Firefight (28 page)

'Because Latifa told him not to. Seems she was grateful
to me for getting her out of the Stan and from stopping
your boys from waterboarding her.'

'Maybe if "my boys" had waterboarded her a bit more,'
Priestley couldn't stop himself from saying,'we wouldn't be
in this situation.'

'I don't think so,' Jackson replied, quietly.

Priestley breathed out heavily in frustration and struggled
to control his temper. He looked straight into Jackson's
eyes. 'What else did Ahmed say, Will?'

Jackson's face remained unreadable. 'He asked me if it
was you who sent me to kill him.'

Priestley continued to breathe steadily. 'And what did
you tell him, Will?'

'He had an MP5 aimed at my head. I told him the truth.
He said he wasn't surprised. His exact words were, "Don
Priestley knows the next bullet I have is for him."'

Jackson's words themselves were like bullets and Priestley
steadied himself by holding on to the corner of the large
wooden desk. 'Why did he say that, Will?'

So much rested on the SAS man's answer.

'I was hoping you might be able to tell
me
that,' Jackson
replied. 'I'm afraid neither of us were in the mood for an
extended chat. He made me turn around and walk away.
When I looked again, he was gone.' Jackson stared at him
thoughtfully. 'Why you, sir?' he asked. 'Why would Faisal
Ahmed want
you
dead before anyone else?'

Priestley nodded, slowly. Was Jackson telling the truth?
The CIA man had been trained to tell when someone was
lying and he could see none of the telltale signifiers. But
years in the job had taught Priestley to make suspicion his
default position. He still hadn't forgotten about the charade
in Trafalgar Square and although Jackson had said nothing
to suggest he knew about Firefight, he had equally said
nothing to suggest he didn't.

'Why are you here, Will?' he asked, plainly. 'Why are you
reporting all this to me and not to Pankhurst? He's your
handler.'

'I don't have a handler,' Jackson replied with a sudden
burst of anger. 'I left the Regiment two years ago and to
my knowledge I never signed up again. Pankhurst's been
using me, manipulating me for his own ends. Fuck it, you
both have. But all
I
want to do is kill Faisal Ahmed.
Pankhurst's leads have all dried up, so it seems to me that
you and I can help each other.'

Priestley blinked. 'I'm not sure I quite follow you, Will.'

'Ahmed told me straight that he's got a bullet with your
name on it. Seems to me that if I want to get to him, all
I have to do is hang around you.'

'Forgive me, Will, but I don't quite see what
I
get out
of it.'

'A bodyguard,' Jackson replied. 'Twenty-four seven.'

Priestley smiled, but he was aware of it being a rather
sickly smile - the sort of smile that only a man talking
about his own potential assassination could give. 'That's
very kind of you, Will,' he said. 'But my position is such
that if I want a bodyguard, I really only have to say the
word.'

Jackson shrugged. 'That's up to you,' he said. He stood
up and now it was his turn to look through the window.
He paused. 'When he comes for you,' he said, his voice
subdued, 'it won't be in a dark alleyway like in the movies.
It'll be when you least expect it. In a crowd, in a restaurant,
when you're lying in bed - sometime when you feel
safe.' He turned back to the CIA man. 'I'm the only person
you can call on who's seen Ahmed in the last five years.
I've looked into his eyes. I'll recognise him in an instant.
Have me by your side and you might even live to see
Christmas.'

Priestley fell into a terrified silence. There really wasn't
much he could say to that.

'And there's one other thing,' Jackson added. 'Faisal Ahmed
really wants you dead. I don't know why and I don't reckon
I'll ever find out. But this terrorist attack of yours, I think
it's just a red herring.'

Priestley did his best to remain expressionless.

'But you know what? I don't care. You and Pankhurst
can play your little games as much as you like. Ahmed killed
my family and I want him dead. I want
him
dead even more
than he wants
you
dead. If you think that's a resource you
can just ignore, then fine. But it'll be your funeral, sir, so
you'd better start planning it.'

Jackson's stark warning seemed to ring in the air and sent
a chill all the way through Priestley's body. Perhaps this SAS
man whom MI5 seemed to trust so implicitly was right.
Perhaps there was something to be said for going along
with his proposal.

At least for now.

The guy
really
wanted Ahmed's head on a plate, that much
was beyond doubt. Why not let him do what he wanted?
After all, once Ahmed was dead, Priestley could deal with
Will Jackson more permanently.

He nodded his head. 'All right, Will,' he said gravely.
'You've got yourself a deal.'

*

Latifa Ahmed watched her brother as he slept.

The flat in which they were staying - fifteen floors up
a vast concrete tower block on a council estate fifty miles
out of London - was more like a fortress than a home.
Huge bolts sealed the front entrance closed and there was
weaponry and ammunition everywhere. This was not a room
designed for comfort. Latifa knew that Faisal had places like
this dotted all over the country. When they had arrived,
however, she hadn't been able to stop herself from sounding
like her mother, dead these thirty years, and asking him
how he could call such a place home.

Faisal's answer had been simple. 'I would rather be alive
in a prison than dead in a home.'

He lay now on a thin mattress on the floor, his ever-present
gun by his side. It seemed to her that she had never
seen Faisal without his weapon, not since he was a child
of ten. She had never actually witnessed him killing anybody,
though, not until he rescued her a couple of nights previously.
He had shot those two men so unthinkingly, showing
such a lack of remorse, that she could not help looking at
him differently now. It had been all she could do, slung
over his shoulder as they escaped that house, to beg him
not to kill Will Jackson, the man who - despite everything
- had done so much for her. Faisal hadn't been pleased with
the idea, but she felt she had at least done something to
stop the bloodshed.

He had been such an idealistic little boy; but now, looking
at his chest rising and falling and at the surroundings in which
they found themselves, she could not help wondering what it
was he was fighting for. Maybe the fight itself was everything.

Faisal's eyes flickered open and his hand moved automatically
to his weapon as he snapped himself into awareness.
He smiled at Latifa when he realised she was there; but she
found herself unable to return that smile.

'You have been looking at me in that way ever since we
got here,' Faisal said in quiet Pashto as he stood up and
walked to the sink to splash cold water on his face.

'I keep thinking of the men you shot, Faisal,' she replied.
'Does it not bother you?'

He sighed. 'I have already told you, Latifa,' he said, impatiently.
'It was them or me. Would you have preferred to
see
me
lying dead on the floor?'

'Of course not,' she murmured.

'They were soldiers, Latifa. Soldiers die. They knew that
when they came after me.'

Latifa tried to bite her tongue. She knew she ought not
to ask the question that was on her lips, but suddenly she
couldn't help herself. 'And what of the little girl, Faisal?
Will Jackson's little girl. Was she a soldier too?'

Faisal suddenly slammed his fist on the wall. 'I have
explained that to you,' he shouted. 'Do not ask me about
it again.'

And then Latifa was on her feet, hobbling towards her
brother, who had menace in his eyes. His breath was shaking.
'Do not try to scare me like you scare them, Faisal,' she
whispered. 'I am your sister. Have you forgotten what I have
undergone to keep you safe?'

He lowered his eyes.

'When that man told me what you did to his family, I did
not believe him. I did not
want
to believe him. I did not think
you could do such a thing. But you have changed, Faisal. You
have turned into something you never meant to be.'

'It was not supposed to happen,' he told her. 'It was an
accident.'

'An
accident
? How can you say that? It was a little girl
and her mother. How can you carry on with this way of
life with such an
accident
weighing on your shoulders? Can
you not see that it was only a matter of time before such
a thing happened? That it will happen again?'

Faisal looked defiantly at her; but for all his fierceness she
saw nothing more than the little boy she had once known.
She stretched out her arms and cupped his face in her
hands.

'Can you not see,' she whispered, 'that this will only end
one way? The Taliban nearly killed you as they nearly killed
me. We have both been given a second chance at life, Faisal.
We must not squander it. What will I do if you are killed
and I have no one else left in the whole world?'

Brother and sister looked deep into each other's eyes, but
Faisal could not weather that stare for long. He moved her
hands away from his face. 'You don't understand,' he said.
'For years I did the Americans' bidding. For
years
, Latifa. I
was one of them. I believed I was fighting for the right
side. Even when they asked me to start making phoney
terrorist attacks against the British, I believed it was the
right thing to do.' He turned back to look at her again.
'Believe me, Latifa. When that woman and child died, no
one was more anguished than me. But then they asked me
to start killing innocent civilians and I knew it was wrong.'

His brow was furrowed now and his features seemed
strangely tortured. 'Can you not think what it must have
been like, to realise that the people you have served all your
life are not what you thought they were? Can you not
understand how difficult it was to deny them? And can you
not see the depth of their betrayal? After all I had risked
for them, to leave me to the vultures.' Faisal's nostrils flared
and he looked away from his sister.

'We can leave here,' Latifa whispered. 'Leave this country.
Hide away. We don't need to have anything more to do
with these people, Faisal. You cannot fight the might of the
Americans, so why risk your life doing it?'

'Because I'm a soldier. All my life I have fought for
someone. But now, I fight for myself.' His eyes flashed.
'Donald Priestley will pay for what he did to me, Latifa. I
will not have it any other way.'

His words seemed to puncture Latifa's soul. 'And after
him,' she asked. 'What then? Where will it end, Faisal?
When
will it end, all this killing? What about Will Jackson? He is
a good man, but I have seen the hate in his eyes when he
speaks your name.'

Faisal frowned. 'I am grateful to Will Jackson for what
he did for you, Latifa, and I spared his life at your request.
But I will not do so again. I do not blame him for wanting
me dead - in his position I would want the same. But if
he is foolish enough to come searching for me, he knows
the stakes. He knows I will not hesitate to kill him.'

Latifa closed her eyes. It was impossible for her to express
to her brother the deep sadness she felt at hearing his words;
impossible for her to relay the dreadful sense of foreboding
that seemed to permeate to her very core.

'But what,' she asked, her voice hesitant, 'if he kills you
first?'

As she spoke, Faisal had his back to her. But when he
heard those words, he turned his head and glanced over his
shoulder. The look he gave her almost stopped Latifa's heart.
In that instant, perhaps for the first time ever, she saw not
the little boy she had taken care of all those years ago in
a small village in Afghanistan; she saw not even the idealistic
young teenager who spent his days picking off hated
Russian soldiers with his well maintained AK-47; nor even
the CIA-trained agent who had managed to infiltrate the
highest levels of al-Qaeda for so many years.

She saw none of these things. Instead, standing before
her, she seemed to see a different person. The contours of
his shoulder muscles were pronounced and sinewy; his jaw
was set; his lips unsmiling. But it was his eyes that shocked
her most of all. They were flat. Emotionless. Murderous.
The cold, unfeeling eyes of a killer.

And for the first time in her life, Latifa Ahmed felt afraid
of her brother.

He did not answer her question, but that look told Latifa
everything she needed to know. She bowed her head and
stared out of the window while Faisal bent over, picked
up his weapon and started taking it to bits, preparing to
clean it.

Preparing to use it. And soon.

CIA Headquarters, Langley, Virginia, USA.

Bradley Heller, Director of the Central Intelligence Agency,
and Tyler Moore, Director of National Intelligence, sat on
opposite sides of a large mahogany desk. The DCIA's office
was richly appointed, with expensive art on the walls,
comfortable furniture and floor-to-ceiling windows that
looked out over a neatly kept lawn that nobody other
than the carefully vetted groundsmen ever walked upon.
It was bright, clear and cold outside; inside it was invitingly
warm. Between them was a steaming pot of coffee
that Heller's PA had just brought in before leaving them
to their discussions.

Despite the comfortable surroundings, however, the DCIA
and the DNI were troubled.

'I want to just keep you in the loop about the situation
in London,' Heller told his colleague. Bradley Heller was a
tall man in his mid-sixties with thinning grey hair and a
deeply lined face. Tyler Moore was younger by several years,
but he still seemed older than his actual age.

'Have they located Ahmed?'

Heller shook his head. 'And they've lost the sister.'

Moore gave him a look as if to say,
These goddamn British
.

'I know,' Heller replied. 'I know. One of their guys caught
up with him, but Ahmed got away.' He handed Moore a
thin file across the desk.

Moore opened it. 'Will Jackson,' he murmured, before
starting to read. It took him four or five minutes to absorb
everything in the file. 'Quite a resumé,' he noted as he
finished.

'It seems he and Faisal Ahmed had a conversation before
Jackson let him get away.'

Moore's eyes narrowed. 'A conversation? Where did they
meet, a gentlemen's club?'

'Hardly that,' Heller murmured.

'You think this Will Jackson knows? About Firefight, I
mean?'

Heller took a sip of his coffee. 'Impossible to say,' he
replied, his voice measured. 'We've got no direct evidence
to suggest that Ahmed told him anything;but we'd be foolish
to assume that Jackson's in the dark.'

A silence fell between the two of them as they both
considered the implications of what Heller had just said.

'Of course,' the DCIA continued after a moment, 'we
can make a reasonable assumption that Ahmed's sister is in
the know. And now this Will Jackson. Firefight relies on its
secrecy, but we suddenly seem to be springing leaks.'

Moore sniffed. 'Leaks can be plugged.'

'Of course,' Heller replied. 'But you have to find them
first. We've no idea where the sister is at the moment.'

'What about Jackson?'

Heller inclined his head. 'Jackson's a bit easier.' He handed
Moore an A4-sized photograph. 'You know Don Priestley,
of course.'

Moore nodded, recognising Priestley's features in the
photo.

'The man just behind him,' Heller continued, 'is Jackson.
He claims Ahmed is planning a hit on Priestley.'

Moore looked dubious. 'Why would Ahmed admit that
to Jackson?'

'My thought exactly. But Priestley seems to think Jackson's
telling the truth.' He sipped at his drink once more. 'I know
Don very well,' he said. 'His instincts are good and right
now he's running scared. He called me personally yesterday,
requesting a transfer back to Langley.'

'Will you be granting it?'

'No,' Heller said, firmly.

'But do you think Ahmed is really—?'

'I think it's possible, yes.'

'Then we should—'

'Please, Tyler,' Heller held up a hand. 'Hear me out. Jackson
has offered to bodyguard Priestley in the hope of getting
a crack at Ahmed. Hardly regulation, I know, but in the
circumstances it's quite neat. At the very least having Priestley
on the ground gives us a chance of drawing Ahmed out
into the open. And it keeps Jackson close. I've instructed
Priestley to go along with Jackson. That way we can eliminate
him once he's served his purpose.'

Moore raised an eyebrow.

'Look at the options,' Heller continued. 'If Jackson kills
Ahmed, our problem goes away. If Ahmed kills Jackson,
then at least one of our potential leaks has been plugged.
And if his target is Priestley, he's going to want to take out
Jackson first, wouldn't you say?'

'I guess so,' Moore replied. 'But what if he doesn't? What
if he gets Priestley first? He's an American, Bradley. He's
one of us.'

Heller nodded. 'I know,' he said, quietly. 'I don't like it
any more than you do. But we can't get sentimental about
this. If word of Firefight leaks we'll be facing an international
crisis. I don't think the world needs the US and
the British at each other's throats just now, do you?'

Moore took a deep breath. 'Of course not.'

'And anyway,' Heller continued. 'If Jackson gets through
this, we know where he is. It won't take long for us to find
out if he knows about Firefight. And if he does, well then
- we'll be in a position to deal with it, won't we?'

Moore bit his lip. The longer he did this job, the more
difficult it became to unwind the strands of right and wrong.
In fact, he wasn't even sure that he knew what those words
meant any more. He wondered if, given a few years, he
would become quite as unaffected by the moral murk as
Heller seemed to be. How many times do you have to make
decisions like this, he asked himself, before they stop keeping
you up at night?

'At what stage do we take this to the President?' Moore
asked.

'We don't,' Heller said, firmly. 'We've gone to great lengths
to make Operation Firefight officially deniable. Our duty
to the President is very clear and that's to keep him in the
dark. The moment he's informed about what has been going
on, we start playing a whole new ball game.'

Tyler Moore stood up from his seat. 'Thanks for keeping
me informed, Bradley,' he said, softly.

Heller inclined his head and, as Moore turned his back
on him, he was sure he could feel the DCIA's eyes watching
him as he made for the door. Before he could leave, Heller
spoke again.

'We're at war, Tyler,' the DCIA said softly. 'It's a war on
terror, but it's still a war. Wars are ugly and sacrifices have
to be made.'

Moore turned and the two men stared at each other.

'I know,' the DNI replied, before leaving the room, closing
the door quietly behind him.

*

'I've been meaning to ask you, Will,' Don Priestley spoke
from the back of the car with an air of forced nonchalance.
'How did Ahmed get past you? How did he manage
to spirit his sister away when security was so tight?'

Will steered the CIA man's car along the narrow back-streets
of Belgravia. Like you don't fucking know, he thought
to himself. Like you haven't been briefed by Five down to
the last fucking detail. He glanced into his rear-view mirror.
Priestley was sitting in the middle of the back seat - he
had started doing that, Will had noticed, ever since the SAS
man had insisted that they drive a car with blacked-out,
bullet-proof glass. He wanted to be as far away from a bullet
as he could. They were returning from a meeting in the
West End and the London rush hour was in full flow. They'd
be back at Priestley's place in a few minutes, however. Not
that that meant any let-up for Will.

He'd been guarding Priestley for two days now and it
was 24-7. The only time he managed to catnap was when
the CIA man was in meetings in places Will deemed to be
reasonably secure. Although he had learned to his cost that
Ahmed could never be taken for granted, the chances of
the Afghan assassin showing up at one of these venues were
pretty slim. The US embassy was one such place. Even better
was the top-secret United States communication base. It
was in a secure basement behind Regent Street and Priestley
would be in there for a couple of hours at a time, granting
Will a block of solid sleep. The rest of the time he was
surviving on ephedrine.

Priestley's home was a different matter. Having insisted
that the CIA man move into a bedroom with no windows
and only a single entrance, Will had to stay up all night in
the adjoining room, his weapon in his hand and his mind
in a state of high alert. The main entrance to the house
might be guarded; the windows might be barred; but Will
knew from bitter experience that Faisal Ahmed could get
past almost any security.

Priestley caught sight of the fact that Will was looking
at him in the mirror and his eyes flickered away.

'He created a diversion,' Will said in answer to the CIA
man's question. 'We had motion sensors around the house,
so as he approached he dropped a wounded animal on the
perimeter.'

'What sort of animal?'

'A cat.'

'Sick bastard.'

Will grunted. 'Clever bastard, actually. Once he was in
the house he got up into the loft and waited twenty-four
hours. That was the really clever bit. We were on high alert
after the motion sensors were triggered, so he waited for
us to get back into our comfort zone before he struck. He
put a small remote-controlled detonating device in the fuse
box, so when the moment came he could kill the lights.'
Will felt the muscles in his jaw tighten. 'It was ballsy, but I
should have predicted it.'

There was a silence in the car.

'Diversionary tactics,' Priestley said after a moment.

'What?'

'Diversionary tactics,' he replied. 'Ahmed's file said he had
a particular skill for them.' He looked up into the rear-view
mirror and the two men locked gazes again. 'It's what he's
good at, Will,' the CIA man said quietly, but with a certain
emphasis. 'Putting people on the wrong track. Stringing
them a lie.'

Will remained silent. This wasn't the first time he'd been
at the receiving end of Priestley's subtle probing. The guy
still wasn't sure how much Will knew and at this moment
he was trying to plant the seeds of doubt in his mind.

'Don't worry about it,' Will replied, deliberately misinterpreting
Priestley's meaning. 'I understand him now. I
know how he works. He's not going to be able to pull a
trick like that again.'

'I hope you're right, Will,' Priestley murmured. 'I hope
you're right.'

They arrived at Priestley's place in West Halkin Street soon
after that. It was a large London townhouse with a red brick
façade and big white windows. To look at them, you wouldn't
know that they were glazed with tough, shatterproof glass. Will
parked the car in the dedicated space by the front door, then
picked up the handgun that he routinely kept in the glove
compartment. Stepping out of the vehicle, he glanced up and
down the street, then up to the rooftops as he always did,
before opening the rear passenger door and ushering Priestley
quickly up to the front door. An armed police officer in a
black flak jacket and helmet greeted them with a cursory
nod, then opened the door and allowed them to step inside.

'Let me go first,' Will reminded Priestley. It was the way
he had told the CIA man they were going to do things.
Whenever they entered a house or a room, Will went first.
That way he could immediately check it out. At least that
was what he had told Priestley.

Priestley might have accepted Will as his bodyguard, but
that wasn't the only precaution he was taking. The guy was
scared. Shit-scared - anyone could tell that. Will had heard
the CIA man's panicked phone calls to Langley, trying to
get himself reassigned, out of the country and away from
the vengeance of Faisal Ahmed. But his superiors weren't
having it and each time they said no, Priestley turned a
more ghostly shade of pale. They had upped his security,
though. The armed policeman on the door was one thing,
but anti-terrorist officers had done a sweep of the house,
identifying weak security points and fixing them. Most of
the house was covered by CCTV, each camera bearing a
little red light that indicated at a glance that you were under
surveillance. Priestley couldn't even take a shit without some
guy off-site watching him doing so on a bank of video
screens. Priestley didn't complain - in fact, Will could tell,
it made him feel better. For everything the CIA man had
said about Faisal Ahmed's training and skill, he still thought
that he was well protected by the standard protocols of the
security services.

Will, on the other hand, knew better.

Once they were both inside the house, Priestley closed
the door behind him. The hallway was smartly appointed.
It stretched almost the full depth of the house and had a
black and white marble chequerboard on the floor. At one
end, to the left, was a grand flight of stairs with a sweeping
balustrade. There were large mirrors on the wall and art
that Will would never have recognised.

Priestley removed his coat and instinctively handed it to
Will.

'I'm not your butler,' Will told him, his eyes checking all
the exits to the room out of habit.

Priestley looked as if he was about to say something, but
clearly thought better of it. He slung his coat over the back
of a chair. 'So,' he joked humourlessly. 'What shall we do
tonight?'

'If you're finding this boring,' Will told him,' say the word
and I'll go out and catch a movie.'

'No,' Priestley said, his voice resigned. 'It's OK. Same
routine as usual?'

'Same routine.'

Together they climbed the stairs - Priestley first, then
Will, firmly gripping the holster of his handgun. The area
where they spent their evenings was at the end of a thickly
carpeted corridor: one large room, comfortably furnished
with a large desk and an elegant chaise longue. The room
had a fashionable patterned wallpaper and thick curtains -
which Will insisted were kept closed at all times. A crystal
chandelier hung from the middle of the ceiling. As you
walked in, there was a door on the right-hand wall which
led to a second room with a bathroom en suite. They walked
into the main room and closed the door.