“I WANT THIS HANDLED BY STONY MAN.”

“If we do have someone passing information to the enemy, I can’t hand this over to our security departments. Sensitive information could be intercepted and used against us. Stony Man is a separate entity. No allegiance to any other departments here or abroad.”

The President leaned forward, fixing Brognola with an unflinching stare.

“The main reason I want you in on this, Hal, is information I received from a genuine source.” The President didn’t elaborate on his source, so Brognola raised an eyebrow but remained silent.

“I understand your curiosity about that, but I can’t say anything right now,” the President said. “Just take my word it’s on the level. The asset has warned that the threat of the strikes is real. There will be an attempted strike on Pakistan and the U.S. mainland. Hal, it’s going to be nuclear. And we have a name. Colonel Jabir Rahman. Is that a good enough reason to bring in Stony Man?”

“Good enough, Mr. President,” the big Fed said grimly.

Terminal Guidance

Stony Man®

America’s Ultra-Covert Intelligence Agency

Don Pendleton

www.mirabooks.co.uk

Terminal Guidance

CONTENTS

PROLOGUE

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

PROLOGUE

Peshawar, Pakistan

Jay Crawford stepped aside as the rickety bus pushed through the crowded market. The interior was crammed with passengers as usual. More were perched on the roof and others clung to the exterior of the wheezing, smoke-billowing vehicle. Crawford had been in the country for almost twelve months and he still couldn’t get used to the constant congestion.

He glanced around the market area. The place teemed with people. Hundreds of them. They moved and jostled around the stalls in a colorful swirl, all seeming to be talking at once. Add to that the music coming from different locations, the cooking smells from the market traders… He never tired of it.

He turned in at the entrance of the crowded, open-fronted store that sold English-language newspapers and magazines. Crawford visited once a week to buy Newsweek and Time magazines. The man who ran the store nodded at him and produced the periodicals. He was stooped, bony, his face creased with a beaming smile as Crawford paid for his magazines.

“Good day, Mr. Crawford,” he said. “Are you well?”

“Yes, and you, Mr. Pradesh?”

“Yes. Yes.”

It was the same each time Crawford called in. Conversation seldom went beyond the polite exchange.

When Crawford stepped back outside the store’s cool interior, the solid wall of heat struck him. He checked his watch. An hour yet before he needed to make his daily report to his CIA section head in Washington. It would take him just over thirty minutes to walk back to his apartment. No rush. Crawford took out a pack of Marlborough cigarettes and lit one, enjoying the nicotine rush. He merged with the crowd and went with the flow. He had learned to go with the crush rather than try to fight against it.

He reached the edge of the market, where the street ahead was quieter by comparison with the hectic trading area.

He heard the hiss of tires on the dusty street, sensing the vehicle before he saw it. A battered old British Humber Hawk. A relic of a long-gone era. The car swayed on soft springs as it drew level with him. Crawford glanced around. He saw the passenger side rear window roll down, and had an impression of a figure inside the car a second before the ugly muzzle of an SMG appeared.

Crawford stiffened with shock as he stared into the black barrel. There was no time for anything else. The SMG crackled with autofire no more than three feet away. The long burst of gunfire delivered a half magazine of bullets that cleaved their way into his chest. The impact stunned him, his body reacting to the massive onslaught. A number of slugs tore all the way through him, bursting out through his back in ragged spurts of blood and flesh.

Crawford stepped back, briefly remaining upright before his severe injuries overwhelmed him. He crashed to the street, jerking in spasms. The muzzle of the SMG was lowered and a second burst was directed at his face and skull, tearing open his cheeks and jawline. Crawford’s head bounced back against the street, its skull cracked and bloody.

As the street crowd scattered in panic the Humber moved off, tires squealing as it disappeared around the corner, leaving a cloud of gritty dust in its wake.

Onlookers, realizing the vehicle had gone, began to move back onto the street, attracted by the sight of Crawford sprawled in a pool of his own blood, the front of his once white shirt now a sodden mess. Beside him his magazines soaked up some of the blood spreading out from his body.

AN HOUR LATER an explosion rocked the offices of New Relief, a U.S. charity set up in the city. Later examination revealed that a package delivered to the offices shortly before the blast had contained a large amount of Semtex. The explosion wrecked the building, blowing out the front wall and upper and lower floors. The detonation extended out into the crowded street, killing ten pedestrians and wounding thirty more. The thirteen workers inside the building all died. Structures on either side were badly damaged, with people inside suffering minor injuries and shock. Fires were started. By the time emergency services arrived, having to force their way through the mass of spectators, the damage was done.

News reached the American Consulate. Officials were sent to check on the victims. It soon became apparent that U.S. casualties were high. Over half the staff at New Relief were American citizens. The information was relayed back to Washington and soon reached the security community. Agency interest was generated in record time.

Jay Crawford, it turned out, was a CIA operative working covertly in Pakistan. And two of the people killed in the New Relief bombing also had CIA status.

Over the next few days three more people with Agency connections were killed. One was an American of Pakistani descent who had been working up country gathering information. Riding to work on his bicycle one morning he was targeted by a sniper, who hit him in the head with a single shot. The following day another sniper killed an American woman employed by a tourist agency. Her job was to gather information and pass it on to her handler, who also worked for the tourist company. He died the day after, when the offices were bombed. Both were also in the employ of the U.S. agency.

THERE WAS SOMETHING close to panic the day after all the details emerged—mainly because internet chatter picked up by the surveillance agencies was dropping hints that more was in the wind. Even Echelon, the information-gathering system that allowed various security agencies within the intelligence circle to collate their findings, had been picking up scraps of conversation that started to make sense when it was all brought together.

A substantial threat emerged, basic but with enough detail to raise the level of concern.

The unknown group voiced discontent over U.S. influence within Pakistan. The group declared a need to destabilize the elected regime and show that American interference would no longer be tolerated. Nuclear devices were to be detonated within Pakistan and on the American continent. Locations not specified. Date not specified. The operation was already in motion—thus the assassination of U.S. security agents working inside Pakistan.

It gave logic to the killings. Not that knowing why provided any comfort to the families of the dead. Nor did it justify the wanton slaughter of Pakistani civilians. That was par for the course. Indiscriminate death would be described as collateral damage by the perpetrators. They always cleared themselves of blame by disregarding the rights of anyone who happened to become involved by the simple fact they were in the wrong place at the wrong time. It cleared the conscience.

TWO DAYS ON and a CIA section head was gunned down on a street in Georgetown. The agent had just returned to Washington after a meeting in London with his U.K. counterpart. Said London-based agent was also snatched off the U.K. city street as he walked from his car, heading for his apartment. His mutilated body was found on the shoulder of a highway twelve hours later, after being dumped from a van.

Two weeks earlier

COLONEL JABIR RAHMAN WAS addressing his men.

“The detonation of a dirty bomb will have two major effects. First, the release of radioactive elements that will cause contamination,” he said. “The spread will not be as great as a conventional nuclear explosion, but it will kill people and contaminate the area. The second effect may have the greater potential. How is the American public going to react when this device explodes and all efforts of the U.S. administration to halt it prove useless? I will tell you, my brothers. There will be hysteria. Panic. Americans are still recovering from 9/11. Confidence will be shattered. The public trust will be lost. Wall Street will slump.”

Rahman smiled. “People will be withdrawing their savings and heading for the Midwest. Searching for safety. If Boston is not safe, what about New York? Los Angeles? Washington? And in reality there is no Jack Bauer to save them from the evil Islamic terror.”

“Psychological terror?” one man interjected.

“Terror in the mind can often be more lethal than a bullet.”

“And what about our own territory?” someone else asked. “The detonation in Pakistan? “

“In essence the same. We explode the device near the secret American base the Pakistani president has allowed on our soil. He has been coerced into letting the Infidels bring their rancid presence to our land. This destruction of their base will make them realize they cannot be allowed to bring their poison here. A painful, sacrificial lesson, but it will show that Pakistan must shake off the chains that bind it to the U.S. That our own government is so weak because it allowed itself to be seduced by the Americans’ false promises. They cajoled our president into believing that if he allied himself to the Infidels he would make Pakistan stronger. Able to stand against the so-called evil trying to subjugate us. In truth it has been America wanting to enslave us. Flaunting its power. Demanding we bend our will to it. The bombs will show the inherent weakness that exists. That both America and Pakistan are vulnerable.”

“But many of our own people may die. There will be contamination….”

“To a far lesser degree. The device we detonate here will be a third the power of the bomb in America. Not as many of the rods will be used, just enough to destroy the American military here. Civilian deaths will be less, and the lingering radiation will fade at a far quicker rate. An area will be isolated after the blast, true, but the memory of the day will stay with the people, and once the president has been exposed as weak and ineffectual, our control and strength will grow rapidly. This one act will propel us into a favorable position with the public.”

“Colonel, do you believe we can achieve all this?” a man asked.

“If I was not one hundred percent certain, then I would abandon everything. But I know we can do it. And achieve greatness for our beliefs. Our cause. By inflicting harm on America this way we will take a great step forward. My friends, brothers, a victory against the Great Satan must be worth the risk.”

Umer Qazi watched the faces and listened to the murmurs of the assembly. He allowed himself a thin smile. He moved closer to Rahman.

“I believe you have them on your side, Colonel. Completely.”

“Did you doubt me, Umer?”

“Never for a moment. I was simply waiting for them to realize the truth in your words.”

“Words are your great skill,” Rahman said. “You use them well.”

“Are you telling me something?”

Rahman nodded in acknowledgment, at the same time raising a hand in salute to the assembly.

“I believe it is timely for you to make a trip to London. So you can use your honeyed words to bring young Anwar Fazeel fully into the circle.” Rahman glanced at his companion. “You have told me he is ready.”

“Assuredly so. Should I make travel arrangements?”

“Already taken care of,” Rahman said. “You leave tonight.”

London

BORN IN THE U.K. of Pakistani parents, Anwar Fazeel felt his religion was important to him. Very important. Although legally British, he did not enjoy his life in the U.K. He considered himself an outsider.

The highly intelligent twenty-four-year-old was a computer programmer at a local company. Known to be a hard worker, with an innovative mind and impressive IT skills, he had few friends outside work and not many within his place of employment. He shunned contact with those he considered the tainted inhabitants of the country, and immersed himself in radical groups that were forming in and around his hometown.

His parents and two brothers lost touch with the young man as he edged away from them, preferring to be in the company of true believers. Fazeel felt his family had become too Westernized in their thinking and their daily lives. His father was a successful businessman who owned two restaurants and a number of shops. He belonged to a golf club and had many non-Pakistani friends. All this pushed Fazeel closer to the dissatisfied crowd, who met regularly at the local mosque for political and religious discussions, berating the country and condemning the culture that surrounded them.

One of the regulars at the gatherings was Umer Qazi, a quiet, studious man who looked like a university professor with his conservative dress and manner. Sometimes he was simply there, watching and listening, his presence unobtrusive. But he did more than just observe. He took note of those young men who stood out from the crowd. The ones who exhibited more than simple group fervor. It was his task to pick out the men with real passion. With fire in their bellies.

The ones who were sincere in their beliefs.

Who would stand up to be counted when the time came.

One of those was Anwar Fazeel.

Qazi saw the potential. Realized that Fazeel, with his background in IT, was someone worth cultivating.

Umer Qazi was a recruiter, strategically placed among the dissenters to seek out ones who might prove useful. Qazi represented the cause masterminded by Colonel Jabir Rahman. He had been sent to the U.K., where many young men had been drawn into the fold. They were the easiest to recruit, with their impressionable minds, and the isolation many of them felt meant persuasion was often relatively simple. Promises of a welcome by brothers in arms, the glories of martyrdom and the delights of the afterlife were often all that was needed to draw them in. Qazi was a master of his craft. His subdued manner, his educated personality and his gentle coaxing were powerful weapons at his disposal.

When he employed them all on Anwar Fazeel, he hooked the young man quickly. He began to see him one-on-one, choosing quiet cafés where they could sit and talk for long periods. Later, as Fazeel allowed himself to be seduced by radical thinking, Qazi introduced him to other individuals who, working to plan, made Fazeel believe he was special. That his way forward was with the group. With Rahman, who wanted to steer Pakistan onto a better path, away from the influence of those who were allowing the country to become little more than an American pawn.

An arranged meeting where Fazeel was brought face-to-face, via video link, with Colonel Rahman himself was the final push that propelled the young man to the forefront of the upcoming campaign. The encounter took place in the home of a close friend of the colonel. Once the connection was made, Rahman and Fazeel were left alone. Slightly overawed by being in the great one’s presence, albeit via satellite, Fazeel felt awkward as he sat in his chair. Rahman, noticing his nervousness, spoke to him with encouragement.

“Anwar Fazeel, this is a great day for me. I am honored to be meeting you, a young man who will be instrumental in orchestrating the great crusade against our enemies. Without your skill and knowledge our plan would not come together, but with your help we will achieve our victory.”

Fazeel stared into the benevolent face of the man he worshipped.

Jabir Rahman.

The leader of the cause.

“No, sir, it is I who consider myself honored. Through you I will be able to contribute my part. Whatever you need from me, just ask.”

“Soon you will start on a journey that will bring you to Pakistan,” Rahman replied. “Have you ever been here?”

“Once, to visit with my father’s family.”

“Then you have stepped on our soil and breathed in the air of our spiritual home. This time, Anwar Fazeel, you will go on a special journey. You must prepare yourself for this. Pray for guidance. For strength. There may be a need for sacrifice. You will have to sever all contact with your family, here and there. Can you do that?”

“My relatives have given themselves over to the non-believers. They have abandoned Islam for the ways of the West, so are no longer my family.”

“Good,” Rahman said. “Now, listen to me, Anwar. Tomorrow is the start of the weekend. Qazi will take you to see what you will be working with. You must familiarize yourself with all the data. Learn everything about it. But there must be no talking about it outside of the group. You understand?”

“Of course, sir.”

“If anything leaks out, then our plan will be compromised. I cannot stress how important it is that nothing—nothing—gets out.”

“When will I leave for Pakistan?”

“Very soon—a pleasant flight that will allow you study time. When you arrive, I want you to fully understand the equipment, so that when we deploy there will be no hesitation.”

“It will be done, sir.”

“Qazi chose well. You are to be an important part of our plan. I have every faith in you, Anwar Fazeel. We may not see each other again until you reach Pakistan. Until then, may Allah smile upon you.”

When the conversation ended, Fazeel was joined by Qazi again.

“He is well pleased with you.” Qazi handed over a folded paper. “Can you be here at eight in the morning?”

“Of course.”

“Tell no one where you are going. No one.”

QAZI PICKED FAZEEL UP at the rendezvous spot, then pulled the silver SUV into the traffic and drove on. Fazeel knew nothing about this part of the city, but Qazi negotiated the streets with ease. Eventually they arrived at an area sign-posted Tilbury, which Fazeel vaguely knew was a seaport and container base. He spotted cranes and warehouses edging the river, truck depots and sprawling storage yards.

Qazi eventually stopped at a pair of manned gates, leaning out to speak to a security guard and show him a pass. The gates opened and Qazi drove to the dock, which had a number of seagoing freighters moored alongside. Being a weekend, there were few people about.

Again Qazi seemed to know exactly where he was going. He rolled along the line of warehouses and stopped outside one that bore the name Saeeda Hussein Import-Export.

The warehouse was large. The main doors were closed, but Qazi took Fazeel to a side door, tapped in a code at the small panel and led him inside. The interior was full of crates, and racks holding smaller items. Their footsteps echoed on the concrete floor as they approached a row of offices along the far wall.

“Good to see you, brothers,” Qazi said to the two men occupying the first office.

They returned the greeting, then turned their attention to Fazeel. “Is this the one chosen?”

“Indeed. This is Anwar Fazeel. Anwar, this is Ahmad and Shiran. They will guard and protect you. When you leave for Pakistan, they will go with you.”

Fazeel inclined his head. “I am happy to meet you, brothers.”

Ahmad laughed as he noticed the way Fazeel was looking around the office. “He is so eager to see his new toy. Come, Anwar, let us introduce you.”

He was ushered through a connecting door into a larger office, where only the soft hum of an air conditioner broke the silence. In the center of the floor stood a large piece of equipment partly covered by a dust sheet. When Shiran slid off the sheet, Fazeel’s electronic unit was revealed.

The other three stood back, smiling, as he examined it, first walking around it, then focusing his attention on the detail of the control console. He was familiar with the keyboards and monitors. Though some of the other components were new to him, his keen intellect absorbed the layout, quickly assimilating the schematics.

“Can you understand it all?” Qazi asked.

“I will learn. It will not be difficult.”

“I think he’s fallen in love,” Shiran said.

“Will it do what we require?” Qazi pressed.

“I would be able to give you a better answer if I knew exactly what it was for.”

“A mystery to be revealed,” Qazi said. “Come.”

They took him to the far end of the warehouse, where a plastic-sheeted section had been constructed. The closest panel was pulled aside and they all stepped through.

Fazeel got his first look at the Barracuda.

It had a sleek aerodynamic configuration. A slim fuselage, with a generous wingspan. The engine was mounted at the rear, encased in a smooth pod of metal. Fazeel noticed immediately there was no facility for a pilot. No cockpit. A number of antennae and probes extruded from the smooth, silver-gray finish. It stood on a fixed, slender undercarriage and wheels.

“A UAV,” Qazi explained. “An unmanned aerial vehicle. Also called drones.”

“A robotic aircraft,” Fazeel said. “They can be programmed via a control center.”

“Like the one you have just seen,” Ahmad said.

“And with this machine we will bring about the colonel’s plan?”

“I believe the colonel prefers to call it his operation,” Qazi said. “He is very precise about these things.”

“Where did you get this thing?” Fazeel asked.

“We acquired it,” Qazi said. “For now that is all you need to know. What you must do is study all the manuals that came with the machine. Learn to master the complexities of the control module, because, brother, one day you will sit at that console and make the drone do what we want.”

Fazeel was presented with thick printed manuals and a set of DVD discs.

“Tomorrow the drone will be disassembled and packed into protective crates for the journey to Pakistan,” Qazi said. “The control module will also be packed. You will not see it again until you arrive in the country yourself. Between now and the end of your journey you will have learned everything needed to make the drone fly to the targets we designate. Fazeel, you have been chosen because your computer skills are excellent. You understand, and you have the intellect to make the Barracuda do whatever you want.”

“I won’t let you down, brother,” he said. “Or the colonel.”

“We will find you a quiet, safe place where you can concentrate on your studies. Ahmad and Shiran will stay with you and see you are provided for. Now, is there anything you need to help with your studies?”

“Writing pads and pens. Most importantly a top-of-the-range laptop computer. It must have a large-capacity hard drive. USB connections. And a number of flash drives, again with large storage capacities.”

Qazi nodded. “All these things will be provided. Anything you require. The colonel has ordered that you must have the best.”

Fazeel found it hard to conceal his rising excitement. He stared at the UAV, understanding that he alone would control this machine. Make it carry out the tasks asked of him. It was a great responsibility. Only for a second did he feel inadequate to the task. The feeling quickly vanished. The colonel had entrusted him with the operation. It was a great honor. He would not let Rahman down. He would prove his worth. To the cause and to himself.

Gwadar Port, Balochistan, Southwest Pakistan

“THE CARGO HAS ARRIVED, Colonel,” the caller said. “The freighter docked last night. The goods are being unloaded even as we speak.”

“All in good order?”

“Yes, Colonel. The voyage was without incident.”

“And the freight aircraft?”

“Ready at the airfield. It will take off once the cargo is on board.”

“Good news indeed. Once it arrives we can step up the operation.”

CHAPTER ONE

The White House, Washington, D.C.

The President of the United States waited in uneasy silence while Hal Brognola read through the assembled data. The two men were alone in the Oval Office. The President had made it known he was not to be disturbed for any reason less than the imminent outbreak of total war.

Hal Brognola, director of the Stony Man SOG organization, was aware of the other man’s close scrutiny. He did not allow it to intimidate him. He read the file, absorbing much of the detailed information as he went through it. Later he would reread and assimilate the data so he could assign his people to the operations that would follow. Now he needed talking points he could discuss with the President.

Brognola laid the file back on the desk.

“And you want Stony Man to take this on board why?”

The President kept a straight face. Brognola’s response might have been judged a little out of order, but the President understood the big Fed’s question. He knew how Brognola worked—always direct, respectful to his commander in chief, but wanting specifics when it came to committing his teams to the field.

“The U.S. is on a high wire where Pakistan is concerned. Trying to keep the administration on our side as an ally and at the same time keeping a watchful eye on elements in the country who would like nothing better than to see us kicked out. The extremists see the U.S. as opportunists with an eye on the main chance. Plenty of people over there simply don’t like us. Don’t like what we stand for, and see America as an imperialistic nation that wants Pakistan as just another stepping stone in a long-term plan to subjugate their corner of the world.

“That’s not the way we see things, Hal. Yes, we have an interest in the country and the area. I don’t see our involvement as anything but prudent, given how the extremists want al Qaeda and the Taliban to gain a greater foothold in the region. I see our obligation to the Pakistani president clearly. He’s doing what he can to hold things down, but he has people in his administration who are sympathetic to the extremists. And we know only too well how dedicated these extremists are.”

The President tapped the file on the desk. “These assassinations are an undeclared act of aggression against the U.S.A. There has been an internet posting stating that the killings are just to show us we can be hurt wherever we are. That the U.S. and its rabid allies have no protection from the followers of Allah. The details they put in the postings reveal they had in-depth information on the people murdered. They claim this is only a beginning and suggest what might follow when the curtain goes up. This group is taunting us, letting us know they can hit us when and where they like. They warn of a larger terrorist strike both here and in Pakistan. That’s worrying, Hal. We need to act. Our people have been killed because they were, according to their reports, starting to get information on the extremists. It saddens me to admit that we might have a traitor in the ranks.

“The U.S. has allies in the war against terrorism. We’re not on our own. There are deep ties to other security agencies across the globe. Europe. The U.K. Information passes back and forth. Links are formed between departments. There are multiagency teams. I don’t need to tell you how it works, Hal, but the fact that delicate information reached the assassination team suggests they were fed by a source inside our combined agencies. If there is a mole somewhere in our ranks it’s going to make any decisions we make hard to isolate. I want this handled by Stony Man, Hal, in case we do have someone passing information to the enemy. I can’t hand this over to our security departments knowing sensitive information could be intercepted and used against us. Stony Man is a separate entity, with no allegiance to any other departments here or abroad.”

The President leaned forward, fixing Brognola with an unflinching stare. “The main reason I want you in on this, Hal, is information I received from a genuine source.” He didn’t elaborate, so Brognola passed, and the President said, “I understand your curiosity about that, but I can’t say anything right now. Just take my word it’s on the level. The asset has warned that the threat of the strikes is real. There will be an attempted strike in Pakistan and on the U.S. mainland. Hal, it’s going to be nuclear. And we have a name. Colonel Jabir Rahman.”

The President sat upright, fixing his gaze on Brognola. “That a good enough reason for you to bring Stony Man in?”

“Good enough, Mr. President.”

War room

Stony Man Farm

AROUND THE CONFERENCE room table sat the members of Phoenix Force and Able Team, along with the cyber group under the leadership of Aaron Kurtzman. Hal Brognola and Barbara Price sat at the head of the table. Once the general banter had been exhausted, everyone settled down for the mission agenda. First up was the youngest member of Aaron Kurtzman’s team, Akira Tokaido.

“We didn’t have a great deal to work with,” he said. “The information Hal handed us was based on existing data from various agency reports, so we used that to feed our own files and search for links.”

He used a handheld remote to pull images onto the plasma monitors ranged around the War Room walls.

“This is Colonel Jabir Rahman, the guy whose name keeps cropping up when we dig. A Pakistani military guy with diplomatic credentials. The man does not like the U.S. Outspoken in his criticism of American policy and our involvement in the region, he is also not much of a fan of the Pakistani administration. He’s been in any number of confrontations with the Pakistani president. Rahman has a lot of influence with extremist groups, sections of the military and sympathizers among the general public.”

The image on the monitor showed a man in his late thirties, uniformed and with an erect military bearing. Rahman would have been called handsome by women. His features were strong, his eyes dark and penetrating. His black mustache was neatly trimmed, his thick, oiled hair just starting to show streaks of gray. Overall, he displayed an arrogant image. A confident man who would command respect and not be shy to correct anyone who failed to give it.

“So why is he in the frame?” Carl Lyons asked. The broad, powerfully built ex-cop was the leader of Able Team. “He a bad guy?”

“Rahman has been on numerous agency lists for a number of years,” Brognola said. “He comes and goes without challenge because he has diplomatic immunity. He knows he’s on watch lists, and enjoys playing the game. The Brits, U.S., French and Spanish have all had him in their sights. Rahman is a slippery guy.

“There’s a source in Pakistan who points the finger at Rahman. Apparently, he’s close to the man’s group and picked up on conversations about the upcoming operation, passed it on, then dropped out of sight. The guy is working undercover, so there’s no way to get in touch with him. Right now there’s no knowing if he’s alive or dead.”

“So do we accept his information as genuine?” McCarter asked. The fox-faced Briton was the leader of Phoenix Force.

“This came via the President, who told me the guy can be trusted and so can his word.”

“Piecing together every hit we’ve found suggests there’s definitely something going on,” Price said. “Rahman and the names linked to him, the recent visits between these people, their allegiances and a pretty strong hint anything Western goes against their thinking all add up to something big,” the mission controller explained.

“Doesn’t stop them making money from us,” James said.

“Yeah? Well, what they make goes toward the latest atrocity,” Lyons said testily.

“Freedom of speech and beliefs,” Rafael Encizo said. “And before you jump in and bite my head off, Carl, it’s what this country is all about. We start discriminating against religious and political diversity, we end up just like them.”

Lyons took a deep breath. It seemed he was about to challenge Encizo’s comments, but then he shook his head. “Rafe, you’ve got too many smart answers for me.”

The truth was Carl Lyons knew exactly what Encizo was saying. It was one of life’s ironies. Individuals who had nothing but contempt for America were able to live and work within its borders, their freedom and right to free expression protected by law. Until they actually went ahead and committed some crime, without definite proof there was nothing that could be done except put them on a watch list. Watch being the operative word.

“Rahman has a number of dubious friends.” Carmen Delahunt, a valued member of Kurtzman’s cyber team, the vivacious redheaded former FBI agent spoke decisively. She raised a hand to Tokaido, and more images appeared on the plasma screens. “Take your pick. The skinny guy is Umer Qazi. He is under suspicion of being an arranger for various flaky organizations within the Islamic world. He has ties to al Qaeda, so the story goes. In Afghanistan he was spotted in the company of Taliban members. On the surface he’s polite, urbane. Don’t underestimate him. The man is smart. Apparently he coaches young Muslims into becoming hard-liners. Likes to visit London a lot.”

“And while he’s there,” Tokaido said, “he spends time with this guy, Samman Prem. Prem owns an export-import company based in the city, with a warehouse facility on Tilbury docks—you know the place, David?”

McCarter nodded. “Large port area. Used to be a lot bigger years ago. Still a busy place.”

“Prem ships mainly to Pakistan and India. Some in the Middle East. He uses freighters belonging to Saeeda Hussein. He’s another suspect, wealthy and not a lover of Western ideology. They’re both on a watch list because of their affiliations, but that’s as far as it goes. Prem especially has been known to express his anti-Western views privately.”

“I traced Prem’s cell phone calls,” Kurtzman said. “Discounting nonimportant stuff, that left a lot of contacts. I broke them down into blocks.” He worked his own remote, and lists appeared on a plasma screen. “Most calls were to this number. I ran it, and it came up as belonging to Khalil Amir. Originally from Pakistan. Had an import business over there until he relocated to the U.S.—Boston to be exact. Still works the import business, but now also deals in real estate.”

Akira Tokaido brought up images of the named men.

“Interesting points are that both these guys have a history of being involved with our friend Colonel Jabir Rahman. We picked this up from a sweep of friendly agencies. British intelligence have been running a dossier on Rahman for a couple of years. He’s suspected of having links with radical sympathizers based in Europe, as well as Pakistan and the U.K.”

“This sweep of friendly agencies?” Brognola queried. “How should I interpret that?”

Kurtzman cleared his throat. “Better you don’t,” he said.

Aaron “the Bear” Kurtzman and his cyber team were undisputed experts when it came to infiltration. Kurtzman had developed programs of such sophistication that they allowed covert entry into the most dedicated systems without the agencies ever having knowledge that they were being scrutinized. The details of Kurtzman’s invasive programs were known only to himself. He kept them in his head, running them only when Stony Man needed instant access to information vital to missions.

Like the one they were into right now.

Brognola nodded. “Okay. So, you checked databases and picked up what you wanted?”

“MI5 and MI6 have information on Rahman that ties in with the proposed Phoenix Force and Able missions,” Akira said. “It confirms the guy is deep into this radical culture. He basically just doesn’t like the U.S. He’s especially ticked off about our close ties with the Pakistani administration. I pulled up these.” More images appeared on the big screens. “A U.K. operative took this a few weeks ago. Rahman and Khalil Amir. They were in Lyon, France, at some antiques junket. Rahman affects an interest in antiques. They stayed at a swish hotel along with other import-export players. The U.K. agent tailing Rahman reported he returned to Pakistan after his meet with Amir.”

“The Brits kept a watch on them all,” Carmen Delahunt said as she overlaid photos of Amir arriving at London’s Heathrow Airport. “This was Khalil Amir arriving. He stayed in London for three days before returning to Boston. While he was in the U.K. he visited Prem.”

“Any significance in this U.K. visit?” David McCarter asked. The Phoenix Force commander was sipping from a frosted bottle of Classic Coke. “I’ll bet they weren’t taking in the sights.”

“Like Akira said, Amir did make contact with Prem, who’s on the U.K. watch list as a possible radical,” Delahunt stated. “Under surveillance, but he can’t be tagged with anything vital.”

“All these meetings can’t just be bloody coincidences,” McCarter said. “Too many in a short space of time.”

“I’m guessing none of the agencies can do anything in case they scare these people and drive them underground,” Calvin James said. The black Phoenix Force member had been watching and listening in silence, taking everything in and filing it away. “If they scare these guys off we could lose valuable leads.”

Brognola nodded. “Exactly. Keep all this in mind once you get into the field. If we’re right about a possible upcoming threat, we need to stay well back until we have solid evidence these people are involved.”

“Easier said than done,” Rosario “the Politician” Blancanales, of Able Team, pointed out. “We start probing, it could easily generate contact. If that happens what are we supposed to do?”

“Look, Pol,” Brognola said, “I’m not saying you have to put yourselves at risk if the situation changes. If it comes down to the wire I want you guys walking away alive. All I’m saying is try to keep things low-key until you have something we can use.”

“With the chance these idiots are serious about setting off nuclear devices, are we supposed to walk around on bloody tiptoe?” McCarter retorted. “Step back from doing anything to upset them? Hal, you presented us with this threat. Why all the pussyfooting? We should go with whatever we have, and nail these bastards. Squash them into the ground and put a stop to their harebrained scheme.”

“Son of a bitch,” Carl Lyons said. “That’s exactly what I was going to say.”

“He stole the boss’s line,” Hermann Schwarz, the third member of Able Team, whispered.

Blancanales gave a melodramatic gasp. “I’m shocked.”

“Should we duck and cover?”

“Nah, I want to see the fight.”

For once Lyons failed to bite. He sat back, a thin smirk on his face because he had beaten Blancanales and Schwarz at their own game.

“Now that isn’t fair,” Blancanales said. “No reaction means no fun.”

Schwarz nodded. “He’s doing it on purpose. Let’s not talk to him for the rest of the briefing.”

“Now the children have put their toys back in the box,” Brognola said, wiping the grin off his own face, “we can get down to business.”

The short break had given them all a breather from the tension of the moment. Hal Brognola knew his people well. Horseplay was to be expected from the teams. It was part of who they were. They were consummate professionals, and the missions they undertook for the special operations group were life threatening. They stepped into the thick of combat, taking on savage opposition without a flicker of regret. Brognola sent them out on missions that stretched the limits of their skills, pitting them against truly dangerous enemies. He understood that, shouldered the responsibility, knowing his people—and he considered them to be his people—would give their utmost.

“In the field, guys, you make your own decisions. I’ll back whatever you do. However you achieve it. What the hell, you’re the experts. If eggs need to be broken, that’s it. Look, I’m just the administrator here. Let’s get it right.”

Barbara Price stood up and began to circle the table, dropping thick mission folders in front of each man.

“Everything we have is in these files. Backgrounds on participants. Photographs. Contacts. Locations. Let me know if there’s anything else required. Once you’ve studied the files we can discuss individual needs.”

“I don’t see my luncheon vouchers,” McCarter said. “You’re always expecting us to do it on the cheap.”

“Okay,” Price said sternly, “listen up. We can arrange transport to get you to wherever you want. Paperwork, too, as per usual. Depending on location there might be problems with weapons, so we’ll have to find local suppliers. With the current tensions, some regimes are very hot on loose weapons, so be careful. You’ll have to use any local contacts you have yourselves. I’ll let you have anything we might find on file.”

“Work out your dispersal plans as fast as you can,” Brognola said. “We want you fully organized, but time is not on our side here. We need you moving ASAP. Once you have things pinned down, let Barb know so she can make the arrangements.”

A subdued murmur filled the room as the teams went over their mission parameters. They worked in unhurried discussions, each member putting forward suggestions. Brognola left them to it, withdrawing from the table to pour himself a mug of coffee from one of the thermos jugs supplied. As he stood there, Kurtzman spun his wheelchair around and powered it to where the big Fed stood.

“Never fails to impress me, watching them figure out a battle plan,” he said. He was refilling his mug from the infamous pot of his special brew. It was said Kurtzman’s coffee had the same strength as industrial paint stripper, and no one at Stony Man would ever deny that statement. “They’re a unique crew.”

“Damn right there, Aaron. It’s a shame when you think how many times they’ve pulled this country back from the brink, and no one apart from the SOG will ever know it.”

“The President knows. So did his predecessors.” Kurtzman paused, then added, “And I guess he knows that truth, as well. He can’t say anything, because Stony Man doesn’t officially exist, so if he spills the beans he’s just as guilty by default.”

Brognola chuckled softly. “Hell of a way to make a living.”

An hour later decisions had been made. Both teams had their objectives. In-depth discussions had been completed. Barbara Price had left and was already elsewhere, making travel arrangements and handing out assignments to her teams. The support staff at the Farm were responsible for travel and documentation, arranging equipment and weapons Phoenix Force and Able Team might need.

Once they were on their own, the Stony Man teams would, as usual, rely on skill and determination to get them through whatever came up.

MCCARTER GAVE Phoenix Force their orders.

“Gary, you and Rafe take Pakistan. Go scope out the situation. The rest of us will head to London. We can dig into the U.K. mob and see what we can find. Once we reach a conclusion we’ll head out to join you. Barb will arrange transport. Gary and Rafe need to cross over from Afghanistan unannounced. We can work out a cover story for them so they can snoop around Peshawar. Maybe something to do with the New Relief charity?”

Price nodded. “There’s a contact we can use in the city. A guy working undercover for British security. He’s been in place for a while. Knows Peshawar. He could ease the way in.”

“Okay. The rest of us need a ride to the U.K. Usual arrangements via the Air Force would be handy. Ferry us to a base near London.”

“I can sort that. We’ll organize documents for Gary and Rafe. Passports and visas all stamped with current dates. I’ll get that set up for them.”

“Ordnance,” Encizo said. “Pakistan cops might not look too favorably on foreigners supposed to be working for a charity who are walking around loaded for bear.”

“Make up a pack and hide it once you’re across the border, before you go into the city,” McCarter said. “Something to fall back on if things get hot.”

“And knowing our luck, that’s likely to happen,” James said.

“Bloody bloke is such a party pooper,” McCarter said.

“You guys need anything special for London?” Price asked.

“Pocket translator?” T. J. Hawkins said, grinning. “Way those Brits talk it might as well be Cantonese.”

“Coming from you that’s rich,” McCarter said. “Barb, just fix us up with a decent hotel, love. We might not be there long, but let’s be comfortable while we are.”

BOSTON WAS ABLE TEAM’S destination. Khalil Amir was their target of interest. The man’s connection to Jabir Rahman and Samman Prem brought him into the spotlight for the Able Team trio.

Once destinations had been settled the Stony Man support departments swung into action, leaving the teams to spend the next few hours reviewing their mission files, discussing how they were going to handle the operations.

Weapons were talked over, with visits to the armory in the lower section of the building, where they could test and check the ordnance chosen.

Barbara Price handed each man his personal folder holding passports, cash and credit cards. Later that evening the passports for Manning and Encizo were delivered, along with all the documentation they would need in Pakistan if they were asked to produce it. Dates and stamps had been added, and Price was able to say with confidence that no one would be able to spot they were forgeries.

The communication section provided the teams with current high spec satellite phones with global capabilities. Each phone had a built-in GPS system and, more importantly, a direct speed dial to the Farm.

“Able, I’ve arranged a private flight for you to Logan. Your credentials will ID you as Justice Department agents on special assignment. Your weapons will be in a separate, secure case. When you touch down you can go direct to the Hertz rental stand, where a vehicle has already been booked for you. It’s in your cover name, Carl. And rooms are also booked at the Boston Marriott.”

Price turned to McCarter. “David, there’s an Air Force supply flight due to leave at seven tomorrow morning. We can have Phoenix Force there in time. You will touch down at RAF Mildenhall. Orders have been cut that will get you on board and delivered safely, no questions asked. Car will be waiting for you to pick up on base. After that you’re on your own. When you want to move on, a USAF plane will fly you on a regular supply run to Afghanistan, where you’ll be shipped out to the forward Marine base close to the border with Pakistan.”

“What about Gary and Rafe?” McCarter asked.

“They’ll be flown to the same base and choppered in across the border at night for a rendezvous with our contact. He’ll drive them into Peshawar to where they’re staying. This guy can give only limited assistance, so when he drops you at your hotel and gets you settled, he’ll move on.”

“Sounds playable,” McCarter said.

“Just to make sure you all have your cover names correct,” Price said. “David, you’re Jack Coyle, because your guy in London knows you from previous meetings. Samuel Allen?” Manning held up a hand. Rafe—Fredo Constantine, and Cal, you are Roy Landis.”

“Do I look like a Roy?” James asked.

“What the hell does a Roy look like?” McCarter retorted.

“T.J.?” Price said, moving on before the banter gained momentum.

“Daniel Rankin at your service, ma’am.”

CHAPTER TWO

London

“I have a feeling the old town isn’t what it used to be,” David McCarter said.

While James drove the BMW, Hawkins at his side, the Briton, sitting in the rear, was staring out the window of the rental SUV Stony Man had arranged for them. They were heading toward the East End, where McCarter had arranged to meet up with Greg Henning. The man was part of a Scotland Yard Special Branch counterterrorist unit. Phoenix Force had come into contact with Henning a couple years back, during an operation that had taken them to the U.K. McCarter and the tough cop had sparred on their first meeting, but as the mission moved on they came to respect each other. Henning, a hard-nosed cop from the old school, had little tolerance for anyone classed as a terrorist. He and McCarter had met up a number of times when the Briton was visiting London and the man from Scotland Yard had made it clear he was ready to help if assistance was needed. When McCarter called him, Henning had agreed to meet in his favorite East End pub.

“Drop me off,” McCarter said when the rendezvous point came into sight, “and carry on to the hotel. Get checked in and relax. I’ll be in touch.”

“Watch your back, boss,” Hawkins said. “Looks like a rough area.”

McCarter grinned, patting him on the shoulder. “You don’t know the half of it, T.J.”

James and Hawkins watched McCarter’s tall figure cross the street, pause briefly at the door, then vanish inside the pub.

“Maybe we should hang around,” Hawkins suggested.

“No need,” James said as he pulled away. “He’ll be fine. David’s on home ground here. He’s a lot safer than we are.”

MCCARTER SLIPPED OFF his topcoat as he moved inside the pub. At this time of day the place was quiet, with only a dozen customers scattered around. The interior didn’t appear to have changed in the past ten years. The only thing missing were the wreaths of cigarette smoke. Since the government had banned smoking in buildings, the air might be cleaner, but the ambience had vanished along with the tobacco smoke.

Greg Henning waved when he spotted McCarter, then he pushed himself to his feet and reached out to shake his hand. “Pint, is it?” he asked.

McCarter nodded and sat down, watching Henning cross to the bar and order his drink.

“Bit scary, all this clean air,” McCarter said when Henning placed his glass on the table and resumed his seat.

“Bloody nanny mentality,” the cop muttered. He watched McCarter swallow a good third of the beer. “Looks like you needed that.”

“You’ll never know,” McCarter said. “Can’t get a decent glass of beer in America. It’s like the proverbial gnat’s piss.”

Henning laughed, a deep hearty sound. He was a well-built man with a craggy, lived-in face, and he was wearing his dark hair longer than he had the last time McCarter saw him.

“So what’s so urgent, Jack?”

Jack Coyle was the cover name McCarter had used the first time he and Henning met, and he’d retained it ever since. Henning understood it was a false identity, but it didn’t seem to bother him, and he never probed for information. He knew McCarter was part of an American covert group that undertook difficult, high-risk operations. Henning had a blunt, no-nonsense attitude and a deep dislike of anything that hinted at terrorism. In his job as part of London’s antiterrorist unit he had seen the results firsthand and hated what the bombers and radicals could do. As far as he was concerned such thugs warranted no consideration.

“We’re trying to connect dots,” McCarter said. “There are indications of a possible bomb threat against the U.S. and Pakistan, designed to make some kind of statement about U.S. presence and what we’ve made out to be pay-back for involvement with the Pakistani administration. You’ve probably heard about the recent killings in Peshawar and the bombing of the aid agency there.”

“It was all over the news,” Henning said. “A bloody business. Heard about the assassinations here and in the U.S., too. Were those events in line with what you’re looking into?”

McCarter nodded. “We reckon so. All part of a buildup to the main event. Our initial intel gave us some leads, including a few names of people sympathetic to the bombing campaign.”

“Here in London?”

“Yeah. Some of the extremists are on U.S. and U.K. watch lists. As usual, no one has anything hard enough to move on.” McCarter paused. “But we’re not bound by anything like that, Gregory, my old chum.”

Henning smiled. He knew exactly what McCarter was hinting at. “If it looks like a duck, quacks like a duck, it most probably is a duck,” he said. “Too many of these known individuals are being allowed to wander around free and clear.”

“I just need some guidance,” McCarter said. “From someone with up-to-date local intel. It’s worth another pint, Gregory.”

“First time I met you I knew you were cheap,” Henning said. “And it’s always the same.”

“Hey, last time I bought you two pints.”

Henning grinned. “You know, I’d almost forgotten about that. I suppose anything you want has to be under the radar?”

“I don’t want anything landing back at your door.”

“You think I’m worried about that? Don’t. I’ve seen the results of bombings. The damage done to people. Faces shattered beyond recognition. Not pretty. And don’t ever excuse it by giving these bastards a name—except terrorists. Murderers. Heartless sons of bitches. Any potential threat taken off the streets is fine by me. Where doesn’t matter. Bloody hell, Jack, we’re all in this whether we want to be or not.”

Henning drained his beer and lapsed into silence. McCarter went to the bar and ordered two more pints, brought them back and placed one in front of the cop. Henning laid his open hands on the table. Cleared his throat.

“I think I went off on one there. Sorry.”

McCarter raised his glass. “Do not apologize, Gregory,” he said. “Too many people out there making excuses for those pricks. Time we had a few who call it like it is.”

The cop shook his head wryly. “If anyone, including the commissioner of police, called me ‘Gregory’ I would lay one on him. Only my old mum is allowed to use that name. How come I let you get away with it?”

“I’m not your old mum, for sure, Gregory. So it has to be my winning personality.”

“Cheeky sod. Now who are these ungodly buggers you need to track down?”

McCarter passed across a folded paper with the names of interest written on it. He had also jotted his cell number and details of the hotel where Phoenix Force were staying.

Henning scanned the names. McCarter noticed the fleeting expression of discomfort that crossed his friend’s face.

“There a problem? Look, Greg, if I’m putting you on the spot here, let’s forget it. Last thing I’d do is ask for—”

“It’s not that,” Henning said. “Past couple of weeks we’ve had a few ops go bad. Mainly surveillance. Everything okay until the suspects just cut and run. Left us high and dry. Looks like we have someone tipping our subjects off, so they’ve broken away before we could catch them in the act. I figure we have someone in the department letting our subjects know we’ve been watching them. On their payroll.”

“It’s been known to happen,” McCarter said.

“What bothers me is the thought that a tipoff might turn nasty one day and someone in our team gets hurt.”

“Any thoughts on who might be the mole?”

Henning hunched his shoulders. “I have my suspicions. I’m running this on my own until I get it pinned down. Nothing strong enough to point the official finger. If I show my hand too soon the bastard could cover his tracks and vanish.”

“When you read those names I gave you,” McCarter said, “it meant something.”

“Yeah. The names are allied to the ops we were scuppered over.”

“Your mole could be working for them?”

Henning nodded. “Let me check them out. Get you some local info on them. If these blokes are the ones involved in these suspected attacks, we have to make the effort.”

“Thanks, Greg.”

“And I suppose you want the info ASAP, if not sooner?”

McCarter swallowed his beer. “Not trying to put any pressure on, mate, but yes. I told you about a bomb plot. What I didn’t mention was it looks like they could be nuclear devices.”

HENNING ARRIVED at the hotel in the early evening. The desk called McCarter’s room and the Phoenix Force trio joined the cop in the lounge bar. Once drinks had been delivered, the group settled down to listen to what Henning had to tell them.

“I’ve been calling in favors like they’re going out of fashion,” the cop said. He raised his glass to McCarter. “My God, Jack, you owe me bloody big.”

McCarter simply grinned at him. “Stop being a drama queen, Gregory.”

“How do you blokes put up with him?”

“We have to,” James said. “He signs our expenses slips.”

“I guessed it would be something like that.” Henning reached into his coat, took out a folded sheaf of papers and handed them to McCarter. “According to my sources, Samman Prem is a man of many parts. He runs a business based here in the city. He also has a storage facility on Tilbury docks. Bloke called Saeeda Hussein owns the company. Runs freighters from there. Prem has cargo and container ships coming and going, supplied by Hussein,”

“Ties in with what our initial searches came up with,” McCarter said. “We’re on the same track.”

“Surveillance has Rahman and this Umer Qazi spotted at Prem’s head office in the East End during their last visit. Looking really cozy.”

McCarter grunted. “Makes you wonder what kind of deal they were cooking up.”

“Could be anything. Legit or otherwise. The East End is pretty upmarket these days, Jack. It isn’t all cobbled streets and back-to-back houses. A thriving multicultural scene now.”

“So Rahman and Qazi wouldn’t look out of place,” Hawkins observed.

“They’d fit right in.”

“Right,” McCarter said. “Looks like we need to make a visit to Tilbury. Go shake Prem up a bit.”

Tilbury Docks

LYING ON THE NORTH SIDE of the River Thames, the Tilbury docks complex was the third largest container port in the U.K. Oceangoing vessels carried a constant flow of goods to and from destinations around the globe. Warehouses and storage units lined the length of the facility and vast compounds of metal containers dominated the area.

The ID cards obtained for them by Greg Henning had got them inside the perimeter fence and the security-manned main gate. McCarter’s story for the guard detail had them down as making a check on the quality of the service being provided. The Briton had spun a plausible yarn to the guy on the gate, praising him for his alertness at checking them out.

“That’s what we’re here for, mate. Just observing how people do their job. You know how it is these days. All to do with statistics. But they never ask blokes like you, the ones who have to do the work.”

“Too right,” the security guard said. “They sit in those nice warm offices pressing bleedin’ buttons, and reckon they’ve done a good day’s work.”

“Lazy sods,” McCarter declared. “Don’t let on I said that.” He checked out the man’s name tag. “Listen, George, we shouldn’t be here long. Can we park over there? If we need to walk about I’ll come and check with you first. You’re the bloke in charge.”

George puffed up with pride. “You take your time. I could make you and your mates a nice hot cuppa later.”

“That would great, George. Appreciate the thought.”

George waved them through, watching as McCarter drove to the parking area.

“Charm the birds off the trees,” James said.

“Got to give the man his due,” Hawkins agreed.

“Watch and learn, my children,” McCarter said, grinning.

From their position they could see the warehouses belonging to Saeeda Hussein’s firm. The company name was evident on many of the stacked metal containers in view.

“Hope we don’t have to check out every damn box on this dock,” Hawkins said.

“Just keep your eyes and ears open,” McCarter replied. “This is a bit of a long shot, so we need to stay sharp.”

“‘’T’was ever thus,’” James said.

“Say what?” Hawkins asked.

“He’s showing off his classical side,” McCarter said. “Shakespeare used it in Twelfth Night.”

“English, please.”

“Sort of this is how it always is,” James explained.

“So why not damn well say so?” Hawkins asked.

“He just wants us to know he once read a book,” McCarter said lightly.

“Oh, Mr. Smarty Ass,” Hawkins grunted.

“There, you figured him out,” McCarter said.

James’s laugh was cut short when he leaned forward to check out someone he’d seen. “Hey, isn’t that our buddy Samman Prem?”

“It is,” Hawkins confirmed.

The man had emerged from the warehouse and was standing on the edge of the dock, staring out across the water. A minute later another man appeared. He joined Prem and they fell into an intense conversation. It was Saeeda Hussein, easily identified from the photographs Phoenix Force had studied.

James picked up the zoom-lens digital camera they had brought along. From his position in the passenger seat next to McCarter he had a clear and unobstructed view. He raised the device, focused in and ran off a number of speed shots.

“Get a good photo?” McCarter asked.

“Prize-winning,” James said.

“More for the party,” McCarter said.

Another man, tall and thin, with long dark hair that reached his shoulders, came into view. When he joined the others he stood listening to the conversation. James took more photos.

The three talked for a few minutes before wandering off along the dock. They gathered again alongside a container ship being loaded.

“I’ll send these to Stony Man,” James said.

He opened the slide cover and took out the camera’s memory chip. Picking up his digital sat phone, he inserted the chip into the access port and let it load. Once the contents of the chip were in place James used the coded number that gave him a satellite link to the Farm.

“Hey, Barb,” he said when his call was picked up. “I’m sending some images for Bear to check out. Get him to run facial scans on the men. We pretty well know who they are, but it does no harm to double-check.”

“Will do. How are things in merry England?”

“I’ll let you know as soon as we do.”

“Okay.”

“Hey, boss, I think we might have been spotted,” Hawkins said.

McCarter watched as the three men they had been checking out all turned to stare in the direction of the Phoenix Force car.

“What do you want to do?” James asked. He slipped the camera and sat phone out of sight beneath his seat.

McCarter opened his door and stepped out of the SUV. Leaning against the vehicle, he casually took out his pack of Player’s cigarettes and lit one.

“Man, he loves doing this,” James said. “It’s like a game of chicken, but without the cars.” He slid his hand inside his coat to ease his shoulder-holstered Beretta.

Hawkins noticed the move and said, “This going to turn into a shooting match?”

“I hope not, but with Commander I-love-taking-a-risk McCarter it’s safer to stay cautious.”

Samman Prem walked back along the dock and headed in their direction. He was not a tall man, but carried himself with an arrogant bearing that told the world he was important and not to be trifled with. He wore his thick black hair long, almost to his shoulders. Under the jacket of his expensive suit he wore a thin-striped shirt and matching tie. The heavy watch on his wrist gleamed dull gold.

“Who are you people?” he demanded. “What are you doing on this dock? Do you realize who I am?”

“We’re just doing our job, Mr. Prem,” McCarter said.

“How do you know my name?”

“I told you we’re doing our job, and knowing who you are is part of it.” McCarter examined the glowing end of his cigarette. “You know, I’m sure they don’t make these as thick as they used to.”

Prem’s face flushed with righteous anger. “I demand to know who you are and how you got into this facility.”

“That’s easy,” McCarter said. He took out his ID card and showed it to Prem, keeping it just beyond the man’s reach. “No need to touch,” he said. “It’s official. All you need to know. Gives me and my team the right to check out security on this dock.”

“You have no right to…”

“To what?” McCarter asked pleasantly, but with just enough of a suggestion in his tone to needle the businessman. “I hope you have nothing to hide, Mr. Prem. I’d hate to have to send for help. The backup team gets a little testy if they get called out this late in the day.”

“I will take this up with—”

McCarter eased his long form away from the side of the car, leaning forward a little so he could look Prem in the eye.

“Now you go ahead, mate. Take it up with whoever you want. Your local MP. Lawyer. Anyone in your old boys’ club. But bear in mind that we know a lot about you and your friends. What you’ve been up to and what you have planned. Think on what I’ve said and watch your back.”

As McCarter straightened up, he saw that the other two men had appeared behind Prem. The Briton nodded in their direction. “Mr. Prem will bring you up to date, gents. When you see him next time, give my regards to Colonel Rahman. You are familiar with the name I’m sure.”

McCarter turned and opened the door of the BMW, then climbed in. After starting the engine, he swung the SUV around and drove to the security gate. George the gateman opened up for him.

“You’re doing a nice job, George,” he said. “Sorry we can’t stay for that tea. You know how it is when duty calls. Just keep your eye on the rough element they seem to be letting onto this dock. “

George grinned. “I’ll do that,” he said.

McCarter drove away and picked up the main road leading back to the city.

“Where I come from,” Hawkins said, “that would be known as baiting the bull.”

“Poking a stick in a hornets” nest,” James said.

McCarter smiled. “Lads, it helps to stir the pot sometimes. Bloody hell, I’d give anything to be a fly on Mr. Prem’s office wall right now.”

“Never mind Prem,” Hawkins said from the rear seat. “We’ve got our own problem. It’s black, has three guys in it and has a Citroën badge on the hood. It just rolled in behind us. I saw it exit the dock gate when you turned onto the main road. Fellers, we have a tail.”

CHAPTER THREE

Samman Prem summoned three of his waiting soldiers and gave them instructions. Without questions they left the warehouse, commandeered one of the parked vehicles and drove off the dock.

Prem made his way back to Hussein’s office, slammed the door and crossed to the desk. His face was taut with anger.

“He mentioned Colonel Rahman,” he said angrily. “Who are these people? What do they know? This could be a threat to us all.”

“Why?” Hussein said. He had witnessed only the tail end of Prem’s confrontation with the tall Englishman. “The Barracuda is out of the country. It could already be in Rahman’s hands. What can one policeman do to us now?”

“I wish it was a simple thing to dismiss this whole matter,” Prem said. “We know the British authorities have been looking at our business. If there is a possibility these people are getting close to us they could harm our whole U.K. setup. Don’t you realize the extent of our organization here? Our people like Qazi.” He indicated the third man in the office. “A brilliant recruiter. A teacher. It was Qazi who found Anwar Fazeel and coached him in the ways of Allah. Fazeel is now in Pakistan and, using his computer and electronic skills, he will be the one to control and guide the Barracuda. There are others like Qazi who are spreading our message and bringing new followers.

“If the U.K. authorities destroy us, our organization will have been for nothing,” Prem continued. “Over the years we have created cells of followers ready to do our bidding. There are safe houses. Stores of supplies and weapons. People who will assist. Money from our al Qaeda brothers.”

“So what do we do? Why not let the British fumble around, trying to investigate us?”

“Because there is too much to lose. If the brothers who are following those three fail to stop them, I must prepare to use our main asset.”

Qazi sat down. “Winch?”

“Yes. A turncoat who has a terrible greed for money. An English antiterrorist agent who has worked for me a long time. Admittedly, he is a dog on two legs. A betrayer of his own, but one who has been extremely useful to us.”

“Is he the one who directed our brothers in Peshawar? Who gave up the CIA agents?”

“The very one. He has many contacts within the security department of the U.K. and contact with the Americans through his position as a liaison officer for the European task force on terrorism.”

“Was he responsible for the Washington and London kills, too?” Hussein asked.

“Yes. Winch has access to mercenary units who were contracted to provide men. Many of them are ex-military. His knowledge of these people has proved very useful.”

Hussein still expressed doubt. “This man is not of our faith. He is a Westerner. How can he be trusted?”

“Because he is a Westerner and he lives by their corrupt ways. His life is centered around acquiring personal wealth. As long as it is on offer he will forgo any loyalty to his own. The man has no religion. No higher authority. Like his faithless society, his creed is to serve himself only. So while he remains useful to me I will take advantage of his vile expectations.”

“Use the serpent, but be wary of his fangs,” Qazi said.

Prem, picking up his phone, nodded. “Winch has proved extremely adept at providing sensitive information. The man has gained the confidences of many in the security community.” He paused, allowing himself a smile. “Saeeda, where do you think we got our hands on the scheduling that allowed us to hijack the Barracuda UAV?”

“That was Winch? Ah, a valuable asset, then,” Hussein agreed.

“And a very rich one. His hidden bank accounts must be extremely healthy by now.”

Prem made his call. When it was answered, he spoke briefly at first, to establish safe contact. “I hope we are able to talk freely.”

“This is the safe number I gave you,” Winch said. “Do we have a problem?”

“There has been a development that might become worrying. A short time ago three men came to the dock. They identified themselves as security personnel. The ID they showed me said they were from the police. London Metropolitan CTS attachment.”

“Was there an authorization signature?”

“G. Henning—senior agent. Does the name mean anything to you?”

“Yes. Were they just snooping around, or did they have a definite purpose?”

“The one I spoke to said they knew all about us. That they were watching closely.”

“Sounds like they were fishing.”

“Did I not mention that Colonel Rahman was identified by name? Does that suggest fishing, Mr. Winch?” Prem’s tone had lost any pretense of friendliness. “I suggest you look into this. Find out what is going on. Agent Henning needs to be dealt with if he is sending in people to check me out. I do not like to be investigated in such a way. It is why I employ you, Winch. And pay you handsomely to prevent this kind of thing from happening.” He paused. “You agree?”

“Yes.”

“I dispatched three of my people to follow and deal with these men. If they do not succeed it will be down to you to engage your mercenaries to handle them. I will let you know what unfolds. In the meantime your task is to make certain Mr. Henning is unable to conduct his inquiries further. Do you understand?”

“Understood,” Winch said. “It will be handled immediately. Personally.”

“Do not contact me until the matter is concluded.”

“The usual arrangement?”

“Of course, Mr. Winch. Do not worry about it. You will definitely get what is coming to you.”

Winch failed to recognize the irony in Prem’s words.

Prem ended the call and replaced the handset.

“He can do this?” Qazi asked.

“I believe so. He has never failed me yet and I see no reason why it should be any different this time. It must not be different. Our purpose here in the U.K. is much more than assisting in Rahman’s operation, important as it is. Our whole network could be jeopardized. I will not allow that to happen.” Prem picked up the phone again. “I must call Colonel Rahman and update him on the situation. If matters escalate he will not be pleased if he has not been advised.”

“Tell him I will be leaving on the evening flight back to Pakistan,” Qazi said. “There is nothing else here for me to do.”

THE CITROËN ACCELERATED as the road narrowed, bounded on either side by older houses in various stages of redevelopment. The French-built car powered up to within a foot of the Phoenix Force vehicle.

“Naughty, naughty,” McCarter muttered. “I hate tailgaters. But I have a way of dealing with them.”

The Briton stomped on the brake. As the Phoenix Force BMW slowed, the driver of the Citroën was forced to do the same. The car lurched, tires squealing as it dropped back, smoke whipping from the tires. McCarter pushed his foot down again and took the BMW up to the maximum he could risk on a public road.

“Never a cop around when you need one,” he grumbled. “Any other time the place would be crawling with patrol cars and the road lined with speed cameras.”

“I think these guys know that, too,” Hawkins said. “And I don’t reckon they’re about to quit and go home to Momma.”

“You think I went too far with Prem?” McCarter asked.

James glanced at the Briton and didn’t miss the slight smirk on his lips. “You wanted him to react, didn’t you?”

“Was that what I did?”

“Dammit, David, you know how these guys hate anyone pissing them off. Right now you’ve probably been issued with a fatwa all your own.”

“Bloody hell, me on a level with Salman Rushdie. Next thing, the queen will be offering me an OBE.”

Tires screeched as the Citroën swept into the opposite lane and started to draw level with the SUV.

“That guy behind the wheel is one reckless dude,” James said.

“You think?” Hawkins commented. “Oh, great…”

“What?”

“Gun,” Hawkins yelled.

The BMW shuddered as a stream of slugs struck the right-hand rear side panel.

McCarter responded with a jerk to the wheel that sent the BMW into the path of the chase car. There was a hard thump as the two collided. The Citroën rocked under the impact. The shooter, leaning out of the rear window, was knocked back inside the car, giving Hawkins the chance he needed. He had already powered down his window, giving him a clear shot as he leveled his Beretta and triggered a triple volley. The shooter, righting himself, caught the 9 mm slugs in his throat and jaw. Hawkins caught a brief glimpse of the guy jerking back from the window, blood spurting from his torn flesh.

Swinging the wheel again, McCarter slammed the Citroën a second time. It swung away, hitting the far curb. The impact bounced the Citroën up onto the sidewalk, the wheels turning despite the driver’s attempt to maintain a straight course. The car plowed into piles of building materials in of one of the houses. Hawkins, watching through the rear window, saw the vehicle slide, then flip over onto its side, crashing headlong through the stacks of lumber and sheeting.

McCarter raised his eyes to the rearview mirror.

“Oops,” he said. He met Calvin James’s eyes. “Cal, call Henning and let him know what just happened. Tell him we need to get this car off the streets. He’ll know somewhere we can meet up without any kind of audience.”

“ANY DAMAGE?” Henning asked. He had met Phoenix Force at a basement garage of a closed office block off the Bayswater Road. The garage was gloomy, with water dripping from the low concrete ceiling.

“Only to the car,” James said. “And one of the opposition ran into a couple of bullets.”

“Good.” Henning peered at the buckled front end and the ragged bullet holes at the rear. “Business as usual, Jack. Never fails. Minute you set foot in the old town, all hell breaks loose.”

“He has that effect wherever he goes,” James said.

“I believe you.” The cop leaned against the hood of the BMW. “I take it all this was a result of you going to visit Samman Prem? How did you find him?”

“Tetchy,” McCarter said. “Thinks a lot of himself. Didn’t take it too well, me hinting we have the goods on him.”

“He wouldn’t. Not a winning personality, our Mr. Prem. I’d go as far as saying he is an arrogant little jerk.”

“Poking him with a stick didn’t help his disposition,” James added, glancing sideways at McCarter.

The Briton feigned innocence. “I was just keeping the conversation going.”

“How did he react to that?”

“Stamped his little feet when he walked away,” McCarter said.

“Then sent a tail car after us,” Hawkins interjected. “They tried to push us off the road, then started shooting.”

“Christ, Jack, when you blokes start something you really start something.”

“One way of putting it,” McCarter said. “We’re punching in the dark here, Gregory. We have the threat of a hit, but we don’t know when or where, so no time for being subtle or checking the rule books. If that means kicking arses to make things happen, then we kick.”

“I’ll handle the car for you. Get it moved where no questions are the order of the day,” Henning said. “Give you a ride back to your hotel?”

“Thanks, mate. Your tip about Prem looks like it paid off. That bugger is involved in something. I’ll bet my pension on that. We can have our people check out his company. Maybe they’ll come up with something useful. If they don’t I’ll most likely go back and beat it out of him before I set fire to his warehouses.”

“Maybe the day hasn’t been a total waste, then,” Henning said.

“McCarter might not be joking,” Hawkins said.

“Oh, I know that,” the cop acknowledged. “Listen, I think I have a lead on who might have been selling us out. I had my suspicions and was going to follow them through, but I was given an assignment and had to drop what I was doing. When you called and brought me up to date, certain things you said tied in with my own theory. So expect a call if I hit pay dirt.”

McCarter nodded. “You watch your back, Gregory. Rats may be squirmy little buggers, but they have sharp teeth when they’re backed into a corner.”

Henning led them to his parked SUV and they all climbed in. He swung the vehicle around and drove out of the garage. As he pushed into the traffic, he activated his car phone and punched in a speed dial number. When his call was answered Henning gave explicit instructions to whoever was on the line, making it clear what he needed done. He finished the call and sat back, smiling.

“Your wheels will disappear in the next couple of hours. Never to be seen again. I’ll insert a stolen-vehicle report for you. Call the rental firm and tell them the car was nicked earlier this afternoon. There’s a pad on the dash there. Write down this number and quote it to the rental company. They’ll use it when they contact the local cops. It’s a crime case number. Rental company can use it when they make a claim on their insurance.”

McCarter wrote down the information and tucked the paper in his jacket. “Always knew the Met was a bloody good outfit.”

“’Met?’” Hawkins repeated.

“Metropolitan Police,” Henning said. “London’s city police force. Go all the way back to 1829. They always say those were the good old days. With what we have to deal with now I’m starting to think that could be true.”

“Gregory, we live in parlous times,” McCarter said. “All we can do is keep up the good work.”

“Hey, you two, “James said, “enough of the down-home philosophy. It’s like listening to a couple of old-timers rocking on the porch.”

Back at the hotel McCarter contacted Stony Man and spoke with Barbara Price. He gave her an update, including the fate of their rental.

“Well, at least letting your pal handle the disappearance should avoid awkward questions about bullet holes,” Price said. “I’ll make a call and sort out another car for you.”

“Thanks. We need some in-depth information about Samman Prem and his company. Shipping. Any connections. Hell, you know the drill.”

CHAPTER FOUR

Greg Henning’s earlier investigation went back a couple weeks. Even then he’d been aware he was breaking every rule in the book, but his conviction that he had the right man dictated he do something about it. Operating in the counterterrorist unit had exposed him to the inner workings of the terrorist mind, and the things he had seen and heard only proved what he suspected. Terrorism, in all its twisted forms, was the scourge of the twenty-first century. It fed on hypocrisy, hid its evil under religious dogma, using the logic of persuasion and in most cases blatant brainwashing of vulnerable minds. The hate fostered by the al Qaeda generation of terrormongers was done via the teachers and advisors, men who stayed away from the results of their haranguing, never exposing themselves to risk. They remained in safety, dispatching their acolytes to kill and maim, and in many instances to be killed them selves in suicide attacks, willing to destroy with the promises of eternal life in paradise.

Nine/eleven, the London bombings and countless other atrocities were claimed as victories for the jihad. Each strike was celebrated by cheering, howling mobs, while the innocent victims were grieved by the survivors. There was little sense to it all, but in the aftermath, the Western governments realized this was going to be a long battle. The security agencies slowly began to understand the complexities of this new kind of war, and after false starts gathered themselves unto some semblance of coordination.

Perfection was still a distance away, but antiterrorist organizations slowly emerged. Greg Henning volunteered for the U.K.’s counterterrorist squad the day he heard it was being formed. He saw it as a total necessity, and pushed himself to the limit once he had been fully accredited. It was a job that demanded every agent give total attention, then more. Henning had been married in his younger years, but the partnership hadn’t lasted, ending in divorce after six years. His work in the new unit meant he needed to be there on a 24/7 basis. It suited him.

His understanding of the job and its requirements was cause for concern when it became suspected there could be a leak within the unit. He found the concept of a traitor repulsive. The squad was manned by professional men and women who put themselves on the line and worked endless shifts to keep ahead of the terrorists. To have one of their own passing information, weakening the group’s ability to stay focused, was unthinkable and totally unacceptable.

Being in the top echelon within the department, Henning was given a briefing by his immediate superiors. They had suspicions but no proof. Initial investigation had been difficult. If there was a traitor inside the unit, any checking had to be undertaken with great care, for fear of alerting the mole. It was one of those near impossible situations. It could have easily broken up the team, each member suspicious of his or her partners. Any prolonged procedure would damage trust and imperil the smooth workings of the department.

Henning had already fixed his attention on a single member of the unit, having been alerted by the man’s behavior. He closed in on the individual in his own surreptitious way, quietly and with an almost indifferent attitude.

The man’s name was Lewis Winch. A smart and confident agent, he held a high ranking in the unit. His brief was to act not only as a U.K. operative, but also to liaise with European and American agencies. Winch had made this his prime role and had built a reputation as a brilliant negotiator when it came to handling awkward international conflicts. There were still territorial stumbling blocks to deal with when it came to diplomacy directives, and Winch seemed to have the techniques for smoothing things over. Within the department he was almost a law unto himself. He came and went, making frequent visits to the Continent and even the U.S.A. He was often out of the department on consultations, as he put it.

Henning wasn’t sure how or when he began to have an unsettling feeling where Winch was concerned. His suspicions might have been aroused by the man’s increasing attitude of what Henning could only call twitchy. Winch seemed to be looking over his shoulder metaphorically, reacting awkwardly whenever someone approached him, almost with paranoia. Henning told himself he was looking too hard, seeing things that meant very little, but he found he was studying Winch whenever the man was around.

A definite sign appeared the day the reports started coming in about the killing and bombing in Peshawar. Henning saw Winch’s reaction as the large wall-mounted plasma TV began to show the images. The whole of the main office was watching, so Winch’s response was noticed only by Henning. He saw Winch turn away and hurry to his own office, where he took out a cell phone. Seated at in his own desk, Henning witnessed Winch’s actions through the open blinds. He couldn’t hear what the man was saying, but from his expression it was plain he was agitated. The call went on for a couple of minutes before he cut the conversation and dropped the cell phone back into the desk drawer, then snatched his coat off its hook and exited.

Henning went to his office window, which overlooked the street. As he had somehow expected, Winch stepped into view from the building and hailed a taxi. Henning’s office was only one floor up so he was able to read the number on the cab’s license plate. He turned and jotted it on his desk pad.

Nothing unusual in someone taking a taxi.

Except that this was Lewis Winch.

And Winch hated any kind of public transport. He never, ever used taxis. Always drove his own car, which would be parked, even now, in the basement garage under the building. The whole scenario jarred. Henning sat down, staring at the number he had written on his desk pad.

Winch had reacted sharply at the TV report. It wasn’t anything they hadn’t seen before. But this time Winch had been clearly taken by surprise.

Why?

And who had he called so urgently?

Henning sat back, understanding he had to follow this through. It might not lead him anywhere. Winch’s behavior could have been an innocent reaction to the events unfolding on the screen. But it felt like something entirely different to Greg Henning.

He wanted to be proved wrong.

Genuinely proved wrong.

The recent problems the department had been experiencing, the operations having to be called off due to compromising situations and the fact that prior warning had been leaked to parties under observation—all these needed to be answered.

And this unusual behavior warranted investigation, no matter what the outcome.

That afternoon, Winch didn’t return for a couple hours. On arrival, he went directly to his office and closed the door, then sat at his desk for a while before he turned on his laptop and began to work.

Henning watched him covertly from his own office. His hopes of not being seen were marred when he saw Winch watching him. This happened a couple times.

Winch finished early, pulling on his coat and walking out of his office. He flicked off the light and closed the door.

It seemed he was about to head over to Henning’s office, but he stared for a moment, then turned and left the department.

Back at his office window, Henning waited, finally seeing his colleague’s car nose out from the basement garage and merge with the busy London traffic. He stayed at the window until the vehicle was out of sight.

Winch’s behavior left Henning with a feeling of disquiet, an unsettling sensation that wouldn’t leave him.

He was ready to take those suspicions a step forward. That was when his telephone rang and Henning was assigned a call to duty. He had to put the Winch matter on the back burner until he had cleared his assignment, because he refused to expose his feelings until he could prove his case.

The day he returned to the department, and before he could even check his computer, the phone rang and the man he knew as Jack Coyle was asking him to meet for a drink and a chat.

ON HIS RETURN TO his office following his meeting with Jack Coyle, Henning went over their conversation. The subjects they had covered had rekindled his earlier suspicions about Lewis Winch—the man’s reaction to the bombing scenes in Pakistan, his sudden departure from the office and his extremely odd behavior with the taxi.

If Henning was wrong about him, no harm would have been done. If his suspicions proved sound, that was another matter. He admitted he was acting purely on instinct, but he trusted his senses. They had proved reliable on other occasions.

Henning located the license number of the taxi he had written down. The antiterrorism squad had an extensive and top-of-the-line cyber unit. Their ability to seek and find was unrivaled in London. Henning logged on using his password. He tapped in the vehicle number and ran a check on its details. The search provided him with the cab company, and from that Henning was able to access the logs of each vehicle. He inputted the taxi’s license number and the date he was interested in. In less than a minute he had a list of all the fares the cab had picked up that day. Henning scrolled down it until he located the one that had originated outside their building. The time tallied with when he had seen Winch climb into the taxi.

Henning studied the address where his colleagues had completed his journey.

The London office of Samman Prem.

Henning sat and stared at the monitor, trying to come up with any legitimate reason for Lewis Winch to visit the office of a man like Prem. He failed. Then he pondered whether, just because Winch had been dropped off outside Prem’s building, it was fair to assume the man had gone inside. Henning decided it was too much of a stretch to believe Winch had been dropped off at Prem’s place of business and not gone inside.

Samman Prem was one of the men on the watch list. A man who had been followed from time to time and considered a person of interest. If the unit had unlimited funds, it might have placed Prem under full-time observation, but true to the way things happened, the counterterrorist squad had to spread its allocations of men and money thinly over a large area. So Prem was no longer under watch.

Henning tried another route, via the extensive network of TV cameras that were installed all over London. He used the system to locate the address he wanted, and discovered there were two cameras on the East End street where Samman Prem’s office building stood. Henning tapped in date and time and waited, hoping that any recorded views had not been wiped from the digital records.

The first camera had been cleared, but Henning’s second attempt provided what he wanted. The long shot showed the taxi pulling up outside the building. Even at that distance, he recognized Winch as the man stepped out of the taxi, paid the driver, turned and went in through the main door. Henning ran the action back until he had a full shot of him, then used the zoom facility to bring the image closer. This time there was no doubt in Henning’s mind; the man on his monitor screen was Lewis Winch. Before he logged out, Henning saved the image and stored it on his own computer.

He leaned back in his chair and stared at the face of the man he had just watched enter the office building of a suspect individual.

Looking over the top of his monitor, Henning was able to see Winch in his own office.

So what now?

Did he go across and confront the man?

Or take his findings to his superiors?

Henning knew he had to proceed carefully. Confronting Winch might backfire on him. The man would undoubtedly deny any wrongdoing, might even come up with a logical explanation.

Henning dismissed that thought immediately. There was no logical explanation that would clear up the fact that Winch had been seen entering Prem’s building.

Something was nagging away at the back of Henning’s mind, demanding an answer. He allowed it to take form.

If Winch was a mole, why would he risk a daylight visit to the office of a suspected terrorist?

There was no sense in risking exposure.

Henning recalled the way Winch had reacted to the TV coverage of the Pakistani bombing report. Perhaps seeing the results of information he may have passed along had unnerved him. Maybe this was the first time he had been witness to what his traitorous dealings had done. A touch of conscience, a realization that what he was involved in was far from a harmless game? Perhaps time had caught up and Winch realized he had become part of what was not a game but a brutal reality. Seeing death and human suffering, Winch may have felt the need to confront his paymasters. It was no big leap to move to the inevitable conclusion that his colleague was selling information for cash. Henning didn’t view him as idealistic. There was no visible altruistic reason why Winch would be passing along sensitive information without receiving some kind of reward.

Henning brought himself back to the present. He played with the details he had, using his desk pad to list them, then stared at the penciled notations.

Lewis Winch—supposedly on Henning’s side of the fence, though emerging facts were suggesting otherwise.

Samman Prem—a suspect who had received a personal visit from Winch a couple weeks back.

Jack Coyle’s face-to-face with Prem, which had been followed by a violent attack on Coyle and his team.

Henning doodled with his pencil, still unsure of the full intent of his gathered information. When he glanced at his watch he saw it was late. He threw the pencil down and stood up, clicking off his computer. He tore the sheet of paper from his pad and slid it into the office shredder, grabbed his coat and headed out. The department was empty except for the evening team.

Winch had left much earlier.

In the elevator Henning leaned against the side of the car, glad to leave the office behind. The image of a tender steak and a foamy pint of beer crossed his mind. He was still thinking about food as he climbed into his car and drove out of the basement garage. Light rain had wet the road, and multicolored reflections of street and store lights spread across the tarmac. There was heavy rush-hour traffic and it took Henning forty-five minutes to negotiate the distance to his home.

Reaching his destination, he turned in at the archway that fronted the residential mews where he lived. He came to a stop a few yards from his front door, cut the engine, climbed out and locked his car.

And that was when he heard someone call his name.

CHAPTER FIVE

Greg Henning paused as he searched in his pocket for his house key. Stalling by pretending he couldn’t find it, he slid his right hand inside his coat, located the butt of his handgun and released the breakaway strap. His already alerted senses ratcheted up a notch when he heard his name being spoken again.

He knew now he hadn’t been mistaken.

Someone was standing in the deep shadow at the end of the cul-de-sac. Under Henning’s coat his hand closed around the butt of his 9 mm Glock. He took out his key and inserted it into the lock.

Henning turned the key. Felt the lock give. He pushed against the door and it swung inward. At the same time he pulled his Glock, angling it across his body as he made a swift turn.

He caught a fragmented glimpse of the figure closing in fast. He heard the subdued snap of a suppressed shot and felt a hard blow just below his left shoulder. The impact tipped him off balance. He hit the edge of the door frame, stumbling partway inside. Henning struggled to stay upright as he triggered a shot from the Glock. The report sounded extremely loud in the quiet surroundings.

The other shooter’s weapon fired again, twice. Henning gasped in shock as the slugs struck home. He fired again himself, pulling the trigger as many time as he could. He saw the shooter stop in midstride, and knew he’d scored some kind of hit. The man turned aside, pulling away, and as he passed through the light thrown from the wall lamp above the door Henning saw his face in profile. It was only for a fleeting second but long enough for him to recognize the man.

It was Lewis Winch.

Henning went down in a heavy sprawl, blood pulsing from the bullet wounds in his chest. He didn’t really register hitting the ground, just saw the strange angle of the open door looming above him. The night sky was sprinkled with stars. There was a rush of pain, then a comforting numbness that spread with alarming speed. He picked up sounds far off.

Unconnected.

Henning fumbled his cell from his coat, peering at the screen as he pressed keys for a text message. The effort cost him, pain making him gasp, fingers feeling thick and clumsy. When he located the number for Jack Coyle, he sent a text.

He felt the phone slip from his hand. He sensed people around him, bending over him, anxious voices. Henning couldn’t make sense of any of it. He hoped his text had got through. That was the last thing he remembered.

MCCARTER TOOK OUT his cell, checking the incoming call. It was from Stony Man. He answered and heard Barbara Price’s voice.

“Text message rerouted via the cover number,” she said. “From your cop buddy in London. Henning. He’s in trouble. Something about being shot and knowing who the mole is.”

“I’m on it, Barb.”

“Merry England isn’t sounding too merry.”

“You don’t know the half.”

“Progress?”

“We’re picking up scraps here and there. Names you guys supplied are tying up, but nothing too definite yet. Just feed us anything you find.” McCarter paused. “Heard from the others yet?”

“Only that they’ve located themselves and it’s hot.”

McCarter smiled. “That will be our Canadian member,” he said. “He prefers snow and ice.”

“Let us know about Henning.”

“Thanks, love, I’ll keep you updated.”

MCCARTER MANAGED TO maintain his composure in the face of hospital protocol. It took all his patience and persuasion to even get to the nurses’ station on Henning’s floor. The young woman in charge, an attractive redhead, at least had an engaging personality. She listened to McCarter’s story in silence, lips pursed in a gentle smile.

“You must understand hospital rules,” she said finally. “We can’t have people wandering in unannounced. Mr. Henning is lucky to be alive. He was shot three times. One bullet clipped his left lung. He lost a great deal of blood before the ambulance crew arrived, and he’s had serious surgery.”

“You know he’s a security officer?” McCarter said.

The nurse chuckled at that. “Don’t I know it. Seems as if we’ve had half the Met in here. There’s even an officer on duty outside his room. Look, we’ve been told no one is allowed in unless they’ve been vetted, so there isn’t much I can do.”

McCarter took a breath. He peered at the name tag on the young woman’s uniform. “Nurse Jenny…”

“Actually, it’s Sister Jenny.”

“Sorry,” McCarter said. “Look, Sister Jenny, I’m in the same business. Working undercover with Greg Henning. I’m pretty sure his shooting was because of the case we’re involved with. Right now my only contact is through Greg. I can’t go any higher because our investigation concerns leaks within the security department itself.”

McCarter took out his cell and opened Henning’s text message. He showed it to Jenny. She checked it out, and murmured, “The time on that message is five minutes before the ambulance arrived at Mr. Henning’s address.”

“He must have sent it just after he’d been shot. He was trying to let me know something.”

“I still can’t let you into his room.”

“But you can go in.”

She eyed him warily. “Yes…”

“If he’s awake, ask him if he has anything for me. Just tell him Jack Coyle wants to know.”

Jenny’s expression told McCarter he’d made a connection. “You’re Jack Coyle?”

“Yes. Why?”

“He asked me if you’d been around. As soon as he woke up.”

McCarter smiled. “Good old Gregory.”

She frowned. “Gregory?”

“Mention that to him. It’ll prove who I am. No one else calls him that.” McCarter touched her arm. “It’s important, love.”

“Okay.” The nurse relented.

“So you’ll ask him?”

“Only if you stay right here.”

“Word of honor, Sister Jenny.”

McCarter watched her as she crossed the room, pushed through the double doors and vanished down the corridor. She made the nurse’s uniform look good on her trim, shapely figure. If anything could make Henning sit up and take notice it would be Sister Jenny.

Fifteen minutes later she returned. McCarter was sitting one of the plastic visitor chairs, nursing a can of Coke he’d purchased from the vending machine. He glanced up when she appeared.

“How is he?”

“Weak. In considerable pain. But stubborn and determined. And set on sending you this message.” She held out a sheet of notepaper. “He dictated it, I wrote it. He could barely speak, but he made me listen.”

McCarter took the note and scanned the neat writing.

“Is it helpful?”

“It’s certainly that, Jenny, my girl.” McCarter grabbed her by her shoulders and laid a gentle kiss on her cheek. “Thanks.”

HENNING’S NOTE TO McCarter was characterized by precise detail. The Briton could only marvel at Henning’s ability to be so comprehensive in his current condition.

The mole was revealed to be Lewis Winch, an agent on Henning’s team. Henning had found proof that Winch had been in contact with Samman Prem at the man’s London office. Winch’s operational position at the counterterrorism unit would have given him the opportunity to know about U.S. and U.K. personnel who were victims in the recent wave of assassinations and the Peshawar bombing.

The note also detailed Winch’s home address in London.

Henning had signed the note “Gregory.”

McCarter called ahead. By the time he reached the hotel, James and Hawkins were waiting. They climbed into the new rental and McCarter pulled back into the traffic. He had already fed Winch’s address into the built-in sat-nav unit.

McCarter handed the note to James so he and Hawkins could read Henning’s information.

“How is he?” James asked.

“Not too good right now,” McCarter said, “but he’ll survive. This bastard Winch shot him on his own doorstep. Luckily for Greg, the bugger didn’t check his work.” McCarter muttered something under his breath, then said, “Next to sneaky buggers I hate amateurs.”

“Do we know if this Winch guy has backup?” Hawkins asked.

“Let’s assume he does,” McCarter said.

“Way you said that I take it you hope he does,” James said.

McCarter glanced at him, his face taut. “Is it a problem?”

James shook his head. “No. You shouldn’t need to ask, David.”

McCarter let out a hard breath. “No, I shouldn’t. It’s been a hell of a night.”

Winch lived in southwest London in, an older house standing back off the residential street. The frontage was studded with trees and hedges, with a short driveway leading up to the front door. A couple cars were parked in the drive. McCarter drove by, circled and turned back. He parked four houses short of Winch’s.

“Lights on all floors,” James said. “He’s got guests or he’s nervous. You want us to go around back? Come in from the rear?”

“Yeah,” McCarter said. “Put phones on vibrate and give me a call when you’re in position.”

Once out of the car, they moved along the sidewalk, James and Hawkins slipping out of sight along the low dividing wall at the side of the house next to Winch’s, leaving McCarter to his frontal approach.

The two agents pushed their way through thick hedges running the length of the house, trying to ignore the fine spray of rain that flicked off the vegetation as they disturbed it. They were glad they had decided to don waterproof topcoats from the car.

“Hold it,” James said, pressing a hand to Hawkins’s shoulder.

“Company?”

“Yeah.” Light from the rear of the house cast a semicircle of illumination across the lawn, and James had spotted the dark-clad figure pacing back and forth. “And that isn’t a garden tool he’s toting.”

In fact the man, clad in a bulky weatherproof jacket, was carrying a squat SMG.

Hawkins peered across his partner’s shoulder. “Looks like a suppressed MP-5,” he said. “And here we are with nothing but our faithful 9 mm Berettas.”

They wore the 92-F pistols, complete with suppressors, under their coats.

“Maybe this guy is part of the neighborhood watch,” James said.

“Right,” Hawkins said.

“We can’t stand here all night. David will start paging us any minute.”

“Let him know we’re in position and he can start the show,” Hawkins suggested. “If he makes some noise it might draw that guy toward the house.”

James took out his cell and tapped the speed dial for McCarter’s phone. “Hey, David, in position. Only we have a guy armed with an MP-5 blocking our way in.”

After James disconnected, Hawkins asked, “What did he say?”

“’Watch and learn,’” James answered.

MCCARTER POCKETED HIS CELL, took out his suppressed Browning Hi-Power and went up the steps. He scanned the door, assessing its makeup, and decided it wouldn’t present all that much of a problem. He took a couple steps back, then launched himself, shoulder first, at the barrier. There was toned muscle under the Briton’s coat. The impact broke the inner latch, sending the door wide open, smashing the glass panels inlaid in the upper section. McCarter followed on, the Browning held in both hands. The muzzle swept back and forth, searching the entrance hall.

An armed figure burst into view, attracted by the noise. The guy swept his SMG round to target the intruder. McCarter’s Hi-Power fired twice. Nine millimeter slugs slammed into the guy’s chest, over his heart, punching him back against the frame of the door he had just exited.

A figure moved at the head of the stairs ahead of McCarter. The Phoenix Force leader recognized him from the image Stony Man had sent.

“Winch, hold it right there,” he yelled, raising his Browning.

“No chance,” Winch said, and stepped to the side, vanishing behind the edge of wall.

McCarter went up the stairs fast, pulling out his cell and hitting speed dial.

“Don’t hang about,” he said into the phone. “It’s going down now.”

“LET’S MOVE, T.J.,” James said, and stepped from cover, his Beretta raised.

The armed guard spotted the Phoenix Force warrior. To his credit he was fast to react, the MP-5 arcing around, his finger already stroking the trigger. A stream of suppressed 9 mm slugs went over James’s head, taking chunks out of the brickwork. He felt slivers pepper the back of his neck.

“Down,” Hawkins yelled. As the black Phoenix Force commando dropped to a crouch, Hawkins tracked in with his Beretta and hit the moving gunner with a trio of 9 mm slugs.

The man went down, hitting the rain-soaked lawn on his back, the MP-5 spilling from his hands.

“As David would say, nice one, mate,” James said.

They moved quickly now, heading for French windows that stood partly open. The room beyond was dimly illuminated, but there was enough light to show James and Hawkins the armed figure approaching. The guy opened up with a stream of hissing 9 mm slugs that shattered glass and splintered wood in their faces…?.

CHAPTER SIX

McCarter reached the top of the stairs and swung to the right, where Winch had gone.

As he faced the corridor, a bulky figure launched itself in his direction. The guy was broad, with a shaved head and a thick mustache. He was not Lewis Winch. A short-bladed knife caught the light as he slashed at McCarter.

The Briton ducked under the sweeping blade, ramming his shoulder into the attacker’s midsection. The guy grunted as he felt the force of the lunge. McCarter kept pushing, wanting to knock him off balance. The problem was his adversary was not just broad, he was solid and well muscled. And quick. His free arm swept down and chopped at McCarter’s gun hand, knocking it aside. McCarter blocked the next swing of the knife, curling his own fingers around the man’s thick wrist and forcing the blade away from his body. They held each other motionless for seconds, each attempting to gain control.

McCarter had no intention of allowing the stalemate to continue. He had no time for delay. Every second wasted gave Winch more of an opportunity to evade capture. There was no way the Briton would allow that to happen.

He let go of his pistol, turned his body toward his opponent, brought up his right arm and executed a swift hip throw. The guy left the floor, a startled cry bursting from his lips as he was slammed down on his back. McCarter followed through, levering the man’s knife arm across his thigh until he heard bone crack. The knife slipped from his opponent’s fingers and McCarter scooped it up, half turned and sliced the blade across the exposed throat, cutting deep. Dropping the knife, he snatched up his Browning and sprinted along the corridor in pursuit of Winch.

Ahead of McCarter a door was swinging shut. The Briton reached it and booted it open, plunging through with a reckless disregard for his own safety. In the split second it took to cross the threshold, he saw he was entering a study all tricked out with computers and terminals. Winch was at a wide, curving desk, reaching for a phone, his finger already pressing a speed dial number. The security agent threw a startled glance over his shoulder and saw McCarter charging across the room like a runaway locomotive.

McCarter hit Winch head-on, spinning the traitor along the side of the desk, arms and legs windmilling. Winch tried to club him with his autopistol, but McCarter twisted his upper body and the blow missed. There was no restraint in McCarter’s punch as his left first connected with Winch’s jaw. The blow crunched home with a solid sound, the force knocking the man to the floor. He landed hard, losing his grip on the pistol, and watched it bounced out of reach across the carpet. Winch rolled, scrabbling his way in the direction of the fallen weapon. McCarter gave him no chance. He tossed his Browning on the desk, reached down and grabbed Winch by his jacket, then hauled him upright. Winch’s bleeding mouth spurted even more blood as McCarter drove him across the room with his pounding fists, until he slammed into the wall.

“You can’t do this,” Winch yelled. “Breaking into someone’s home and—”

“Oh, that’s right,” McCarter said. “I should have waited until you were on your doorstep and then shot you. That the way you bastards do it around here?”

Realization gleamed in the security agent’s eyes. He spit blood, sucking in air through his battered nose. “I should have guessed. You’re one of those fucks Henning sent out to look over Prem’s place. Much good it’s done him. At least they can say he died doing his duty to queen and country.”

“Wrong there, sunshine. You might be a smart snitch, but as a hit man you failed the test. Henning is still alive. And under so much protection even the queen couldn’t get in to see him.”

“You’re lying.”

“You should have stayed around to make sure he was dead. You’re a bloody amateur, Winch. Admittedly a creepy one, but just an amateur.”

Winch uttered an enraged cry. He dropped his right hand into his pocket, jerked it back out, showing the butterfly knife he held. His hand and wrist flicked in a controlled action and the naked blade sprang into view, locking in place.

McCarter stayed exactly where he was, no flicker of emotion crossing his face.

“Is this where I’m supposed to be scared to death? Isn’t going to work, chum. Come ahead if you think you can carve me up with that little boy’s knife.”

White lines formed at the corners of Winch’s taut mouth. “I’ll show you,” he said, his voice rising.

McCarter saw the bunching of muscles under Winch’s shirt, then the slight lean forward before he launched himself. The man was no knife fighter; the way he rushed McCarter showed his lack of expertise. Also his absence of judgment. His headlong lunge might as well have been in slow motion, since every scrap of movement was telegraphed to McCarter. The Phoenix Force commander held his position until the last moment, then turned his lean body, right hand snapping around to grasp Winch’s wrist. McCarter slid his left arm under Winch’s just below the elbow joint. He bore down on the wrist, heaved up with his left arm and snapped the forearm bone. Winch screamed in a high falsetto as the jagged end of the broken bone tore through the flesh, gleaming white against the bloody flesh. McCarter dragged him forward, turning him, and slammed Winch facefirst into the wall. The brutal impact crushed his nose and split his cheek. Winch slumped to his knees, sobbing in agony, hugging his ruined arm. Blood coursed down his face. The butterfly knife was on the floor beside him. McCarter snatched it up and closed it. He hadn’t even broken a sweat.

“The thought that you turned on Henning pisses me off,” the Phoenix Force commander said. “I really don’t like people who do that to my mates.”

“They’ll get you. Get you all,” Winch rasped through clenched teeth. “You won’t stop…Prem…or Rahman…?.”

“One thing for sure, mate, you won’t be around to see it either way.” McCarter raised his right leg and slammed his foot into the back of his opponent’s neck. Winch’s spine was severed by the blow, the force driving his face into the wall with a sodden crunch. His body arched and then slumped to the floor, all resistance vanishing in death.

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