Ops Files II--Terror Alert (19 page)

“Sure.”

She poured a cup from the kettle she’d brewed and set it in front of him along with milk and sugar, and watched as he prepared his drink. Once he’d taken a sip, she put the milk back in the refrigerator and fixed him with a neutral stare. “So, what did London say?”

“Still waiting. I’m hoping to hear any minute.”

“Which means the trail’s getting colder every minute.”

“I’m not happy about it either, but there’s not a lot I can do.”

“We can go for a drive, see the sights of Birmingham again. That way if they want you to storm the building, you’ll have a head start.” She eyed him, sensing he was giving it thought. “Come on. What else do we have going on? It’s not like we’re in the heat of battle here.”

“I share your frustration, but we have procedures we must follow.”

“Right. How’s your surveillance of Nazari going? Did he do anything inflammatory, like buy melons?”

“I appreciate your witticisms, I really do…”

“So we’ve got nothing to go on other than the paint and the address, and it could easily be sitting on someone’s desk, forgotten.”

“Not likely,” Jeff said, but he didn’t sound convinced.

“Come on. Let’s go for a drive.”

Jeff sighed. “If we do, that in no way is to be interpreted as anything but me humoring you, for lack of an immediate assignment to keep you busy.”

“Right. That, and you know I’m right.”

Jeff didn’t respond to her taunt and finished his tea. Maya went upstairs and slipped on her jacket, and returned moments later, smiling at having convinced Jeff.

“You look far too self-satisfied for my liking,” he commented as he made for the door.

“I’m no such thing,” she said, glad he didn’t catch her smirk as he brushed by.

The drive south was a slog in afternoon traffic, the roads slick with water and a petroleum sheen dribbled by the large trucks navigating the route. Neither Maya nor Jeff had much to say, the intermittent thumping of the windshield wipers a rhythmic accompaniment to their unspoken thoughts.

On the outskirts of Birmingham, Maya entered the address into the in-dash GPS, and a colorful map popped up, indicating their location and the recommended route to their destination. Jeff studied it and took the next exit off the highway, and was wending his way down a four-lane boulevard when his telephone rang. He answered it and listened for several moments, had a murmured discussion, and then hung up.

“Well, turns out like minds and all. That was London. They want us to nose around the address and see what we can learn.”

Maya offered a beaming smile. “Probably just beginner’s luck, right?”

“Don’t hurt your arm patting yourself on the back.”

“So how do we do this?”

“Let’s do a drive-by, and depending on what we’re looking at, we’ll decide then.”

Jeff made a left, eyeing the GPS as he drove, and they soon found themselves in an industrial park that was struggling toward gentrification. Several of the old brick buildings were undergoing renovation, and a billboard in front of the closest one advertised artists’ lofts for sale. Across the street, a group of transients were watching the workers finish up their day, the contrast between the productive and the parasitical as stark as found anywhere, and typical of the polarized society that was modern Britain.

The sedan slowed as Jeff turned the corner onto a cobblestoned street, two sets of railway tracks running down the center. Inky water collected in pools near the shoulder. He nodded toward a warehouse on the right as they motored past, and Maya committed what she could see of the layout to memory.

They continued down the long block. Shipping containers rusted in the freight yards of the neighboring compounds, and the corner intersection was a wrecking yard where the carcasses of automobiles were stacked four and five high, awaiting dismantling and crushing. A semi-rig blocked half the intersection as a forklift growled toward it carrying a cube of what had once been a car.

“Charming,” Maya said, eyeing a mangy watchdog shivering by the fence, its coat soaked through.

“I didn’t see any watchmen, did you?”

She shook her head. “No, but they might have surveillance cameras. We’ll need to do another pass for me to know for sure.”

He checked the time. “It’ll be dark in another hour or so. We should wait until then and reconnoiter on foot. If someone’s watching, in this neighborhood if a car like this drives by again, it could get their attention.”

“How do you want to play this?”

“I’ll park down the street until nightfall. My hunch is this is much ado about nothing, but orders are orders.”

“Ever the optimist.”

“You have a lot to learn, Maya. Rarely does anything happen fast in this business, especially when we’re talking routine surveillance. Your greatest challenge is often just holding your bladder for long stretches.”

“Right. Except, of course, when your routine target meets with a terrorist financier. Which, if I recall, is what happened.”

Jeff didn’t say anything, preferring to park in the shadows beside the crumbling wall of an abandoned building. “One good thing is that the lot next door to the warehouse looked deserted. We may be able to use that to our advantage.”

Maya considered the tracks that stretched toward a cluster of structures in the distance, their windows devoid of glass. The gaping darkness of a tunnel formed a screaming mouth in the scarred slope supporting the highway overpass.

“At least we’re not going to have to worry about crowds,” Maya said.

“Pretty bleak, I’ll give you that.”

“It does make you wonder what they’re doing with all that red paint, doesn’t it?”

Jeff shut off the motor and leaned back into his seat. “We’ll find out soon enough.”

Manchester, England

Max signed the remaining pages of a contract with the plodding deliberation of a plow horse. His head was splitting from the remnants of a hangover despite two generous helpings of Irish whiskey with lunch. He’d spent the prior night entertaining two young women from Moscow, by way of London, who were in the country on work permits provided by a friend of his that owned a string of gentlemen’s clubs that specialized in the appetites of well-heeled businessmen who didn’t mind paying for quality. Their inventiveness and stamina had been impressive, but today he was feeling his age, and the muscles in his back and thighs throbbed in time with the ache in his skull.

He finished with his task and pushed the pages away as though disgusted with the effort that had been required to ink them. Every hour of the day had been a study in agony, and he eyed the antique wall clock with the anticipation of a toddler awaiting the arrival of Santa.

The phone on his desk warbled softly, and he lifted the handset to his ear. “Yes?”

“The barristers are waiting for the contract. Shall I tell them it will be ready shortly?” his secretary, Angela, asked.

“Already reviewed it and signed. You can pick it up whenever you like. It’s in my outbox.”

“Very well. I’ll be in momentarily.”

“Could you bring some aspirin and mineral water when you come? I’m afraid this flu is getting the better of me.”

“Of course. I’m sorry to hear it. Been going around, I expect.”

“So I hear.”

One of the things he adored about Angela was that she was dumb as a stump, or at least pretended to be, when it came to his regular bouts of excess. She never let on that she in any way questioned his explanations for being under the weather, and always expressed heartfelt sympathy and a ready supply of analgesics. He knew he’d been overdoing it lately, but he was under an enormous amount of pressure, and keeping all the stress bottled up inside was bad for his health.

Not that the six grams of cocaine with which he’d augmented his whiskey last night was necessarily good for it, he conceded. But it wasn’t like he did it every day. And these were extenuating circumstances.

He shifted in his chair and waited for Angela to arrive. A soft knock sounded from the heavy polished cedar door, and he frowned as he called out to her. “Yes, yes, come in.”

Angela strode to his desk, all efficiency in a chaste blouse and shapeless blue slacks, her hair cut sensibly short, a dusting of base and afterthought of eyeliner her sole concessions to vanity. She moved to the tray on the corner of the desk and set a glass of sparkling water and a packet of pills beside it before removing the contract and offering Max a sympathetic look.

“Oh, dear, you do have it rather badly, don’t you?” she asked. “I expect you’ll be leaving early today. Best to sweat it out in bed is what my Grammy used to say.”

“Yes, I was thinking about trying to beat traffic.”

“Do you think you’ll be well by tomorrow? You have your box at the stadium for the match. A full roster of guests, too.”

“That’s right. No, at this stage I rather doubt I’ll make it, Angela. If you could let everyone else know I’m down for the count, I’d appreciate it. I’m thinking that I’ll go to the summer house and lie low until it’s burned its way through me. Nothing to be done about it, I’m afraid.”

“Will the missus be joining you?”

“I don’t think so. Can’t see any reason to expose her and the kids.” He squinted at his computer screen. “Do I have anything that can’t be rescheduled for tomorrow?”

“No. Just routine meetings. Nothing you can’t push to next week, if necessary.”

“Then let’s do that, shall we? And call Rupert and have him bring the car around. I’ll be ready to go in five minutes.”

“Will do. If you need anything, don’t hesitate to ring me, whatever the time. This bug is a miserable one. I know plenty who’ve had it, and it’s nothing to trifle with.”

“I’m a believer. Thanks for everything, Angela.”

“My pleasure. I’ll see that Rupert is waiting.” She glanced through the window at the rain. “Beastly weather.”

“All the same to me. I’m not planning on doing anything but climbing into bed with a good book.” His mind flitted to a memory of the two Russian women holding a nearly impossible pose, and he made a mental note to check during the drive to see whether they were still in town. No point sitting alone at his beach house near Blackpool when able company was available. His dimwitted wife was so self-involved in her social scene and with their children’s extracurricular activities she’d never even miss him – until the entire Manchester area shut down following the explosion.

His only regret in the entire exercise was that he couldn’t have her attend the match in his absence. Much as it would conveniently eradicate the biggest irritant in his life, her brother Sergey would snuff him out like an insect if so much as a hair on her head were harmed.

But he could daydream.

She’d been beautiful eighteen years before, when they’d gotten married – a stunning Russian blonde from a powerful family, and a considerable catch for Max. Over time, though, gravity, childbirth, too many years and too much vodka had transformed her from all legs and breasts to a shapeless blob almost unrecognizable to him. Not that he had any right to complain – a diet of high calories and grain alcohol had left their indelible mark on him as well. But he told himself he could reverse that trend whenever he chose with some rigorous gym time and a Spartan lifestyle, whereas she…

He realized Angela was staring at him. “Yes? Is there anything else?” he asked, suddenly annoyed that she was still there, and then realized that she’d asked him a question.

“So you do or don’t want me to call Dr. Stern and have him see you?” she repeated.

“Oh, no, there’s nothing they can do for this. Viral, don’t you know. Just have to buck up and take it.”

“Well, a hot brandy never hurts. Something to consider. Help you sleep.”

“Capital idea, Angela. Now do see if Rupert can hurry. I’m afraid I’m fading.”

“Very well.”

Angela’s sensible heels clicked on the polished hardwood floor and then she was gone, the door pulled closed softly behind her. Max tore open the aspirin and threw the pills back, washing them down with the entire glass of water before breathing in deep gasps.

He had to moderate his behavior. There was no way he could continue at this pace, he told himself as he glanced around the office for a final time before standing shakily. Perhaps he’d forego the girls tonight and have a sensible evening by the beach. The cold wind off the Irish Sea was relentless at this time of year, but strangely reassuring in its constancy.

Max patted the cell phone in his jacket pocket as he lifted it from the coat rack in the corner and pulled it on, debating making a call that would bring him company, should he desire it.

He’d make the decision on the drive west.

No need to make any hasty calls when he was feeling under the weather. Three fingers of Glenlivet for the ride would steel his nerves some, and then he’d be in better shape to decide.

He momentarily considered having Angela cancel his box for the match, but it might seem suspicious in light of what was going to occur, so better to have his entourage attend for what would be the last night of their lives. Any remorse he felt was quickly brushed aside. He was doing what he had to in order to survive. As he’d always done. Collateral damage was unavoidable.

No reason to place himself in harm’s way, of course, so he’d be many miles away when the device went off. Someone would have to be around to pick up the pieces and carry on, just as the victors in all conflagrations had done since the dawn of time.

He rubbed his eyes, which felt like two poached eggs, and nodded to himself. A prudent man took no chances.

And Max had always considered himself a prudent man.

Birmingham, England

Darkness fell with the finality of death, the overcast sky’s anthracite glow fading to black as dusk transitioned to night. Only two of the six streetlights on the warehouse block illuminated, the rest casualties of shrunken fiscal budgets and sporadic maintenance.

Several cars had departed the area as business had shut down for the day, and Maya had dutifully recorded the license numbers for further research as they’d pulled away. The drizzle had slowed to an occasional misting, and Maya could sense that Jeff was as stir-crazy as she after hours in the confines of the car.