by Ian Walkley
They drove in silence for a while. Mai appeared lost in thought, staring out the side window, dabbing her eyes with a tissue. They passed lush country estates with grazing horses, riding trails and synthetic tennis courts, along narrow lanes between hedgerows and rock walls.
“I want to thank you,” she said finally as they reached Chilworth Road, where branches of four-hundred-year-old oaks arched across overhead like lovers holding hands. “Bill would be happy that George and I are safe.”
Mac stopped at the intersection with Guildford Lane. “Yes, I think he would be. That was a nice service.”
“I must confess, I blamed you for a while for not contacting the police when we were in Dubai. But I always knew that they would have killed us if you hadn’t helped us escape.”
“Yes, they would have.”
“Are we safe now, do you think?”
Before he could answer, a silver Vauxhall overtook Scotty and came up behind them too fast. Scotty flashed his lights to warn him. He took out his pistol and rested it on his lap, frequently glancing in the rearview mirror. The car tailgated them along a section of road too narrow to pass.
Mai saw the gun. Her face showed alarm and she turned around to check out the threat.
“It’s okay. Just a kid. Keep facing ahead.”
They came to a wider stretch and he pulled over. The Vauxhall tooted and flashed past, the driver giving him a wave. Scotty pulled up behind them and they allowed eight other vehicles to pass.
“We might wait a minute or two,” Mac said as he checked the road behind. “It’d be better for that lot to get well ahead.”
Mai exhaled, her relief evident. “I might as well give you the things Bill sent now.” She handed him a large bubble-wrap envelope. “There’s a memory stick with plans for the Yubani Resort and the underground fortress. There’s also a special electronic key that’s designed to give emergency access from the sea.”
“Underground fortress? Yes! I knew it! We found the ventilation shaft, but we couldn’t find the entrance.”
“Oh, there are several entrances. Because the cave’s so large, Bill was able to construct several hidden entrances without Khalid’s people knowing. They only inspected it occasionally. And the tradesmen he used... Bill was worried because they didn’t contact him after they got home. They were all taken on the Princess Aliya back to Pakistan.”
“There’s a lot of ocean between Andaran and Pakistan.”
“Yes, between Andaran and anywhere, really.”
“Did Bill ever mention anything about children or slaves? Or organ transplants?”
Mai gave him a strange look. “No. Bill would never have become involved in that sort of thing. But he did think Khalid was an egomaniac. Always beautiful girls around. He’s one of those billionaires who builds an underground bunker to survive the next world war.”
“Or perhaps to start it.”
“Khalid’s obsessed with secrecy. And there’s his head of security, Ziad. Bill was definitely concerned about him. Bill had no reason to kill himself.”
“Mmm.” He wondered whether Bill had told his wife everything. Probably not. “It’s possible you could still be in danger.”
“Oh, God. I hope not...” Mai stared at him, lapsing into silence. After a few moments, she told him several things that Bill had mentioned the last time he’d been home that had not been included on the plan. Contingencies, she explained.
“Bill must have been worried,” he said.
Mai laughed, a sentimental laugh. “He was a boy scout when he was a teenager. ‘Be prepared’ was a motto he subscribed to in so many ways.”
It was beginning to drizzle. Mac flicked the indicator light and drove off. A red motorbike buzzed up out of nowhere and zoomed past, banking sharply to make a right turn, almost colliding with an oncoming Royal Mail van.
Idiot.
They continued along a road bordered by a stone wall covered in lichen, past fields of onions, com and fodder beet.
“It’s so beautiful here “ she said. “Bill and I would come back when we could, but Dubai was where the big projects were. I’d love to settle here. But it may be safer in Australia. And warmer.”
“Definitely warmer.”
Scotty was flashing his lights. In the rearview, another motorcycle was coming up fast. Red, like the earlier one.
Coincidence? Maybe, maybe not. In Afghanistan, Taliban insurgents would often do a reconnaissance on the first pass and attack on the second.
“Take off your seatbelt,” he said as he spotted the bike rocketing past Scotty. Flashes from the rider. Gun! Scotty’s car swerved, sideswiped a tree and came to a halt.
“Scotty’s been hit! Get down!”
The attacker revved up behind him and bullets pinged the car boot as he floored the BMW.
Mai uttered a terrified shriek and ducked down.
The rear window shattered. He instinctively ducked. Lifting his head to stop the car ramming one of the stone walls either side of the narrow, winding road, he jerked the wheel hard right to block the road, then accelerated.
But the road was too tight to get away, and the bike was coming up faster.
Mac braked fiercely and swerved left, but the BMW wheels wouldn’t lock as he’d hoped. Some sort of safety device had prevented it. Accelerating again coming up to a comer, he swung hard right as the bike came alongside, forcing the assassin to use both hands and check his speed to retain control.
The bike dropped back. Only for a moment.
Once around the comer and on the straight again, he could see in the rearview the rider preparing for another attack.
Several shots smashed the passenger window and chinked into the dash. Mai screamed, squeezing as tight as she could in the leg space.
Mac geared down then accelerated again, swinging the wheel right then left with his left hand as he aimed his pistol back over his shoulder and fired. But the assassin had anticipated this move and came up on the right.
Mac’s window exploded, spattering glass in his face. Ignoring the stinging shrapnel, he edged further right. The assassin braked hard then swung left, coming up to finish it.
But this time Mac was ready. Right arm across his chest, he fired seven times as the bike surged forward.
The bike hit gravel and the front wheel dug in. The rider lost control, flying over the handlebars onto the grass twenty metres further on.
Mac stopped the car and jumped out, pistol out in front. “Get out and stay down!” he yelled at Mai as he looked around for other threats.
There was no sign of Scotty. He felt a sick hollow in his stomach.
Eyes locked on the unmoving assassin, he stalked softly across the road to check the body.
Another vehicle appeared around the bend.
Mac ran for cover behind a rock wall. The car slowed as it passed them, then accelerated away.
The body was gone.
Mac cautiously looked around. The assassin leapt to his feet beside a tree, automatic weapon in hand. Mac ducked for cover, but the wall of metal slammed into the BMW as the killer targeted Mai. Mac responded with several shots, hurtling back across the road to where Mai was crouched behind the front wheels, her hands covering her head.
Another hail of bullets thundered into the metal and whizzed by overhead. The firing stopped again.
Glancing under the vehicle, he spotted two feet limping out from cover across the road. The attacker was moving in for the kill.
Mac was almost out of bullets. Six shots left. They had to count. He waited. One, two, three. He was about to take aim when a single crack sounded from down the road. Then another.
Rifle shots. Scotty.
“Coming to you! Hold your fire!” Scotty yelled as he jogged up the road, holding his sniper rifle.
Mac walked over to the body. With difficulty, he pulled off the helmet. There was nothing inside that was recognizable as human. Scotty had placed two shots inside the helmet. The head had exploded but the helmet had cont
ained the resulting pulpy mash.
“I owe you one, bud.” Cold raindrops began to pepper Mac’s face. “Seems to be a loner.”
He left Scotty to search the body and ran back to where Mai was sitting with her back against the car. Her face was deathly pale and her eyes were closed.
“You okay?” He knelt down and pressed two fingers against her neck. Pulse was fast, but strong.
She opened her eyes. “George... I need to... check on... George.” Blood was seeping from a wound in her arm. Must have been a ricochet, low speed, because it there was no exit wound.
Mac pressed against the wound to stem the bleeding. “Medic, Scotty!” Scotty was better qualified than him in first aid.
Scotty ran over and threw him the car keys. “First aid kit in the boot. And call an ambulance.” He examined the wound and spoke to reassure her as Mac returned with the kit. “Looks like a slug’s almost been stopped by the car, but not quite. It’ll hurt, but it’s not a serious wound, Mai. You’ll be fine.”
As they waited for the ambulance, Mac called Margaret Fanning and explained there had been a minor accident, that Mai was fine and on her way to hospital for observation. It was not the best outcome, but Mai would be okay. And now they had the plans for Khalid’s fortress.
Mac called Tally to tell her the good news. A male voice answered on the third ring. “Lee McCloud, I presume?”
~ * ~
73
Mac detected an accent, and thought it was Rosco playing around. “Hey, Rosco. Is Tally there?”
“She is not available to speak at present.”
He responded in kind: “Ah, then perhaps, my fine fellow, you will be so kind as get her to call me back, please, when she is coming from the toilet.”
A pause. “My name is Ziad. I think that is a name you will know, Lee McCloud.” The voice was dead flat. No humour there.
Rosco wouldn’t play that sort of prank. It wasn’t funny.
But he was confused. Ziad had been killed in the explosion—or so they’d assumed. Could he have escaped? Was Khalid alive too? And how would they have gotten Tally’s phone? His throat felt tight as the questions kept firing in his head. Cold surged through his veins as the pulse pounded in his neck. If they had Tally it would be his worst nightmare.
He took a deep breath. It was vital he stay calm. He must not concede anything.
Covering the handset, he told Scotty to call the Hyatt and the Riston and check whether Tally or Rosco were in their rooms.
“Ziad is a common name in some parts. Where is she?”
“Tally and her friend are resting. But don’t worry. When your wife wakes, I personally will make sure that she is taken care of. She is not so ugly, for a Jew.”
A Jew? Tally wasn’t Jewish, was she? He thought back. Her mother was French-Canadian. She hadn’t mentioned her father’s heritage. What was Ziad thinking? He closed his eyes and rubbed his forehead. “She’s not Jewish, and neither is her friend. And Ziad died recently in an explosion. So who are you? And what do you want?”
“Ah. Of course you would not admit to being a Zionist spy. And as you can tell, I am very much alive. So is His Highness Sheik Khalid. And your man Cohen has already admitted to the attack at the house, so do not bother denying it. It is clear now that you killed Prince Abu-Bakr, too. What Sheik Khalid wants is five hundred million US dollars.”
Mac choked back the frisson of fear in his throat. He was confused, but more than anything his gut was churning at the thought that Tally might be Ziad’s captive. He took another deep breath and tried to regain control. “For what? I’m not Austin Powers, you know.”
A long pause. For a moment, he thought he’d lost the connection.
“It appears that you need a lesson in respect. You will call me Mr. Ziad. And you will speak more courteously in future. I just had one of my men cut a finger off the left hand of your colleague. Fortunately for him, he is still unconscious. That will not last. He will be in considerable pain when he wakes, and we will not give him any medications until you have given me the passwords.”
Mac looked at Scotty, who shook his head. They were not at either hotel. Fuck. He took a deep breath. “The man’s name is Rosco. And how do you think I’m going to get that sort of money?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Mr. Ziad... I don’t know how I can—”
“Let me see. There is the eighty million in gold you stole, and all of the money Israel has stolen from Palestinians over the years. Perhaps if you run short, you can call the American president. The Americans are always happy to pay your bills. I am sure your government will consider this a bargain for the nuclear canisters.”
Nuclear canisters? Mac blinked. What the fuck? “What nuclear canisters? What are you talking about? Let me make it clear—we are not Israelis!”
There was a long pause.
“I mean...Mr. Ziad.”
“Tsk, tsk. Sadly, your poor manners have resulted in Rosco losing another finger. You have forty-eight hours to call back on this number with your government’s answer.”
The connection was terminated. Less than a minute later, an image arrived on his phone. It was the close-up of a left hand. The thumb and forefinger had been severed.
~ * ~
74
Mac felt his face redden as the anger erupted inside him. “Jesus, Derek, why are you worried about a couple of fucking computers? What about Tally and Rosco, for Chrissake?”
“Oh, grow up, McCloud. There’s more of value on those computers than Tally, Rosco, you and me combined. Man-years of complex programming expertise, worth many millions. This, my friend, is why you should have stayed in Paris to protect them instead of jaunting off to Fanning’s funeral.”
“Fuck you. I wasn’t employed as their security guard.”
“Yeah? Well, fuck you too. Feel better now? That doesn’t help Tally, bud.”
Mac didn’t bother responding. Wisebaum was always on the offensive, so it was difficult to gauge his true feelings. He glanced over at Scotty, who was talking to one of the cops. They were sheltering under the covered entrance to the ER at Surrey County Hospital, where Mai was receiving treatment.
Wisebaum continued. “You there, McCloud? Let’s get practical. Did Mai give you the plans?”
“What?” How did Wisebaum know about that? He hadn’t told Tally. Was he guessing? “What plans?”
“Come on, McCloud, don’t fuck with me. You told me when you rescued Mai in Dubai that you suspected she had copies of plans of the construction down in Andaran. Now, did you get them or not?”
Now he’d backed himself into a comer. He couldn’t admit to having them now, after denying it. “She got shot before she could tell me about them. The ambulance guys said it could be several days before she’s well enough to talk. Meantime, I’ll start organizing a rescue mission. I can brief my old boss Colonel Matheson, but you’ll need to get the authorization for a Delta team to be involved.”
“You will do no such thing and neither will I. Look, McCloud, you say this Ziad character mentioned nuclear material. That takes this matter to a whole new level. I’ve got no authority that high. I’ll speak with the Director and we’ll figure who is appropriate to handle negotiations with Khalid. What you need to do is get on a plane and come back to Montreal. Now! This is not the time for one of your Rambo performances.”
Jesus, this guy knew just how to piss him off.
“But what about Tal? Khalid’s got her. We’ve got forty-eight hours.”
“Don’t you get it, McCloud? This is beyond our scope. There is no way the President is going to authorise a mission against Khalid based on some alleged phone conversation with a guy claiming to be his security chief. Not to mention handing over five hundred million dollars of taxpayers’ money. And we can’t launch a raid on Andaran without Presidential approval.”
“But—”
“Don’t interrupt. You’re not thinking, bud. We don’t have a clue about where Khalid is hidin
g this nuclear material you claim he wants to sell, or whether he even has it. We’ve been conned into action before without supporting evidence. The media would have a fucking field day! And rightly so. Not to mention that if we botched a raid, any nuclear devices Khalid has, if they exist, would disappear up Al Qaeda’s arse.”
“So, Tally and Rosco are dispensable?”
There was a long pause at the other end. He could hear Wisebaum take a breath. “We’re all dispensable, McCloud. If you’d done your job, Tally and Rosco would still be at the Riston.”
The truth hit him like a bullet in the chest. He blinked as he realised that Wisebaum was right. They were all dispensable. Wasn’t that the point of ASTA’s existence? It hit a nerve already raw. But this was not the time to be indulging in guilt. It was a time for action.