by Terry Toler
Seconds later another man entered the picture.
A middle easterner.
Wearing a jacket.
He had all the mannerisms of a terrorist.
A bolt of panic shot through Weaver as he shouted on the radio, trying to warn the SWAT team of the potential danger.
The words had barely come out of his mouth when a fireball erupted. A black plume of smoke filled the area, and the camera shook from the concussion.
A gasp went through the crowd of people watching as tension filled the room like a dark storm cloud.
“Did you see that?” the SWAT team commander said over the radio with panic in his voice.
“What happened?” Weaver asked.
“A guy just blew himself up.”
“Any casualties?”
“My men were not in the blast radius. It looks like a war zone down here.”
The man was practically shouting. Weaver could hear screaming in the background.
“Get emergency personnel down there right now!” Weaver shouted to anyone who could hear him.
He wasn’t sure what to do. Should he go down there himself or keep watching the screen? Staying was the better option for now until he knew what he was dealing with. When the smoke cleared, he could assess the situation. He had men on the ground already. Not knowing, though, sent bolts of fear and trepidation through him like the fireball he’d just witnessed. His hand was shaking.
“Do you have eyes on Steele?” he asked over the radio.
“Negative.”
“Was he caught up in the blast?”
“I’ll get back to you on that. I can’t tell you anything until the smoke clears.”
Suddenly, Weaver was worried. Had he arrested Steele when he had the chance, none of this would’ve happened. If an innocent bystander was killed, he had no way to explain his actions. Also, if Steele died, he’d probably never know the truth. Why were the terrorists following him?
A plan was already forming in his mind to justify his actions. They were doing reconnaissance. Fact gathering. He had no idea a bomber was following Steele. Now he was kicking himself. He never thought to look at other cameras for additional threats for fear of losing Steele.
What a disaster.
His plan couldn’t have gone any worse.
***
Industrial complex
Downtown London
My plan could not have gone any better.
I left Trafalgar Square on foot, hoping the vest bomber was right behind me. To most people, it might’ve seemed strange walking through the streets of London, not knowing if I was fleeing from a ghost. Such was counterintelligence. Many times, we employed tactics in the field to expose a tail, not knowing if one was there or not. That sometimes took hours to do. It meant making all kinds of evasive maneuvers. Going in and out of businesses. Starting. Stopping. Changing direction on a dime. All the while having no clue if anyone was actually tailing you.
That’s what this felt like. Except for the starting and stopping. The route was preplanned. All I had to do was judge the pace. I needed for the bomber, if he was really behind me, to slowly catch up. Not too fast, but not too slow either. I had to time it so that he entered the designated area shortly after me.
I entered the industrial complex as adrenaline pulsed through my body like a fire hose spraying it out of my heart. Every one of my senses was heightened to their maximum intensity. With every fiber of my being, I hoped and prayed the bomber was behind me, but not too close. Sometimes, a fine line hung between mission success and disaster. I’d been on that line many times and knew what it felt like. It never felt good until I knew the outcome.
One way or the other, I’d know the outcome of this plan soon. I was near the point where I’d confront the bomber. If there was a bomber.
When I rounded the corner of the office building, I left the view of the camera. That was by design. It took me hours to find it. No eyes were on me then. I sprinted to a place behind a large metal trash container. Just ahead on the left was a busy street. Dozens of people were walking on the sidewalk. Just out of harm’s way. Thankfully.
I waited.
I didn’t have to wait long.
The man emerged from the side of the building cautiously. My heart did a gymnastics routine when I saw him.
Middle eastern
Wearing a jacket. His right hand was in his pocket.
The bulges of the bomb could be seen pressing against his shirt.
No doubt in my mind who he was.
I shouted out to him. “I’m over here,” I said.
The bomber was still in the camera view. That was for Weaver and Pok’s benefit. I wanted them to see the whole thing. Everything, except what I was about to do.
The bomber took ten steps toward me.
I raised my gun and fired.
A fireball erupted.
I ducked behind the dumpster as shrapnel and ball bearings pinged against it causing a loud clamor. I could feel the heat from the blast.
The shot had been pre planned as well. I aimed for his chest. At the detonator. The bomb would destroy any evidence that a bullet was fired. Vest bombs were strange in how they operated. They blew the person’s head completely off his body. Separated, but fully intact. As if it had been severed by a sharp guillotine blade. Most of the time, the man’s head could be found dozens of yards away, but with no noticeable injuries. Had I shot the man in the head, the bomb would have exploded, but Weaver would’ve known he’d been shot. I’d be the obvious suspect.
Pok would be watching as well and would realize I’d set off the bomb. I needed him to think the man exploded the bomb prematurely or maybe even on purpose. Pok might even consider the bombing a success. He wouldn’t know if I was caught up in it or not.
Weaver would see it as a success as well. He would conclude that I led the bomber away from the crowded square. Saving lives. He’d never know about the gun. England had some of the toughest gun control laws in the world. I couldn’t let Weaver see me shoot the guy. I’d be arrested on the spot. The fact that I killed the terrorists might only knock a couple of years off my lengthy prison sentence.
Weaver also couldn’t know that I had hacked into the camera system. Another major offense which would get me locked away for years, regardless of the motive. Weaver needed to believe that I was being targeted by terrorists for some reason. When questioned, I would even argue that I was the victim who needed protection.
Of course, I would deny involvement. I was just walking the streets of London, minding my own business. On my honeymoon. For some reason, the terrorists were after me. Maybe seeking revenge for me maiming one of their own. That explanation had just popped in my head. It sounded believable to me. I suddenly had a defense that made sense. Weaver wouldn’t believe it, but at least he had no reason to arrest me.
If I worked for the CIA and was on a mission, all of these offenses would go away. I had done England a favor. I still looked at it that way, even if they didn’t.
A terrorist was dead. This was no small victory in my book. No civilians were injured. But I knew the war had just started. I won this round, but tomorrow’s terror was car bombings. How would I stop those? The next day after that was the royal wedding and the dirty bomb. I had no idea where the bomb was or how they intended to set it off. I only had forty-eight hours to find out. Telling Weaver or MI6 wasn’t an option. Then I’d have to explain how I knew.
While I was plotting my next move, I saw movement out of the corner of my eye. From a different part of the complex.
A SWAT team was approaching the area where the bomber had detonated the bomb. It looked like a war zone, and they looked like soldiers infiltrating it with their machine guns raised and wearing full combat gear.
They couldn’t catch me with the gun. I was on the move. From my vantage point, I was able to make it to the street undetected and blend into the crowd. Within two minutes, I was in a cab on my way to the hospital.
Jamie
was to be released at one o’clock.
Time to explain to her what was happening.
We had a mutual problem. Our honeymoon was ruined. Like it or not, we were on a mission.
And if my situational analysis was correct, there was one more vest bomber out there.
22
Royal London Hospital
When I got off the elevator, I could hear yelling all the way down the hall coming from Jamie’s hospital room. My nerves were already frazzled from the confrontation with the terrorist and watching him incinerate right in front of my eyes. Adding to my angst was what we were facing over the next couple days. Another vest bomber, car bombings, and a potential dirty bomb at the royal wedding.
A problem at the hospital was the last thing I expected to encounter. Jamie was supposed to be released at one o’clock. I hurried to see what all the commotion was about.
When I entered the room, Jamie was standing up, although still in her hospital gown. The nurse had an exasperated, almost angry look. Her eyes were narrowed and her jaw clenched. They were standing toe to toe almost like two boxers about to square off.
“What’s going on?” I asked, somewhat hesitantly. I took a couple long strides so I was next to Jamie. Her hands were still heavily bandaged, but her knee only had one layer of gauze wrapped around it. She was favoring her knee, but at least she was standing which seemed like a good thing to me.
“I’m glad you’re here,” Jamie said then glared at the nurse. “Maybe you can talk some sense into this lady.”
“I’m trying to get your wife to put her clothes on so she can check out.” The nurse put her hands on Jamie’s arms, but she jerked them away.
The lady had no way of knowing that if Jamie didn’t want to do something, not a man or a woman alive could make her do it.
The scene didn’t make any sense. I would think Jamie would be dying to get out of there.
“I’m not going outside looking like this!” Jamie waved her big oven mitts in the air as it suddenly made sense. Being a tall girl, Jamie looked like a windmill with large, cup-sized blades twirling in the wind. I bit my lip to keep from smiling, knowing that might make her angrier.
“I thought the doctor said you could get your bandages off today,” I said, still not fully understanding the problem.
Jamie threw her hands in the air. “I know! Tell that to Nurse Ratchett.”
“It’s Ratched,” the nurse said sarcastically emphasizing the last syllable. “With an e and d. Not Ratchett. I’ve seen the movie nine times.”
I didn’t remember what movie they were talking about, but I remembered that calling a person “nurse Ratched” was a highly derogatory term meant to offend. Which it obviously did based on the nurse’s reaction.
“Whatever. I’ve never seen it,” Jamie said. She turned toward me. “I want these bandages off. Now.”
“The doctor said they had to stay on until two o’clock,” the nurse retorted.
“That’s so stupid,” Jamie said. “I check out at one. What difference does another hour make?”
They were both now facing me, making their points like I was the judge and they were pleading a case. I wasn’t sure I wanted to be in the middle of it.
“Those are the doctor’s orders. I have to follow his procedures,” the nurse argued to me.
“I won’t be here at two o’clock,” Jamie said. “I’m checking out at one. Tell her she’s being ridiculous,” Jamie said pointing her big bear paws at me.
Jamie had a good point.
The clock on the wall said one o’clock. I was tempted to take the knife out of my pocket and cut the bandages off. Then I wondered if I was allowed to even have a knife in the hospital. The nurse might try to have me arrested. That wasn’t an option. Jamie and I were going back to the hotel, checking out, and going dark for the rest of our trip. The best way for me to find the dirty bomb was to work incognito. Dodging terrorists was getting old, not to mention extremely dangerous. Things went well with the vest bomber, all things considered. I didn’t want to push my luck any farther. I also now had Jamie to protect who clearly wasn’t yet one hundred percent.
Charm would be the better tactic with the nurse. I decided to sweet talk her since a confrontation obviously wasn’t working. That would annoy Jamie, but it still seemed like the best approach.
“I know that you’re just doing your job,” I said in my most disarming voice. “But it’s after one o’clock. Technically, she’s checked out now. Could we compromise?”
It seemed to work, because the nurse’s shoulders dropped slightly, and her jaw wasn’t as clenched.
“She’s going to need bandages on her hands,” the nurse said. “They’re going to be tender and sore for the next day or two.”
“Can you wrap her hands like you did her knee? That way she can at least put her clothes on and have some use of her hands.”
That argument seemed to work, because the lady instructed Jamie to sit down on the edge of the bed. She pulled a tray beside her and began clipping off the bandages with a pair of scissors. Jamie mouthed a “thank you” to me.
With the bandages off, Jamie’s hands were still bright red which made me wince. At least the blisters were gone.
“The bright red is because her hands are healing,” the nurse said, almost sensing what I was thinking. “That will go away in time. Just be careful not to touch anything over the next couple days. You can take a shower, but no baths. I put a small bottle of pain pills in your bag. Take as needed.”
“I won’t need them.”
The nurse put a salve on Jamie’s hands and then wrapped each one with a piece of gauze. Jamie grimaced a couple of times, telling me she was still in pain. Even so, she wouldn’t take the pill. I probably wouldn’t let her anyway. She needed to be fully alert for the next forty-eight hours.
“Get dressed, and I’ll be back to collect you in ten minutes,” the nurse said curtly as she walked out of the room. The woman’s bedside manner could use some work. I could see why Jamie would have a short fuse with her. Getting there when I did was probably a good thing.
“I’m so glad to have those bandages off,” Jamie said. “I couldn’t even scratch my butt with those airplane wings on my hands.”
“I’ll scratch your butt for you anytime you want,” I said boyishly, while wrapping my arms around her. “All you have to do is ask.”
Jamie wasn’t much for sexual innuendo and rarely appreciated my dry sense of humor, but sometimes I simply couldn’t resist.
As expected, she rolled her eyes, but the smile on her face told me she’d be in a better mood soon.
At least until I told her what we faced over the next two days. For all practical purposes, our honeymoon was ruined. I’d wait to tell her until we were alone for an extended period of time.
We packed her things and waited for the nurse to return. When she did, she was pushing a wheelchair.
Jamie shook her head no.
“Hospital policy,” the nurse said. “Every patient must leave the hospital in a wheelchair.”
Jamie brushed right past the lady and started headed down the hallway. Still favoring her knee, but fast enough that I would have to hurry to catch her before she got on the elevator.
“Is your wife always this stubborn?” the nurse asked me.
“You have no idea,” I said, letting out a deep sigh.
To me, that was a good sign. The old Jamie was back.
***
Site of the vest bombing
Weaver had never seen a bombing site in person. The closest he came was a training video which didn’t even begin to capture the horror of the scene. The smell of explosives mixed with burning human remains was nauseating. The body of the bomber was unrecognizable as a human form, other than the head of the man, which was perfectly intact, a good thirty yards away from the initial blast. Forensic teams were already at work poring over the evidence.
Weaver was questioning Robert Manwaring, the SWAT team captain with
a name appropriate for his line of work. Something Manwaring said was puzzling to Weaver.
“So, you think you heard a gunshot?” Weaver said in the form of a question.
“I think so, but I can’t be sure. Things happened so fast.”
“Walk me through it from the beginning.”
“My men and I rounded the building.” He pointed to a spot at the southwest corner of the scene.
“We saw the bomber. I immediately put my fist in the air for everyone to stop. We knelt down and focused our weapons on the man who had his back to us.”
“Did you see anyone else? A tall man? Athletic build? American?”
“No. We didn’t see Steele if that’s what you mean. Or anyone else for that matter.”
Weaver looked over the scene. He had clearly seen Alex Steele on the security camera, walk into the area shortly before the bomber. Alex didn’t have time to make it all the way to the other side of the building. The only place Alex could’ve been hiding was behind a large trash dumpster that was now dented in multiple places from the blast.
“What happened next?” Weaver asked.
“It sounded like a gunshot went off.”
“What type of weapon?”
“Definitely small caliber. I did a number of tours in Iraq and Afghanistan. I know what an assault rifle sounds like. This was a handgun.”
“Did you see where the shot came from?”
“Like I said, it all happened so fast. The bomb went off milliseconds later. We retreated back behind the building.”
Weaver wondered if Steele shot the bomber causing the bomb to explode. When they retreated, that would’ve given Steele the opportunity to flee the scene. They also wouldn’t have been able to see him with all the smoke.
“Thank you,” Weaver said to Manwaring. “I’ll be in touch if I have any more questions.”
What to do next was obvious. He’d seen Alex Steele enter the hospital and then leave with his wife. Or whoever she was. He needed to pay them a visit at their hotel room and search the room for a gun. Steele may have ditched it along the way, but Weaver could tie him to the scene from the security camera.