‘It’s true,’ Eddie told him firmly.
‘Then it’s going to seriously impact the US–UK relationship, if it turns out the downing of Flight 180 really was carried out by a British agent with approval from the top.’
Even veiled in diplomatic terms, the Yorkshireman still picked up on the implied threat against his country. ‘We don’t know if Quentin Hove specifically signed off on crashing the plane to rescue Mukobo,’ he said, wanting to pin the blame on specific individuals rather than the nation as a whole. ‘But it seems like he authorised Brice to do whatever he wanted to start a civil war in DR Congo. Problem was, Brice is a fucking psycho.’
‘That’s something we can let the investigators and lawyers figure out,’ said Crane. ‘The first thing is for you to talk to the ambassador and the President, so you can answer their questions and give your side of the story. After that . . . it’s up to the President to decide on a response.’
‘That sounds ominous,’ Nina said quietly.
The diplomat gestured down a corridor. ‘Anyway, if you’ll come with me, we’ll get started. Although first . . .’ His nose wrinkled. ‘Maybe you might like a change of clothes, Mr Chase?’
Eddie shook his head. ‘The President can’t smell me over a conference call, so let’s not waste time. Brice’s business is way dirtier than anything I’ve been swimming in.’
40
One of the first high-level government responses to a terrorist attack on the United Kingdom would normally be for the Prime Minister and high-ranking ministers, security and police officials to convene a COBRA meeting. The menacing acronym had disappointingly mundane origins, standing for Cabinet Office Briefing Room – the ‘A’ had at one time referred to the specific room used, sticking solely because it sounded impressive.
Today, though, the number of people upon whom Quentin Hove could call had been hugely depleted. While there had been survivors from his cabinet, major figures like the Home Secretary and the Minister of Defence were either injured or in a state of shock, in no condition to make – or question – major policy decisions.
To Hove, this was ideal.
‘Gentlemen, welcome,’ said the Prime Minister from the head of the table as the other attendees filed in. ‘I won’t say “good afternoon”, because it’s anything but. Our country – our government, our democracy – suffered a grievous attack less than two hours ago. This meeting is to determine who is responsible, and what action to take against them.’
‘We’re absolutely certain that it was an attack, then?’ asked Sir Michael Orgreave, the Cabinet Secretary and the country’s highest-ranking civil servant.
Timothy Blandford, the Director-General of the Security Service – MI5 – nodded gravely. ‘There was some kind of explosion in the clock tower. Somehow, somebody was able to get explosives through Parliament’s security and detonate them at a time that would cause maximum loss of life.’
‘Have – have we got an estimate of the casualties?’ asked Hove.
The Director-General checked a tablet computer. ‘The most recent figure is . . . out of the five hundred and seventy-three MPs known to be in the Commons chamber, three hundred and forty-seven are alive and accounted for.’
The number brought gasps from around the long table. ‘So over two hundred dead?’ said Tom Kingston, head of the Met’s counter-terrorism operations.
‘At least. A lot of the survivors are injured, some critically – and we haven’t yet been able to compile a full tally of the Parliamentary staff who would have been in the north wing or around the Commons. HMRC was also hit. We estimate over a hundred dead there.’
It took Hove a moment to find his voice. ‘So. Who’s responsible?’
C, sitting by himself at the opposite end of the table, spoke. ‘As you know, Prime Minister, we were discussing intelligence received by SIS concerning a new terrorist threat when this atrocity took place. I’ve since had further information. It would appear that African Caliphate, a splinter group of ISIS operating primarily out of Libya but with activities in other African states, is indeed responsible.’
The Director-General regarded his foreign intelligence counterpart in surprise. ‘Who? I’ve never heard of them.’
‘You’ll have all pertinent information by the end of the day,’ C replied. ‘But to summarise: they’re a relatively new offshoot, and it seemed unlikely they yet had the ability to carry out attacks outside their sphere of influence. It would appear that was . . . incorrect.’
‘Incorrect!’ spluttered Kingston. ‘They’ve brought down Big Ben! That’s a bit more than just “incorrect”.’
Hove raised his hand. ‘Please. Please. C, do continue.’
‘Thank you, Prime Minister,’ said Armitage. ‘The information we received suggested they had obtained a new type of Russian plastic explosive, undetectable by normal chemical sensors, on the black market.’
‘The possibility of Russian involvement is extremely worrying,’ said Hove. Even though he knew C’s story was just that, a fiction, he was still feeling a certain strange enthusiasm at discovering its twists. ‘Is there any chance that Moscow might be using African Caliphate as a proxy?’
‘Anything is possible with our Russian friends,’ Armitage replied. ‘The links to other African countries might also spread the net wider. African Caliphate has been connected to secessionist militias in the eastern Democratic Republic of Congo, for instance, and both Russia and China have been expanding their influence there.’
‘You’re investigating these links, of course?’
C nodded. ‘Of course, Prime Minister.’
‘Good. Then the next question is: how to reassure the public that the government is still intact and in charge, and—’
Everyone turned at a frantic knock at the door. COBRA meetings would only be interrupted if there was urgent news about the matter under discussion – or if something else of equal importance had happened. ‘Yes?’ Hove called.
A Cabinet Office aide hurried through the door. ‘Sorry to interrupt, sir,’ he said, ‘but it’s the American President.’
‘Probably wants to offer condolences and support,’ said the Prime Minister. ‘Tell him I’ll take his call as soon as this meeting’s concluded.’
‘No, no, sir.’ The official picked up a remote control. ‘He’s not on the phone – he’s making a televised address from the White House.’
‘What?’ Hove was shocked; for a fellow world leader not to speak privately to the head of a nation hit by a terrorist attack before making a public statement was a serious deviation from protocol. ‘What’s he saying?’
‘I, ah . . . I think you need to hear it for yourself,’ said the official, activating the video wall.
Nina and Eddie stood in the office of Simon Nadel, the US ambassador, watching the President’s speech on television. Less than half an hour earlier they had spoken to him via teleconference, telling him about events in the jungle; now, he was acting upon their information. ‘Just hope he doesn’t retaliate by nuking Britain,’ Eddie whispered to his wife.
‘I don’t think he would,’ she replied just as quietly, aware that Nadel had been appointed personally by the American leader. ‘At least, I hope not . . .’
President Michael Schilling continued to speak: ‘ . . . the shocking and terrible events that took place in London a short time ago. As President of the United States, I offer our nation’s full and unconditional support to the people of the United Kingdom in their day of crisis, and I know that every American will do the same in support of our friend and closest ally.’
‘We’re still friends, then,’ said Eddie. ‘That’s good.’
‘He hasn’t finished talking yet,’ warned Nina. While she had met several of the previous holders of the office, the current president was known to her only by reputation – which was mercurial, to say the least.
Confirmation that things might change came when Schilling’s attitude visibly altered, barely contained anger entering his voice. ‘However . . . I have received intelligence that identifies the perpetrators of this horrific and cowardly attack. I am here to tell the world right now that, despite whatever rumours may already be circulating, we are certain that it was not carried out by Islamic extremists. Instead, we believe that the individuals responsible for the attack on the British Parliament are the same ones who caused the crash of Skyblue Airlines Flight 180 a year ago, with the loss of over three hundred lives.’
Nina gripped Eddie’s hand. ‘Oh, my God. He’s actually saying it straight out. He’s not even going to the British government first – he’s making an allegation to the world.’ Even Nadel was shocked by the bluntness of his boss’s declaration.
‘We know the identity of the individual who carried out both attacks,’ the President continued, staring into the camera as if addressing his suspect directly. ‘As for those who authorised this person to commit mass murder in pursuit of a cynical political agenda, we also know who they are.’ He paused, his gaze intensifying. ‘We know where they are. Our intelligence agencies are sharing information with their British counterparts as I speak. I trust that the British government will join us in our mission to bring these criminals to justice. Because make no mistake: we are coming for them.’
Brice arrived at his destination, an anonymous terraced house on a west London street. The journey had taken longer than expected. Even outside central London, the city was still in a state of chaos, the capital’s main arteries clogged by people fleeing the imagined threat of another attack. He had also had to stop to attend to his lacerated hand. The bleeding was now under control, but he could still feel the metal shards embedded in his flesh.
The safe house door quickly opened after he knocked. ‘I’m here to see Bill,’ he said, using a simple passphrase. The man who answered nodded and let him in. ‘I need treatment for shrapnel wounds,’ he went on, displaying his wounded hand.
‘I’ll take care of it in the back, sir,’ said the field officer, directing him down the hall.
A television was on in the front room. Brice glanced in as he passed, seeing another man standing watching it. A news channel showed the American President making a speech. Offering sympathy and assistance to the British people, he guessed; an inevitable gesture, although surprisingly soon after the event.
A table in the spartan kitchen had been covered by a plastic sheet and laid out with surgical items and dressings. ‘Sit down, sir,’ said the medic. ‘Let me see your hand.’
Brice placed his injured hand palm-up on the table, wincing as he opened his fingers. The other man examined it. ‘Some of these cuts are practically through to the bone,’ he reported. ‘Do you want a painkiller?’
‘I need to stay lucid,’ Brice replied. ‘Just get on with it.’
‘Okay, sir.’ The medic picked up a pair of slender tweezers and began removing the metal fragments.
Brice breathed deeply, trying to focus on something other than the pain. The sound of the television gave him a distraction. Schilling had finished his speech, the news channel’s presenters now discussing its content . . .
‘He said US intelligence already knows who carried out the attack on Parliament,’ said a woman, ‘and that it’s the same people who brought down Flight 180 last year. The question is: if they knew, why weren’t our security services warned?’
A man started to respond, but Brice was no longer listening, trying to contain his shock. The only possible way Mukobo’s rescue could have been connected to what he had just done was if Nina Wilde had reached the US embassy with the incriminating video. The Removal Men had failed!
The pain in his hand was all but forgotten as his mind whirled into overdrive. His cover had been blown – which meant he was now the number one target worldwide for US intelligence.
He couldn’t allow himself to be captured. The myth of a hardened agent being able to endure torture indefinitely was just that, pure fiction; the reason spies and soldiers were taught about so-called ‘enhanced interrogation’ techniques was not to resist them, but so they could use them effectively on others. He would break, eventually.
And when he did, he would expose his superiors.
He did not know C on a personal level – very few at SIS did – but professionally was well aware of his reputation as a ruthless pragmatist. Quentin Hove’s own reputation, on the other hand, was one of low cunning, opportunism and possessing all the backbone of a jellyfish. What both men had in common, though, was their survival instinct. They would throw their closest friends under the proverbial bus to save themselves . . . and Brice was well aware that he was not even their friend, but an employee. An asset.
A disposable one.
His SIS training had drummed into him the very real possibility that he might have to sacrifice his own life for his country. It was something he was willing to do – but not for this. He had saved his country, ensured that the right people would remain in power for a generation or more and set the nation back on the road to greatness. He wanted to see all of that come to pass. And he would, he decided with a surge of anger. He wasn’t about to let the Americans spirit him away to a black site – or be found dead in a staged suicide, a speciality of GB63.
He knew he was safe for now. If the two men at the safe house had been ordered to eliminate him, he would have been dead within seconds of the front door closing. But that could change at any moment; all it took was a phone call.
A stab of pain from his hand as the medic removed a half-inch sliver of gunmetal. He grimaced, then controlled his breathing once more, listening to the television in the next room – and for the sound of the other man’s phone.
‘I need to speak to President Schilling,’ said Hove, struggling to keep his voice from cracking in fear. ‘We’ll resume this meeting later.’ The COBRA attendees filed from the briefing room. ‘C, if you’ll wait for a moment,’ he added as Armitage stood. ‘I want to discuss the . . . foreign intelligence implications before I talk to him.’
‘Of course, Prime Minister.’ C returned to his seat.
The two men waited for the room to clear – then Hove leapt up in near-panic. ‘My God. My God! If the Yanks know that Brice brought down that plane, then – then the evidence will point straight to us!’
‘There is no evidence, Prime Minister,’ said C, though he was now hiding his own concern. ‘Even if they have this recording of Brice, all they have is the baseless bragging of a former officer who went rogue – and clearly went insane – in a quest for personal glory and riches. There is no provable link between Flight 180 and Brice.’
Hove was not mollified. ‘And what if the Americans catch Brice? What if he talks?’
‘He won’t. Sir, I need to return to SIS headquarters to take care of this. But be assured, it will be taken care of.’
‘Go on, then. Go!’ the politician snapped. ‘Deal with it!’
‘Of course, Prime Minister,’ replied C, unctuousness barely covering contempt. He stood, taking out his phone as he headed for the exit. ‘This is C. Put me through to the men at the west London safe house.’
‘Almost done,’ said the medic, carefully drawing a suture through Brice’s palm. The stitches in the agent’s right hand made it appear to be wrapped in bloodied centipedes. ‘I still need to bandage it, but I think I’ve got all the shrap.’
Brice nodded, but his attention was elsewhere. He had just heard the man in the front room respond to a phone call. He listened more closely. The other field officer lowered his voice, his words masked by the television. There was only one reason he wouldn’t want to be overheard . . .
The medic snipped the suture with scissors, then put them on the table and turned to open a pack of sterile dressings. ‘Okay, I’ll get this—’
Brice snatched up the scissors with
his left hand and thrust them into the man’s neck, driving their points deep into his carotid artery before yanking them back out. Blood spurted from the wound, the medic staggering back in shock. He clapped one palm over it, the other hand fumbling inside his jacket—
His attacker had noticed the holstered gun during the procedure. Brice snatched it out and shoulder-barged the medic across the kitchen.
A noise from behind. Brice whirled, bringing up the gun—
The second man crashed through the door, his own weapon raised – and took two bullets to the chest. Brice jumped aside as he fell, then whipped around to put a third round into the medic’s forehead. A vivid red explosion burst over the white wall behind him.
Brice quickly searched the corpses, taking their spare ammo and a set of car keys. Their phones would be trackable, but he collected one anyway; he had a call to make. His immediate priority was to get out of London before the net closed around him, then leave the country – and a plan to do so was already forming.
He had memorised a particular number, calling it as he headed for the front door. ‘Watch unit,’ he said. ‘This is Brice. Confirm that the target is still in place.’
‘She is, sir,’ came the reply. ‘But after what’s happened in London, should we stay on her? There must be more important things for us to do than watch a five-year-old girl.’
‘You’ll do more than stay on her,’ Brice growled as he emerged on to the street. He blipped the key fob, seeing the lights flash on a Ford Focus nearby. ‘I want you to pick her up immediately and bring her to me.’ He got into the car. ‘Macy Wilde Chase has just become a matter of national security.’
41
Sir Kirkland Armitage put down the phone and went to his office window, staring silently across the Thames. The call had delivered highly unwelcome news. The men at the safe house whom he had ordered to deal with John Brice had been found dead, their weapons missing. Of the deep-cover agent, there was no trace.