Not a tragedy. A statistic.
The intercom on his desk blinked and he pressed it, swearing softly at himself. He had to focus, had a job to do.
“Yes?”
It was his secretary’s voice. “Director, your meeting with Bernard Kranemeyer is within the hour. Conference Room #3.”
War waited for no man, spared time for no grief. “Thank you, Margaret. I’ll be there.”
1:43 P.M. Greenwich Mean Time
Leeds City Station
England
So close now, Tarik thought, listening to the voice above him ring out, “Leeds City Station.”
A mechanical, empty sound. Like so much of the West—lifeless, godless.
Together they rose from their seats, pushing their way forward. Tarik brushed into a woman in the press of the crowd, elbowing his way toward the opening doors. Through the herd.
He was halfway there when someone going the other way bumped roughly into him—man, woman—he didn’t see their face, didn’t even realize what had happened until they were well past.
Realized that their hand had slipped into the pocket of his windbreaker. Deposited something therein, the weight giving it away. A mobile phone, perhaps? But he hardly dared touch it, his hand beginning to tremble despite himself.
A brush-pass, it was called—or so he thought, a vague memory of a trashy American spy novel he had been given while at Camp X-Ray. He glanced behind him, unable to stop moving in the press, his eyes nervously scanning the crowd. He couldn’t show fear—not in front of Nadeem.
But someone was there.
The next moment, the mobile in his pocket buzzed with an incoming text.
There. Harry saw Tarik’s face in the crowd, moved to close with him, keeping an eye on Mehreen’s position as he did so. The Pakistani’s head was down as he stepped out on the platform, seeming to consult something in his hand. A phone?
You have watchers, the message read. The mosque has been compromised.
A simple, stark message displayed on the screen. How could they…
Tarik’s face came up, once more scanning the crowd flooding out onto the platform—his eyes darting from face to face. He could feel the panic within him and struggled to suppress it. To keep his head.
I seek refuge in Allah from Satan, the Accursed, he breathed, trying and failing to calm himself. Nadeem’s voice in his ear, distant and far away, lost in the noise of the crowd.
His fingers feeling clumsy as wooden stubs as he tapped back, Who are you?
“Something’s wrong,” Mehreen whispered into her earpiece, watching as their subject’s demeanor changed completely, a suddenness like none she had ever seen. “I think he’s on to us…tell me we have following teams in place?”
“We do,” Roth responded calmly. “Webster and Saunders are on the platform with you—another pair of teams outside the station, with Victor elements split between Wellington and Aire Street, covering the public exits. What spooked him?”
“I don’t know.”
Who I am doesn’t matter. There’s a woman to your left, the new message read, the phone pulsing in his hand. Dark skin, dark hair. Forties. She’s with Five.
And he looked back, his eyes resting on the face of someone who could only have been a countrywoman of his.
1:47 P.M.
The surveillance van
There was a burst of static, then the words, “I’ve been made” came over the speakers, punctuated by a curse.
Mehreen Crawford’s voice.
Thomas exchanged glances with the Five analyst. What was going on?
Norris tapped a command into his keyboard, glancing up at the screens surrounding them—streaming CCTV footage of City Station. “Webster, Saunders—move in, move in on the target. We still have eyes. Darren, pick up Crawford and get out of there.”
“Copy that,” came Roth’s response as Norris brought up the screens outside the station, marking the positions of their secondary teams.
Command and control was essential to any surveillance op, and despite Norris’ initial reaction to Crawford’s presence, he seemed to know his stuff.
“Victor One, Victor Two—hold your positions. Sierra elements, do not—I repeat, do not follow closely.” He glanced up to see Parker watching him, waved a weary hand toward the monitors. “If we don’t loosen up this perimeter before he exits, everything is going to go pear-shaped.”
1:49 P.M.
City Station
Something was going wrong with Five’s operation—very wrong, Harry thought, pushing his way through the crowd toward Tarik’s disappearing form. He had seen it in the man’s eyes, watched Mehreen’s body language. This mission was going sideways on them, and it was impossible to say why.
He kept his head down, making out at least one MI-5 surveillance team as he made his way across the platform toward the concourse. They were good, but you learned what to look for over the years.
The signs.
And it was in that moment that he felt someone’s eyes on him. Almost safe.
Nichols? Mehreen froze, Darren’s voice in her earpiece fading away to a faint echo, her eyes fixed on the retreating back of the man she had just seen. The familiar profile of a face. The beard.
It couldn’t be. How could he have known? She glanced up into the eye of a nearby surveillance camera. Would he have dared come here?
“Mehreen,” Darren’s voice repeated. “Can you hear me?”
“Yes—yes. Coming to you.”
The mobile vibrated once more in Tarik’s hand as he moved down the concourse, sultry-eyed women looking down upon him from the walls, sensuous ads for beauty products and leased cars, local hotels and mobile phone plans.
All of it being sold by women. By sex.
They have a man on the escalator with you, the message read, the faceless, voiceless reminder that someone was watching. You’ll need to lose him.
His mind was screaming questions. Who was this? Why were they helping him? Were they helping him—or was it all a mirage, a fantasy designed to manipulate him?
Why? And yet he glanced back, saw the man just starting up behind him—felt the phone pulse again. Turn at the top—follow the corridor to your left. There’s a dead zone there.
And then another message, right on the heels of the one before it. Time for you to part ways with your friend. Baffle the hounds.
Someone was guiding the man, Harry realized suddenly, taking in the way Tarik glanced down at the phone in his hand—then directly back at the MI-5 officer at the foot of the escalator. Someone with access.
He saw Tarik’s hand grasp his companion’s shoulder, hurried words exchanged between the two—a frown crossing the black man’s face. A shake of the head.
He couldn’t hear their words, not over the throbbing roar of the crowd, but he knew what they were saying. Knew he would have to make a choice, knew without hesitation what it would be.
He had to be careful in his pursuit, he thought—visualizing the station’s layout in his mind. The surveillance cameras.
The British officer was halfway up now, no longer standing still on the escalator, but pushing his way up.
By the time the watcher had reached the top, Tarik Abdul Muhammad had disappeared down the corridor, and the black man was hurrying farther along the concourse, nearly lost among the crowd as the officer spoke into a barely visible earpiece, no doubt talking to his superiors.
Harry smiled grimly as the Brit hesitated, then quickened his pace.
A few moments passed, and then he moved down the corridor after Tarik. Primary target.
Darren gave her an odd look as she opened the passenger door of the BMW and slid in. “Are you okay, Mehreen? You look as if you’ve seen a ghost.”
No. She had seen him, she knew she had. But too much was at stake here. Everything, in fact. “I’m fine,” she replied, lying through her teeth. “It’s just been a long time since I was in the field—maybe too long. What’s our status on Tarik?”
1:55 P.M.
The surveillance van
“I don’t see him,” Thomas observed, leaning over Norris’ shoulder to look at the screens. “Just the African—not Tarik.”
It was at that moment that a curse filled his earpiece. From the officer they called Saunders. “I’ve lost him—he must have separated from al-Qawi somewhere in the crowd.”
Norris swore, his eyes flickering over the monitors above him, typing in commands to bring up more coverage. “Stay on al-Qawi, Saunders—he might be our last lead. All teams, our target is in the wind. I say again, our target is in the wind.”
1:59 P.M.
Leeds City Station
There are two more teams waiting for you outside, the message read as Tarik hurried down the concourse past Sainsbury’s toward the Aire Street entrance, moving as quickly as he could without attracting attention. You’ll need to avoid them.
He almost stopped short before a second message pulsed onto the phone’s screen. Take the service door to the right. It’s a dead end—but the second locker has a change of clothing. Do it now.
9:02 A.M. Eastern Time
CIA Headquarters
Langley, Virginia
“Gentlemen, what do you have for me?” Kranemeyer looked up to see David Lay enter the conference room, shutting the door behind him. Out beyond the soundproofed glass, they could see the nerve center of the Clandestine Service, the banks of screens lining the walls. Analysts hurrying by, folders in their hands.
“Good afternoon, David,” Kranemeyer greeted, leaning over to grip the DCIA’s hand. “Thanks for coming down.”
Lay had lost weight during his leave of absence from the Agency, he thought leaving the man looking ten years older. Gaunt and weary.
“This about the Korsakov transfers?” Lay asked, glancing pointedly down the conference table at Ron Carter.
“It is,” Kranemeyer replied. “We’ve traced the recipient of at least some of the funds. I asked Ron to step in and bring us up to speed. Ron?”
Taking a remote off the table, the analyst rose as Lay took his seat. “It took us most of the day just to get past the anonymizer they were using, but we finally traced the transaction itself to a user IP in West Sussex, the United Kingdom. As for the recipient, well part of the money ended up in Singapore. In an account under the name of Sean Blackburn.”
He gave the men a look as if he expected to see recognition in their faces. None. “Blackburn was a known alias,” he continued, aiming his remote at the TV screen on the wall, “for this man. Stephen Flaharty, former UK citizen. Current—or at least as of last intelligence—arms dealer. Former terrorist, went independent after the Provos decommissioned in ’05. By that time, we had recruited him.”
“He’s one of ours?” Lay asked, looking at the picture displayed on-screen.
“Was,” Kranemeyer interjected quietly. “Continue, Ron.”
Carter looked from one director to the other. “Right. Well, as has been stated, Flaharty was an on-again, off-again CIA asset from ’03 to ’12, when a covert team from the Special Activities Division intercepted an arms shipment that was destined for Malian rebels. We realized a bit late—late as in, after the convoy was smoldering wreckage—that the weapons had belonged to Flaharty. He wasn’t amused. Made contact, demanded that we compensate him for his losses.”
Lay nodded, realization spreading across his face. “Of course, I remember that affair now. Didn’t we give him the brush-off?”
“Indeed—and the administration needed new underwear when they found we’d been running a former terrorist as an agent,” Carter chuckled. “Instructed us to sever all ties, which was relatively easy to do, considering that Flaharty took off for parts unknown the minute he realized he wasn’t getting his money. Hadn’t crossed our radar since.”
“Until now,” the DCIA observed. “And you’re suggesting that someone familiar with our protocols may be responsible for this funds transfer to Flaharty. Perhaps trying to reactivate him?”
Carter nodded, glancing over to meet Kranemeyer’s eyes. An unspoken message passing between them. “That’s exactly what I’m suggesting—the amounts are too exact to be coincidental. Someone was trying to fly under the radar, and they would have done it too if that one account hadn’t been flagged. As for someone trying to ‘reactivate’ him…you pay me to analyze, not speculate. I can’t say, the data just isn’t there.”
Lay nodded, seeming content with the answer—his gaze still focused on Flaharty’s picture. When he spoke, his question took both men by surprise. “Who led the SAD strike team into Mali?”
The analyst paused a half-second too long before recovering. “I don’t know, sir—I’d have to find out.”
“Please do.”
2:05 P.M. Greenwich Mean Time
Leeds City Station
Leeds, England
Someone was moving heaven and earth to get Tarik away from his minders, that much was clear, Harry thought—watching as the Pakistani came back out the service door, a black hoodie jacket pulled over his head.
Access. Planning. Timing. They had known Tarik was coming, known he would be followed, known how to get him out.
And judging by the look on his face…he hadn’t been read in on the program. Which meant they weren’t part of the group he had come to Leeds to meet.
You had to have training to pull something off like this. The type of training most people only found two places in life: the military and the intelligence community.
Which meant what, exactly?
He didn’t have the answer to that question, so he just stayed behind his target as Tarik headed out through the doors, out onto Aire Street—right past an unarmed bobby at the door.
No surprise. Judging by the way Five was running this op, they wouldn’t have read in local Special Branch—let alone the beat cops.
A sound call, but it was in this type of situation that “sound calls” came back to bite you and you had to learn to adjust, make up new rules as you went.
It was something at which bureaucracies did not excel.
There’s a black Ford across the street, fifteen meters in front of you, the messages read. A driver waiting for you. He will get you out of there.
Somewhere, they were still watching him, Tarik thought—glancing about him as he prepared to cross the street. Wishing that he hadn’t sent Nadeem away, sent him to make contact with Rahman at the masjid.
But it would not end here, not this day. He reached the side of the car, saw the man behind the wheel—whispering a quiet prayer as he reached for the handle of the door.
In the end it was too open, he was too exposed, Harry thought—measuring the distance between himself and Tarik as the terrorist disappeared into the interior of the Ford. The passenger door—someone had sent a driver to pick up the Pakistani. Another place, another time, his solution would have been simple. Break into another car, hotwire the engine—take up pursuit.
But an open street, filled with pedestrians. A police presence. Cameras.
He just stood there, bile rising in his throat as the door closed, the car shifting into motion, a flash of the license plate before it swung out into traffic. Alpha. Echo. Zero. Five. Romeo. Yankee. Whiskey.
And then he saw it, half-hidden between a pair of cars—a dark gray Kawasaki, a helmet hung loosely over the handlebars.
Quickening his pace, he moved across the street toward the motorcycle, never looking back. His walk brisk, confident. You had to look like you belonged, that was the key to remaining undetected. Always.
The Ford was nearly out of sight as he swung a leg over the Kawasaki’s saddle, reaching down—fingers searching for the ignition cap.
There…
2:18 P.M.
“I want to know how he made me,” Mehreen demanded, looking out at the passing traffic. The reports from the station had only gotten worse by the moment.
No sign of Tarik, and with their asse
ts flailing to find him, Saunders had been left on his own to tail al-Qawi. Lost track of him in the crowd—surveillance wasn’t a one-man operation. Never had been.
“It happens, Mehreen.” Darren’s face wasn’t giving anything away as the former Royal Marine turned the car down a side street, accelerating as he did so. “You might have slipped up, revealed some tell—even just stared at him too long.”
Her eyes flashed as she turned in her seat, looking back across at him. “I know what I’m doing. I worked Belfast, remember?”
“Belfast was a long time ago. We all change.” There was no accusation in his tone, just the neutral statement. “I shouldn’t have asked that of you, thrown you back out there—not without the time to prepare.”
“I was fine, Darren,” she snapped, swearing in frustration. “I would be the first to know if I couldn’t do this anymore. And I would be the first to say it.”
He didn’t respond, not directly, but she could sense the skepticism, lingering there just beneath the surface. “We’ll be at the van in just a few more minutes, can have Norris roll the footage then. It’s going to be a long night.”
2:59 P.M.
North of Leeds
The driver hadn’t said more than five sentences since they had pulled away from the station, Tarik thought, glancing across at the man once again.
He had to be in his late thirties, an almost military bearing to the way he sat there ramrod-straight, his eyes constantly darting to the mirror to check their rear. An Englishman…there was no question of it.
“Why?” That had been his first question upon getting in the car, facing his driver for the first time. “Why should I go with you?”
There had been a long pause before the man responded, not a trace of emotion on his face. “We can deliver you to Five as easily as we got you away from them.”
It was a hard statement to challenge. Tarik took a deep breath, calm washing over him as the car rolled north. There was no changing the will of God, immutable as it had been from the foundations of the earth.
What will be—will be…
3:09 P.M.
Wind swept past his head as Harry leaned into a curve, guiding the Kawasaki up the road, the 118-horsepower engine throbbing beneath him. It was a powerful bike, he would give it that much. Powerful enough to have overtaken the dark Ford, had that been his objective.
Embrace the Fire (Shadow Warriors Book 3) Page 11