Traitor (11 page)

The road ahead was clear and from behind the target, the driver of the second vehicle gave the order to move.

The first vehicle accelerated sharply, cut in front of the Clio and slammed on the brakes. The second Range Rover closed to within an inch of the Clio’s rear bumper and matched the braking. Even if Nick had wanted to escape into the next lane, it was impossible, the Clio had become as one with the Range Rovers. The three vehicles connected and the Clio drew to a stop wedged solidly between the two SUVs, each of which weighed three times the tiny Clio.

Even before they had drawn to a compete stop, the passenger doors of both Range Rovers were open and six of the SOG team members, dressed in full tactical assault suits with bio-hazard protection, rushed to take down the target.

Turner watched the images the SOG team’s head-mounted cameras beamed back to them. Barry stood smiling as the CIA team performed the maneuver perfectly. Stopping a moving car at 80 mph was no mean feat. Stopping it as well as the SOG team had just done was remarkable.

“Looks like he’s given up,” announced Barry. They could just make out the driver sitting still, keeping his hands visible on the steering wheel.

Turner nodded; it was looking very good. He turned around to look at Flynn, who stood shaking his head slowly.

“I know it’s tough,” said Turner. “He was one of yours.”

Flynn shook his head even more and sighed.
They just don’t get it.

“Here we go!” shouted Barry, as the SOG team member reached for the Clio’s door handle.

Nick grabbed his 9mm Berretta the instant the door opened, causing immediate panic amongst the intruders.

“Don’t shoot!” screamed the yawner, dropping the tray with a selection of breads and pastries on the floor. Shoeless, who had graduated to just being shirtless, having heeded Nick’s advice, dropped a small pot of coffee as Yawner fell back into him.

“
Putain!
” he shouted as the hot coffee burned into his naked chest.

“You know… you should wear a shirt,” advised Nick, smiling and lowering the pistol.

“You were right about your car,” said Yawner, bending down to pick up the pastries and breads. “It’s on TV right now.”

Nick followed them through to the living room to the television set, where the news helicopter filmed the action from afar. They could clearly see the two Range Rovers wedge the small Clio and bring it to a stop before the SOG team approached the car.

“Who’s in there?” asked Nick.

“Not sure,” Yawner said. “Amir arranged it.”

“Any chance of any comeback?” Nick asked.

“Absolutely none.”

A range of expletives exploded in NCTC when the youth was pulled from the car. When the SOG team had him prone on the ground, they searched the car but a close-up of his face showed him to be eighteen at most.

Flynn grabbed his jacket. “Guys, do you get it now?”

Turner snapped. “What, Flynn? Do we get
what
now?!”

“You’re not dealing with a fucking amateur. He’ll always be a step ahead of you and when it looks like you’re closing in, he’ll jump to three steps ahead.”

“We’ll make that little shit talk!” said Barry pointing to the youth on the ground 3,000 miles away.

“Barry, he won’t know shit!” Flynn sighed and picked up his jacket. “I’ll see you guys in the morning.” “Are you going to update Carson?” Turner called after him.

“Jesus, Turner! Why d’you think he left? I only hung around to see Barry fall on his ass!”

And with that, he was gone.

Frankie woke up in the unfamiliar surroundings of the guest room of her house. She had taken one look at the bed she had shared with Nick and decided against. The meticulous search that had only just finished when Carson dropped her off had revealed nothing and fortunately had been done with great care and attention. With no mess to clear up, Frankie had called her mom. Obviously, the ‘I’m fine’ SMS hadn’t appeased her mother’s concerns, judging by the thirty-seven missed calls that had amassed throughout the day. After a long and tearful conversation, she had gone straight for what turned out to be a fitful night’s sleep.

She checked the clock, 6:00 a.m., just forty minutes since she had previously checked it. Sunday afternoon was barbecue day. At least that’s what had been planned with a few friends. She was going to have to cancel, although it was probably unnecessary given the only news that was filling the channels centered on Nick. The man who should have been their host was the most wanted man in the world, hardly a guy who’d be hanging around to fulfill his barbecuing duties. Just in case, she sent a group SMS message. A few responded immediately despite the early hour, asking if there was anything they could do and saying they hadn’t contacted her before etc…

All bullshit,
she thought. It was at times like these that true friends rose up and showed themselves. She checked her phone from the previous day. A couple of messages she had ignored, given they weren’t work related, sat waiting for her. Her real friends. She sent a message back thanking them for their kind words.

Frankie grabbed a bathing suit and swam her morning twenty lengths, then jumped in the shower in the master suite. The water poured over her as she gently increased the heat. The dial stopped turning. This was where Nick usually jumped out. He couldn’t take the heat like she could. She thought of him as she pressed the button and turned the heat up beyond the safety level imposed by the manufacturer. The steam filled the entire bathroom, the water almost sizzling when it hit her skin. She stopped the water and almost pinched herself, it couldn’t be true, it must have been a dream. Stepping from the shower all such thoughts immediately evaporated.

I’m so sorry - it was real

N x

The message had appeared on the mirror above the sink. Written by finger, the steam had clouded the entire mirror except for the message. She had been asked constantly whether Nick had left her a massage. Nothing had been found during the search, yet this was the simplest but oldest trick in the book. Frankie stared at the message, not knowing what to feel or do. The man she knew was dead. This was a message from dead Nick. The Nick that still lived, she didn’t know. She smiled. He had loved her. Dead Nick had loved her. Live Nick didn’t. Live Nick was going to be stopped— even if that meant killed— with her help. She grabbed her phone and snapped a photo of the message. Carson would know what to do.

Dressed and ready, she walked across the driveway and unlocked the Prius, the car she used for work. She looked at the beautiful clear blue sky and the 911s cloth top.
Fuck it,
she thought. She went back into the house and, grabbed the Porsche keys, retracted its roof and pulled away. Her life was an open book now. Hiding her background was irrelevant. Everyone at the center was going to know everything about her as part of the investigation. She had nothing left to hide.

Carson’s car was already in the lot when she arrived. She smiled. He had taken the Director’s spot, the spot which Turner had used the previous day. Turner arrived while she waited for her roof to close, and he tried not to show annoyance as he drove past ‘his’ spot to find another.

Frankie waited for him, pondering whether to tell him about the message. She decided against. She’d tell Carson first.

“Good morning,” she said brightly.

“Is it?” was the gruff and unfriendly response.

Frankie was initially taken aback until she remembered. “What time did you find out?”

“We left here just after 2:30 a.m.” he replied, marching towards the entrance. Frankie had to jog to keep up.

“So who was in the car?”

“A teenager who’d been approached by ‘some guy’ in the street to deliver the car to Marseille for 500 euros.”

“What? And he was doing it?”

“He lives in a tough part of town and they made it clear they knew who he was and where his family lived.”

“Deliver the car or we’ll pay you a visit?”

Turner nodded holding the center’s main door open for her. “He didn’t recognize the guy?” she asked.

“The description fits every dark haired young man in France and I don’t know if you’ve been to France, but they’re almost all dark haired!”

“So he was scared?”

“Shitless. He assumed there were drugs in the trunk and still wants to deliver the car, just in case they do come after him.”

“Dead end?”

Turner nodded. “Just as you thought,” he added pointedly.

“Would you have done it differently had we told you he wasn’t in there?”

Turner pondered for a couple of seconds before shaking his head. “Fair enough,” he said, much to Frankie’s surprise.

Carson was waiting for them in Turner’s office.

“Good morning, Mr. Carson,” he said, knowing Carson preferred Harry.

“Morning, Paul,” he replied. Touché.

Before they had a chance to talk, the night supervisor knocked and entered. His update was short and succinct. They had had little progress overnight. Even the black box they had retrieved from the prince’s jet on landing at Riyadh had offered nothing. It had mysteriously developed a fatal electrical fault and had failed to record any of the journey.

“Any ideas?” asked Turner once the supervisor had left the room.

“Other than work through the leads, I’m struggling,” said Carson.

“We know the prince, my mother’s cousin, is lying,” said Frankie.

Turner smiled at the reference to his comment the previous evening. “I know, your mother has thousands of cousins. I’m sorry, it was a long day.”

“That’s okay, and anyway, not one of those thousands of cousins has spoken to her since the day she married my father. So what about the prince?”

“We’re on him,” Turner acknowledged. “NSA is monitoring everything he does and CIA has a team watching him. If he so much as farts or sneezes funny, we’ll know about it.”

Nick checked the luggage that the youths had removed from his car. Everything was in place. He stripped down the guns and gave them a much needed cleaning and lubrication. He checked the metal briefcase that had remained by his side. The seals were intact. He had become accustomed to the constant checking. Timing for the use of the virus was key. Any inadvertent release could significantly weaken the impact of the plan.

A coded knock preceded the opening of his door. Without it, Nick had made clear, he would shoot first. Following the earlier incident, the message had travelled quickly and any further mishaps were deemed highly unlikely.

“He will see you now,” said Amir as he opened the door. His unkempt and tousled hair was now groomed.

Nick nodded and, taking the briefcase but leaving the weapons, followed Amir out of the small apartment he had been allocated and along a corridor to Mohammed Farsi’s far larger apartment. The entire top floor had been taken over by the group. The building stood in the center of the complex amongst a number of other high-rise apartment blocks. Nick assumed lookouts were stationed in all of the surrounding buildings and any suggestion of a raid or assault by the authorities would be spotted well in advance. The apartment block had numerous exits and roads leading away from it. It was, in his expert opinion, an excellent and safe base, certainly somewhere that would suit his needs should it be needed.

Nick entered what he assumed to be the main place of worship for the group. A disproportionately large room had been created by knocking together three smaller rooms. A wash area, the
wudhu
, was set into the far wall opposite the
Mihrab
, which denoted the
qibla
wall and the direction of Mecca. Nick removed his shoes and placed them on the wooden slats by the doorway before entering. He proceeded directly towards the
wudhu
and under the eyes of the group already in the room, performed the ritual washing routine before prayer. Once completed, he stood up and joined the group.

“Would you lead us?” asked Mohammed Farsi.

“Of course,” he said, smiling to the group of twenty men that hung on his every word.

Nick turned and faced the
qibla
before leading the most senior Al Qaeda members in France through the Salat al-Zhur midday prayer.

With the prayer complete, the questions began to rain down. The group had been summoned and had spent many hours travelling through convoluted routes to meet the man who brought a message from their Caliph and who had so nearly killed the living embodiment of Shaytan (Satan) on earth.

Nick raised his hand to silence the group. He had much to tell them and then he would take their questions.

He outlined the plan he had formulated with the Caliph. Specifics would be divulged when required to ensure the operational security and ultimate success of their mission. Nick apologized throughout as he skirted over details and the numbers of jihadists that he would utilize. It was vital, he explained, for the security of the plan, that the Caliph’s dream be protected until the last moment. If any jihadist or member of the leadership were captured by the authorities, the plan would be protected. As of that moment, all that was important was delivering the Caliph’s dream for Allah. Nothing else mattered. The jihadist groups had to come together as one to fight for the Caliphate that the Caliph and Allah deserved. When he finished, no one spoke. The scale of the plan that had just been described to them was beyond anything they had ever dared to imagine. Even without the fine details, the devastation it would cause would dwarf 9/11, which had up until that moment been the pinnacle of their efforts.