Countdown, p.18
Countdown, page 18
Maurice passes over a photo to Jeremy, who looks at it and then hands it to Amy. “That’s Rashad,” Jeremy says. “Where was he?”
Maurice says, “At the time of the photo, yesterday, he was in the Village Saint Paul section of Paris. We got this photo from a CCTV system in the area, set up to track…well, never you mind. Facial-recognition software on a routine matter popped him up in our system.”
Amy says, “What was he doing there?”
“Your wealthy killer and potential mass murderer was about to enter a curio shop. One he has apparently been to a number of times…which raises this mystery.”
The second photo is slid over. Jeremy looks at this one more closely. A different angle, some distance away, a slim man hurrying out of a storefront, his face obscured.
Maurice says, “Not sure who that fellow is, but shortly after he left, the owner of the store, one…” A quick sentence in French, the woman replies, and Maurice says, “Yes, Hugo Fournier. An older shopkeeper, has been in that same location for nearly two decades. Shot twice in the forehead.”
Jeremy says, “Nothing taken, I imagine.”
A slow nod. “Accurate. Several thousand euros were left behind. As well as some valuable antiques. And the time of his death following Rashad’s arrival there…a connection.”
Amy says, “Sending a message, or tying up loose ends.”
Maurice ignores her and says, “But another thing, Jeremy. Our forensics crew dug deeper, and we found something of interest, which we will share with you.”
Jeremy says, “Again, in the spirit of French-Anglo cooperation.”
“Such things are done, and I hope you will tell my friend Horace this when you see him again. It seems we learned that your Rashad has been a longtime customer of Monsieur Fournier, always looking for the same thing: railroad memorabilia. It appears that—”
Amy interrupts him. “Railroad? Like model railroads?”
A half-second pause from Maurice that indicates severe irritation, Jeremy knows. “No, not model trains,” he eventually says. “Real trains. Especially memorabilia from the Berlin-Baghdad railway of the early twentieth century.”
“Interesting,” Jeremy says.
A nod. “Trains. Who knew? Well, even Hitler loved dogs, so there is that. And here it ends. Arrangements can be made for you, Jeremy, to return to England, to resume your quest. Alas, Amy Cornwall is going to stay with us.”
“No,” Jeremy instinctively says.
Maurice opens his hands. “Again, my apologies, but that is not up for negotiation. Horace demands that I separate you two, and I am afraid I owe him one. You may go. She must stay.”
Jeremy was once in the empty wastes of western Kuwait when an approaching thunderstorm unexpectedly collapsed, the rush of cold air causing a haboob—a blinding, deadly sandstorm—to suddenly hit hard.
That memory comes to him now as there’s a quick movement to his side, then a grunt and the sound of a chair falling. He turns his head and Amy is standing there, her foot on the neck of one of the armed men, his pistol in her hands.
Her voice is steady and calm.
“Let’s reopen negotiations, all right?”
Chapter 58
I DON’T think I’m ever coming back to Paris, so I feel pretty good about hammering the DGSE guy behind me and disarming him. That leaves only two threats in this little room—I don’t count Jeremy as one, which may later prove to be a mistake—but I’m keeping an eye on the other armed guy, Maurice, and his female assistant. She’s young, slim, and attractive, but I wouldn’t put it past her to dip into that open leather briefcase and come out with a sawed-off Verney-Carron 12-gauge shotgun and blow me in half.
I say, “Here’s my opening statement. I’m leaving with Jeremy, we’re not to be obstructed, and we’re going to catch the next Eurostar to London.”
Maurice stays quiet.
Jeremy says, “Amy…”
“Jeremy, with all due respect and affection, shut your trap.” I take a smooth breath and help the DGSE guy to his feet. “We’re on the trail of a man who has sworn to kill thousands of innocents in my nation’s largest city, and I’m not going to sit on my ass while you match favors with British intelligence. Do you understand?”
“A bit,” Maurice says. “But it is still not a compelling argument.”
“Maybe not,” I say, “but try this. You owe me.”
He nearly sputters at that. “Owe you! Are you mad? One of my men is in the hospital with a concussion, due to you striking him back at that runway. How can I owe you?”
“Because there’s another man of yours in the hospital, Victor Martin. Still alive, I hope?”
The Frenchman just nods. “How do you know of Victor?”
“Because I’m the one who saved him,” I say. “Tied off his left leg with a couple of straps after a good chunk of it was blown off this morning.”
He turns to the woman and says, “C’est vrai, ça?”
A one-word answer. “Oui.”
He turns back to me, nods once more. “I was not aware of those circumstances. You have my thanks. But still…”
Sensing that I’m making progress, I say, “And if we’re keeping score, I also prevented one of your men from assassinating an MI6 officer invited on your soil. How would you like explaining that to your British friend? This would-be assassin, Carlos—a jihadist?”
Maurice purses his lips. “Only because he was so heavily in debt, as we’ve recently learned. His…actions were mercenary in nature, not religious.”
“Well, my actions aren’t mercenary, nor religious.”
I thumb the side button on the semiautomatic pistol and the magazine drops out. I work the slide and the 9mm round in the chamber flies out and tinkles to the floor.
I toss the pistol on the metal desk with a loud thump. It seems everyone in the small room is shocked.
Including me.
“I’ve got a mission ahead of me, and I need to work with Jeremy to get it done. My nation’s largest city is at risk. If Paris was facing a similar risk, I think you’d do the same thing I’m doing.”
The slightest of smiles. “Which is?”
“Which is raising hell and not listening to supervisors when there’s no time to argue or debate.”
It gets quiet in the room, even though the disarmed DGSE man is staring at me with such hate that I’m sure sound frequencies somewhere are being disturbed.
“Bon,” Maurice says. He reaches over and picks up the two paper sacks with our respective weapons, putting them on the edge of the table. “You are correct, Amy. I do owe you: for saving Victor, and for preventing the assassination of our mutual friend Jeremy. Get going, and get your job done. For you and for us.”
I reflexively glance at my watch. “I think we’re going to miss the next Eurostar.”
Now Maurice is smiling wider, a hand going to the telephone at his elbow. “No, you won’t. Bonne chance.”
I step forward to get our weapons. “Merci,” I say. “Nous allons en avoir besoin.”
Yeah, I think, we are certainly going to need it.
More than two hours later, we’re less than thirty minutes from arriving at St Pancras Station in London. I’ve scored both a good nap and a fine meal, and now I regard Jeremy from our facing seats in Business Premier. On occasion wealthy and well-dressed businessmen and women have strolled past us, sniffing their noses, looking at our wrinkled clothes and unwashed hands and faces. The playground-age Amy inside me wants to snap out, Give us a break, we’re trying to save thousands of innocents like you. But I keep my mouth shut.
Instead I say to Jeremy, “What do we do when we arrive at St Pancras?”
Outside, the rural landscape of this part of England starts to appear more crowded with buildings, paved roads, and highways.
“We meet up with two of my associates,” he says, “and continue the hunt.”
I give the buildings outside a nice glance, and suddenly we’re back to farmland, rock walls, brush, and small trees. A bit of Shakespeare pops into my exhausted mind:
“This blessed plot, this earth, this realm, this England.”
Damn, that Will could write.
I turn back to Jeremy and say, “Why only two?”
“That’s what we have.”
I shake my head. “No, wrong answer. There’s you, who’s exhausted and worn out. There’s me, who’s been smoked. And you have two under your command. All chasing down a cold-blooded terrorist killer who beheaded your comrade in the field, worked up an elaborate scam involving a fake nuclear device just to kill you, and now…we’re nipping at his heels and trying to nail him before he attacks Manhattan. Killing thousands. Maybe tens of thousands.”
Jeremy’s lips and eyes tighten.
I press him. “Only four? For real?”
“I’ve got both field and technical support,” he says.
“But just four,” I say, once again remembering my Shakespeare. “Not really what you’d call a ‘band of brothers.’ So what’s going on? This isn’t a sanctioned op, is it?”
Jeremy, bless him, comes right out and tells me the truth. “Officially, no. My boss, Horace Evans, couldn’t get the sign-offs, the necessary approvals. Hard, actionable intelligence isn’t there. Plus…Rashad has prominent friends in some circles in Britain, and elsewhere, due to his business dealings. He feels confident enough to be seen in public on occasion. But Horace knows…and I know, what Rashad wants to do, what he’s capable of.”
“Like 9/11 once again,” I say. “Information that doesn’t fit the narrative doesn’t get acted upon. Nineteen guys with box cutters able to kill thousands and cause billions of dollars of damage in the space of a few hours? Could never happen.”
He nods. “And without the knowledge the higher-ups say they need, nothing ever happens.”
I say, “Known knowns.”
“What?”
“Poor Donald Rumsfeld, SecDef back in the day. For a while he was a military genius, until he stuck his foot in Iraq and couldn’t get it out. Now he’s forgotten, hated, ignored. But he said one thing that we in intelligence know so well.”
I remember being straight out of one of my early intelligence schools, receiving a speech from Rummy himself. “There are known knowns,” I say, “when you know what an adversary is up to. Then there’s the unknown knowns…where you don’t have a clear idea of what your opponent is up to, but you know his desires and capabilities.”
Jeremy says, “Yes, absolutely. And then there’s the unknown unknowns. Sounds gibberish, doesn’t it? But that’s the worst: the things out there you don’t even suspect, have no intelligence on, no information. Pure unknowns.”
I say, “True. Now, tell me something you know that I don’t: How in hell are you tracking Rashad?”
That seems to knock him back and I take advantage of his surprise. “There’s been a few times you’ve slipped away to make a call, or receive a call, and each time you’ve come back like you’re Father Christmas dispensing a gift: ‘Rashad is on the move. Rashad is in Paris. Rashad is in the UK.’ How are you doing it? It can’t be his clothes, or shoes. Smart fella like this bastard would change into fresh stuff every day. Maybe an associate, but if that’s the case, I’d figured you’d have him rolled up by now. Has to be something internal to him. An implant? Tracking device?”
“Jesus, Amy,” he says, leaning forward to me. “Keep your voice down.” He lets a second pass, then with a lowered voice says, “Two years ago, Rashad fell while playing tennis near one of his estates here. Broke his wrist.”
“Too bad he didn’t break his neck.”
Jeremy ignores my humor. “There had to be an operation. We found out about it. Highly illegal, very highly unorthodox, but while they were resetting his radius bone and inserting two pins, a tracking chip was installed.”
“How good is it?”
Jeremy leans back into his comfortable seat. “Not good enough. Powered by a radioactive source that’s fading. When it started, we could practically come up with his exact address. Now, it’s hit or miss. It appears for a few seconds, then fades out. And the past few weeks have been the worst.”
“So we’re running out of time.”
“Always, always,” he says, looking at his watch. “We’re running out of time.”
Now the landscape has returned to a more urban environment. There are train tracks running parallel to us, and other trains as well, both freight trains and local passenger lines.
“In the meantime…why is he so focused on trains?”
No answer from Jeremy, and no answer from me either.
We plunge into a tunnel for a moment, into darkness.
Chapter 59
FREDDIE FARRADY of Scotland Yard’s Special Branch is having a troubling and confusing day, and it shouldn’t be happening.
Yet here it is.
And here he is.
In New Jersey.
Trailing Mike Patel.
This morning he’s traded off surveillance duties with Portia Grayson of MI5, and surprise number one is seeing his target—and suspected terrorist—standing on the subway platform in Astoria carrying a heavy-looking knapsack on his back and a black satchel in either hand.
Surprise number two is shadowing Mike as he takes the W train, passes his Cortlandt stop, then gets off at 34th Street and Herald Square. That’s the first time Mike has ever changed his regular routine, and Freddie doesn’t like it. He likes it even less when surprise number three pops up and slaps him across the face.
Mike takes a PATH train, which goes underneath the Hudson River and deposits him and a few hundred other folks at the bustling Hoboken Terminal in New Jersey.
Now seeing Patel with the large backpack and the two satchels in the middle of all these busy and moving commuters, Freddie grows nearly sick with concern. What is Patel up to? Why is he in the middle of this crowd?
Although he’s armed with his illegal Glock 26 9mm in an ankle holster, he also feels desperately alone, with no backup or resources. He can call Portia Grayson, his MI5 boss, if necessary, but what would he say? Patel is in New Jersey, with luggage? For all he knows, Mike Patel is running away from his new home.
Luckily the crowds have been heavy this morning, all the way from Queens to here, and keeping track of Patel has been pretty straightforward. Either Patel is one very cool customer, or is innocent, which is—
Damn it!
In the well-lit and high-ceilinged central part of the terminal—looking like a distant cousin of Grand Central—Patel is putting the satchels down and taking off the backpack right near one of the main doors, where hundreds of people are funneling out.
Freddie drops to one knee hard, pretending to tie his shoe, ready to grab his pistol and start shooting if he sees Patel reach for wires or some triggering device. Maybe he’ll cause a diplomatic crisis by shooting him, but better that than—
Wait.
Patel readjusts the straps of the backpack and shoulders it again, then grabs the satchels and goes outside.
Freddie gets up and follows him out into the sun. Patel moves quickly, walking south, going one block, then two, and then turning right onto 14th Street, approaching a gated entrance. There are high fences going up and down the block, and there are freight trains and locomotives lined up, some of them slowly moving out. The fences look shiny new.
Patel approaches a small gatehouse and talks to a uniformed security guard. A door within the wide gate is opened and Patel walks in, then disappears from view.
What the hell?
Freddie crosses the road, looks at the large signage near the gatehouse.
HUDSON VALLEY RAILROAD—SOUTH TERMINAL
He digs into his back pocket, takes out a folded street map of Manhattan and the surrounding boroughs and cities, flips it open. Computer maps on cell phones are fine, but sometimes it pays to look like the stereotypical tourist.
He passes a billboard attached to the fence, where there’s a graphic cartoon of New York’s Hudson Valley all the way up to Albany, with train tracks and trains displayed.
At the gatehouse a young African American man in a security-guard uniform—crisp dark blue trousers and light blue shirt—comes out as Freddie walks up to the open door.
“Help you?”
Freddie decides to play it up some. Broadening his British accent, he says, “Sorry to bother you, old man, but I’m curious about this place. Is it new?”
The security guard smiles on hearing his British accent. “Couple of years, I guess. It’s a rail line that hauls shit from here and up to Albany and then back again.”
“Do you know who owns it?”
He shrugs. “Don’t know, don’t care. All I know is, the pay is good and so are the bennies.”
Freddie summons his best friendly cheerio and pip-pip smile. “Mind if I go in and take a poke around?”
The guard smiles wider. “You’re one of those train fans, right? From England? Train spotters, am I right?”
Freddie sees his opening. “That’s right, good sir. A train enthusiast. I would dearly love to go in and see what’s what.”
Now the smile is gone and the guard shakes his head. “Sorry, man—no can do. Only folks in there are ones with a job to do. No tourists. Sorry.”
He goes back into the guardhouse and Freddie steps out onto the road, in front of the gate.
So Patel—an HVAC worker at One World Trade Center—is in this rail yard, “with a job to do.”
Damn it, what kind of job?
Chapter 60
IN LONDON, Rashad Hussain relaxes at the head table of the function room at Quayle Hall on Uxbridge Road in the west of London. The air is thick with smoke and conversation among old friends dressed in formal evening wear, and the Union Jack bunting along the walls frames photos of some of these old friends when they were younger and tougher, as well as a large photo of the Queen under a banner noting the QUEEN ELIZABETH II RAILROAD SOCIETY. A table covered with a white cloth displays models of 1940s locomotives and rolling stock, and there are several framed photos of the Queen taken in World War II, when she was Princess Elizabeth Windsor and a second subaltern in the Women’s Auxiliary Territorial Service.
