Traitor (6 page)

Any doubts he had had instantly evaporated. The look of utter betrayal and loss in Frankie’s face could not have been faked.

“Wait here,” he ordered and taking her key, opened the main door and walked into a photo shoot straight from the world’s most luxurious homes. Despite being just the guesthouse, it was a four-bed six-bath mini mansion with only the best quality fittings, furniture and craftsmanship.

In less than two minutes, he was back and had to avert his eyes as Frankie was showering in her underwear in one of the outside showers that skirted the pool.

“Sorry, I just need to get rid of his aftershave.”

Carson nodded and continued to avert his gaze. She was an exceptional looking woman and from her physique, it seemed she was used to using the pool. He tried really hard not to look. He had a daughter her age but couldn’t help notice that the tone of her skin was natural. Either she had an incredibly even tan or an exceptionally good tanning salon. However, her long, dark, wavy locks hinted towards a Middle Eastern heritage, despite her height and bone structure and most importantly, her blue eyes that suggested a European, Dutch or Germanic heritage. Whatever the case, he could see why Nick Geller would have been interested. Hell, he was past it and didn’t have a chance in hell but
he
was interested.

He passed her a towel he had retrieved for her from the house. ““Do you mind if I ask how you afford this place?”

“It’s free,” she replied, drying off as he averted his eyes again. “They like having me in the grounds.”

“Free, as in nothing?” He looked again at the guest house which on its own was easily worth two million dollars.

“I suppose having a Secret Service agent as a guard dog is no bad thing,” she smiled.

Carson looked at her, spotting the lie, or more correctly, the lack of the whole truth.

“Who’s the owner?”

Frankie shrugged awkwardly. “My mom and dad.”

“I thought your dad was an accountant at a small firm?” said Carson, giving away more than he wanted to about how much he had looked into her.

Frankie squinted at the realization of how much interest she had generated since Nick’s actions. Carson had hung back to get her alone, he had insisted on giving her a lift. Frankie had no doubt her house would have been searched the moment Nick was the suspect. It wasn’t exactly why she had suggested going there but it had played a part. Perhaps it was time to give Carson something more interesting to think about.

“He is but he did marry a Saudi princess,” she said, dropping her towel and getting dressed as Carson struggled to compose himself from the two bombshells that had just hit him.

Nick woke up to a small vibration on his right wrist. His GPS alarm had activated. He opened his eyes and was assaulted by the vision of an inanely smiling prince looking directly at him.

“You’re awake,” announced the prince excitedly.

Nick closed his eyes again and shook his head and not for the first time wondered if his choice of benefactor may have been misjudged.

“Would you like a drink, sir?” offered a stewardess who had appeared on hearing the prince’s voice.

“Just a glass of water, thank you,” replied Nick.

“Would you like…?” asked the prince, gesturing towards the stewardess.

Nick was not entirely clear on the prince’s meaning.

“There is a bedroom through that door,” he winked.

Nick, much to his own surprise, shook his head in disgust. Not that the stewardess was not attractive— she was stunning, just like his Frankie. He mentally corrected himself, she wasn’t his any more.

“No, of course not,” he said. Once again, his only regret from that day’s actions raised its head.

“I apologize,” said the prince, suitably chastised by Nick’s look of disgust.

Nick looked out of the small window and was pleased to see the view. Land lay ahead to the left. After five hours of continuous ocean, the firm prospect of escaping the confines of the aircraft and the prince was a welcome sight. The prince meant well and was obviously elated at the news that his Caliph had died as a martyr to further their cause, but to say he was somewhat full on about it would have been an understatement. Nick liked his space and had it not been for the quarter of a billion dollars he needed, he would have taken it happily.

“I need to speak with your pilot,” announced Nick. “Can he be trusted?”

The prince shook his head. “I’m afraid not but he can certainly be bought.”

The stewardess reappeared with Nick’s water and from the look on her face, she had heard and not appreciated his rejection. Nick looked at the glass and noticed the other two stewardesses looking on from bedroom door. He was well aware of the immediate laxative effects eye drops could have on drinks and as such, laid the glass down on his armrest, untouched.

“Thanks, maybe later,” he said with a smile, before turning to the prince. “I’ll just grab a word with the pilot.”

Nick opened the door and entered the small cockpit. The view across the horizon was of Northern Europe. The pilot was surprised to see Nick, something he didn’t make any attempt to hide.

“Who the hell are you?!”

“I’m a guest of the prince,” replied Nick evasively.

“But he only got on board with an old woman!”

Nick shrugged. “You must have been mistaken. Anyway, I’m afraid I need to get off.”

“Our flight plan is direct to Riyadh,” replied the pilot, confirming it with a look at his co-pilot, who nodded agreement.

“I’m afraid that doesn’t work for me. The heat may be a little too much at the moment,” said Nick, not referring to the weather.

He explained what he wanted to do.

“Not a chance in hell,” replied the pilot.

Nick left the cockpit to get the prince involved. Five minutes later and two million dollars richer between them, the pilot and co-pilot began the descent to an impromptu and unscheduled drop off.

The National Counter Terrorism Center, NCTC, was located in Mclean, Virginia, just a stone’s throw from Tysons Corner in a modern custom built complex. As a direct result of 9/11, no expense had been spared on the building or the capabilities of its inhabitants. With expertise from across the law enforcement spectrum, the building housed the National Joint Terrorism Task Force, which would take the lead on tracking down their current number one target, Nick Geller. Further strengthened by their most recent additions, the team had access to over a hundred similar teams across the nation in regional sites.

The sight that met Carson and the freshly showered Frankie was of organized chaos. Or at least chaos, they just hoped it was organized.

Desks were being doubled up. Space was at a premium. Phones and computers were being hooked up as fast as technicians could keep up with the additional bodies that were flooding in as a response to the attack. Deputy Director Turner stood on a gangway that skirted around the three-story main intelligence room. He was looking down at the activity below, a captive audience who was reacting to him as he barked out orders.

Turner spotted Carson and beckoned him up. Carson took Frankie by the elbow and led her up the stairs with him.

“We have a lead,” said Turner, walking them back towards his office. “And we need some assets.”

“Of course,” replied Carson, following Turner into his office with Frankie in tow.

“A Saudi prince,” Turner said, causing Carson to stop him and look at Frankie.

Frankie stepped outside, closing the door behind her.

“What was that?” asked Turner.

“I’ll tell you later,” said Carson.

“A Saudi prince, Prince Abdullah Bin Fahd Al Khaled, left Leesburg Executive Airport about forty minutes after the attack and explosion. Two people boarded the flight, an Arab woman in full burka and the prince.”

“And?”

“We have no idea who the woman is. It was believed to be his mother or aunt, but both have now been accounted for elsewhere.”

“Shit, where’s the plane now?” asked Carson.

“That’s the thing, they filed a flight plan direct to Riyadh but they’ve just commenced a descent towards an airport on the northern French coast.”

“Get me a phone. I’ll have the flight intercepted. That is exceptionally fast work!” congratulated Carson.

Turner pointed to the phone on his desk. Carson walked across the room and lifted the receiver. “What do we know about the prince?”

“Very wealthy, bit of a playboy, and up until now nothing other than a few rumors of funding a few militant groups but all covered as humanitarian support for refugees and the displaced. Nothing has ever been proved and to be honest, he has a number of friends on the Hill.”

“How much time until they land and where?”

Turner checked his computer screen. “Twenty minutes at Le Touquet, Northern France.”

Carson retrieved his cell, scrolled though his contacts and dialed a number that got him through to the Supreme Allied Commander of NATO forces in Europe. After a brief and exceptionally frustrating catch up, Carson finally got around to requesting the interception of the prince’s plane.

“How connected is this prince within the royal family?” asked Carson of Turner, removing the handset and covering the mouthpiece.

Turner checked his watch. They were down to ten minutes before the landing.

“What difference does it make?”

“Don’t be so naïve,” countered Carson sharply.

“He’s more connected here than in Saudi Arabia. He’s pretty much an outsider there from all reports.”

Carson relayed the information, giving the commander the ‘go’.

“All done,” he announced, replacing the handset.

“They’ll be landing in eight minutes,” said Turner, checking his watch again.

“No they won’t,” smiled Carson confidently.

RAF Lakenheath was concealed deep in Thetford Forest, less than sixty miles from London and just 117 miles from Le Touquet, on the northeastern tip of France. Travelling at sixty miles an hour, it would take the same in minutes as the measurement in miles. However, a McDonnell Douglas F15 on afterburners will cover almost thirty miles for every minute, travelling at over two and half times the speed of sound, or 1,700 miles per hour.

Although called RAF Lakenheath, it was in fact almost exclusively manned by USAF personnel and equipment and was home to the 48th Fighter Wing. With two fighters on constant patrol, the two F15 pilots allocated the task by the Supreme Commander of European Forces had little to do but point their jets in the right direction and hit the afterburners. They would be on site in time to intercept the prince’s jet before landing and before hitting the French mainland, with two minutes to spare. Not that they had any issue with crossing over onto mainland France – the French would be more than happy to assist. They just wanted to minimize collateral damage wherever possible.

Nick readied himself for a fast exit. There wasn’t going to be lot of time. The pilot had made it very clear how unhappy he was. The money had convinced him to do it but no amount of money was going to make him happy about it. Fortunately, the pilot and co-pilot were blissfully unaware that Nick was the most wanted man on the planet. Once that came to light, the prince was going to have to dig even deeper into his pockets. Of course, there was the fact that if they ever did open their mouths, they would be admitting that they had not checked the identity of one of their passengers before departure. Nick had a sneaking suspicion that it may not take that much more money to keep them quiet. After all, pilots tended to be highly intelligent individuals.

He checked his backpack again, along with the slim metal briefcase that secured one of the most lethal viruses known to man. Nick did not enjoy carrying it around and looked forward to securing it in a safety deposit box as soon as physically possible. Maximizing the virus’ effectiveness required very precise timing and conditions. It was one of the last phases of his plan and until then, he just had to make sure the seals and the contents remained secure.

“You ready?” Nick asked the prince.

The prince’s face said no but he nodded. Nick turned to the stewardess who sat in the jump seat by the exit door. “Ready?”

She nodded, double checking her straps were properly secured.

Nick checked the door through to the bedroom. It was shut and the other two stewardesses were also strapped in and the cockpit door was secure.

“We’ve just been hailed by two American fighters,” came a panicked announcement by the pilot over the internal P.A. system. “They’re going to shoot us down if we don’t do what they say!”

“Okay, now!” Nick yelled to the stewardess, as a rush of air blasted into their faces.

“So why did you react when I mentioned the Saudi prince?’ asked Turner nodding towards Frankie out on the gangway. The silence, while they waited for an update, was deafening.

“How much do you know about her?” asked Carson warily.