No Way Out (28 page)

46

D
eSantos and Vail headed into the city, glasses on, sporting their new coiffures and, for DeSantos, the new beard and moustache Uzi had left for him. They hoped it was enough to defeat London’s ubiquitous camera network.

“I have to say,” DeSantos said, rubbing his cheek, “I don’t care for Uzi’s taste in gifts. The adhesive on this beard itches.”

Vail glanced around at the masses of workers and tourists on the streets. “Are we really going to do this?”

“Fastest way to get answers.”

“It could also be the fastest way to a cold cell in a UK max security prison.”

“Got any better ideas?”

“Nope.”

“Didn’t think so.”

THAMES HOUSE, MI5’S headquarters in Millbank, consisted of an uninspired and unremarkable rectangle of a building that sat on the north bank of the Thames. It was an architectural eyesore with a million dollar view.

An effective strategic plan would have required days of preparation and the subsequent placement of an operator at each entrance/exit point. But the circumstances were far from ideal, and they had no such manpower, so they had to rely on logic, short-term observation of the facility’s flow and traffic patterns, and their general knowledge of how high-security buildings were designed.

Although a brief exchange with Clive Reid brought a few details, including Buck’s car make and license plate number, DeSantos did not want to get into why he needed the information. At this point, the less Reid knew, the better.

Working on the assumption that the vicinity was under constant surveillance, they donned their caps and scouted the area by car to determine the CCTV locations. After completing their assessment, DeSantos dropped her off and she strolled up Thorney Street, stopping across from the building’s parking garage. She placed herself at the most undesirable angle for the nearest lens—by a fenced-in Caterpillar backhoe—hoping that her low tech solution would provide her sufficient cover while allowing her to casually watch for Aden Buck’s car.

Like federal buildings in the US, parking was prohibited anywhere along the periphery; in the case of Thames House, black metal pillars rose from the sidewalk every few feet, preventing a van or truck from driving up to the structure and rendering it so much rubble, Oklahoma City-like in its level of destruction.

Meanwhile, DeSantos circled the block, hoping to be in reasonable proximity to Vail when Buck’s vehicle emerged. At 6:26
PM
, two hours after darkness fell and ninety minutes after they took their positions, Buck’s BMW appeared behind the massive black metal gates that almost looked stylish with their sectional design and diagonal slats.

Vail lifted the BlackBerry to her lips. “In ten seconds, he’ll be turning right onto Thorney. His driver’s waiting for the barricade to retract into the pavement. How close are you?”

“Coming down Thorney now. Looks like there’s construction near you.”

“Yeah, half the block’s got equipment and fencing. Gave me some really good cover. I’ll be by the orange cones.”

Buck’s vehicle swung onto Thorney and turned in front of Vail. A second later, DeSantos pulled to a stop and Vail jumped in. They followed the BMW a few blocks as it turned left on Horseferry Road. It pulled to a stop and Buck got out.

“Are you serious?” Vail asked. “He took his car and driver to go, what, three blocks?”

“Safer than walking these days when you’re the director general of MI5. No way of knowing how extensive that data breach was.”

DeSantos dropped Vail at the corner and she followed Buck into the Firecracker oriental restaurant.

She waited for Buck to be seated, then asked for a table in the same room. Red was the prevailing theme, with blood-colored vinyl benches and black-and-white marble-grained granite tables. The light cream wall at the end of the aisle of tables featured dark diagonal floor-to-ceiling lines. In a word or two, the restaurant was contemporary chic.

DeSantos joined her seven minutes later. He sat down and casually hid behind his menu.

“Anyone with him?” he asked.

“Not that I’ve seen.”

“There are two men in suits outside the front entrance who look like they may be Security Service agents.”

“So we go out the back.”

“Is there a backdoor?” DeSantos asked.

“Doesn’t there have to be?”

DeSantos lowered his menu. “No, Karen, there doesn’t have to be. But we can’t worry about it. We’re committed. We’ll make it work.” He filled her in on his plan and told her he had formulated it on the fly less than two minutes earlier. It was full of uncertainty and risk, but it was their best, and only, shot.

Vail glanced over and watched as Buck perused his menu. “Do you usually carry out your missions like this?”

“Like what?”

“Seat of your pants.”

“Usually things are prepped well in advance, with intel and diagrams, floor plans and dossiers. Sometimes they’re last minute things, with very little notice. A known target is in a particular place for an hour, and that’s your window because a chance like that may not happen again for weeks, months. Sometimes years. But you’ve got your training and you’ve got your instincts. You find ways to get the job done.” He gave a final look around the room. “You ready?”

“As ready as possible without any preparation, intel, diagrams, floor plans, or dossiers.”

“Nonsense. I had 120 seconds to put it together. Plenty of time. Now—do as I said.”

Vail pulled out a pen and scribbled something on a piece of paper. A moment later, she walked by Buck’s table and casually dropped the folded note to the left of his plate, then continued on toward the restroom.

DESANTOS WATCHED BUCK pick up the note and then snap his head upright as he attempted to get a look at the person who had deposited it on his table.

As Vail moved out of the room, Buck unfurled the paper and read it. He stiffened, then rotated his head left and right, scanning the vicinity.

DeSantos dropped his head a bit lower, closer to his plate. He was not sure if Buck would recognize him, shaved bald with a beard and mustache, but it was not worth taking the chance.

When Buck looked down to reread the note, DeSantos casually rose from his seat and left the room, headed in the same direction as Vail.

Vail’s missive informed Buck that they had vital information on the case, and instructed him to meet DeSantos in the restroom. But because of the circumstances, he would not wait there more than two minutes.

The route Buck had to take would bring him down a narrow corridor, and if their stars were aligned, no one else would be there. If there was someone present, Vail would attempt to explain that she was engaged in police business and needed to clear the area. If that didn’t work, they would have a witness—clearly a scenario they wanted to avoid.

Vail stood at the end of the hallway, near the restroom entrance. At the moment, it was clear. When Buck appeared in the corridor, he saw her—recognition registering on his face but with a dose of hesitation. The dominant locks of curly red hair were gone, and she looked substantially different.

He stopped, trying to work this through his brain. But DeSantos came up behind him and placed his pistol firmly in the small of Buck’s back.

“We have to talk,” he said into the director general’s left ear. “Alone.”

47

V
ail remained with Buck while DeSantos brought the vehicle forward.

“Call your men and tell them to meet you in the Function Room, at the large round table.”

Buck did not move.

“Now, sir. We don’t have a lot of time.”

“After what you did to Basil Walpole, why should I listen to you? Why should I trust you?”

Vail clenched her jaw. “We’re not the bad guys here. But I’m not going to get into that with you right now. Make that call and get your men inside the restaurant.” She gave the SIG a not so gentle push into his spine for emphasis.

Buck removed his phone and started to dial.

“Careful. DeSantos is near them, and if you set off alarms, he’s going to be forced to take them out. We don’t want that to happen. Hector’s really good at what he does—which is why you brought him to England.”

Buck did as Vail instructed. They watched from the deep reaches of the corridor as his two agents were led across the room through the restaurant by one of the wait staff.

When the men had passed, Vail took Buck’s cell phone and then ushered him outside, where DeSantos was waiting with their car. She directed him to the rear seat, then slid in beside him.

As DeSantos accelerated, he glanced in the rearview mirror at Vail. A slight smile teased the corners of his mouth.

UZI AND TROY RODMAN sat in the back of their rented Ford van, parked at a curb outside a cyber café in Surrey Quays, “borrowing” the establishment’s wireless signal.

“You want me to get GQ on the line?” Rodman asked.

Uzi squinted. “GQ. You talking about Santa?”

“Who else?”

Uzi grinned, but he did not take his eyes off the laptop’s screen, did not still his hands. “I’m not gonna let him live that one down.” Uzi read the data on the monitor as Rodman checked his watch yet again.

“We’ve got to give them something soon.”

Uzi struck another key, sat back, and nodded. “Then it’s a good thing I actually have something useful to tell them. Okay. Get GQ on the line.”

Rodman pulled out his phone. “GQ’s
my
thing. Don’t be calling him that.”

Uzi tapped the keys, then paused. “You’re right. Without his hair and cool glasses, he’s no longer worthy of the nickname. I’ll get him an earring and call him Mr. Clean.”

Rodman rolled his eyes as he handed Uzi the handset.

Uzi waited three rings before DeSantos answered. “Santa, listen. I’ve got something for you, but it’s incomplete.”

“Right now, I’ll take anything I don’t already have.”

“I examined the device and downloaded the data before it could be deleted. Shutting it down was the right move. Good thinking.”

“Would you expect anything less?”

“You don’t want me to answer that. So here’s the deal: the transmission checks out. The two handsets—yours and Buck’s—did execute a handshake, essentially confirming the encryption algorithm and verifying each device in the data stream. It basically tells them it’s okay to communicate with each other. If there’s no handshake, the message doesn’t get authenticated, and the message isn’t delivered.”

“A bit over my head, but I think I got it. Bottom line?”

“That the message went from point A to point B, as it was designed to do. And since the location was embedded in the handshake, I can tell you it originated from the Thames House complex—again, as it was supposed to do. So far, nothing’s slapped me in the face in terms of it looking suspect. But I’ve got to localize it further, and that may take a while. I wanted you to at least have what I’ve been able to find so far. Hope it helps.”

“Everything helps. I’ll give you a shout soon as I can.”

VAIL, KEEPING HER PISTOL trained on Buck, said, “Good news?”

DeSantos slipped the phone back in his pocket. “All depends on your perspective.”

“I don’t understand what you people are up to,” Buck said. “You’re supposed to be working
for
me, not—”

“I suggest you keep quiet,” Vail said. “You’ll get your chance to talk. That time is not now.” She glanced out at the buildings they were passing. “How long till we’re there?”

“Ten minutes, maybe. I’m taking it slow, making sure I don’t run any lights.”

“Playing the good citizen?”

DeSantos chuckled. “I think it’s way too late for that.”

THEY ARRIVED AT THE location DeSantos had previously selected as being best suited to their needs: Vincent Square in Westminster, a privately owned thirteen acre patch of parkland and sports field greenery in the heart of London.

DeSantos had assured Vail that he could disable the padlock on the black wrought iron gate that led to a small, paved parking and storage area in back of the groundsman’s house.

After pulling in, out of view of the street, DeSantos shoved the gearshift lever to park.

As he twisted in his seat to face Buck, Rodman called.

“GQ, you alone?”

“No, we’ve got company. Why?”

“There’s something you and the shrink should see.”

“Now?”

“Now. I’m sending you a link.”

Thirty seconds later, they were standing outside the car and a YouTube video was buffering on DeSantos’s souped-up iPhone.

The BBC logo appeared on the screen, followed by a news anchor. “It’s with sadness that we report the passing of beloved minister Basil Walpole. The minister was found dead late last night in his home, the apparent victim of a home invasion. Or was it? Dabir Ghassan has the story. Dabir?”

The reporter appeared on screen, microphone in hand. He appeared to be standing in front of Walpole’s Edgware residence. “Truly a tragedy of tremendous proportions. We have learned that authorities now believe the murder was the result of a terrorist attack and may, in fact, be related to the recent bombing of the Turner Gallery and Embankment Underground station. The Service has released a photo of two of the people believed responsible.” Ghassan’s voice continued as a grainy video image of DeSantos and Vail rolled, showing them walking into the building on New Bond Street.

“This is not good,” Vail said.

“…and while the identity of the woman is still unclear, sources believe that the male is Hector Cruz, a known terrorist of Panamanian descent—”

“You’re Panamanian?” Vail asked, keeping her eyes on the screen.

“No. Does it matter?”

“…but what has proven particularly troubling is a photo that the BBC has obtained of Cruz attending a high level governmental meeting and socializing with Prime Minister Braxton Moore, as well as two senior members of his—”

A photo appeared of DeSantos shaking hands, and sharing a laugh with, Moore and two unidentifiable men.

“More lies?” Vail asked.

“No, that one’s actually true. Sort of.”

“You know the prime minister?”

DeSantos paused the video. “He was a member of parliament back then. And I met him at a conference on global terrorism, several months after 9/11. Because of my father.”

“Your father? Who’s your father?”

“That’s a discussion for another time. But this conference, I was there presenting a case study. I thought no cameras were allowed in.”

“Apparently you thought wrong.”

DeSantos pondered this a moment.

“Just a guess here,” Vail said, “but the suggestion that the prime minister is consorting with a terrorist could be enough to topple the government, wouldn’t you think?”

“I’m no expert on UK politics, but from a perception and image standpoint, I’d say he’s now got a huge PR problem.”

“This was a deliberate act,” Vail said. “The question is, why? Who are all the people that’d have something to gain from discrediting Moore?”

“Are we back to making long lists again?”

“No one said boots-on-the ground police work is for everyone.”

“Definitely not for me. And, I might remind you, it’s not for
us
—we don’t have time for that shit.”

“And let me remind
you
that not every situation can be resolved with guns, knives—and pliers.”

DeSantos looked at her.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that.”

Without a word, he started the video again, and the reporter continued: “Just what this means—for example, precisely what Prime Minister Moore and two senior ministers were doing socializing with a known terrorist, is unclear at this time. One intelligence source who requested anonymity stated there is evidence that Cruz and his accomplice are planning a major attack on the city. Exactly what form that would take, whether it would be another bombing or some other of type of violent act, they would not speculate. The prime minister’s press secretary declined comment. Calls to the Home Office have not, as yet, been returned.”

The video ended.

“As I was saying.” Vail shook her head. “Just when I didn’t think it could get any worse.”

“Must you always look at the negative?”

“I’m sorry. Was there good news in that report?”

“Yeah. The image was so crappy they couldn’t identify you.”

“Yet.”

“And,” DeSantos said as he pocketed the phone, “at least those photos at Walpole’s place were taken before I shaved my head.”

“Fine. I’ll give you that.” She reached up and stroked DeSantos’s bare scalp. “I think I’m beginning to appreciate the badass look.”

“Let’s get on with this.” He gestured at the backseat. “Go keep him company. I need to make a call.”

DESANTOS PULLED OUT Aden Buck’s cell phone and dialed FBI Director Douglas Knox’s private number.

“This is your man on the ground,” DeSantos said. “I’ll cut to the chase because I can’t stay on this call very long. I need to question your friend, the one who needed me to come out here.”

“What do you mean, ‘question’ him?”

“Interview. Very possibly without his cooperation.”

“What? No. Absolutely not.”

“I wouldn’t ask unless I felt it was vital to what we’re doing here. And because I won’t have a willing subject, some…inducement will be needed.”

“Have you lost your mind?”

“I believe it’s necessary. And time is short.”

“I can’t condone that—it sets a bad precedent. You understand, don’t you?”

In fact, he did. A spy agency—or law enforcement—director carried state secrets and sensitive information with him that, under duress, might be revealed. Not to mention that this violated protocol so blatantly that it could cause irreparable damage to US-UK relations. But understanding the situation did not change the facts.

“So that there is no confusion,” Knox said firmly, “let me be perfectly clear. You will not cross that line. Do you hear me?”

“All due respect, I don’t see an option. We don’t know who can be trusted. The mole could be ‘our friend.’”

“Do you have proof of that?”

“We’re working on it. But part of that effort is gathering information. At the very least, we have reason to believe he’s involved. In fact, he’s responsible for our current situation. I’m sure you’ve been briefed on the news reports. If not, get the BBC video on the minister’s murder. That’ll tell you all you need to know.”

There was a long pause and then Knox said, “Find another way.”

“I would if I could. But there
is
no other way, given the circumstances. Everything’s in play.
We’re
in play.”

“Nothing will change my mind on this.”

“Sir, the only people who know what’s really going on, about the imminent attack and the players behind it, are us—
wanted fugitives
. Our only hope of fixing this is by getting answers. This person has at least some of those answers.”

DeSantos had already said more than was advisable over an open line. He rubbed his forehead, frustrated that Knox was not on board with the plan.

“Do I have to remind you that you’re black? You shouldn’t have called me. You’ve jeopardized my position. Your
country
. I’m telling you not to proceed. Abandon the mission. You and your partner need to find a way out. Make your way home. Godspeed.”

“But—”

DeSantos stopped himself. The line was dead.