Firefight (27 page)

He shook his head. 'No. It's not a wind-up. It's deadly
serious. I'm trying to find out if Priestley's been doing—'
He searched for the words. 'Something wrong,' he concluded,
a bit inadequately. 'If he finds out I suspect anything about
it, I'm a dead man walking.'

He had half expected Kate to panic when he spoke those
words, but she didn't. 'And if he suspects that
I
know
anything about it, what then?'

'That won't happen,' Will replied, confidently. 'Because
firstly, I'm not going to tell you any more; and secondly, he'll
never find out. Nobody in the world knows I've ever met
you and we're going to keep it that way.' He took her by the
hand. 'I'm sorry, Kate. To lay this on you and everything. But
I don't know who else to ask and you have to trust me.
People have died because of what this man is doing and if I
don't get this right, a lot more will follow. Will you help me?'

Kate thought for a moment. 'I suppose there's not even
an exclusive in it for me at the end of the day,' she said a
bit wistfully.

'No,' Will enunciated the word clearly. 'Kate, when this
is done you have to forget all about it. Believe me, if you
start snooping around, they'll kill you.'

His words seemed to echo around the room. Kate looked
at him, her eyes wide and her lips pursed. 'What do I need
to do?' she whispered.

'We're going to go to a public telephone,' he said.
'Somewhere well away from here. You're going to pretend
to be a journalist.' He smiled. 'That's the easy bit. When
you get Priestley on the phone, you're going to tell him
that you know all about a thing called Operation Firefight.
He'll tell you he doesn't know anything about it, but you
need to be persistent. Tell him you'll be waiting for him
beneath Nelson's Column tonight at seven o'clock. Then
put the phone down.'

'I don't have to meet the guy, do I?'

'No,' Will replied, his face grim. 'You don't have to do
anything else. I'll take it from there.'

Kate fell silent. She was thinking carefully about what
Will had just explained to her. 'There's no way they'll know
it's me, is there?'

Will shook his head. 'Trust me,' he said. 'I'm good at this
sort of thing.'

She gave a weak smile. 'Not the only thing you're good
at,' she replied in a half-hearted attempt to lighten the mood.
'All right.' She said it quickly, as if she wanted to get the
word out before she changed her mind. 'I'll do it.'

Will closed his eyes. 'Good girl,' he said, softly. 'Thank
you.'

*

They needed to make the phone call from somewhere a
decent distance away from Kate's house, but that wasn't all.
Priestley would have the capability to trace where the phone
call came from, so the phone box they used needed to be
out of the way of any CCTV cameras. That put lots of
places out of bounds - shopping centres, Tube stations, even
busy streets where any of the shops could have hidden
cameras. The obvious solution would be to take Kate out
into the countryside and find a phone box in some out of
the way village, but that wouldn't do either. If Priestley
knew that his anonymous caller had gone to such lengths
not to be discovered, he would start to suspect that she was
more than just a journalist: he'd know she was a pro.

'I need to see your wardrobe,' he told Kate. She nodded
silently - numbly, almost, as though she couldn't quite
believe what she had got herself into - and opened up the
large, white built-in wardrobes at the end of her bedroom.
Will browsed through the clothes, selecting a heavy winter
coat with a high collar, a scarf and a woollen hat with flaps
that covered the ears - not the sort of thing he would have
expected to find in Kate's bedroom, but which he was glad
of nonetheless. 'Put them on,' he said shortly.

Kate did as she was told.

'Do you have some sunglasses?'

She nodded and pulled a large pair of Jackie-O type
shades from a drawer.

'Perfect,' Will said. He looked out of the window. It was
still raining. 'Umbrella?' he asked.

'Two,' Kate told him, and she fetched them from the hallway.

'Take the biggest one,' he said. 'It'll give you more cover.'

'I thought you said no one was going to see me, Will.'

'I did,' he replied. 'But this is just to make sure. Come
on, we need to go.'

They took the Tube down to South London. Will left
the platform first, Kate following a few metres behind - he
hoped that if anybody did clock them or go back and see
them on CCTV, they would never think that they were
together. Even if they did, Kate's features were sufficiently
disguised for her to be unrecognisable.

Once they got up to street level, they started walking -
Will on one side of the road, Kate on the other, a few steps
behind. They had agreed that they would walk quite some
distance - several Tube stops, at least, so that if anyone decided
to check camera footage from the stations nearest the phone
box they ended up using, they would be thrown off the
scent. It didn't take long for Will to become wet through
in the rain, but Kate at least had the large umbrella, which
not only kept her dry but also kept her head out of sight.

After an hour walking, they came to a residential area.
Terraced houses - no estates where CCTV would be all
over the place. At the end of the road Will spotted a phone
booth. It was just what he was looking for. He stopped and
looked across the street at Kate, gave her a surreptitious
nod, then watched as she walked on towards the phone
box.

All he could do now was wait.

Christ, he thought to himself. He'd been doing a lot of
waiting in the last few days, but for some reason this seemed
more agonising than any of it. He was convinced that
Kate would be safe - that wasn't the problem. The problem
was that now he was on his own. What if his little plan
didn't work? What if, by the end of the day, he was as much
in the dark as ever? What would he do then?

It was only ten minutes later that Kate returned, but it
seemed much longer. She was walking hurriedly away from
the phone box with her head down. Will let her pass, then
started to follow. They walked in a random direction for at
least half an hour before he caught up with her.

'Well?' he asked.

Kate looked up at him with wide eyes. 'I'm frightened,'
she told him. He took her hand. It was shaking.

'Did you speak to Priestley?'

She nodded her head. 'He wouldn't speak to me at first,'
she said. 'I got his secretary. But I said the words Operation
Firefight and he was on the phone almost immediately.'

I'll bet he was, Will thought to himself grimly. 'What did
he say?'

'Just what you thought he'd say. That he didn't know
what I was talking about. So I gave him your message about
meeting at Trafalgar Square tonight and—' She faltered.

'And what, Kate?'

'And then I just hung up. I'm sorry, Will. I lost my nerve.
I don't think he really thought I was a journalist.' She
shrugged a little sadly. 'Truth is, I'm
not
much of one.'

Will smiled. 'You did just fine, Kate,' he said. 'Just fine.'
He gave her a brief hug and she clung to him. 'I have to
go now,' he whispered.

'I know.' She sounded like she was fighting back tears.

'I'm going to give you my number. If you ever get worried
about—'

'No,' Kate interrupted him. She released herself from his
embrace and looked seriously into his eyes. 'I don't know
what all this is about, Will, but if what you tell me is true,
it's best that I don't know anything more about you.'

There was a pause and Will felt uneasy. She was right, of
course. The less she knew, the less she could tell. But he
didn't like the idea. He didn't like it at all.

She was clearly determined, though. 'I'm going to walk
away now,' she said, her voice cracking slightly. She stood
up on tiptoes and kissed him rather chastely on the cheek.
'Good luck, Will.'

And with that, she turned and left. Will stood and watched
her go, watched until she turned a distant corner and walked
out of his sight.

It was with a sense of total certainty that he realised he
would never see her again.

Will had chosen Trafalgar Square for a reason.

If Priestley was worried, if he thought Kate's call was
more than just a crank, there would be surveillance here
tonight - snipers for his protection and someone to photograph
whoever he met. Will had decided on Trafalgar Square
because he knew he could put a pretty good bet on where
the surveillance would be set up. The roof of the National
Gallery offered a full vista over the square and if Will had
been instructed to set up surveillance over the place, that's
where he would have chosen.

He had returned to Paddington Station just after 15.00
hours to pick up his rucksack from the left-luggage locker.
His plan had been to travel to the West End by underground,
but when he got to the Tube station he saw that
it was being patrolled by armed police - the unmistakable
signs of a city on high terrorist alert. He couldn't risk trying
to get into the underground with a rucksack full of weaponry
on his back - chances were that he'd be stopped and searched
and all hell would break loose.

Instead he hailed a black cab, which took him to Covent
Garden. It was early evening by the time he arrived in the
West End. He approached Trafalgar Square from the north,
down Charing Cross Road and into St Martin's Place,
grateful for the swarming crowds into which it was possible
to melt anonymously. Approaching from this direction meant
that he didn't have to cross Trafalgar Square in order to
reach his destination, an advantage because he couldn't be
sure how early any surveillance would be set up and it was
essential that he wasn't spotted.

There was building work in progress at the church of St
Martin-in-the-Fields, which meant there was scaffolding
outside it, all the way up to the clock tower. He hadn't
counted on that, but it was going to help. The five-thirty
evensong service was in progress and the church was nearly
half full. As Will slipped inside, he hoped his casual clothes
and rucksack made him look like an aimless tourist there
to see the sights and for a good ten minutes he stood at
the back of that impressive church, listening to the monotone
voice of the priest intoning a sermon. It was nearly
dark outside and the huge chandeliers cast a warm yellow
glow over the heavy wooden pews, illuminating the intricate
patterning of the ceiling.

Will wasn't interested in the church's decorative qualities,
however, nor the priest's no doubt well-meaning
message. He could pray to his God for peace to all men
as much as he liked, but Will knew that sometimes peace
came at a greater price. That price was war and just at the
moment he felt like a one-man army fighting a battle with
an enemy he could never defeat through strength alone.
He continued to stand at the back, looking around. Anyone
who saw him would think he was just taking in the
surroundings, but in fact he was searching for something
quite specific.

There were two ornate balconies along the length of
each side of the church and at the altar end there was a
door, which he presumed led up to them. As the service
came to a close and the disparate congregation rose to their
collective feet and started milling about the aisle, Will edged
around the side of the pews and headed for the door that
he hoped would take him upwards. He opened it confidently,
as if he had every right to do so and, sure enough,
behind it was a flight of stone steps. He hurried up them,
two at a time.

He reached the top of the stairs and looked around. There
was a door leading to the balcony, but a second flight of
steps headed upwards. Will was just about to climb them
when he heard a voice.

'May I help you?'

He turned round to see a black-robed priest smiling
blandly at him.

Will blinked. 'I was just coming up to the balcony,' he
replied, instinctively. 'I just wanted somewhere quiet to sit
and—'

'Reflect?' the priest completed his sentence for him. He
stepped to one side and indicated the balcony door. For
the first time since he had put it on, Will felt the rucksack
full of military equipment digging into his back. 'You
should find it more peaceful up here than downstairs on
the dance floor. 'The priest's smile grew broader at his own
little joke.

'Thank you,' Will murmured. He stepped on to the
balcony and took a seat at the end of the pew. He'd give
it a couple of minutes before he made his way up the stairs
again. He bowed his head in an expression of mock piety
and waited.

Two minutes passed and when Will checked, the priest
had left. He silently slipped up the stairs which wound
upwards in a circular fashion. The sound of the congregation's
hubbub down below faded away, as did the light. By
the time Will had navigated his way up into the bell tower
he was practically engulfed in darkness. And that suited him
just fine.

The four sides of the bell tower were open to the elements
and from this vantage point - beyond the scaffolding - Will
had a reasonable view of Trafalgar Square and the crowds
and traffic that thronged around it. But more importantly,
he looked down on to the roof of the National Gallery.
From here, he would be able to see everything he needed.

He glanced at his watch. Ten past six. Just under an hour
until the meeting time. From his rucksack he removed the
small NV binoculars he had taken from the stake-out and
put them to his eye. A flick of the switch and the roof of
the National Gallery was instantly illuminated in a dull
green glow. He zoomed in closer and examined the area.

No one. Not yet.

Switching off the power, he sat down behind the wall of
the bell tower. Out of sight, just where he needed to be.

Every fifteen minutes, he checked. He felt comfortable
that no one would see him up here - they would be doing
surveillance for a civilian on the ground. But at half past
six there was still no one. At quarter to seven, no one. Will
began to feel on edge. What if Ahmed had been stringing
him a lie? What if Operation Firefight was no more than
a creation of the Afghan's warped imagination?

Will looked at his watch. Five to seven. He closed his
eyes, took a deep breath, then switched on his NV binoculars
for another look over the rooftops.

He didn't see them at first, as they seemed somehow to
blend into their surroundings. But after a few seconds of
looking, a figure suddenly jumped out at him. He zoomed
in closer. The man was wearing a helmet and some sort of
flak jacket. But he wasn't carrying a gun, as Will might have
expected. He was carrying a camera with a telescopic lens
and it was pointed out towards Trafalgar Square.

And then, as soon as one of them had caught his eye, he
saw the rest. There were maybe five or six in total - two
of them with cameras, the others with sniper guns, trained
and waiting, ready for anything suspicious.

It was all he needed to see. Confirmation. Now he could
leave and implement the next part of his plan.

But then, curiosity got the better of him. He turned his
binoculars away from the surveillance team on top of the
National Gallery, aiming it instead towards the throng of
Trafalgar Square. There were hundreds of people there, milling
around, gazing up at Nelson's Column or sitting on the vast
stone lions that kept guard. Hundreds of them. But at the
foot of the enormous plinth, standing still and in clear view
of the surveillance team, was a man. Will had to concentrate
on steadying his hands so that he could get the figure
in view and as he did so he zoomed in closely on his face.

Donald Priestley stood alone, his hands plunged firmly
into his pockets to ward off the cold. Even at this distance
Will could see that his jaw was set, his face grim. Every
now and then his eyes would flicker upwards and it was
clear to Will that the CIA man was aware of the surveillance
team high above him.

Will switched off the binoculars and stowed them safely
in his rucksack. For some reason the sight of Priestley had
both shocked and exhilarated him. The CIA man had taken
the bait; all he had to do now was reel him in. However,
Priestley would be on high alert and it would take all of
Will's powers of deception and persuasion to implement
the next stage of his plan.

But I've got you running scared now, you bastard, he
thought to himself as he hurried down the stairs to the
main body of the church.

I've got you running scared.

*

Donald Priestley poured himself a large whisky, downed it,
replenished his glass and then took a seat on the leather sofa.
The plush house on West Halkin Street in Mayfair that came
with the job was warm and comfortable, yet the American
felt chilled to the bone - not only from standing outside in
the cold as part of this evening's wild goose chase, but also
out of uneasiness. The phone call from that woman had
knocked him off-kilter. Who the hell was she? Some hack
trying her luck, acting on the back of a rumour? But where
could she have got such a rumour? Only two people in the
country knew about Operation Firefight: Priestley himself
and Faisal Ahmed. His secretary knew the name, but not
what it meant. And stateside it was hardly common knowledge
- only the highest echelons of the CIA were in on it.
Even the White House weren't aware of the policy.

But this wasn't Ahmed's style - Christ knows, Priestley
had done enough work to try and get inside the man's head
of late. No, something else was going on. He took another
sip of his whisky, leaned back on the sofa and closed his
eyes.

It scared him shitless that Faisal Ahmed was out there.
He had been certain that blowing Ahmed's cover in the
British terrorist organisations he had infiltrated on the CIA's
behalf would have been the end of him - those bastards
were animals and ruthless with it. More fool him, he
supposed, for underestimating the job his countrymen had
done of training the bloodthirsty Afghan in the first place.
And he'd been even more of a fool for thinking that the
British, with their stiff upper lips and excruciating sense of
fair play, would have been able to locate Ahmed, even after
his people had planted the idea in their minds that he was
going to blow up half of London. How a halfwit like
Lowther Pankhurst had ever made it to DG of MI5, he'd
never know.

'
Shit!
' he said out loud to himself. The sooner he was
called back to Langley, the better. He looked around him.
At least this place was secure - guards on all the doors and
high-level security at all the entrances and exits. A perk of
the job and one he was glad of - he only really felt safe
when he was at home.

A buzzer sounded. Priestley got to his feet and wandered
over to the heavy mahogany desk, pressing a button on the
little intercom his staff used to communicate with him.
'Yeah?'

Another American voice came over the loudspeaker.
'There's a guy at the front entrance, Mr Priestley, insists on
seeing you. Says his name is Will Jackson. Shall I get rid of
him?'

Priestley paused and his eyes momentarily narrowed. 'Will
Jackson?'

'That's right, sir.'

Again he fell silent. Will Jackson. Back from the dead -
and on the very day that someone had spooked him about
Operation Firefight. Coincidence? Unbidden, an old saying
came into his head.
Keep your friends close, but your enemies
closer
.

'Show him up,' Priestley instructed. He sat down again
on the leather sofa and waited.

Moments later, Jackson was standing in the doorway to
his room.

'Will,' Priestley greeted him, warily. 'Don't take this the
wrong way, but I'm surprised to see you here.'

Jackson's face gave no clue to what he was thinking. 'I'm
kind of lucky to
be
here, sir,' he replied.

Priestley inclined his head. 'Well, you'd better come in.
What can I fix you to drink?'

'Nothing.'

'Fair enough, Will. Have a seat and tell me, does Lowther
Pankhurst know you're still - ?' His voice trailed away.

'Alive?' Jackson supplied. 'Probably not. I came to you
first.'

'But not immediately, Will. You've been missing for nearly
forty-eight hours.'

For a moment it seemed to Priestley that Jackson wasn't
going to answer; he suddenly seemed like his mind was
somewhere completely different. But eventually he spoke.
'I don't suppose you'll ever know what it's like,' he said in
little more than a whisper. 'To come so close to catching
the man who murdered your family and to watch him get
away. Don't take it personally, but I didn't really feel like a
dressing-down from you and Lowther Pankhurst until I got
my head in order.'

Priestley inclined his head a little. The man
sounded
sincere,
at least. 'I suppose you know about your colleagues.'

Jackson nodded. 'Ahmed got the better of us. You weren't
joking when you told us he was good. He managed to get
me out of the way, nail Drew and Kennedy, then escape
with his sister. A pretty spectacular fuck-up, all in all.'

'I won't pretend I don't agree with that, Will. Pankhurst's
kind of pissed too. Hell, that's the understatement of the
year.'

A pause. Priestley stood up and looked out of the ornate
window and the prison-like bars beyond. 'So you didn't see
or speak to Ahmed,' he said, lightly.

'Oh, I spoke to him all right.'

Priestley felt a sudden coldness in his blood. He turned
slowly to look at the SAS man.

'I chased him,' Jackson continued. 'I chased him and caught
up with him.'

'Why the
hell
—?' Priestley spat, before suddenly gaining
control of his emotions. 'What - why the hell didn't you
shoot him?'

'Because he had an MP5 with laser sights aimed at my
head,' Jackson replied,'and he made me discharge my weapon
into the ground.'

Priestley's lips went thin. 'Why didn't he just kill you?'
the CIA man asked. It was framed as a question, but Priestley
knew it was more like wishful thinking.