He cast one final look back toward the city before pushing himself away from the vehicle, pressing a bloodied hand against his side in an effort to staunch the bleeding as he began to make his way down the quay, making out the ghostly outlines of ships in the fog, riding at anchor.
And beyond them, the waves of the North Sea—the lonely, haunting blast of a tug’s horn piercing through the mists.
He stumbled, nearly going down—gritting his teeth as he caught himself, the pain all but overwhelming him. Forcing himself to push on, to keep moving. One foot in front of the other.
Another ten steps, and the night swallowed him up…
Epilogue
7:29 A.M., April 8th (Four days later)
United Airlines Flight 831
Heathrow Airport
“We’re just finishing up some last-minute paperwork, ladies and gentlemen—should be underway shortly.”
Shortly. Thomas Parker adjusted his seat, glancing out the window over the wing of the Boeing 767, toward Heathrow’s looming Terminal 2.
It couldn’t come any too soon. For any of them, he thought, looking back as if to assure himself that the rest of his team had taken their seats.
Director Lay had departed for the States the day following the attacks, leaving them to attempt to sort through what pieces remained before the British government had stepped back in, requesting the CIA team’s immediate departure from UK soil.
The ruins of Balmoral’s western wing were still smoldering, the Queen herself reportedly being brought back to Buckingham Palace under heavy guard. The Security Service struggling to identify the remains of the corpse they believed to be that of Tarik Abdul Muhammad.
And Nichols was nowhere to be found, at least if the Brits were telling them the truth. Vanished, as if the earth itself had swallowed him up.
Harry. He passed a weary hand across his face, still wrestling against the memories. The sight of Harry standing there in the stairwell of the council block only a few days before—raw desperation in his eyes, his weapon aimed at Thomas’ head.
A different man than the one he had followed all through the years of war, and yet somehow…so very much the same.
And now he was, what—dead? It seemed impossible to believe. Wrong, that it should have ended this way. And yet…
There was nothing he could do about any of that. Powerless, at the end of it all. Impotent. He leaned back his seat, opening his phone’s browser—a scrolling headline catching his eye as he went to CNN.
“Capitol Hill In Turmoil: Prominent Senate Democrat Changes Parties, Throwing Control Of The Senate to the GOP.”
Washington. He shook his head. Ever torn apart by people vying for power.
Someone paused by his seat and Thomas looked up to see a flight attendant standing there over him, a smile on her face. “Would you like something to drink while we’re waiting, sir? We have scotch, bourbon…gin?”
Temptation. He just stared at her, torn by indecision. Weakness. Three days dry, knowing all too well what it would mean to go back down that road once more.
“No,” he said slowly, forcing the words out with painful, tortured deliberation. “No thanks.”
9:47 A.M.
An interrogation room
Paddington Green, London
Silence. Mehreen took a sip from the bottle of spring water she had been given, replacing it on the table before her as she glanced around the bare, featureless room. Waiting, just waiting.
She’d been doing a lot of that, ever since she’d been stopped by a Police Scotland roadblock on her way out of the port of Aberdeen on that dark night four days earlier, part of the cordon thrown out in the attempt to capture the Shaikh.
Four days, and no word of Nichols. Nothing since her last glimpse of him in the darkness, lying there propped against the tire of the Land Rover. If Five had found his body, they weren’t talking about it—not that anyone had done much talking to her.
The door opened suddenly and one of the constables looked in, seeming to assure himself that her right hand was still shackled to the table before turning to address someone without. “Right this way, sir.”
A moment, and Julian Marsh appeared in the doorway. As commanding a figure as ever—although he looked worn, more worn than she could ever recall seeing him. His suit appearing as if it had been slept in.
“Director!” she exclaimed, rising to her feet. Although they had spoken, briefly, on the phone days before, she hadn’t expected him to come in person. Could it be…
“Uncuff her,” he ordered, gesturing to the constable as he crossed the room, setting a thick folder on the table. Watching in mute silence as the officer used his key to unlock the cuff, the metal falling away from her wrist.
Then, “Leave us.”
“Are you sure, sir?”
“I am,” Marsh responded icily, his tone brooking no disagreement. Looking at her finally as he pulled back the chair on his side of the table—gesturing for her to take her seat.
He waited until the door had closed behind the constable before he took his own seat, sinking heavily—wearily—into the chair as he opened the folder, spreading it out before him.
“You were right, Mehreen,” he said finally, the words seeming to cause him pain. “It checks out. It all checks out.”
A grimace crossing her face. No joy in this moment. “So then MacCallum…”
“Has been playing us all false,” the DG confirmed, a grim edge to his voice. He shook his head, swearing under his breath. “Alec’s been my most valued advisor in his years with Five, one of the finest section chiefs Thames House has ever seen. None of which changes the simple fact of his betrayal. We have the swipe card logs, his terminal log-ins, everything he’s accessed from the Registry over the last six months and the counter-intel lads over at D Branch are digging back further. This has been in the planning for a very long time.”
Betrayal. She winced, looking down at her hands, struggling against the emotion. It was like a cancer, eating at them from within. Turning them against each other. “What’s to be done with him?”
Marsh glanced at his watch. “The Met should be arriving at Thames House even as we speak. They’ll place him under arrest on charges of espionage, conspiracy, and treason.”
She took a deep breath, struggling to think that someone she had considered a close friend could come to such an end. Perhaps you never really knew anyone in this business. “He was a good man.”
“Was.”
10:03 A.M.
Thames House
Millbank, London
“…matching his description broke into the house of a doctor in Stonehaven, twenty kilometers south of Aberdeen, three days ago. The details are still coming in, but it seems he took the doctor—one of the heads of the Royal Infirmary’s new trauma centre—hostage, forcing him to patch him up at gunpoint.”
“So that confirms Crawford’s report, then,” Alec MacCallum nodded. “Our man’s wounded.”
He shook his head, his brow furrowing. “Three days. Good God, in that time, he could be anywhere. Why didn’t Police Scotland inform us of this before now? They should be aware of the national security implications entailed.”
Simon Norris shrugged. The formation of Scotland’s police service might have streamlined things on an organizational level, but it hadn’t necessarily guaranteed the expeditious transfer of information. “Hard to say,” he said, glancing over at the section chief. “I’ve asked Glasgow to dispatch one of our own people to interview the doctor, will let you know as soon as more details are available. I—”
His voice broke off suddenly as a pair of men in the uniforms of the Metropolitan Police came through the doors of the Centre, a cold chill running through his body. Premonition. “What are they doing here?”
“I don’t know,” MacCallum said after a moment’s pause, the both of them watching as a middle-aged man wearing thick glasses crossed the room from one of the conference rooms to meet the officers, “but t
hat’s Philip Greer from D Branch with them.”
A counter-intelligence spook, Norris thought, knowing all too well what that could mean. Doing his best to focus his attention back on his workstation as he saw Greer begin to head their way, followed by the officers.
The game was either up, or it wasn’t. Not much he could do about it either way.
“MacCallum,” he heard the D Branch officer begin. The moment of truth. “I’m going to have to ask you to come with us.”
A load lifted from his shoulders in that moment. MacCallum’s face showing bewilderment and concern. “But of course. What’s this all about, Philip?”
“I think you know, Alec,” the counter-intelligence man replied, his eyes cold and emotionless. “All too well. You’re being taken into custody under the Official Secrets Act, on charges of espionage, conspiracy, and treason. I need you to turn over all your access cards, surrender any and all files you may be working on at the present.”
“What are you talking about?” Norris looked up to see the section chief’s face drain of color. Shaking his head slowly in disbelief. “There—there has to be a mistake of some kind.”
“There’s been no mistake,” Greer said, a grim certitude in his voice. Stepping aside to let the officers advance. “Except the one you made in betraying the Service.”
“I have done nothing but serve my country and my Queen faithfully,” MacCallum protested, glancing in Norris’ direction. “What do you know of this, Simon? What in God’s name is going on?”
“I don’t know,” he responded, feeling a knife twist in him as he spoke the words. He had known this moment could come, but still, to have to watch it happen, before his very eyes—that was something different. “I’m sure it’s something that can be sorted…some kind of misunderstanding.”
I’m sorry. Norris stood there, watching as the older man was escorted out, a constable on either side of him—the rest of the operations centre looking on. His face tightening into a grimace as they disappeared through the doors.
Spurred by a sudden impulse, he reached over to his workstation, retrieving his jacket and hat. He needed to get out, take a walk. Get hold of himself.
Or this would all be for nothing.
The sun beat down warm upon his face as Norris walked out onto London Bridge, the spring breeze whipping at his jacket. He had done only what was necessary—to defend his country against those who would have destroyed it. To protect himself. But it was hard to feel any joy in it.
He stood there by the balustrade, allowing the crowd to pass him by, looking out over the sparkling waters of the Thames as he had on that night less than a week before.
“England confides that every man will do his duty.”
And do it he had. He pulled the burner phone from his pocket, punching in a number quickly before lifting the phone to his ear—waiting a few seconds until the call was picked up, hearing the familiar voice of Arthur Colville on the other end.
He hesitated for a moment before speaking, glancing back toward the southern end of the bridge—where once had been mounted the heads of traitors.
“I’m in the clear.”
10:15 A.M.
The interrogation room
Paddington Green
“There’s no way for you to come back to Thames House. Not after all of this.”
Mehreen sat there for a long moment, looking away at the bare wall as she struggled to digest the DG’s words. To come to terms with the reality of what they meant.
A lifetime of work, to be ended like this. In disgrace. She had known the risks she was running in helping Harry—in attempting to save her nephew, and yet…
To hear the words from Marsh’s lips was like listening to a death knell.
“I’m sorry, Mehreen,” he said finally, something of regret in his eyes. An unaccustomed humanity. “But you know this is how it has to be.”
And she did…the Security Service wasn’t a line of work that lent itself to second chances, to clemency. Nichols’ words echoing back through her mind. “Go now. While you still can. Don’t sacrifice yourself for me.”
But sacrifice herself she had, long before, she thought, her face twisting into a grimace at the memory. It was a strange feeling, looking back on the path that had led you to this place—trying to sort where the point of no return had even been.
Had it been when she procured the dead-ground map at Harry’s request? Or had it been the very moment when she’d looked out the door to see him standing there on her stoop? Like an angel of death, of destruction. Malak al-maut.
Questions like that could drive you mad.
“But you won’t be charged in connection with your actions of the last week,” the DG went on after a long pause, “nor will a cloud be attached to your departure from Thames House. That’s the most I could do, Mehreen.”
And it was, perhaps, more than she had any right to expect. “Thank you, sir,” she responded numbly, still not looking at him.
“And just because it’s out of the question for you to continue further in the employ of the Service doesn’t preclude you from seeking employment elsewhere. You’re a good analyst, Mehreen, and private intelligence is on the rise, whether we like it or not. I was briefed just the other day on a company expanding its reach in the Middle East…the Svalinn Security Group, I believe it was. Run by one of the cousins’ former officers. You’ll find a place to make use of your talents, of that I’m quite sure.”
“More likely I’ll retire to the country,” she retorted, her voice dripping with bitter sarcasm. “Raise chickens and knit myself a throw.”
Live the life she had always seen for herself and Nick in their declining years. Growing old together.
“And Arthur Colville,” she began quietly, resignation in her voice, “what’s to become of him?”
Marsh seemed taken off-guard for a moment by her question, but then he let out a long, heavy sigh, taking a paper from within his folder and sliding it across the table toward her. “Colville is another problem entirely…with tensions running higher than ever before in the wake of the attempt on the Queen’s life—several Muslim-owned businesses in Liverpool were torched by rioters last night—he’s only continuing to stoke the flames. And more.”
It was the front page of the UK Daily Standard—this morning’s paper, she realized, glancing at the date—the headline blaring in bold print: “DERELICTION OF DUTY: How A Politically Correct ‘Security’ Service Placed Her Majesty In Mortal Peril.”
Her eyes scanning down the broadsheet, opening wider as they went.
“My God,” she whispered, finally looking up to meet Marsh’s eyes. “This—this is PERSEPHONE. This is the operation we ran against the Shaikh—the operational details, the decisions made by the Home Office, all of it. How did he—”
“MacCallum,” the DG replied simply, shaking his head. “It has to be him. He sold us all down the river.”
“But this,” she said, continuing to scan the article, “this is all highly sensitive, classified information. Its publication…it should be enough to put Colville away for the rest of his life, even without being able to prove his complicity in the attack on the Queen.”
“It should,” he said, reaching out a hand to take the article from her. “And would, were it ever to be pursued. But it won’t be.”
“But why?” She demanded incredulously, scarce able to believe her ears.
“It’s politics, Mehreen, pure and simple. These articles of his—this is the second in a series he began publishing two days after the attacks—are igniting a firestorm in Parliament. There have already been calls from the Shadow Cabinet for an inquiry into the government’s handling of this affair, and the Home Secretary was on Sky News this morning, broadly hinting that blame for the near catastrophe lies entirely on the doorstep of Thames House and promising viewers a ‘full and thorough’ investigation.”
Keep your friends close, your enemies closer. And never were enemies closer than in the politicia
ns of Whitehall.
“With the Security Services under this kind of scrutiny from the press, no one is going to risk furthering the perception of a cover-up by going after Colville. There’s no one at Downing Street who would sanction it.”
And he wins, she thought, shaking her head at the folly of it all. The sod wins, after all of this. “So you’re telling me he’s untouchable, then?”
“Yes.”
10:23 A.M.
Colville’s estate
The Midlands
“Good,” Arthur Colville responded, rising from behind his desk. “What we’ve set in motion—it’s now far beyond their power to stop.”
Even with Her Majesty’s unfortunate survival, he thought but didn’t say. His informant at Thames House had never been made privy to the true nature of their objectives and even now…
No. Keep the circle close. That was the secret of any conspiracy that stood a prayer of succeeding, he thought, a shadow passing across his face. Remembering with a very real sense of disquiet his words to Conor Hale, only hours before the attacks. “Do what you must…make sure none of this can be traced back to us.”
It was the last he had heard from Hale, the former SAS sergeant vanishing as completely as if he had dropped off the face of the earth. The one man who could be the undoing of them all. Simply vanished.
It had yet to be seen just how “successful” they were to be, he thought, glancing over toward the window of his study—the morning sun streaming in through the curtains. What price they would yet be asked to pay.
But it was a new day. For England. For her people. A future purchased—as ever, down through the centuries—in blood.
Norris’ voice in his ear, sounding haunted. Uncertain. “Are you sure?”
“Of course I am. You can see what’s happening in the streets for yourself,” the publisher responded, putting the phone on speaker as he moved over to the window. Gazing out over the the pastures to the west, the grass moving gently in the breeze. “People are desperate, they’re angry—more importantly they’re waking up, and they’re not going to go back to sleep just because some boffin in Whitehall tells them that everything’s going to be all right. They know differently now.”
Embrace the Fire (Shadow Warriors Book 3) Page 74