Ops Files II--Terror Alert (24 page)

She pulled the helmet off and studied her surroundings. Several lights from a row of homes glimmered in the distance, drawing her to them. Where there were residences there would be cars, and she could steal an older one unlikely to be equipped with an alarm.

Twenty minutes later she was crossing the ignition wires of a senile Rover sedan that was twice as old as she was, if a day. The motor started with a puff of blue exhaust, and she put the car in gear and drove away, hoping the owner had gone to bed long before – her experience being that younger people didn’t typically drive ancient relics if they could help it. If her fortune held, she would reach her destination long before the Rover was reported stolen, and she smiled to herself as she rolled toward the M40 that led to London.

Once on the highway, she calculated the time it would take to reach the capital and pushed the old sedan to the speed limit, but no faster. She’d learned her lesson and couldn’t afford to be apprehended behind the wheel of a stolen car. If there had been a reasonable explanation for the motorcycle, there was none for grand theft auto, and she suspected the authorities wouldn’t be lenient if she was caught.

The gas gauge showed half a tank, which would be sufficient to make Dover. She adjusted the mirrors and settled in for the trek, debating pulling over to try a call again each time she passed a rest stop but erring on the side of caution until she was well away from where she’d stolen the car.

Eventually she’d put sufficient distance between herself and Birmingham to chance pulling off the road near High Wycombe, and found a bank of phones that were operational. She dialed London, and an operator picked up after a few seconds. Maya gave her access code and demanded to speak to the duty officer. After an interminably long wait, a male voice came on the line.

“Yes?”

“You’ve authenticated my password?”

“Yes.”

She filled the man in on the events in Manchester – Jeff’s wound, the gunfight, Abreeq, her flight, the clue she’d discovered on the printer. When she finished, the voice repeated her story back to her.

“That’s right,” she said when he’d finished.

“And where are you right now?”

“On the outskirts of London. On my way to Dover.”

“I see. Hold on, please.”

Perhaps she was reading too much into the man’s tone, but he didn’t sound enthusiastic. One minute dragged into three, and she was debating hanging up when he came back on the line.

“We’ve got no report of the agent in question being injured in Manchester.”

“Yet. He might be dead, or in surgery. Don’t you have some sort of tracking device in his shoe?”

The voice ignored her question. “You say that this Abreeq is on his way to Dover? How do you know?”

“I told you. I found an artifact on the printer’s hard drive. It had the address and a meeting time.” She checked her watch, frustration beginning to simmer at the man’s inane questions. “In an hour and a half.”

“Right. But you just said you were in a gunfight with him. How do you know he’s still going to the meeting, presuming that was even his map?”

“What are you talking about?”

“You said that the gun battle took place at a garage. Is it not possible that others use the computer and printer there for innocent purposes? How can you be certain that it was his?”

She fought to control her annoyance. “I can’t be. But it’s the only lead we have.”

“I’ll need to check out your story and see if we can find any chatter on the police airwaves about a shoot-out.”

“How long will that take?”

“A few minutes. Maybe a half hour. It depends.”

“Do you not understand the urgency of this situation?”

“I do indeed. What number can I reach you at?”

“I don’t have a cell. Mine was destroyed in the fight.”

“I see. What about the telephone you’re calling from?”

“I’m on a pay phone. You want me to wait here instead of proceeding to Dover?”

The night man sighed, obviously uncomfortable with making that decision. If he told her to stay put and it turned out to be the wrong decision, it could kill a career. But he clearly didn’t want to tell her to proceed, either. So he did what any low-level functionary would. “I’m not saying that. But I need a way of reaching you.”

“I’ll call back when I can.”

She hung up before he could say anything more. She could always claim she’d been cut off – out of time, her coin only buying so much. But her worst fears were being realized while she wasted precious seconds: by the time headquarters had verified her story and made a decision, it would be too late.

Maya returned to the Rover and slipped behind the wheel. She would call once she was in Dover. She’d given her report, they had the address, and if they acted swiftly, could have agents there to intercept Abreeq. There was no reason for her to cool her heels.

When she was ultimately debriefed, she’d tell them that she had gone to Dover, following the last order from her direct superior she’d received, as was her sworn duty: to stop Abreeq at all costs.

Dover, England

Abreeq changed back into his more comfortable sweatshirt and army fatigue pants in the lavatory as the train approached Dover Priory Station. He studied his paste-on goatee with amusement – it really looked like the genuine article. Combined with the nerdish glasses, he looked like a Malcolm X wannabe, which was fine – a common enough affectation these days. The reflection staring back at him could have been that of a young college professor, bookish and stern, the farthest thing from a terrorist anyone could think of.

He looked down at his watch. Scheduled to arrive at half past midnight, the train was running eight minutes late. Assuming no delays at the station, he would have twenty minutes to make it to the marine shop where he was to take possession of the bomb. More than sufficient time – the station was only half a kilometer from the rendezvous point.

Abreeq repacked his suit, taking care to fold it neatly before tucking it into his bag. Waste not, want not, he thought, and offered his reflection a small smile. Once his errand was complete and he’d detonated the device, he would adopt his businessman persona for the train ride to France, where he’d go to ground in one of the apartments he maintained scattered around the globe.

A chime sounded and an automated announcement came over the public address system, alerting him to their imminent arrival in Dover. He rinsed his hands and blotted them dry, and then retrieved the pistol he’d assembled before changing and slipped it into his waistband beneath his loose hoodie. Finished, he hoisted the bag and left the restroom, returning to his seat for the remainder of the trip.

When the train coasted to a stop with a final squeal of brakes, he disembarked with the rest of the passengers, even helping an older woman step from the stairs onto the platform. He took care to blend into the crowd and kept his hood pulled over his head so the overhead cameras wouldn’t easily capture his face, and guided the woman with his arm, figuring that in the slim likelihood anyone was watching for him, they wouldn’t be looking for a grandmother and her helper.

He left the woman at the station entry and approached a long line of waiting cabs. The driver of the lead vehicle, leaning against the hood, a paunchy older man with a cauliflower nose and a cigarette clenched between his lips, eyed him and then dropped the smoke into the gutter.

“Climb aboard. Want me to toss that in the boot?” the driver asked.

“No, I’m not going far. I’ll keep it on the seat with me.”

“Where are we off to, governor?”

“Lord Nelson Pub,” Abreeq said, naming a popular watering hole near his destination.

“Bit late, isn’t it? Probably closed, it is.”

“That’s fine. I’m staying close by.”

“Ah, right, then. Won’t be two minutes.”

The cab was one of only a few cars on the road, the town closed up at the late hour. Thick fog choked the old streets, shrouding them with a ghostly air. The driver dropped him down the street from the bar, and Abreeq watched his taillights disappear into the haze before turning and making his way to the corner and turning right.

The building was exactly as he’d expected – hundreds of years old, with a façade of distressed brick and ancient stone. As agreed, he knocked on the door, waited, and then knocked three times again. A bolt slid open inside and the door swung wide, held by a heavy man who looked like an ex-prizefighter gone to fat. The bruiser sized up Abreeq and then stepped back to allow him to enter.

Vladimir approached the terrorist with his hand outstretched. “Abreeq, my friend. Glad you made it.”

Abreeq shook the Russian’s hand. “Yes. Ungodly cold out. Don’t see how anyone lives here.”

They laughed together. Vladimir knew Abreeq from a prior encounter in which he’d supplied him with plastic explosive, grenade launchers, and claymore mines.

Vladimir led him to the rear of the box van, the doors of which stood open. The keg was tied down in the back, secured with towing straps connected to eyelets welded to the interior braces.

“It’s ready to go. As agreed, enough strontium-90 to contaminate a two-hundred-meter-diameter area, minimum. And shielded with lead so it won’t set off radiation sensors.”

“How do you arm it?”

“With a remote control. I’ll show you.”

Vladimir took Abreeq through the arming sequence. “The timer is a sixty-minute model, as you requested.”

“That should be more than sufficient. Show me the device.”

Vladimir nodded, and one of the two men climbed into the van and, using a wrench, removed the plug in the top. “You can look inside and verify it’s there. Not that you have any reason to question me – we have sufficient history, no?”

Abreeq didn’t comment, but instead climbed into the van and removed a penlight from his pocket. He peered into the amber fluid and then sat back, satisfied.

“Seal it.”

Vladimir helped the terrorist out of the van as his man went to work closing the keg up, and eyed him expectantly. “Everything in order?”

Abreeq nodded and held his phone to his ear. When Kahn answered, he spoke the code phrase that signaled everything was acceptable. “Allah’s path is lit.”

“Very well. The transfer shall be effected immediately.”

Abreeq powered the phone off and smiled. “You will have confirmation of the final funds transferred within minutes.”

“Excellent. Always a pleasure doing business with you. Is there anything else you need before we verify the funds arrived?”

Abreeq shook his head. “No. Once your man has confirmation, I’ll hit the road. I presume the papers on the van are in order?”

“Of course. Dmitry? Show our guest the registration.”

The second Russian motioned for Abreeq to follow him to the front of the van. Abreeq stiffened as he opened the door. A shadow on the wall beside him offered the terrorist a split-second of warning – the unmistakable shape of a handgun.

Abreeq spun in a crouch, his pistol drawn as he pivoted, in time to see Vladimir’s eyes widen in surprise, the ugly snout of the silenced pistol in his hand swinging downward at the Arab. Abreeq fired twice. Vladimir fell backward, his pistol discharging as he did. The subsonic round ricocheted off an overhead rafter as he dropped. Abreeq turned and shot the thug behind him in the face as the Russian attempted to bring a Glock to bear. The man’s skull exploded as the close-range slug mushroomed, blowing a tangerine-sized divot from the back of his head on exit.

The van rocked as the third Russian leapt from the back, and Abreeq dropped flat on the floor, firing at the man’s legs as he landed on the concrete. The Russian screamed in pain as his shinbone shattered, and he fell forward. Abreeq’s final shot to the man’s temple ended his life as he hit the ground.

Abreeq stood slowly and toed Vladimir’s gun away from him. The Russian’s chest was heaving, blood burbling from two wounds, and Abreeq stood over him and raised an eyebrow at the damage.

“I understand drowning in your own blood is the worst way to go,” he said. “You are a fool. And your actions have changed nothing. I will still use the device, and you will be dead.”

Vladimir groaned and lost consciousness. Abreeq moved to the van’s driver’s side and verified that the keys were in it. He started the engine and then strode to the garage doors and swung them open. Outside, fog swirled on the street, and he wasted no time pulling the van out of the garage. He didn’t know to what extent the fog had dampened the sound of his shots, but if anyone had heard them, the police would be there shortly, and he would do well to be far away by the time they arrived.

He pulled the heavy wooden slabs closed behind him and walked back to the van. With a final glance around the gloomy area, he rolled down the narrow street into the wall of white that greeted the van’s headlights like a spectral veil.

Maya navigated through the socked-in streets of Dover, the old Rover wheezing like an asthmatic as fog swirled around it. She didn’t think it possible that conditions could get any worse, but the already thick soup became almost impenetrable as she neared the shore, forcing her to slow to a crawl.

The map sat on the seat beside her, and she glanced at it periodically to verify she was on the correct street. A church materialized from the fog like a stone giant, confirming that she was only a block from the rendezvous point. Headlights glowed from the gloom, and a delivery van almost ran her off the road, the driver adjusting at the last moment and missing her by scant centimeters.

“Idiot,” she muttered under her breath, and turned onto an even narrower lane and parked. The district was populated by medieval buildings that framed the road as far as she could see, no lights in the windows, the area silent. A streetlight fought a losing battle against the curtain of mist at the corner, providing scant illumination in the haze.

Maya disconnected the ignition wires and the engine quieted. She slipped from behind the wheel, pistol in hand, and began her approach, taking cautious steps as she rounded the edge of a building and skirted a wall.