Embrace the Fire (Shadow Warriors Book 3)

by Stephen England

“Five?” Flaharty demanded, his eyes flashing. “What have you bloody told them?”

  “About you, Stephen? Not a thing.” Harry shook his head. “But this can be to our advantage. I can call in a favor. Let me set up a meet, tell her about the weapons shipment—not its provenance, but its location. Special Branch sweeps in, seizes the shipment and arrests Hale’s men. You have your revenge, I still have my trackers—and we’re all in the clear.”

  9:01 A.M.

  “Look, Paul, I don’t know what to tell you,” Conor Hale responded, staring out the windows of the Vauxhall, toward the footbridge. “It must have been a dud—these things happen, mate. You know that.”

  And that was a lie, as he knew all too well. He heard Gordon swear in frustration on the other end of the line, knew that he couldn’t take him into his confidence. Not on this.

  Not yet.

  “We lost another three last night, Conor,” came the bitter rejoinder. “Good men—what are we going to do about that?”

  It had been hard to read their names in the paper that morning, even though he had known what was coming. What was…necessary. For the greater good.

  “I’ll do what I can to check on the project after work tonight,” Hale replied, choosing his words carefully to avoid any keywords that might trigger the listening ears of GCHQ. “Our debt will be paid in full.”

  They were always listening.

  From where he sat, he saw Colville’s form emerge onto the stairs leading up from the footbridge to the street. On his way back. “I need to go, Paul. Stay with your sister and get some rest. I’ll let you know if I need you.”

  He saw the look on the publisher’s face as he covered the ground between the bridge and the car in quick, purposeful strides. The look of a tempest.

  There was silence between the two men as Colville slid in onto the passenger seat of the Vauxhall, leaning back against the smooth leather.

  “Is Five going to be a problem?” Hale asked finally, turning the key in the ignition.

  He could still remember their first meeting, over a year earlier—the first opening steps of the mating dance known as recruitment. He had known even then the reality of where it would lead—the risks that they would have to take.

  Sometimes he wondered if Colville had.

  “No,” the publisher replied after a moment’s pause. “Not in time. Is everything on schedule?”

  “It is.” The former sergeant glanced at his watch. “Less than three hours now.”

  9:48 A.M.

  Thames House

  “So what you’re telling me is that we really have nothing more than we did before the shooting?” Marsh demanded, leaning back in his chair as he cast a baleful glance around at his team.

  “Essentially,” MacCallum replied grimly from his seat at the end of the conference table. “There is no known connection between Muzhir bin Abdullah and Javeed Mousa. Nothing we can find to tie the two men together.”

  “Other than Tarik Abdul Muhammad,” Norris interjected.

  “Yes,” the section chief replied. He looked haggard, his eyes ringed with darkness. “Other than Tarik Abdul Muhammad. They know how to compartmentalize their operation. Mehreen?”

  She glanced up to find both MacCallum and the DG looking at her. “We’re still trying to get an ID on Muzhir’s companions—it has proved problematic.”

  Even Muzhir had been challenging to identify—his face disfigured almost beyond recognition.

  As near as London Metropolitan had been able to piece together from witness statements, he’d only fired the revolver twice—had been trying to get off a third shot when the wounded corporal had tackled him, forcing him to the ground and bashing his head repeated against the stone of the street until his skull cracked from the impact.

  “Metro is saying they may have been illegals, in which case they’re not going to be in our systems.” Her mobile buzzed in her pocket with an incoming text, momentarily breaking her train of thought. “I…sent the faces to Interpol two hours ago.”

  Norris seemed to examine his notes before glancing over at MacCallum. “Is it possible that any of the other three numbers called by Tarik Abdul Muhammad belonged to the men with Muzhir?”

  “We should be so blessed,” the section chief intoned, shaking his head wearily. “Anything is possible, but I consider it unlikely. Certainly nothing we can count ourselves assured of. No, the odds are that three more cells have been activated.”

  Marsh swore softly under his breath. “Then it’s time we were about our business. Let’s get back to work—find me what you can.”

  It was hard to escape the sense of impending doom that hung over the building as Mehreen made her way back from the conference room into the Centre. The feeling that their defenses were being probed, that the two attacks were just the beginning. Of something much, much larger. They were too small, too insignificant to be anything else.

  And Aydin was mixed up in all of it, as the information on his hard drive had proved all too thoroughly. How seemed almost irrelevant now after reading his blog posts about Syria. About Afghanistan. About jihad…

  She reached into the pocket of her jeans to retrieve the phone just as she reached her workstation, running her thumb over the touchscreen to reveal the message. MUST PASS ALONG INTEL. MEET ME AT THE OLD PLACE. 1130 HOURS.

  It was Nichols…the old place. Regent’s Park. It had to be.

  “Mehreen.” She covered the phone quickly with her hand, looking up to see MacCallum standing there in front of the desk. “Were you able to learn anything from your source?”

  “My source?” she asked, regretting the words the moment they escaped her mouth. A night without sleep.

  “Roth said you went out last night to talk with a source there in Leeds—one of your contacts from your time in the city, I believe?”

  Mehreen nodded, recovering herself with an effort. “I did, but he knew nothing of value. It was a wasted evening.”

  “It happens,” MacCallum replied, a note of understanding in his tone. They both knew how the intelligence game worked—sources came up dry more often that not.

  Except this time, she thought, looking away as if he could read the truth in her eyes. She was lying.

  “We’re missing something here,” the section chief added after a moment. “I want you to focus on Ismail Besimi—work on background, any anomalies you can find. Any gaps. The quizmasters aren’t getting anywhere with him.”

  Because he’s innocent, she wanted to say, but didn’t. Objectivity was the watchword of any analyst. And after the previous night, she no longer considered anything certain.

  “Of course,” she replied instead, running a hand over her forehead. “I’ll let you know what I find.”

  And then he was gone, winding his way among the workstations—calling out to another analyst as he went.

  Somewhere, somehow, they needed a lead. Anything. She glanced again at the message, reading Nichols’ words once more as she began to type a reply.

  5:46 A.M. Eastern Standard Time

  The White House

  Washington, D.C.

  “Director Lay,” the President greeted, rounding the edge of the Resolute desk and extending his hand. A tall, wiry man with sandy hair and green eyes set deep within his face, Norton’s athletic build served as a reminder to Lay of what he saw as a disturbing trend…American presidents seemed to be getting steadily younger.

  Or perhaps he was just getting old. Richard Norton was fifteen years Lay’s junior, making the age gap between President and DCIA even more pronounced than when Hancock had taken office.

  And he knew all too well how that had turned out, a disaster that even he could never have envisioned. Blood and fire…

  Never had a President posed such a danger to the American intelligence community as Roger Hancock, Lay thought, handing over the folder containing the daily brief.

  Unless it was the man that now occupied the office.

  “I had hoped that Lawrence would b
e able to join us this week,” the President said, gesturing for Lay to take a seat, “but I understand that he’s still under the weather.”

  Indeed, Lay grimaced. The Director of National Intelligence, Lawrence Bell, was a hold-over from the Hancock administration—a good man who had found himself in the wrong place at the wrong time. And now in poor health.

  The rumors were cancer, but it wasn’t his place to pass along rumors to the President. Reality was hard enough to digest.

  He suppressed a heavy sigh as he sank back into one of the chairs opposite the desk, eyeing Norton carefully as the President opened the folder, signaling his willingness to begin the morning’s briefing.

  Remembering his speech to the American people, the promises he had made. Transparency…the god to which all bureaucracies paid token obeisance.

  Except this man meant it—and somehow, that was even more frightening.

  10:43 A.M. Greenwich Mean Time

  Thames House

  London, England

  “I understand, I don’t need what was sent over with the hourly reports—I need the raw data.” Mehreen paused, listening to the man on the other end of the line for a moment before adding, “All of it.”

  Mehreen ran a hand over her forehead as she replaced the phone in its cradle, glancing around the operations centre. She’d already been over the hourlies in question twice since her arrival earlier in the morning, and something wasn’t adding up.

  The evidence against Ismail Besimi hadn’t originated at Thames House, but with GCHQ’s analysts at their headquarters in Cheltenham—drawing from thousands of message intercepts during the operational window during which they had lost Tarik Abdul Muhammad.

  They had been able to trace the sent messages to Besimi’s personal cellphone—an incredible lapse in operational security, if indeed that’s what it had been. No evidence of the use of encryption the like of which had characterized jihadi comms ever since the first development of Asrar al-Mujahideen encryption software back in 2007.

  The mistakes of an amateur, she thought—the imam’s face appearing in her mind’s eye—the look in his eyes when she had first approached him about working for Five.

  No…all those years he had spent undercover, either working for the Security Service or the terrorists. Whatever else he was, Besimi was no amateur.

  11:03 A.M.

  Leeds Central Police Station

  Park Street, Leeds

  The loud, seemingly endless wail of the sirens had been replaced by silence now, ever since his interrogators had left…the previous day, was it?

  There was no longer night or day for Ismail Besimi, the fluorescent lights shining down relentlessly overhead, keeping him from sleep. He eyed the nearly empty water bottle at the edge of the table through tired, bloodshot eyes, only too aware that what was left would have to last until they returned, whenever that was.

  The door flew open suddenly, the British officer from the day before appearing in the opening.

  The man crossed the distance between door and table with slow, deliberate steps. Fire flashed in his eyes, gazing at Besimi as he leaned forward, knuckles pressed against the table.

  “You heard my proposition. Have you had enough time to think it through, Mr. Besimi?”

  He’d had nothing but time, Besimi thought, meeting the younger man’s gaze. And it didn’t change anything. “Everything I know about Hashim Rahman and potential terrorist activities in Leeds,” he began slowly, “I have reported to my handler as per Security Service protocols. As I was trained. If I had more information, why would I not give it to you? I was never his confidant.”

  The interrogator seemed not to have heard him as he circled around the table, drawing a picture from the inside of his suit jacket and throwing it onto the table before Besimi. The face that stared back was young, looking grimly into the camera as if alive to the danger he faced. Alive. “Colour Sergeant Michael Galloway, British Army. Awarded the Military Cross for gallantry during action in the Helmand Province in 2006, during which action he lost his right leg. Killed last night outside a London nightclub by one of your people. A man activated by Tarik Abdul Muhammad.”

  “As God is my witness, I do not know this man you speak of.”

  Another photo landed on the table, another face staring up at him as the interrogator continued, “Corporal Anthony Dunne, British Army. Four tours in Afghanistan. Killed last night…”

  11:06 A.M. Greenwich Mean Time

  The mosque

  London, England

  The protestors were already outside, Ibrahim Khattam observed, glancing from the window of his office. After the attacks, after the violence in Birmingham the previous day, he had been expecting them…the blood-red cross of St. George prominently displayed on white armbands sprinkled throughout the gathering crowd.

  He turned, running a hand through his dark hair as he adjusted his kufi, his only concession to traditional dress. They were in England after all, the country of his birth—not Pakistan.

  Too many of his fellow Muslims forgot that. And too many of their countrymen, he thought, taking another look out the window—were all too ready to remind them.

  He reached over to one side of his desk, picking up the tasbih from where it laid atop his leather-bound copy of the Qur’an. Running the prayer beads through his fingers, each of them representing one of the hundred names of God. Whispering a prayer. For surely they would be protected through this time.

  And in the basement, the bomb’s internal timer continued to tick down. Fifty-one minutes…

  11:13 A.M.

  The 274 Bus

  London

  There had been a day when he would have given up his seat to the British woman standing three feet to his left—shifting from one foot to another as she held onto the pole at the edge of one of the seats, very obviously pregnant and far along.

  It was the way he had been raised, so long ago.

  Now…Harry stayed in his seat, head down, eyes apparently fixed on the blank screen of his phone, cap pulled low over his forehead to avoid the security cameras he knew would be near the bus stop.

  How many pieces of himself had he lost through the years, he wondered, glancing briefly out the window of the double-decker bus as it slowed, approaching Regent’s Park. Moving from one cover to the next, assuming new identities—altering himself to match them, until the man he had once been was nearly lost in the metamorphosis.

  I am made all things unto all men, came the verse of Scripture to his mind, something obscene about the thought.

  Indeed.

  The bus came to a stop and Harry rose, pushing past the woman as he made his way down the steps, hands shoved into the pockets of his jacket. It was nearly time.

  11:27 A.M.

  The Colville estate

  The Midlands

  To be this close. It was a strange feeling, somewhere between fear and anticipation.

  An intensely physical thrill, Colville thought—staring out the window of his den out over the spring green fields. It had to be something like the sensation of going into combat for the first time, or so he imagined, glancing down to realize that his fingers were trembling.

  He walked back to the desk, pouring himself a snifter of brandy. It was early in the day, but this was no ordinary day.

  “Sir,” came Hale’s voice from the door, Colville smiling at the military choice of words. Then again, perhaps it was appropriate—considering the war upon which they had embarked.

  “Yes?” he asked, turning to face his subordinate, glass in hand. “What’s our status?”

  It was the closest he had ever seen the former sergeant come to a smile. “I just got off the phone with Lucas,” he replied, gesturing to the mobile in his hand. “They’re outside the mosque, with a larger crowd gathering by the moment.”

  “And the media?”

  “Sky News has a van on-site, interviewing BDC activists and streaming live coverage of the protest on their website.”


  It couldn’t have been more perfect. The publisher poured two fingers of brandy into a second glass, passing it over to Hale as he raised his own. “To England.”

  “To England.”

  11:38 A.M.

  Regent’s Park

  London

  He was late, Mehreen thought, glancing briefly at the screen of her phone as she leaned back against the wrought iron of the park bench. Or perhaps he wasn’t coming.

  And she couldn’t wait forever.

  Perhaps he was out there even now, she thought, raising her eyes to scan the park. Out there weighing his decision to come in.

  Nothing. Just a few joggers, the usual crush of people in the park heavily reduced by the attacks, the resultant unrest.

  She wouldn’t see him, though—she knew that. Nichols was far too careful, always had been.

  But what if he wasn’t coming? She swore under her breath, knowing it was all too possible. This meet was so very risky for both of them now, with London on high alert.

  And if he didn’t show…if she failed to persuade him—where did that leave her with Aydin?

  It was a question she knew the answer to. The only answer.

  If she couldn’t find a way to extricate her nephew from the situation he had created for himself, she would be left with no choice but to report his activities to the authorities. To inform on her own flesh and blood.

  It was a decision she had demanded of others countless times while running assets over the years—from Northern Ireland to Leeds.

  Somehow it looked so…different, now that she found herself staring it in the face.

  Movement out of the corner of her eye and she turned just as he sat down beside her on the bench, as if he had materialized out of nowhere.

  He just sat there for a long moment, never so much as looking at her, hands buried in the pockets of his jacket—staring out at the park, at the joggers. Lifeless blue eyes, actively scanning the crowd without seeming to move at all.

  “I wasn’t sure if you would come,” he said finally, still not glancing in her direction. It was tradecraft, she understood that. They were two strangers in a park, nothing more.

  She paused, trying to read him. “I’m not sure why I did. Or why you asked for it. If intel on Tarik Abdul Muhammad is what you’re wanting, you came to the wrong place. We haven’t been able to place him since your stunt at the station in Leeds.”