by Ty Patterson
‘Here to see Sir Alex Thompson,’ Zeb told him, aware that there were cameras in the ceiling recording their every move and word.
Another suit came down in an elevator and hustled them to an upper floor, past cubicles and desks on faded carpet. To a glassed office in which the head of MI6 sat, leafing through a report.
‘Zeb,’ he exclaimed and shook his hand tightly.
No hugging. No back-slapping. Sir Alex didn’t believe in overt displays of emotion. The handshake was enough. Zeb had worked with him several times. Had rescued the lives of some of his key agents. The firm grip told it all.
Zeb introduced Bwana and Roger, who lined up against a wall, preferring to stand after the flight.
‘No chatter.’ The MI6 chief shrugged elegantly when Zeb looked askance, a silent question on his face.
‘Terrorists usually are quick to claim credit. They’re playing the long game if it’s one of the Middle Eastern groups. How’s he bearing up?’
‘Levin? As you might expect. Beneath his game face, he’s a volcano,’ Zeb replied. ‘He’s agreed to stay tight. For now.’
A flunky knocked on the door and entered, bearing a pot of tea and cups. He served them and left quietly.
‘It won’t kill you, Bwana,’ Sir Alex laughed when he saw the operative take a cautious sip. ‘Your first time here?’
‘No, Sir Alex. Been here several times. London’s as familiar to me as home. Just didn’t get used to tea.’
‘Alex will do. That Sir nonsense is for the media.’
Alex Thompson didn’t look like a spy chief. He had long brown hair that was styled neatly, dressed in a pin-striped suit, and wore glasses that gave him a professorial look. Zeb knew beneath that exterior was a razor-sharp mind and a man who was equally comfortable with a knife or gun as he was in a boardroom.
‘My men took some convincing to allow you folks to take their places. You might get some hard looks, sharp words.’
Zeb had expected nothing less. What he had proposed was unusual. The MI6 had good men, very good operatives. They would have felt affronted when they heard that a bunch of Americans would take over the protection details.
‘We’ll live. Where is she?’
‘At home. She returned early from work. Holly called me yesterday. She’s sharing all their work correspondence. Susan too. We, and Scotland Yard, checked out the companies Susan was selling. One was in the construction space. They build nuclear facilities, among other structures. Another was a care home provider for elderly people. Both companies checked out. The four bidders were Chinese, German, French, and Japanese. They are clean.
‘There’s usually something in such cases, but these killings are the cleanest ones I’ve ever seen. No fingerprints.’
‘This could be an attack on the friendly intelligence forces. By another country,’ Zeb suggested.
‘That’s going to the top of the list of motives.’ Alex emptied his cup and pushed it to a corner. ‘There are enough countries out there that support terrorism. I spoke to Mandel, Avichai, many others. Clare too. They agree. We aren’t ruling anything out, however.’
Bwana leaned against the glass wall, which groaned from his weight. He stepped back quickly and inspected it for damage. ‘Makes no sense to me. Why not take out more high-profile targets? Like you or Levin. Why your kids?’
‘He needs a lot of explaining,’ Roger apologized to Alex and gave a withering look to his friend. ‘It makes total sense. What do you think we’re doing right now?’
‘Discussing the who and why.’
‘And Alex, Levin or Mandel couldn’t have spent that time better? You’ve seen Levin. Despite his game face, you think he’s functioning at full capacity?’ He straightened a finger. ‘Killing the children distracts the intelligence organizations. Drains their capabilities.’ Another finger uncurled. ‘It’s also a message. If Shira Levin and Theresa Leclair couldn’t be protected, who’s safe?’
‘I would’ve figured it out,’ Bwana sulked and crossed his arms.
‘Yeah,’ Roger smirked, ‘like by the time the world was ending.’
‘Good luck.’ Alex broke off from observing the byplay and smiled faintly at Zeb.
* * *
The assassin spotted them as they exited the anonymous building. He recognized the brown-haired man immediately. Excitement flooded through him.
Things are about to get interesting.
Chapter 19
London also had Paul and Liam. No last names. One redheaded, the other black-haired. Buzz cuts. Both shorter than Zeb by a couple of inches. Powerfully built. Eyes that never stopped moving. Dressed in plain clothes, lounging in the parking lot of Susan Thompson’s apartment building.
‘Look what the cat dragged in,’ Paul sneered when Zeb alighted with his friends and approached the two men.
‘Yanks.’ Liam’s lips curled. ‘Come to show us how to do our jobs.’
It was fighting talk but no fisticuffs broke out. Bwana let out a whoop and rushed forward to fist-bump Paul and then Liam. ‘Your boss, he didn’t tell us you’d be meeting us.’
‘Told him not to,’ Paul, the red-haired one, declared. ‘It would’ve scared you off.’
Zeb surveyed the building as he half-listened to the good-natured exchange. Alex. Trust him to have operatives we’ve worked with before.
The MI6 men had been part of a joint operation in Iraq that Zeb had led. They were quietly competent and had jelled very well with his crew.
‘Which floor?’ he interrupted the small talk.
‘Eighth, boss. Overlooks the street.’ Liam pointed to a drape-covered window.
‘Boss…we can do away with that.’ Zeb followed his finger and checked out the exterior of the apartment. Metal grilles on the outside were the only indication that the resident was security conscious.
‘Yes…boss,’ Liam chuckled. There was no way Paul and he were going to stop using that title. A habit picked up all those years ago. It wasn’t deference. It was respect.
‘Two more men upstairs,’ Paul joined in. ‘We accompany her wherever she goes. Check out restaurants or offices. Be as close to her as possible. Once on the road, there are two vehicles following her. Keep rotating.’
He took them to another Range Rover. Near identical to Zeb’s. ‘That’s our ride.’ Paul slapped its side. ‘The two other vehicles are outside.’
‘Let’s meet her.’
‘Her Highness isn’t happy,’ Paul warned as they trooped to a waiting elevator.
Susan Thompson didn’t bother to conceal her distaste. ‘What’s so special about you lot that you have to replace my detail?’
‘We aren’t replacing them, ma’am,’ Zeb countered. ‘They’ll be in a second vehicle. Following.’
‘What makes you special?’ Susan spat, her tiny frame quivering, a blond lock falling over a fiery blue eye.
‘Ma’am, Shira and Theresa were your friends, weren’t they?’
The TKWC member blew out a long breath, all the fight leaving her like air escaping a punctured balloon. She straightened her hair and made a gesture of apology. ‘I’m just…stressed. I was just coming to grips with Shira’s…when Theresa died.’
‘Ma’am,’ Liam said, stepping forward, ‘I know Zeb. Bwana and Rog, too. They’re the best. We’re all here to prevent any more killing.’
* * *
The assassin followed the brown-haired man in a discreet vehicle. A silver Vauxhall Corsa. There were many such vehicles around and his blended in. He maintained a safe distance, several cars away. Following in London had its drawbacks. Streets were rarely laid out straight. There were several lights. Cabs cut in and out. Those drawbacks helped the assassin.
It kept him out of the radar of the brown-haired man, who he knew would be looking out for surveillance.
He let out a puff of air when his targets arrived at Susan Thompson’s building and were met with her protection detail. The assassin couldn’t hang around; he drove past, found a parking space and
hoofed it back.
There was a bus stop just off Thompson’s building and he stood there, shades on, jacket collar turned up, a golfing cap on his head. He made a show of looking at bus timetables and at his watch, keeping an eye on the building’s exit.
His targets didn’t leave and that firmed a suspicion he had been harboring. They’re joining her protection detail.
He had been in London for several days, supervising arrangements for the kill. He knew Thompson’s routine. He had decided on the location. His kill team was ready. Six of them.
The arrival of the brown-haired man and his companions didn’t make any difference. Nevertheless, he would shadow them for a day.
* * *
Junior took his call. ‘His name is Carter. Zeb Carter. He was in the US Army,’ Junior briefed him.
‘A vanilla soldier or anything more to him?’
‘Hold on.’ He heard Junior typing. ‘No details. Just how long he served in the Army.’
‘Can you find out?’
‘Why?
‘I want to know how dangerous he could be.’
‘Assume he will be.’
The assassin hung up and wondered why Junior had made that cryptic remark.
* * *
Junior didn’t ask the assassin about the black and the blond man. It didn’t strike him as being important. There was a chance that Carter was linked to those two men, and if so, then they too would be in London.
Has he been hired by the intelligence agencies? Why would they? No. He discarded the thought. There had to be another reason why Carter was popping up all over. He made several calls and urged his network in America and Asia to work faster. To get more details on Carter. They had his photograph and that of the black and blond men.
Senior doesn’t need to know. The assassin has to get rid of Carter. Not yet, however. Let Thompson be dealt with.
* * *
Susan Thompson huffed in protest when Bwana and Roger flanked her at the rear the next day. She didn’t say a word, though, and gazed stonily out of the window as Zeb drove them out of the building, towards her office in Canary Wharf, with Paul and Liam following.
Canary Wharf was in East London and was one of the two financial districts of London. The other was the older City of London.
Canary Wharf was located in what was once the West India Docks, one of the busiest docks in the world. Once the ports had declined and the docks closed, a bunch of investors had turned it into a retail and financial hub. The Tube, London’s subway, had come to Canary Wharf just before the turn of the century. That had accelerated the growth of the financial district. Banks and professional services had arrived in droves and occupied most of the floor space.
TKWC’s London office was in One Canada Square, the second tallest building in the country. Susan Thompson’s office had a view of the River Thames as it curved around the Greenwich Peninsula.
Her office was open-plan and had three other women working on desks. They greeted Susan and stared open-mouthed when Bwana and Roger entered and checked out the premises.
‘You really think someone’s going to barge in here and kill me?’ Susan glared at the men.
‘We don’t think, ma’am. That’s Zeb’s job,’ Bwana replied, straight-faced. He spoke into his mic and gave Zeb the all-clear.
Zeb was outside the office, in the hallway that had elevators and doors to other businesses. Lot of foot traffic throughout the day. Alex has checked out all the residents, as well as Susan’s London coworkers. No threat there.
Paul and Liam were on the ground floor, milling around. Blending in. Another surveillance team was parked just outside the building. A third vehicle was close by. The office was as secure as they could make it.
She won’t be attacked here. Too crowded. Not enough escape routes. Too many cameras.
The day was uneventful. The twins were subdued when he called them for an update; they had returned from visiting Levin on the last day of Shiva.
No, they hadn’t found anything more conclusive on the Vietnamese killers. The TKWC had been thoroughly vetted by Werner. No possible suspects in their pasts. None of their snitches or informants in the underground network had come forward.
Holly and Mulan were fine. They had occupied desks and were working on their businesses. Still in shock. But the routine of work seemed to be helping.
Chang was despondent. ‘Nada. Zilch. Zero. How many more words do you need?’ He sighed. Zeb knew the pressure he and Pizaka were under. A high-profile beheading. A shooting at OnePP. No clues. No progress. The media would be at their throats.
Levin wasn’t very communicative. Zeb sensed he was on edge and hung up swiftly. Mandel Leclair uttered a string of curses, an indication of his frustration. The killers seemed to have disappeared into thin air. His wife had fallen apart. On top of that, the public wanted swift results. ‘Merde, they think I am a magician? I can produce killers from nowhere? They have forgotten that was my daughter?’
* * *
Zeb was thinking of cameras as he navigated the Range Rover in the evening traffic. Britain had one of the highest densities of CCTV cameras in the world. One camera for every eleven people. London was the second-largest security camera network city.
Cameras make it more difficult for killers. If they strike, how will they do it? And where?
He was on the verge of ruling out an all-out attack at Susan’s apartment or her office. It’s still possible. A pack of masked killers could burst through and let loose. They wouldn’t get away, though. We’d cut them down.
That left the open spaces. An attack on the streets. But she doesn’t go out alone. She’s changed her shopping and social habits. There’s always a cordon around her.
He worried at the problem until they reached the apartment, and then gave up.
* * *
It was late in the night when he woke, feeling restless. He was in the small living room, on a couch. Susan was in one of the bedrooms. Bwana, Roger, Paul, and Liam were outside, sleeping in coves and nooks, concealed from unwary eyes. An additional detail was in the parking lot.
He sat up and tried to chase the thought that had woken him. No luck. He walked silently out of the apartment. ‘A run,’ he whispered to Bwana, who had woken catlike.
The night was cool. Three a.m. Hardly any traffic. Lines of cars parked on the street. An ambulance went by when he started jogging past silent vehicles. He went past the brightly lit Tube station and approached Regent’s Park. He lengthened his stride and let his mind roam free. The air felt fresh, and alone in the night, the beast emerged and ran along with him.
He returned an hour later, sweat drying on his face, his track top sticking to his body. He walked past the vehicles, entered the parking lot, and crouched swiftly. He held a finger to his lips when Paul poked his head out a vehicle.
He ran back to the street, bent double, and, using a vehicle as cover, he waited.
He didn’t know what it was that had alerted him. It was a sense that he was being watched. So faint that he could be wrong, but he wanted to be sure.
* * *
This isn’t an ordinary soldier. The assassin didn’t move a muscle as he lay flat in the rear seat of his Corsa. It was down the line of cars, within sight of the building’s exit. He had watched Carter come out for a run and had seen him return. He knew Carter couldn’t see him because his head wasn’t above the window.
He had mounted a camera on the dash that fed a signal to his cell. He could watch without revealing himself. There was an additional camera beneath the license plate, and its feed showed Carter’s legs beneath an SUV.
He’s waiting. Watching. He must have sensed something.
The assassin didn’t pull out his gun. Even the slightest move could make the small car shake. Carter would spot that. He lay still, breathing easily and smiled suddenly.
Carter was good. Very good. I doubt he’s better than me. Tomorrow will tell.
Chapter 20
The next day was
Thursday, and those days had a different routine for Susan Thompson.
On Thursdays, she went to Canary Wharf earlier, left her office just before noon, and came to Trafalgar Square. She lunched with a bunch of women in a restaurant in the square, all young, starting out in business. She was their mentor and made sure she made that event every week, come rain or snow.
Zeb checked out the line of cars outside her building early that morning. There were several empty spaces, their owners gone for work. There weren’t any clues. No placard saying, Dude, I was watching you. The street looked like a thousand other streets in London. Paul looked quizzically at him when he bent to peer underneath cars.
‘Lost something?’
‘Probably my senses.’ Zeb grinned, but the nagging feeling didn’t leave him. There was someone watching me. My radar has never let me down.
He headed back to the building when Roger hailed him from Susan’s apartment and pointed at his watch.
The drive to Canary Wharf was quiet, each of them lost in their thoughts. Susan looked pensive, meeting Zeb’s eyes in the mirror every now and then.
‘How long will this last?’ she said, breaking the silence.
She means how long will we be with her.
‘At least a week more, ma’am.’
‘And if they don’t attack in a week?’
‘We’ll wait. Assess. And then decide.’
‘You all quit your jobs just to be here?’
‘This is our job, ma’am.’
They returned from Canary Wharf earlier than Susan usually did when Bwana pointed out a flyer on a lamppost. A motorcycle rally on the Mall just after noon. To honor war veterans. Traffic would be affected.
An early start from her office got them to the restaurant before the logjams started.