“Nest, we lost her.”
Langton cursed, then stormed out of the control room. He walked up the marble staircase to his room and sat in front of his computer. When he entered his password to unlock it, he saw Driscoll’s CIA file on the screen. It had been there for months, her face waiting to greet him every time he logged in, but now she seemed to be mocking him.
Langton closed her file, then looked at the folder containing the details they had on the other five. He’d used Naser to flush Driscoll out once, so she wasn’t going to fall for that ruse again. However, the rest of her team were not in Driscoll’s league. Actually, Carl Huff might be, so Langton discounted him. Naser, too, was crossed off the list. That left Rees Colback and the two Brits, Len Smart and Simon Baines. They’d already looked for Colback’s sister to use as leverage, but she and her brother had disappeared from the face of the earth, so it was time to focus on the two men Driscoll had recruited in England. He’d learned all about them during their widely televised trials, and getting access to their jackets—personnel files—had been a piece of cake.
He opened the file for Len Smart and read his history again.
Born an only child in 1976 in London, went to a typical public high school, worked in a sports center for one year before joining the army at nineteen. After three years in the parachute regiment, he’d passed SAS selection. A tour in Iraq followed by two in Afghanistan. Left the regiment in 2005 and immediately went to work for Viking Security Services.
It was all standard fare, until 2011.
Smart had taken part in a siege led by Tom Gray, who had held the UK to ransom. He’d taken five criminals hostage in the countryside while threatening to release a biological weapon if the British government didn’t listen to his demands. At the time it had been big news all over the world, but it hadn’t impacted Langton’s financial interests—and, for that simple reason, he had forgotten the entire episode.
He clicked on the link to show Smart’s known associates. There were not very many. Simon Baines was obviously one, as was Tom Gray. The latter had been Smart’s boss at Viking Security Services, and they’d served together in the SAS, with Gray serving as Smart’s sergeant.
Langton switched to Baines’s file. It was much the same as Smart’s: an only child with a military background and few friends to speak of, the most notable being Tom Gray.
He opened another window and logged into the CIA database. Once in, he searched for Tom Gray and entered his date of birth. There were three hits, but only one had served in the SAS.
Gray’s profile made for interesting reading. Much of it had been gleaned—off the record—from conversations with an MI5 operative named Harvey.
Gray’s dramatic demands—for tougher sentences for repeat offenders, plus the reintroduction of national service and the death penalty—had made him a hero to the right wing. After his stunt ended badly, Gray had been whisked away to the Philippines and given a new identity. Reconstructive surgery had also been necessary. The last thing the government had wanted was Gray dictating the course of the upcoming general election. A man named James Farrar had been assigned to Gray, under the pretense of inviting him back to serve his country, when in fact the plan had been to eliminate Gray and the people who had helped him bring the country to a standstill.
Gray had managed to survive Farrar’s duplicity and returned to England, a hero to some but a terrorist in the eyes of many. Since then, he’d become close to MI5 agent Andrew Harvey. There were unsubstantiated rumors suggesting that Gray and Harvey had worked together on special operations on more than one occasion since.
Langton sat back in his chair. Tom Gray was the ideal choice to flush Smart and Baines out into the open, yet he seemed to have a habit of surviving the most challenging situations. Much like Driscoll.
Targeting Gray would involve risk, of that there was no doubt. Killing Farooq Naser’s friend had been no problem, but someone with street smarts like Gray would be a different proposition. It would be difficult to take him out and make it look like an accident, but Smart and Baines would be more likely to attend his funeral if they didn’t suspect foul play. That done, it would be easy to tail them and learn their new identities. From there, it would be a matter of setting up around-the-clock surveillance and following their trail if they contacted Driscoll. If they didn’t, he might be able to retrace their previous steps. There had to be something in their pasts that would lead to her.
Langton was about to return to the control room to pass instructions on to Eckman when another thought struck him. He sat back down in his chair and lit a cigarette.
Instead of killing Gray, why not just make an attempt on his life?
The more he thought about it, the better it sounded.
Langton memorized Gray’s file number, then went back to the control room. He moved one of the operatives out of the way and typed the number into the CIA database.
“I want you to find everything you can on this man,” he said. “I want his phones tapped, Internet intercepted, everything.”
The picture on the screen showed a man in his forties with short brown hair combed with a side part. There was a hint of a scar on his cheek, and the nose looked like it had been broken more than a few times.
“No problem,” Eckman assured him. “We’ll install a keylogger on his computer and break into his cell phone, too. Is Gray our next target?”
“Don’t tell me ‘no problem’ when you just lost the main target,” Langton said. “I want no fuck-ups with this one.”
Eckman’s gaze dipped to the floor. “Yes, sir.”
Langton let his words sink in, then continued. “Once we have his communications covered, I want a couple of men to attack Gray, but they are not to kill him. Am I clear?”
“Understood. Gray is not to be killed,” Eckman replied. “But then . . . what is the objective?”
“I want him frightened. Mess him up a bit, then find a reason to pull back. Maybe have the police turn up or something. I’m confident Gray will try to contact Smart and Baines. They’re extremely close to Gray, so they’ll have some way of staying in touch.”
“We’ll get right on it,” Eckman said.
The others turned to their stations and began searching for all they had on Tom Gray.
“I recognize this guy,” the skinny operative named Barnaby said. “He’s the one that had that voting website for those juvies a few years ago.”
“That’s right,” Langton said. “And he nearly pulled it off, so don’t assume we’re dealing with some dumbass here.”
It didn’t take long to come up with his current address based on credit card use and land registry records.
“Gray’s in Italy. San Giovanni in Fiore. He lives with his daughter, Melissa, five years old, as well as his dead wife’s aunt and uncle, Mina and Ken Hatcher. We’ve also got bank accounts. Do you want us to empty them?”
“No,” Langton replied. “Just get a team over there and secure all of his communications. Who’s closest?”
“We’ve got four men arriving in Milan in the next hour. They could be there in . . . six hours. There’s a flight to Lamezia Terme Airport leaving in two hours. Lamezia Terme is about a sixty-mile drive from Gray’s place.”
“Book their tickets and tell them to pick ’em up at the airport desk,” Langton said. “I want this done tomorrow at the latest. And warn them: Gray is ex–special forces, so don’t expect him to be a pushover.”
He strode out of the room and down to the kitchen. It was almost three in the morning, eleven hours behind Lyon time. While Driscoll was operating in Europe, he would have to sleep during the day and work through the night. He found his personal chef and instructed him to prepare lobster for what was, in effect, breakfast.
Driscoll might have slipped from his grasp this time, but Gray was a way back in. He would lead them to Smart and Baines, and ultimately to the woman responsible for his son’s death.
But that wasn’t even the driving force be
hind his efforts. Six months earlier, he’d been the head of the most powerful organization in the world, and now he was just another schmuck. He still had a huge pile of cash, but without the influence money bought, he might as well be a street bum.
The situation didn’t sit well with a man used to holding sway over presidents and prime ministers, but Henry Langton had never been one for dwelling on what couldn’t be changed.
Until now.
Killing Driscoll wouldn’t bring back his son or the power he’d once enjoyed, but it would satisfy the urge burning a hole in his soul.
CHAPTER 7
The four-man team reached San Giovanni in Fiore at seven in the evening. They followed the rental car’s satnav as it took them through the twisty, narrow streets of the village, and eventually came to the small bed and breakfast place they’d booked earlier.
“What makes a guy want to live in a place like this?” Glenn Durston asked as he climbed out of the car. Most of the buildings were gray, and those that had been painted vibrant colors must have been done years earlier, with the majority in need of a touch-up. It reminded him a little of a Kosovan village after the war.
Feinberg grimaced. “It’s a shithole, that’s for sure.”
“I think it’s quaint.” Hank Pendleton smirked, picked up his bag, and took it into the small reception area, where a woman in her sixties, cigarette dangling from her mouth, was sitting behind a counter watching a small TV set.
She looked up at them, no emotion on her face, as if seeing four fit men with buzz cuts was an everyday occurrence. Pendleton gave his name. He was the only Italian-speaker among the quartet, and five minutes later they were making their way up a narrow staircase to their accommodation on the third floor. The rooms were small but had en-suite showers, with beds that looked as if they’d survive the night. They were just about large enough for four big guys and their luggage.
“Stow your gear and meet back here in five minutes,” Durston said.
Chuck Dubowitz and John Feinberg disappeared, and Durston began sorting through his own belongings. Inside his bag he had a change of clothes for the surveillance stage the following day, and among the contents were the tools of his trade. He placed the pick kit to one side and took out the electronics package. He checked the charge on the transmitter that would be affixed to the telephone wires outside Gray’s house, then made sure the device that would hijack Gray’s cell phone was in full working order.
Dubowitz and Feinberg knocked on the door, then entered.
Durston handed them the device. “I want you three in the town center at daybreak. Make sure you get into his phone before you initiate contact. I’ll stake out his place and let you know when he leaves the house.” That wasn’t going to be an easy job. Gray lived with two elderly relatives and his daughter on the outskirts of town.
However, the satellite images showed no neighbors for a few hundred yards in any direction, which meant Durston would be able to watch the house without being detected.
“I’m going to do a walk-by,” Durston said. He needed to find somewhere to wait unseen for Gray and his folks to leave, somewhere that wasn’t wet. The forecast was for rain, and he didn’t want to be breaking in and leaving telltale signs all over the house.
“Want me to come with you?” Feinberg asked.
“No, I got it. You go and find us something to eat. I’ll be back in a couple of hours.”
Durston put his jacket on and left the building. The street lights ended at the edge of town, and he followed the road in darkness. It was three miles to Gray’s house, and during the twenty minutes it took to jog there, only three vehicles passed him on the road. That was good news, but the rain that started halfway through the journey was not. If it kept up through the night, he would have a hard time not leaving wet footprints all over Gray’s place.
The GPS on his phone showed that he was three hundred yards from Gray’s house, and he could see lights in the distance confirming that he had arrived at his destination. He stuck to the side of the road as he neared the building, a white two-story affair with a terracotta roof. There were lights on the ground floor, and on the upper level a small window lit up for a few moments before returning to darkness. Durston assumed it was the bathroom.
He kept walking, putting a couple of hundred yards between himself and the house, then climbed through a hole in the hedge that lined the road. The ground was soaked, and when he reached a patch of mud it sucked at his feet. Durston thought about buying a pair of rain boots, but that would mean waiting for the shops to open the next morning, and he might miss his chance to gain entry to the house. He’d enter barefoot if necessary.
He had no idea what the occupants did during the day. The boss wanted this done in the next twenty-four hours, which gave him no time to build up a dossier on the movements of Gray, his daughter, and the Hatchers. If they didn’t leave the house the next morning, then he would have to go to the backup plan, which was to find a safe place nearby and wait for Gray to go online. When he did, Durston would hijack the Wi-Fi connection and jump on to the network. Once connected to Gray’s computer, he could install the spyware remotely. He preferred not to do it this way for many reasons, mainly because there was no guarantee Gray would go online. They really needed him to go into town so the team could work him over, forcing him to contact the others.
If this were America, they would be doing everything from the safety of an air-conditioned office. Unfortunately, the NSA’s reach didn’t include the ISPs and telephone exchanges of other sovereign nations.
Durston circled the perimeter of the building, taking his time and ensuring his feet didn’t fall on anything that could give him away, such as twigs or squeaky dog toys. He hadn’t seen anything about a pet in Gray’s file, but it hadn’t been updated in quite some time. A dog would be bad news, whichever method he used to complete his mission.
At the rear of the house, hidden in the tree line, Durston took out his night-vision binoculars and scanned the target. The back yard was protected by a wall made from local stone. At four feet high, it would be enough to hide behind while he waited for someone in the house to connect to the Internet. It was only twenty yards from the house, which should be within range of the Wi-Fi. It also gave him a good view of the car parked out front.
Having seen all he needed to see, and not wanting to push his luck, Durston made his way back to the road and jogged back to the guest house. He wanted to eat and be asleep by eleven for a 5 a.m. start.
CHAPTER 8
“It has to be somewhere . . .”
Tom Gray wondered if every child had the magic ability to lose a shoe five minutes before leaving the house each morning, or if it was only Melissa. He joined Mina and Ken Hatcher in searching for the missing footwear, and eventually found it in her toy box. He tried once again to explain that there was a place for everything, and putting everything in its place made it easier to find, but Melissa had moved on to choosing a companion for the ride into town. She was having a hard time deciding if Peppa Pig or the strange blue Igglepiggle creature should accompany her.
“Come on, darling, get your shoe on and pick one friend so we can go. Grandad needs to get to the doctor.”
Ken Hatcher was actually the uncle of Tom’s wife, Vick, who’d died four years earlier, but he and Mina had been happy to take on the role of grandparents for Melissa.
“I don’t know what to take.”
“Take them both, darling,” Mina said, ending the standoff and lighting up the little girl’s face.
Mina took Gray by the arm and led him toward the door. “You could try a little compromise like that now and again,” she whispered.
Gray looked back down the hallway at his daughter. “I don’t negotiate with terrorists.”
It earned him a light-hearted smack on the arm, and he couldn’t help but smile. His world revolved around Melissa, and it would for the rest of his life. He was torn between wanting her to grow so that he could see her develop, an
d having her remain a child forever. There would undoubtedly be tough times ahead—the teen years, boyfriends, moving into her own place. All the joys of parenthood, things he would have to face alone.
That was one of the drawbacks of living in such an isolated community. There were plenty of parents in the town, but few had a good grasp of English—and Gray’s Italian needed a lot of work. The peaceful atmosphere more than made up for the lack of a social life, but Melissa needed friends to play and grow with. At some point she would outgrow her dolls and turn to other interests, such as the Internet and boys.
It didn’t bear thinking about.
With her shoes now on, Mina helped Melissa don her coat and Gray handed her a Noddy-themed umbrella, then opened the front door. Melissa squeezed between his legs and was first to the car.
As Gray watched Melissa skip down the drive, he pined for her mother. Vick had been murdered when Melissa was only a baby, and his daughter’s wavy blond hair and bubbly nature made him think of her every day.
Mina drove, as she always did. Ken had given up his license after his eyesight had deteriorated, and Gray preferred to jog the three miles to town. It was short of the five miles he used to run each day, but his days in the SAS were well behind him. Three was enough for a man on the wrong side of forty.
They reached the center of town minutes later, and Gray and Melissa got out at the ATM. The rain had stopped, but it was still bitterly cold.
“We’ll get some food in, then meet you at the doctor’s in about forty minutes,” Gray told Mina. He closed the door and waved the couple off.
The moment Gray and the others left the house, Durston got on comms.
“Looks like they’re heading out. Wait one.”
He was relieved that he wouldn’t have to sit outside the house for hours. The rain had stopped during the night, but the temperature had plummeted since his last visit. He’d already spent three hours watching Gray’s home from behind the garden wall, and hadn’t relished spending the rest of the day at the mercy of the elements.
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