Ops Files II--Terror Alert (17 page)

The rain intensified and she cursed her luck, as well as Jeff, for giving her this duty. She was ready to dart across the street to the welcome interior of a café when she spotted Nazari exiting a residence halfway down the row of buildings.

Alone.

She ran a quick mental calculation of the taxi fare she was racking up and just as quickly dismissed the thought as Nazari picked up his pace, obviously no more thrilled to be in the inclement weather than she was. The rain made following him more difficult, and she let him get a good block of distance from her before taking up the chase.

Maya pulled her overcoat tight, glad she’d had the foresight to wear it, although an umbrella right about now would have been a welcome addition to her spy goodies. She tried to ignore the soaking she was getting as she eyed her quarry, who was getting just as much of the downpour.

Which made her question what could be so important to be out in the inclement weather.

He rounded another corner and she increased her speed. She reached the intersection just in time to watch Nazari duck into a shop. She continued past it and frowned. A paint supply store.

Maybe he was planning a remodel?

When she reached the corner, the drizzle abated, replaced by a steady wind from the north. Pools of standing water rippled as she waited for Nazari to emerge from the shop, which seemed to take forever. After fifteen minutes he walked out the door, looked in both directions, and retraced his steps back along the sidewalk.

Maya now had a problem. She was fully exposed without the cover of the rain. If she took up the chase, there was a good chance he’d spot her, assuming he was looking for a tail – which, if he was up to no good, he would be. Her instinct told her to stay in place, and she was rewarded when he spun near the corner and looked back – a move that could only mean that he’d sensed something and was on the alert.

And which also confirmed that whatever he was doing was, at the very least, suspicious, if not overtly illegal.

She counted to herself as she peered from the doorway, forcing herself to wait before she followed him, noting that the shop he had stopped at boasted a swarthy pair behind the counter. Not evidence of anything but cultural diversity, but if she had to guess, the two men weren’t Swedish. Was it odd that a known Muslim radical frequented stores operated by other Muslims? Absolutely not. Or possibly. That was the problem with not being sure what you were watching for – anything, nothing, or somewhere in between, could have meaning.

When she turned down the street, Nazari was nowhere to be seen. She was careful to peer into each shop as she passed, but didn’t spot him.

Ten minutes later she returned to the parking lot. The car that had brought Nazari was gone.

But not the taxi.

The driver glanced at her as she climbed into the rear. “Saw your bloke take off about five minutes ago.”

“Yeah, I know.”

“You’ve run up a pretty sum here. Hope it was worth it.”

She sat back against the seat, stared through the window at the dingy surroundings, and wondered what it was she’d just seen, and cringed inwardly at having to submit an expense report for such a high cab fare.

“Me too.”

Manchester, England

A statuesque blonde with a pair of slacks that looked painted on strode across the VIP suite with the limber grace of a gymnast toward a flushed fifty-something man wearing a burgundy velvet jacket, his hair dyed a color unknown in nature, a martini in one hand and a copy of a popular soccer magazine in the other.

“Look at these wankers. You’d think the bloody Krauts won the war the way these poncers go on about ’em. My money’s on our boys. Kicked their asses back to Berlin then, and we’ll do it again,” he proclaimed to two bored-looking older gentlemen sipping claret.

“Yes, quite, but you have to admit they have an impressive roster this go-round,” one of the pair said.

The blowhard’s hand unconsciously tugged at his hair transplants with delicate fingers and then waved the comment away. “Tosh. I’ll put a thousand quid on us taking them by at least two goals.”

“Mortimer, do you want some appetizers? They’re delish,” the blonde said, slipping an arm around the red-faced man’s waist with the practiced skill of a ballroom dancer.

Mortimer offered her a smile of questionable dental work stained yellow from years of smoking. “Too right, Gracey, old girl. What do they have there? Looks like dog kebabs. What ever happened to good old honest chips?” He laughed at his own joke, braying as a few heads on the other side of the room swiveled his way.

“They’re rather good,” Grace assured him, seeming not to notice his loud exclamation.

“Is that Yorkie or greyhound?” he said, and favored everyone with another grin.

“Oh, Mortie, you’re so bad,” she chided, edging closer and pressing a surgically augmented breast against his arm. “Come on. Keep me company. It’s boring around all these stuffed shirts,” she whispered.

“Keep that up and you’ll find out just how bad I really am,” he said in a stage whisper worthy of a regional performance of
Othello
.

“Oh, Mortie…”

Abreeq watched the spectacle from by the bar, where he was wiping glasses, having been unexpectedly promoted on his second night by his new supervisor and deemed worthy of working in the salon. He couldn’t complain, and it would make his ultimate move with the device that much easier if he was both in the front and the back of the house.

He held a wineglass up and scrutinized it like a jeweler studying a diamond and then set it in a rack behind him before reaching for another in the green plastic tray behind the bar and repeating his cleaning chore. The bartender, an affable sort named Raymond with a face that reminded Abreeq of nothing so much as a human crossed with a chipmunk, leaned toward Abreeq and spoke in a low voice.

“Look at the pair on that one, am I right?”

Abreeq grinned like a fool and winked at his fellow worker. If he wanted a partner to leer at the super-rich and their pneumatic mates, Abreeq was his man. It beat scrubbing congealed gruel from plates for hours on end.

“A magnificent specimen,” Abreeq agreed, studying a redhead Raymond was boring holes through with his eyes. “Your future ex-wife.”

Raymond laughed heartily and then grew serious as a middle-aged man in a suit, absent the tie, approached and ordered a glass of their most expensive single malt Scotch, spitting the name at him like merely speaking with the service staff might diminish his standing. Raymond’s expression didn’t change, and Abreeq wondered whether he was a trifle touched, or clever enough to know to control his face under all circumstances.

Raymond dutifully poured three fingers into a tumbler and placed it on a paper napkin embossed with the stadium logo and practically clicked his heels together as he bowed slightly, as deferential as a seasoned manservant. The man tossed a five-pound tip at him and moved into the crowd, and Raymond, without moving a muscle, murmured to Abreeq. “That sort likes to show the working folks he’s all that. Fine with me. I’ll give it a twist and spit on it twice, if you catch my drift. All the same to me as long as he tips.”

Abreeq made a mental note not to underestimate his new friend – who, judging by his performance, could have played poker in Monte Carlo for a living. He chuckled and grappled with something appropriate to say. “I think he liked you.”

“Of course he did. I made him feel better about being him. That’s the trick, see? Can’t let on you think they’re stupid gits. They want to see service staff who are obviously inferior; otherwise they have to go to the loo and stare at their willies to make sure they still have one. Pity we didn’t have a revolution like the French.”

Abreeq didn’t understand half of what the bartender said, but decided it didn’t matter. For some reason Raymond liked his new glass cleaner, and that made the hours pass easily. Abreeq looked away for a moment and imagined Raymond clutching at his throat, gasping for breath as he burbled blood from his radiation-burned mouth, and smiled to himself.

“You there. Another gin martini, and be quick about it,” Mortimer barked at Abreeq from his right.

“Yes, sir. Right away, sir,” Abreeq said, and turned to Raymond. “The gentleman would like another drink.”

“Of course. Thirsty business, isn’t it? Like they’re never going to start the game.”

Raymond prepared another martini and presented it with a flourish. Mortimer didn’t so much as look at him, grabbing the glass with fattened fingers and spilling a decent portion of the drink on the bar as he moved away. Raymond swabbed up the liquor with a towel and tossed it back into the sink behind the bar. “See, that kind, the new money, is so self-involved it doesn’t even imagine anything existing besides its needs and wants. A man who wears a suit and orders Scotch? That’s old money, and knows how to behave. The clown with a rug and a hooker? Probably made his fortune on Internet porn or something.”

Abreeq watched the pageant as he finished his task, and was almost relieved to retreat into the kitchen, where things were more straightforward. Raymond’s commentary had been fascinating, but what it amounted to was that most of the VIPs were little more than adult spoilt children jockeying for position, using money and status to prop up their fragile egos.

Four and a half hours later, when the night was over, he was glad to be rid of the place. He punched out and accompanied two other workers to the gates and then walked to the bus stop. He wouldn’t bring the stolen car onto the grounds until the day of the match, when he’d need a quick getaway. For now he was one of the laborers, relegated to public transportation and late nights in the rain.

Fine by him.

Soon everyone’s reality would change for good, and he would be the engineer of the transformation. Until then he would play his part, bow and scrape, pretend not to understand the insults and the dark looks from the native working staff that made a point of despising him because of the color of his skin and his accent. And of course, his religion. Because he was a throwback to the Stone Age, and they were the enlightened, blessed by divinity.

Until the unthinkable happened.

Then, it would be a far different matter.

Maya sat across from Jeff as they waited for instructions to be phoned in from his superior. She’d submitted a report about Nazari’s suspicious behavior and his final errand before she’d lost him for the day, and Jeff had agreed that, given the circumstances, it warranted further investigation. While Nazari was a relatively minor player, his proximity to Manchester combined with the fact that they had no other real leads made his actions of more interest than she would have thought. And apparently the picture she’d taken of his companion had been the catalyst – Jeff had seemed uninterested in the account until she’d shown him the photograph, at which point he’d had her send a copy to his email and had disappeared for ten minutes while he called London.

“Care to share what the big deal is?” she asked.

“The man Nazari met with is considerably higher on our watch list than he is. That makes Nazari’s actions more intriguing, or at least potentially so.”

“Who is he?”

“Name’s Mehran Sadr. He’s connected to a group that’s suspected of fundraising for terrorist organizations through a network of UK mosques. Based out of London, so he’s also a bit out of his usual stomping grounds.”

“Why would a terrorist financier be meeting with a relative nobody in Birmingham?”

“Now you understand the sudden interest?”

Maya nodded. “Of course, it could be nothing.”

Jeff studied his nails. “Yes, but that’s the nature of the beast. We pull on threads, see where they lead, and occasionally, we get lucky.”

Jeff’s cell warbled and he rose as he answered it. Maya busied herself with going to the kitchen to pour more tea, and by the time she made it back, Jeff had finished his discussion and hung up. She looked at him expectantly, and he studied her face as though seeing her for the first time.

“Headquarters wants us to find out what he was doing in the paint store,” Jeff said.

“How?”

“We’re to go in tonight and scan their computer’s sales records. We know the time, so any transaction effected during that period had to have been him. They’re afraid he might be purchasing materials to build an explosive device. It wouldn’t be the first time – they’ll go to several suppliers and buy items that individually wouldn’t raise eyebrows, but collectively can point to a bomb.”

“What if he knows the shop owners, and it was an under the table deal? No record?”

“That would be more problematic. But if that were the case, then why go in at all? After considering it, London feels that it’s likely what it looks like – Nazari made a purchase or ordered something from a shop far enough removed from his usual haunts that he wouldn’t arouse suspicion or be easily recognized after the fact.” Jeff sighed. “So we’ve been given the green light. How much experience do you have with forced entry? Alarm systems, that sort of thing?”

“I’ve received all the usual training.”

“Yes, well, fortunately I’m considered a bit of a wiz. Which means the two of us won’t be getting much sleep tonight.” Jeff paused. “I presume you have dark clothing?”

“Of course.”

“Good.” He checked the time and walked to the door. “I have a few things to attend to. I’ll be back in an hour to get you.”

“You have everything we’ll need? I don’t have picks or anything…”

“Have no fear. Just put on your ninja suit and be ready when I return. I’ll take care of the rest.”

True to his word, Jeff was back at the door in exactly an hour. Maya was wearing black pants and a long-sleeved top with a medium-weight navy blue windbreaker – a near mirror image of his outfit. Jeff eyed her without comment and they made their way to the car. Minutes later they were on the highway south to Birmingham, Jeff driving the speed limit, to the consternation of the traffic around him, judging by the headlights passing him as though he were standing still.