,” he said when a voice answered on the other end. “I think we have a new recruit…”
Chapter 4
>
2:03 A.M., March 25th
West Sussex
England
A23 North, the sign above the roadway read, the lights of the Vauxhall Cavalier striking it as the sedan sped underneath the overpass—the needle of the speedometer pegged just below the speed limit.
No sense in calling attention to oneself, Harry thought—checking his mirrors once again. Not with the weapons he had concealed under a tarpaulin in the boot of the car—the Sig-Sauer P228 in a holster inside his waistband, his jacket concealing the compact 9mm semiautomatic.
He’d been blindfolded again after his transaction with Flaharty was complete, driven around for a few more hours until they’d finally stopped by the side of the road—taken him out and handed him the keys to the old Vauxhall.
The former terrorist was obsessed with his security, and with good reason, considering what he had done for the CIA. Many of his old comrades had found themselves lying face-down in a ditch for less.
“You’re no longer working for the Agency…are you?” Flaharty had asked as they sat there in the old stone farmhouse, waiting for the transactions to process.
“Why?”
“The way you’re moving this money around—the multiple accounts, the small amounts with each transfer. Scrubbing it clean. It’s not the way you’d do it if you were still on the inside.”
The Irishman had laughed. “Your bean-counters all but want a bloody receipt for their money. You can’t fight a war like that, but that’s something they’ll never learn. No, Harry, you’re out in the cold. Just like me. Working your own angles now.”
“No comment.” But that was, in itself, a comment—and they both knew it.
The Accuracy International in the boot of the Vauxhall was a cousin of the rifle that Tarik Abdul Muhammad had used in Vegas. The weapon he had used to kill…
No. His fist slammed into the car’s steering wheel, narrowly missing the horn as he pulled into the other lane, accelerating to pass the car in front. He couldn’t allow himself to think about that. Not now. Focus.
The phone in his pocket rang in that instant, startling him from his thoughts. Unknown number.
“Yes?” he answered cautiously, cold air streaming in past his face as the Vauxhall’s window lowered. A single moment, and he could throw the phone out into the traffic—lose whomever might be tracking him.
It was Mehreen’s voice that replied.
Danger. “How did you get this number?” he asked, cradling the cellphone between his ear and shoulder as he continued to drive.
“There’s always a way, Harry. You know that.” There was a pause, as if she herself was uncertain what to say. Then, “We need to meet.”
11:17 P.M. Eastern Time
National Clandestine Service Operations Center
Langley, Virginia
“Sir, we’re just getting the feeds in from Bravo Team,” a man announced, coming up to Daniel Lasker as he stood in the nerve center of the Clandestine Service. Sir.
The twenty-eight-year-old Lasker still wasn’t used to being addressed that way, but he was the watch officer for the night, and the protocol applied. He turned as the man went on, “They just landed in Cairo and Nakamura is liaising with the Mukhabarat.”
The decision to turn Bravo Team right back around and dispatch them to Egypt scarcely hours after their return from Europe had been a difficult one. But snatching Umar ibn Hassan was an opportunity they couldn’t afford to pass up—and Nakamura’s people could be wheels-up faster than anyone else. “What’s their ETA on the target, Ethan?”
“It’s nearly dawn there,” the intelligence officer replied. “Egyptian special forces are providing transport out into the Sinai and will be coordinating on the assault. The plan is to move into position after nightfall—spend a couple days surveilling the compound along with the Egyptians, then take it down if the intel on Umar ibn Hassan appears solid.”
Good, the watch officer thought, acknowledging the information with a nod as he turned back toward his desk. Past time they were putting him out of commission. It was only a moment later that he realized the man was still standing there. “Was there something else?”
“Yes,” came the reply as the man handed him a thin folder. “This is unconnected to the ongoing op, but we got this from the boys at Fort Meade. It hit their radar a couple hours ago and they thought it needed to be kicked up the stairs.”
Lasker opened the folder, his eyes narrowing as he scanned down the sheet—his gaze falling upon a familiar name at the bottom. So familiar. “Is this credible?”
“That’s the word.”
He looked at the name again as if to assure himself that it was there. “Holy crap…”
6:24 A.M. Greenwich Mean Time
Regent’s Park
London, England
The sun was just beginning to creep over the horizon by the time Harry walked out across the grass of the park past the deserted bandstand—his eyes searching the twilight for any sign of danger. For any indication that she had brought Five with her.
He’d stowed the car in long-term parking near Heathrow, leaving behind everything except the Sig-Sauer and two loaded magazines. One of them went into the butt of the gun, the other into the inner pocket of his jacket. Ready for use.
No overt signs of surveillance in the hour he had already spent in the park…just watching her.
Didn’t mean there wasn’t any. The Security Service had the manpower. His phone beeped, the message on the screen blinking “Bluetooth Accessed.” He looked at it briefly and returned it to the pocket of his jacket.
Insurance.
Mehreen was standing near the boating lake, the hood of her jacket pushed back to reveal her long dark hair—her hands resting on the iron fencing that surrounded the lake as she looked out over the water. Water glistening in the light of the dawn.
Pigeons scattered along the footpath as he approached, taking flight, the drumming of their wings breaking the early morning stillness.
She glanced up at the sound, just looking at him. Not saying a word.
The early rays of sun warmed the back of his head as he took his place beside her at the fence. “Out beyond all concept of wrongdoing or rightdoing,” he whispered, “there is a field. And there will I meet you.”
The faintest of smiles touched her lips as he quoted the words of the Sufi mystic. “You know your Rumi.”
“A wise man. Tell me, Mehr—what are we doing here this morning?”
“Nick loved this place,” she said finally. “He brought me here when we were first going together—had a picnic and heard the Royal Green Jackets perform, just over there. Came back so many times.”
That would have been Nick, Harry thought. He’d been a big-hearted, passionate man. Loved a good fight, a good soccer game. A good brass band.
In no particular order.
“Yeah,” he said, smiling at the memory. “He had a bootleg CD of them in Afghanistan. Would play it over and over and over again, drove everyone in the FOB crazy.”
“I still have it,” she chuckled, a light shining briefly from her eyes. The smile faded from her face as she turned to him. “I secured the dead-ground map, Harry. Including the OSIRIS file.”
But there was something in her voice…he looked down into her dark eyes, trying to read what was written in their depths. “What is it, Mehr?”
A pause. “Giving you this, it could be the end of everything I’ve worked for. It—”
“No one ever needs to know it came from you,” he said, taking a step closer to her. “I’ve been discreet, you know that.”
“Let me finish,” she responded, putting up a hand. “None of that matters—but if I’m going to do this, I need something from you. I need you to tell me the truth…for once in your life.”
“Of course.” The assurance came quickly to his lips, automatically—even though he knew he had no intention of doing anything of the sort.
She reached forward, her hand covering his as it rest
ed on the iron of the fence. “Tell me, Harry—who is Carol?”
6:30 A.M.
The May Fair Hotel
Central London
“He’s on the move again,” one of the female CIA officers announced as Thomas Parker stepped into the expansive hotel suite they had transformed into a makeshift communications center, still barefoot. A housecoat wrapped around his body.
There was only so much information they could access outside of a designated Sensitive Compartmented Information Facility—or SCIF, as it was called in community parlance—but it enabled them to stay abreast of PERSEPHONE on a minute-by-minute basis when necessary.
“Roth’s people are on him?” he asked, pulling the belt of the housecoat tight as he crossed the room to stand behind the middle-aged woman, a veteran of the Agency’s Intelligence Directorate.
She nodded, headphones covering her ears. “He’s entering the Elephant & Castle tube station as we speak—they’ll be going off comms in three.”
The realities of working in the London Underground, Thomas thought, glancing toward the window—the curtains pulled, blocking out the early morning city lights. Go far enough down, and none of your communications equipment was going to work.
“Wait,” she exclaimed suddenly, grabbing his attention as she held up a finger. “He’s ditched the tracker. Dumped the poker chip into a litter bin just before descending the escalator into the station itself.”
Thomas grimaced. Two days. Ah, well—they had known it couldn’t last forever. But it had accomplished what they needed of it. “Good work, Jan,” he said, turning away. “Let me know the moment Five makes contact again.”
6:32 A.M.
Regent’s Park
It was hard to know where to begin…how to sum up the focus of one’s hopes and dreams in a few words. Paradise lost.
“How did you know?”
Mehreen paused, looking out over the water, smooth as a mirror in the dawn. “I heard you, last night. Calling out for her in your dream. And somehow I think that whoever she is—she’s involved in this.”
Embrace the Fire (Shadow Warriors Book 3) Page 7