by David Archer
Sam thought through everything he'd been hearing, trying to find the thread that would tie it all together. Everything he knew about politics, everything that Mildred had been explaining, all of it was swirling together in his brain and he was trying to make sense of the mixture. Something about the idea that this faction was using many different jihadist groups to build its power, along with the terrifying possibilities that the Touch of Death poison brought along, was almost too much for him to grasp.
“Okay, I’m trying to see this,” Sam said. “I’m trying to understand just what this guy is actually planning. If we can figure out his basic motivation, that could give us something of an edge on anticipating what he might do next, but it’s just about beyond me to see how he could ever hope to put Islam in control of the world.”
“You’re certainly on the right track,” Mildred said. “Islam as a religion isn’t itself a threat to anyone, but there are fanatical factions that believe that all infidels must be destroyed. This is the general thrust of all jihadists, that only those who worship Allah under the precepts of Islam are worthy of life.”
"But, dear God, what's the point? Are they simply out to destroy England, Europe, America?"
“My dear Mr. Prichard, if only it were that simple. I’m afraid that it’s actually about globalization. One world, one single government, adhering to the precepts of radical Islam. Do you want to know what is standing in the way of this entirely new form of new world order? It's the one thing that Western nations are best known for, and is precisely what jihadists hate as much as they hate anything. Have you any idea what that might be, Mr. Prichard?"
Sam's eyes suddenly shot wide open. "Oh my—it's freedom. What you're saying is that these factions are out to destroy freedom. Am I right?"
“You are indeed. Radical Islam abhors freedom. Its followers must adhere to rigid schedules of prayer, must obey strict rules that affect almost every aspect of life, and cannot show any sign of resistance. To do so is to invite vengeance that will culminate in death. If they can impose this philosophy on the rest of the world, those who bring it about will find themselves holding the greatest shares of power.”
Sam sat back in his chair and stared straight ahead. “Okay, this is definitely on the mind boggling side of things. But, how in the world are we gonna stop this guy? We don’t even have any clue where to look for him!”
Denny, sitting beside Sam, suddenly chuckled. “Funny, that, coming from you, Sam. I don’t think I can count the times you didn’t have a clue and still managed to figure out what was going to happen.”
“Okay,” Noah said, “so we have some idea of what this Tushar is up to. Let’s see if the satellite people have been any help.”
Mildred left the room and they all turned to where Neil and two other computer techs were staring at monitors. Satellite imagery was flowing across their screens, and they were staring intently.
“Neil?” Noah said. “Any luck?”
“Well, we found the right time and zoomed in on the house. There was definitely a truck parked behind it, but it’s just a white truck. There are thousands of them in London, and the bad news is that most of the streets in that neighborhood are lined with trees. The satellite can’t see through those, so the truck we are looking for could be one of more than a dozen that moved out of that area around the same time. We can see where a few of them went, but the activity around them doesn’t fit what we would expect to see if it was Tushar and Mr. Embry. I suspect we’re looking at normal delivery vans, rather than the specific truck we were hoping to find.” He looked up at Noah. “He’s using a vehicle that would be almost impossible to pick out in a crowd, or parking lot. This guy is smart, Noah. I’d have to say he anticipated the possibility we would turn to satellites to hunt him at some point, so I tried hacking into the traffic camera system. Unfortunately, London doesn’t have nearly as many of them as people think they do. Most of the traffic camera housings you see at intersections are actually empty. I’m afraid there just weren’t any working ones anywhere close to Embry’s house.”
“That’s interesting,” Noah said. “We’re certainly not dealing with the average jihadists.” He turned to Sam. “I’m trying to put myself into his mind, think the way he would. If I were planning to destroy the West, and had a weapon as powerful as this one, why would I be hanging around London? Any thoughts on that?”
Sam screwed up his face as he considered the question. “Well, that’s where he found Embry,” he said. “To be honest, I’m personally surprised he didn’t take the man somewhere else, someplace better controlled by Islamic State or one of the other groups. That would seem to me to be a bit safer, if you wanted to have this stuff manufactured in quantity.”
“Yes,” Jenny said, “but it wouldn’t give you a steady supply of test targets. If he’s out to destroy the West, he’s going to want his experimentation to take place where it will at least further his goals. Even with the few victims there have been so far, we can already see the people becoming frightened. No, I think he stayed here on purpose, but I’m not sure we understand why.”
“May I add something?” Angeline asked. “It would seem to me that he must have a specific target in mind here in London. Would it be prudent to look into what events might be taking place in the near future, things that will have large congregations of audience?”
“That’s an excellent point,” Sam said. He turned to Neil. “Hey, whiz kid. Can you check that out for us real quick?”
“Yeah, give me a minute.” Neil began tapping on the keyboard, and a moment later there was a new list of links on his screen. “Okay, you’ve got seven different concerts happening in the next couple of months, all at very large venues. Any of those might be a target, I suppose. There is a special investiture coming up this weekend, when numerous people are set to be knighted by the queen at Westminster Abbey. A very special concert will be held at the O2 Arena next month, a farewell performance by some old rockstar who’s decided to retire, and then there’s…”
“Hold it,” Noah said. He turned to Albert. “This investiture,” he said. “How many people are likely to attend?”
“In this particular one? This is one of the rare investitures that are opened to the public. They normally take place at Buckingham Palace, but this particular one is being held at Westminster Abbey. Normally, the Abbey can accommodate up to two thousand people, but there are additional seating arrangements that can bring it up as high as four thousand, or possibly more. I believe they will be in use during this one, and it isn’t difficult to see why you ask. You think this could be the target?”
“If I were Tushar, I think I’d consider taking out members of the royal family as a pretty powerful statement. The queen will be there, but who else among the royals?”
“Prince Philip will be there, of course, and I’m certain that Charles and the young princes will attend.”
Noah looked at Sam, who nodded.
“It fits,” Sam said. “Not only do they instill terror, but they take out the queen and her most likely successors. I’d have to say you’re making sense.”
“Yes, I am,” Noah said. “Catherine, you need to start taking steps to secure Westminster Abbey, now. The problem is that this particular weapon is so easy to deploy that we can’t be sure you can stop it. Maybe you should think about changing the venue at the last minute, take it somewhere that would be a lot more secure.”
“Her Majesty would never agree,” Catherine said. “She takes her duties very seriously, and investiture is one of them. This particular event will see more than three dozen men knighted, as well as over a hundred other investitures. I can assure you, she would absolutely refuse any sort of last-minute change.”
“She’s right,” Albert said. “She knows the queen far better than I, but I’m certain she’s correct.”
Noah looked at Sam again. “You need to find this guy, Sam. We’ll do whatever we can to help, but you’re the best hope we’ve got.”
Sa
m glared at him for a moment, but then nodded his head. “I’m trying,” he said. “I just wish I knew where to look next.”
The rest of the day was frustrating. Neil’s search of Facebook’s photo database was still running, but even he said that it could take days to go through the hundreds of millions of photos the website held. Sam and Denny had to simply sit by while Neil and the MI6 personnel searched for any sign of Tushar and Embry. At lunch time, they were taken down to the cafeteria on the first floor, but neither of them had a lot of appetite. They sat and drank coffee, simply trying to cope with everything they had learned since coming to London.
“We’ve got to find this guy, Sam,” Denny said. “We cannot let him do the things he’s trying to do.”
“I agree,” Sam said. “All we can do at the moment, though, is hope those whiz kids upstairs can get us some kind of lead. Embry doesn’t have any family, so there’s no one he might contact.” He shook his head. “If we’d only had weapons, we might have brought this to an end today.”
“Yes, well, we should have asked for them. I’m quite certain Mr. Lingenfelter would be happy to provide them, and I, for one, do not plan to go unarmed any longer on this case.”
“I’m ahead of you,” Sam said. “I talked to him about weapons before we came down for lunch, and he promised to have them for us by the time we come back.”
Albert was true to his word, and both of them were provided with Glock 17s and holsters when they returned to the conference room. They threaded their belts through the loops and strapped the guns on, and both of them felt just a bit better for the extra weight.
Unfortunately, there were no new leads forthcoming. At 6 o’clock that evening, Albert announced that they were standing down for the rest of the day. There had been no new victims, despite the letter and photographs, and Albert patted Sam on the back. It was his opinion that it was Sam’s confrontation with Tushar that had forestalled the deaths of the three people in the photos, but Sam wasn’t so sure.
He and Denny were allowed to take their car to the hotel, and Sam waited until they were alone in the room before calling home.
Indie answered cheerfully. For her, it was not quite lunchtime. “Hey, babe,” she said.
“Hey,” Sam said. “How’s everything going back home?”
“It’s going,” she said. “We all miss you. Kenzie was mad that you didn’t get a chance to say goodbye, but she’s over it now. Bo just keeps calling for you, like he expects you to come walking into the room any moment.”
“Give them both kisses for me. I promise I’ll be home soon as I can, but this case—it’s a bad one, babe.”
“Does it have anything to do with the people being poisoned over there? I saw something about it on CNN a little while ago.”
“Yes,” Sam said with a sigh, “I’m afraid it does. Indie, this could get really bad over here. Right now, we’re afraid we could be looking at something worse than 9/11.”
She was quiet for a moment. “You’re being careful, right, Sam?”
“Of course I am,” he said. “But this is the worst monster I’ve ever gone after, and I’m just not sure that I’m up to being the one to find him. We’ve got no leads, no clues, nothing but a name.”
“Anything Herman and I can do?” she asked.
“They’ve got people over here that are very good with computers, but I’ll let you know if I can think of something. For now, I just wanted to hear your voice and tell you that I love you.”
TWELVE
Alex Lambril, director of MI6, lived in a nice neighborhood on Sloane Street in Chelsea, in southwest London. Despite his position in the intelligence community, he was a very private man. As such, he did not care for the idea of having security people around his home.
Although in his mid-fifties, Alex was still in pretty good shape. He could still run an obstacle course that would leave many younger men gasping for breath, he maintained his black belts in five different martial arts disciplines, and he could still see and hear as well as ever. That was important to him, and he had his vision and hearing checked twice a year, just to be safe.
After a day such as it had been, the most important thing on his mind was getting home to his wife and trying to relax. When he arrived, his butler told him that Mrs. Lambril had gone out for an evening with their daughter and would not be home until later. Alex simply nodded, since this was not uncommon, and went to his den.
His phone rang and he picked it up, expecting it to be his wife calling, but the number was blocked. He looked at the phone for two rings, and then answered it.
“Alex Lambril,” he said.
“Hello, Mr. Lambril,” came a voice through the line, and Alex tried without success to place it. It was not familiar, but a moment later, he knew why. “My name, Mr. Lambril, is Tushar Balakrishnan. I feel rather certain that you’ve heard my name today. Am I correct, sir?”
His grip tightened on the phone. “You are,” he said. “I don’t suppose you would care to tell me how you acquired this number?” His heart began to race as he waited for the answer.
“It wasn’t difficult,” Tushar said. “I do hope I'm not interrupting anything; I just wanted to speak with you for a moment, and see if we might avoid some impending unpleasantries.”
“Unpleasantries?” Alex asked. “And just what might those be?”
“Now, Mr. Lambril,” Tushar said, “I’m rather certain that you must be aware of my presence in your city, and that I am preparing a few surprises. In fairness, however, I thought that it might be prudent to offer your government the opportunity to avoid some of them. Are you willing to discuss how that might come to pass?”
Alex frowned. “You can discuss whatever you like,” he said. “I can tell you, without revealing any secrets, that you’re currently my agency’s number one priority, but I suspect you already knew that.”
Tushar laughed. “Of course, Mr. Lambril. I would expect nothing less, but there is a way to avoid the disastrous loss of life that I am planning. Since you are the man who will ultimately be responsible for answering to your government when my plans come to fruition, you are also the one man who might be able to convince your government to cooperate. For that reason, I am calling with a simple proposal. If your prime minister will remove all of the impediments to Muslim immigration that are currently in place, and take steps to permit Muslims to freely exercise their culture and religion, I shall take my plans elsewhere. If not, then I’m afraid you will be the man to oversee the greatest disaster in British history.”
“And just what might that disaster be?” Alex asked. “It might help if I was able to give the PM some details.”
“Oh, I don’t think I can be giving away my secrets,” Tushar said. “Mr. Lambril, let me advise you to cooperate. After all, if I can get your telephone number, then you must have deduced that I also know where you live.”
Alex’s eyes narrowed. “I’m sure you are aware that I can make no such request,” he said. “Mr. Balakrishnan, there is absolutely no point in continuing this conversation. Good day.”
He hung up the phone and set it on the table beside his chair, then leaned back to consider what he should do next. A few minutes later, he reached for his phone once again, preparing to call his offices and speak to the night supervisors.
He heard the soft click of the back door as he was about to dial, and listened for the barely audible sound of soft-soled trainers coming down the hall. When he was certain of what he was hearing, he quietly slid open the drawer in the sidetable and withdrew the Walther pistol he kept there. He got to his feet and stood there, waiting, until he heard the unmistakable sound of the knob turning slightly on the door into his den, and then he held the silenced pistol out in front of himself as he moved quickly to stand beside the large bookcase that stood next to his desk. That left him facing the doorway with a minimal profile, so when the two men burst into his den with their own guns held out before them, all it took was two quick squeezes of the trigger to d
rop both of them with a single round through each of their heads. Both of them fell, and Alex lifted the barrel of his pistol to point it at the ceiling. He waited more than two minutes before moving, and then peeked around the door and down the hall. No one seemed to be waiting there, so he looked back at the two men he'd just killed, then went quietly through the house until he found his butler, Charlton, whose throat had been slashed in the kitchen.
He secured the doors and then went back to his den, once more looking down at the two dead men. He didn't know either of them, but that wasn't a big surprise; there were so many new players on the field lately that he couldn't possibly know them all. Neither of them would be identifiable, of course; there would be no ID on them, and fingerprints and other forms of identification methodology would almost certainly come up empty. He took out his phone and completed the call to his office.
“MI6, Office of the Director,” came the crisp answer.
“That’s Arthur, isn’t it? This is Alex Lambril. I shall need security services tonight, and you might send the police and the coroner. I’m afraid I just killed two would-be assassins, and one of them has managed to murder my butler.”
Arthur, who was an excellent duty officer, asked only a couple of questions before getting off the phone and taking care of his duties. Alex heard sirens approaching his house in less than three minutes, and five SIS operatives arrived only a few seconds behind the police.