Shadow Tag (3 page)

6

Reilly had no idea how capable his targets would prove to be, but as he took another bite of his chicken shawarma wrap, he was certain of one thing: when it came to Lebanese food, these guys knew where to go.

“Unbelievable,” he said, watching as Malone layered some tabbouleh along the spine of a lettuce leaf.

“I really miss this in Copenhagen,” Malone managed between mouthfuls. “Can’t get decent Lebanese food there. Nothing like this, anyway.”

Reilly dipped a triangle of thin Arabic bread into the plate of humus, then studied the restaurant again as he savored the bite.

It was a long, narrow room. Along one side of it ran a bar made of a slightly garish, richly-veined marble. Behind the bar were the two shawarma stands, huge, fat cylinders of meat—one lamb, the other chicken—that was layered onto a skewer that rotated slowly in front of a gas fire. There was also a wide, narrow horizontal charcoal grill that was used for kebabs, and a wide preparation area where the three chefs added the various condiments and garnishes to the sandwiches or plates. Eight customers, all men, sat on tall stools facing the bar, eating. A couple of them seemed chummy with the chefs and were chatting away with them between bites. A dozen small tables lined the other wall, which was clad with large mirrors. Reilly and Malone occupied the table closest to the door, facing the shawarma stands, where a couple of other men waited for their takeaways. Judging by the uninterrupted flow of such pick-ups, and of diners coming in and out of the place since the two Americans had been seated there, the restaurant was evidently doing a brisk business on all fronts.

No one in the place stood out though, but then again, Reilly and Malone didn’t have an ID on any of the bad guys. All they could do for now was sit there and wait in the hope that one of the phones would go live again and that GCHQ would pick up its trail, a trail that, with a bit of luck, would lead to a target walking into that very restaurant. Until then, they could only wait—and enjoy the food.

Reilly took another sip of his Coke, then checked his phone again. He had a strong 4G signal, but nothing had come in yet from GCHQ.

He was reaching over for another dip at the humus bowl when a new customer walked in. He was dressed in a dark, loose-fitting suit—nothing expensive—and no tie. He hadn’t shaved for a few days and had dark circles under his eyes. Something about this guy attracted Reilly’s attention. He glanced discreetly at Malone. He, too, had sensed something. Agents—good agents—noticed the most minuscule details. Sometimes, it was something you could actually pinpoint: the way a person’s attention flits around a room when they walk in; the tension in their shoulders, in their gait. Other times, it’s a subconscious awareness. Nothing tangible they can point out, just a combination of tiny observations coupled with an instinct that’s been honed through years on the job.

This was one such moment.

The two agents carried on eating as the man walked up to the cashier at the far end of the bar and placed his order. He was too far for them to hear, but judging by the time it took and the cash he forked out, he was ordering more than just for himself. The cashier handed him a small printout slip, then the man walked back towards the front door and gave the slip to one of the chefs.

Reilly and Malone observed the man start chatting with the chef. The man was clearly a regular. He and the chef were enjoying a good chat while the chef shaved pieces of chicken and lamb off the fat, cylindrical skewers onto a small steel tray. While still chatting, the chef then tipped bits of meat onto a row of wraps that were laid out in line. From where they were sitting, Reilly and Malone couldn’t see exactly how many sandwiches the man had ordered, but the chef’s arm movements indicated there were ten of them. The chef then put the tray down and started adding the garnishes to the sandwiches: sliced tomatoes, onions, pickled cucumber and beetroot for both lamb and chicken sandwiches, then garlic for the chicken and tahini—a sesame seed-based sauce—for the lamb.

As he was doing it, the chef asked the man something. Reilly’s basic knowledge of Arabic was enough to understand what he was saying: the chef was asking the man if he wanted garlic on all the chicken sandwiches. Reilly knew this was a typical question: not everyone wanted to reek of garlic, which, in these sandwiches, was potent.

The man Reilly and Malone were watching said yes at first. Then he had second thoughts and said something that caused Reilly’s pulse to spike. Malone saw it reflected in the tiny reaction in Reilly’s eyes. Reilly gave him an almost imperceptible confirmation nod.

The man said, “
Hott ketchup ala arba’a minon. Hadol Amerkan, ma byifhamo shi
.”

As in, Put ketchup on four of them. They’re Americans, they don’t know these things.

The man said it with evident mockery, causing the chef to laugh. The chef then asked if he should add some mustard too, which the target laughed at before building on it with another comment that Reilly didn’t quite catch but that caused more merriment.

It didn’t matter. Reilly had heard enough.

The sandwiches were for Americans. And the chatter had mentioned targeting some “American specialists.” Added to the fact that the man had lit up both agents’ internal goondars, this suddenly looked promising.

Then the man turned, and his gaze lasered onto Reilly, then Malone—and something effervesced in his own eyes. Just for a second, two at most.

Then he bolted out of the restaurant.

“Go, go, go,” Reilly said, as he and Malone catapulted out of their seats and charged after him.

7

Khoury was slumped on the damaged mattress, his back against the wall. His fingers twirled around bits of cotton that the lead goon’s gunshots had kicked up. “You think anyone’s looking for us?”

“I don’t know,” Berry replied. He was laid out similarly, on the opposite wall. “Elizabeth is in southern France with a couple of her girl friends. What about Suellen?”

“She’s on a canal barge with her dad in the middle of nowhere.”

“So they might not notice we’re gone for another day or two?”

“It’s possible.”

Berry nodded, to himself. This was looking bleak. “You know we can’t do this.”

“Of course, we can’t. But we have to figure a way out of this.
That’s
the brilliant plot we need to come up with.”

“And it needs to be something that involves us being part of the master plan. That way, they don’t kill us off after we give it to them.”

“Not an easy job.”

“No choice. In the meantime, we have to give them something to buy ourselves some time.”

“The guy didn’t know about Dr. Evil or about Nelson DeMille’s books,” Khoury said, an idea blooming. “He doesn’t seem too well versed in popular culture. We can use that. Why don’t we just give him something that’s been done before.”

“Dangerous. They might catch us—or they might actually go out and do it.”

“If they catch us, we can just claim we never read it or saw it. And as for them going and doing it—what are the odds of these morons actually pulling off something that big?”

“They just might,” Berry said. “Remember
Debt of Honor
? Tom Clancy had a pissed off Japanese Air Lines pilot crash his jumbo jet into the Capitol building during a special joint session of Congress killing the President and everyone else, and that was seven years before 9/11.”

“You think Bin Laden read Clancy?”

“Maybe. He was a jet-setting Saudi millionaire before he turned into an asshole.”

“Okay, let’s get back to our asshole,” Khoury said. “What bone can we throw him to buy some time?”

“He wants big. Epic. And no bombs or viruses.”

“Something from a Bond movie?”

“Risky. Too popular.”

“Maybe you’re right. If he hasn’t seen them, one of his goons probably has.”

“Okay, so let me ask you this,” Berry asked, “what’s the best plot you ever read? Or saw? What’s the one you wish you’d come up with?”

“In terms of a brilliant plan, I’ve got to go with the first
Die Hard
—”

“Genius—”

“Totally. But our guy is no Hans Gruber. And there’s another problem. Like a lot of these stories, it’s about personal gain, not destruction. The fireworks, like Goldfinger’s nuke, are just a sideshow to the real motive: money.”

“This guy didn’t give us much to work with.”

They both mulled over the question.

“Okay,” Berry offered. “What about the second
Die Hard
? Bringing down airliners by hacking into air traffic control.”

“Nasty. But scarily doable, don’t you think?”

“Nah, come on. We both know there are all kinds of firewalls built into these things. It’s virtually impossible to pull off—if you’ll pardon the pun.”

“But what if it wasn’t?”

Berry thought about it for a moment, then nodded. “Too risky, you’re right.”

“Yeah, but the hacking thing might work. In fact, it’s perfect. No explosives. Nothing basic that could kill lots of people. And it’ll be too sophisticated for them to be able to control every aspect of it.”

“Meaning we’ll have plenty of opportunities to shut it down if it ever got that far.”

“Exactly. Have you been watching this new TV series,
Mr. Robot
?”

Berry shook his head.

“It’s very cool.” Khoury considered it briefly, then smiled. “Yeah, I think this might work.”

8

The man only had a few seconds’ head start, but he was fast. He already had a fifty yard lead by the time Reilly and Malone burst out of the restaurant.

“You gonna tell me what the hell that was all about?” Malone asked, panting.

“Later,” Reilly shouted back. “Need to grab him first.”

The man spun around for a quick look, gauged how far back they were, then cut across the wide sidewalk and onto the road, oblivious to the cars coming in his direction. He zigzagged through them and made it to the opposite side, where cars and buses were heading south towards Hyde Park.

Reilly and Malone tried to follow, but they were interrupted by a wave of cars that screeched as they swerved to avoid them while blaring their horns.

The two agents were dodging the traffic when they saw a red Routemaster bus, one of the new models, drive past on the opposite roadway, obscuring their target momentarily before the man reappeared behind it, only now he was sprinting even faster, fast enough to leap onto the open platform at the rear of the bus just as it accelerated away.

“Crap,” Reilly shouted. “He’s getting away.”

He looked around in a panic and spotted possible salvation: a trio of tourists pedaling peacefully down the road on Santander bikes, ones provided across the city as part of London’s bike-sharing scheme.

He didn’t hesitate.

He rushed up to the lead bike, grabbed its rider and pulled him to a sudden halt.

“Sorry, I’m going to need this,” he blurted as he pulled the rider off his seat. Seconds later, he was pedaling furiously after the bus, with Malone in his wake on a second bike.

The bikes were no match for the bus, not when there was a long stretch before the traffic lights at Marble Arch. They could see their target standing on the platform at the back of the bus, watching them through its angled rear window.

They lost more ground as the bus neared the intersection, where the lights were red. A few cars were stopped there, waiting.

“If the lights go green, we’re screwed,” Malone yelled.

They went green.

The cars drove off, far enough ahead so that the bus didn’t even have to slow down. Instead, it just motored on, veering left around Marble Arch before heading down Park Lane.

“Shit,” Reilly shouted.

He pedaled more furiously, as did Malone. The two agents were still a good twenty yards away from the lights when they went from green to amber. By the time they reached them, the lights were red, and cars were already moving into the intersection from the right.

“Keep going,” Reilly hollered.

He kept going, cutting into the intersection inches ahead of the lead car to his right. The car screeched to a stop, causing the one behind to plow into it. Malone was a few feet behind Reilly and just managed to avoid the scrape. The two agents kept pedaling and banked right to head down Park Lane, oblivious to the mess they’d left behind.

Then they got lucky.

The traffic ahead was heavy, with cars and buses blocking the way long before the red light that was a couple of hundred yards down the road.

Reilly saw the Routemaster grind to a halt. The target’s head swung left and right as he considered his next move, then he leapt off the bus and ran.

Reilly and Malone kept going. Other cars and buses coming from Oxford Street had filtered in ahead of them before stopping too. They had to slow down before threading their way through the stopped traffic, but at least, their quarry was now on foot.

“We’re going to lose him,” Malone shouted as he and Reilly maneuvered between the stopped cars. They could see their target as he ran across the wide, planted median and cut through the traffic coming up the opposite carriageway before making it to the other side and running into Hyde Park.

“Damn it,” Reilly hissed as he dumped his bike and sprinted ahead.

Malone did the same.

It took them longer to get across the road, with its four lanes of cars to dodge. By the time they made it into the park, the man was over a hundred yards ahead of them.

Reilly looked around without pausing. There was nothing for him to requisition—no bikes, not even a skateboard.

They kept running, chasing him down the Parade Ground and past Reformer’s Tree, heading south. They weren’t catching up on him.

“Would have been easier without those damn shawarmas weighing me down,” Reilly yelled to his partner.

“Forget the shawarmas. It’s the garlic that’s burning me up,” Malone quipped. “And I don’t even like garlic.”

They followed him around the Look Out Educational Centre and down towards the Serpentine, which was spread out at the bottom of the hill like a huge, black mirror. Dozens of small pedal boats carrying tourists and families idled peacefully on the water, mingling with the resident swans and ducks.

All of which presented their target with a problem. He’d have to go around the lake, either left or right. When he did, Reilly and Malone could triangulate in his direction, cutting the distance between them.

The man kept going straight.

“We’ll gain ground on him now,” Reilly blurted.

Only the target didn’t turn right or left. Instead, he kept going straight towards the lake until he reached the boathouse, where he barged through the waiting crowd, leapt onto an empty pedal boat, and set off across the surface. By the time Reilly and Malone reached the shore, he was a good thirty yards away from the bank.

“Come on,” Reilly yelled as he charged through the crowd and grabbed a pedal boat that had just come in.

Malone jumped onto it alongside him.

They started pedaling.

Up ahead, their target was now halfway across.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Malone said as he pedaled furiously. “I can swim faster than this.”

“You wanna go for it?” Reilly asked. “Be my guest.”

Malone glanced at the water around them. It was freezing, and he was fully dressed. By the time he shook his clothes off, the man would be on the opposite shore.

It wasn’t a particularly inviting prospect.

“Maybe another time,” Malone said. “Keep spinning.”

Minutes later, their target rammed his pedal boat onto the bank, jumped off, and sprinted away.

The agents did the same.

They crossed Rotten Row and were all heading down towards the Edinburgh Gate and the gleaming glass towers of One Hyde Park.

“We need a bike, a cop, or something,” Reilly said between labored breaths.

“How about horses?” Malone asked.

“As long as they don’t have guys with swords on them, I’m happy,” Reilly quipped, panting heavily.

“If he gets to the big department stores in Knightsbridge, we’ll definitely lose him.”

The target reached South Carriage Drive and rushed across it, easily avoiding the sparse traffic heading up the single lane.

Reilly saw him disappear behind a white van that was parked by the Pan Statue. He and Malone didn’t slow down. They crossed the road and rounded the van—only the target was gone.

They stopped running and for a split second, Reilly didn’t get it. Then he turned to face the side the of the van and saw the target inside.

He wasn’t alone.

Another man was in there with him.

They were both pointing guns at the two agents.

“Get in, now,” the new guy barked as he beckoned them with his gun.

Reilly looked at Malone. They were both out of breath and exhausted. Putting up a fight, in their present condition, was simply not an option.

Malone nodded grudgingly.

And with that, they both boarded the van.