Ops Files II--Terror Alert (21 page)

“How long do you think it’ll take for a crew to arrive?”

“A few hours.”

“We don’t have that kind of time.”

He sighed and slipped behind the wheel. “I knew you’d say that. And as much as I hate to admit it, you’re right. We need to find that truck. We can’t take the chance it’s moved on by the time the field office sends out reinforcements.”

“You know it’s been painted so it can get into the match tomorrow. Worst case, we can warn the British and they can search every truck that arrives. They’ll know what to look for.”

Jeff shook his head. “I’m not so sure. They’d search all deliveries anyway. Seems to me they must have engineered some way of getting a device past security. Could be that it’s liquid based, if it’s going to masquerade as beer. I’d wager that it would look innocuous – these people aren’t idiots, unfortunately, and we’ve been seeing a trend of increased sophistication over the last few years. Appears they’ve been hiring out for their know-how.” He felt the back of his skull and grimaced. “Bastard really whacked me.”

“Are you okay to drive?”

He gave her a pained smile. “Would you mind doing the honors?”

“If it keeps us out of an accident and gets us there any faster, try stopping me.”

Dover, England

Vladimir strode from the ferry and checked his cell messages. The truck carrying the device had arrived in the UK that morning and spent most of the day, as expected, in customs. His men had gotten clearance only an hour before, and were now waiting for his arrival near the terminal.

He pulled his overcoat around him as the cold wind from the English Channel sliced through him, ignoring the chill as he made his way along the pedestrian walkway to the sidewalk outside the terminal. His Russian passport had raised no eyebrows, and his bag hadn’t even been searched – not that the monkeys checking would have been rewarded with anything besides a clean pair of underwear, a basic hygiene kit, and a return ticket to France the following morning.

If all went well, he’d hand over the device, show the terrorist how to arm it with the modified television remote control, and be back in France well before any fireworks got started. They’d received all but the final million, so all that remained was the inspection, a transfer, and then the physical handoff and his job was done.

He dialed a Moscow number from memory and waited as the phone rang. Sergey’s voice was typically soft when he answered.

“Da?”

“I’m on the ground. We will meet late tonight. The package made it through with no problem.”

“Good. Keep me informed.” Sergey hesitated. “Can you be reached at this number?”

“For the next twelve hours only. Then this phone will be at the bottom of the sea.”

“Confirm once you’ve finished with your chore.”

“Consider it done.”

He hung up and hurried two blocks to the waterfront café where his men were waiting. When he entered, he immediately spotted them at a table near the window, but instead of approaching Vladimir sat at the counter and ordered tea. He took his time sipping it and waited five minutes after they left the building to pay and follow them outside.

The truck was parked across the street. Vladimir scanned the area and then joined them, wasting no time before climbing into the cab.

“Let’s get this over with,” he growled to the driver, who nodded and put the truck in gear.

Ten minutes later they had transferred the keg containing the device to a panel van. The driver left Vladimir standing by its side with the other stocky Russian who’d accompanied the truck across the Channel. Vladimir slid behind the wheel and started the engine, and the man joined him in front.

They drove across town to a small warehouse near the Dover town hall, and pulled the vehicle through the heavy wooden doors into a marine repair shop barely large enough to accommodate it. Motors stood on blocks and hung from chains suspended from the ceiling, and once inside Vladimir’s nose wrinkled at the pungent aroma of diesel and oil.

Vladimir’s companion got out of the passenger side and helped the man who’d opened the gates for them push them shut again, the wind battering the twin slabs with unseasonal fury. Once they were bolted, Vladimir grinned at the pair and moved to where a wall heater provided some relief from the chill.

“Are all the businesses around here closed now?” he asked in Russian.

“Yes. We will have complete privacy.”

“Excellent.” His eyes dropped to his watch, and then he addressed the shop owner, who, like the other Russian, was built like a fireplug and had the flushed complexion of a heavy drinker. “We have a few hours. Is there any place you can get some dinner for us?”

“Of course. In town.”

“Good. I’m starving. And get some beer while you’re at it.”

“Fish and chips acceptable?”

“Don’t they eat anything else here?” Vladimir complained.

“It’s the closest. They aren’t half bad with vinegar.”

Vladimir eyed him doubtfully. “Very well. We’ll wait here. And Dmitry? Be quick about it.”

“Will do.”

~ ~ ~

Manchester, England

Maya drove faster than Jeff customarily did, and managed to trim fifteen minutes off their travel time to Manchester. Jeff busied himself with calling in his report to headquarters – as he expected, they instructed him to return to Manchester and investigate the address while more agents made their way there from London. When he hung up, he gave Maya a dark look.

“They’re mobilizing, but it will take hours for a field team to reach Manchester. We’re to reconnoiter the address and avoid any confrontation until backup arrives.”

“What about the British authorities?”

“I leave that to the big brains in headquarters. I’m sure they’ll alert them when it’s the appropriate time.”

Maya gave him a skeptical glance. “What does that mean?”

“It means that I get the impression headquarters doesn’t completely trust the Brits to do their job in a competent fashion. Either because of bureaucracy, or because they’re afraid there might be leaks…I don’t know. I’m speculating.”

“Well, at least we’re armed. That’s better than having to throw rocks.”

“Right. Well, it also poses a problem, obviously. To law enforcement, we’re civilians, so the law against firearms applies equally to us.”

“So what you’re saying is, we can’t get caught.”

“That’s not what I’m saying at all,” Jeff protested, then clamped his mouth shut, his lips forming a thin line.

Maya eyed him before refocusing her attention on the road. “Look, I understand you’re Mr. By-the-book, but you have to admit, we’re in uncharted territory. I’d rather ask for forgiveness after the fact than join the gunman I neutralized on a morgue slab.”

“No question. But we’re not to engage, so it’s a moot point.”

“We weren’t to engage at the last place, either. Sometimes shit happens.”

“Quite. But let’s see to it that it doesn’t happen again, shall we?”

Maya nodded. “How’s the head?”

“Nothing a little bed rest and a full neurological workup can’t remedy.” Jeff paused. “Would you really have shot his other kneecap off?”

She shrugged. “In a blink. And then I’d have butchered him like a sheep. Just as he was preparing to do to you. If you’re going to play that game, you can expect your adversary to play by the same rules.”

“Yes, but we’re not terrorists.”

“I understand. We also don’t have the luxury of wasting time. If we’re right, they’re going to try to blow up the stadium for a sold-out match with a who’s who of dignitaries in it. So I erred on the side of expediency. And you’re alive to argue that approach’s merits with me, so it’s worked out so far.”

Jeff fell silent as he considered her words. It was obvious that he was conflicted. On the one hand, his job was to play by the Queen’s rules and ensure his agents didn’t overstep; but on the other, he’d come moments from being sliced up by a madman and had been saved by Maya disobeying his instructions to stay put.

Maya left him to his thoughts. She’d been through enough in her short life to realize that when things got ugly, rules went out the window if you wanted to survive. For all Jeff’s seniority, she suspected that she had seen more violence between her duty in the West Bank and her adventure with the arms dealer in Indonesia than he had in his entire career. Which didn’t make her judgment better, but absolutely spoke to her willingness to take the gloves off and get bloody.

And perhaps most importantly, for all his objections, she’d saved his life – and it was hard to argue with results.

His cell phone rang as they neared the outskirts of Manchester, and he had another whispered conversation. When he hung up, his face betrayed his disappointment.

“They’re just now departing from London,” he said.

“On a private jet, I hope.”

“Unfortunately, no. Driving.”

“Then we’re on our own for…what, four hours?”

“About that.”

“Which could be an eternity.”

“Let’s hope not.”

The GPS directed them to a run-down area populated by industrial maintenance businesses and automotive shops advertising affordable transmission and brake work done while you waited. A corner market was closing up, and Maya and Jeff eyed a woman in a head scarf and robe locking the steel awning that protected the entrance.

“Good Irish neighborhood,” Jeff observed, inclining his head at a closed café that featured four types of kabobs.

“Remember we’re not supposed to be judgmental. Tolerance is our middle name.”

“I got that loud and clear.”

They rolled past the address, a transmission shop whose sign had seen better days, and continued to the end of the block. Maya turned the corner and the roll-up door disappeared from view.

“It’s going to be hard to sneak up on the place. Not much cover,” she said as the sedan prowled along the side street.

“Looks like we’ll be doing it on foot again.”

“Maybe there’s a back way in?”

“Can’t hurt to look.”

They circled the block and Maya pulled to the curb. “I’ll walk the area, see if I can spot anything promising.”

“And I’ll park across the street, by the market. Don’t do anything risky. We’re not to engage.”

“I know. Surveillance only.” She slipped from the car. “You’ve got the revolver. I don’t think it’ll be accurate for more than ten yards, but it’s better than nothing.”

“I’m not going to need it.”

“Let’s hope not.”

Maya darted into the shadows and edged along the shops until she reached the corner, and then peered around, listening. Cars roared down the nearby motorway, but as far as she could tell, she was the only living thing on the street. She studied the approach to the shop, and her eyes narrowed when she spotted the telltale shape of a small surveillance camera mounted three meters above the door. That ruled out a frontal approach.

She retraced her steps and spied an iron gate, beyond which a row of garbage cans stretched into the gloom, the access way no more than two meters wide. After a final scan of her surroundings, she neared the gate and pushed it open, frowning as the hinges groaned.

The repair shop was thirty meters from the gate, and she crept silently to where light was glowing from a pair of windows that framed a steel door, taking care to avoid the metal trash cans piled high with black garbage bags. When she reached the nearest one, she stood on tiptoe and peeked around the edge.

Inside, the beer truck was parked in the center of the shop, and four men were attending to something in the area behind the driver’s cab. She couldn’t make out what they were saying, but could see that one of the men seemed to be the leader, gesticulating and doing most of the talking. She held up her cell phone and snapped several shots of the men, and was edging closer when the leader abruptly stopped what he was doing and stared in her direction.

She stood frozen, and then the man barked orders and rushed toward the door as Maya ducked away, pulling the pistol from her pocket as she did so. She debated sprinting for the gate, but a quick calculation told her she’d never make it before the men were in the alley and she was exposed.

Abreeq swung the rear door wide, a small Ruger pistol in his hand, followed by Kasra and his men, who were also clutching handguns. They stood in the small passage between the buildings, and Abreeq surveyed the surroundings before jabbing a thick finger in the direction of the gate. Kasra followed him toward it while the other two men moved in the opposite direction, their shoes squishing on the wet pavement.

A scrape sounded from two trash cans to their left, and Abreeq stiffened and swung his weapon at them, and then relaxed as Kasra chuckled by his side. A black and white cat scampered from behind the cans, slowing as it eyed them over its shoulder, and then continued into the gloom.

“There’s what triggered the motion sensor,” Kasra said, relief in his voice.

“You should set the sensitivity threshold higher,” Abreeq complained, watching the feline disappear before turning back toward the shop and calling to the other two gunmen in Arabic. “Come on. It was just a cat.”

The men returned and piled back into the shop. Abreeq paused at the doorway, and after glancing in both directions a final time, pulled the heavy door closed behind him with a solid clank.

Maya waited, crouching behind the cans for two full moments, the stench of rot around her threatening to make her sick, and then slowly stood with a grateful look at the remnants of a discarded fish dinner the alley cat had been dining on. She exhaled a long breath and watched the rear door, wary that the men had entirely bought that it had only been a cat in the alley.

She’d forwarded the photos to Jeff when she’d taken cover, and was preparing to return to the gate when her phone vibrated. Maya held it to her ear and thumbed it to life.

“Yes?” she whispered.

“I’m on my way to you.”

“No. I think they may be onto us.”

“Do you have any idea who the guy in the black outfit is?”

“I have a feeling you’re going to tell me.”