Collateral Damage (8 page)

“More bourbon,” he said, “and more vodka.”

“Okay, I’ll call and have it delivered.”

“And we’re out of Parmesan cheese.”

“Already on my list.”

He stood up, held her face in his hands, and kissed her. “Feel better,” he commanded, then he left.

Kelli slowly finished her breakfast and drank her coffee, then she went into her little workroom and sat down at her computer.

Last week in Los Angeles, during the Immi Gotham concert at the opening of The Arrington, a new hotel, a nuclear bomb came within three seconds of detonating. I was there. I saw it happen.

She wrote rapidly for an hour, editing as she went, then she saved the document, printed it, copied it to a thumb drive, put the hard copy and the drive into her safe and locked it, then deleted the original from her computer.

Then, unburdened, she called in the liquor order, stuck her wallet in a pocket in her jeans, and went grocery shopping.

Jasmine was awakened by the cell phone on her bedside table. She was disoriented for a moment, then she reached for it. It could be only one person. “Hello?”

“I think you should do some light grocery shopping this morning,” he said.

“What?”

“After all, you’ve been away, your fridge must be empty.”

“I need to sleep,” she said.

“Sleep then. Do your shopping early this afternoon; take a walk, get some air. The park is nice this time of year.”

“All right.”

“Tell me what things you will buy.”

She was hungover, but she tried to think. “Milk, bread, sliced beef for sandwiches, mayonnaise, eggs. And scotch.”

“Famous Grouse all right?”

“Fine.”

“Later.” He hung up.

Jasmine rolled over and slept for another two hours, then she struggled out of bed and got into a hot shower, letting the water drum against the back of her neck to make the hangover go away. She toweled off, dried her shoulder-length hair with a large hairdryer, then she looked for breakfast. Cereal, but no milk. She had it with water, then checked the kitchen clock: nearly one o’clock.

She got into a modest printed dress and flat walking shoes, then found a suitable scarf and covered her hair. She checked the mirror: without makeup she could pass for any one of fifty Muslim women on the street. She had chosen the neighborhood for that.

She let herself out of her building and walked two blocks to the Spar grocery, towing her shopping basket on wheels. She bought the things she needed, paid cash, then walked another block to her neighborhood’s park. It was a well-shaded green space where mothers, many of them in Muslim dress, watched their children play and chatted among themselves.

Jasmine chose an out-of-the-way bench, parked her cart at the center, and sat at one end. She was still tired from her journey, and she hadn’t had all the sleep she needed. She resented being hauled out of bed on her first day back.

She could see a man walking slowly toward her, towing a shopping cart much like her own, dressed in a baggy suit and wearing a little embroidered cap, signifying his devoutness. He came slowly on, then parked his cart next to hers and sat down at the other end of the bench, took a newspaper from his coat pocket, and began to read it.

“How was your trip?” he asked, barely moving his lips.

“Rough,” she said. “Two long days on a mule. I don’t recommend it as a means of travel.”

He chuckled. “I expect you have a sore ass, then.”

“Don’t ask.”

“You recall our conversation of a while back when you mentioned three targets?”

“Yes.”

“We think the third one would be appropriate at this time.”

“Well, that’s an escalation, isn’t it?”

“Yes, and it’s hard to escalate past a foreign minister.”

“Somehow, that one is more satisfying,” she said. “It might even make a difference, if we’re lucky.”

“We rely on planning, not luck,” he said, reprovingly.

“Of course.”

“What will you need from us, besides matériel?”

“A black taxi,” she said. “I was uncomfortable driving the car last time, and a taxi is the most anonymous of all vehicles.”

“It will be done.”

“What about the driver?” she asked.

He was quiet for a moment. “We must keep our numbers small. That is the way to remain safe.”

“I agree,” she said. “I’ll need the package delivered. It must look good—a uniformed man in a liveried van, something like a DSL van.”

“It will be done.”

“I want another, larger device in the van. I’ll need separate cell numbers for each.”

“Interesting,” he said.

“We can maximize results with collateral damage.”

“I agree. When?”

“Five days. The parcel will be ready for collection at noon on the day and should be delivered at one
P.M.
Traffic will be good at the lunch hour.”

“I have the list of cell phone numbers you gave me. Are they still good?”

“Yes.”

“Dispose of the one you answered this morning and go to the second number. I’ll call a day ahead of time to be sure everything is still on.” He took a page from a notebook and slid it across the bench toward her. “This is a list of my cell numbers. The first and second may be used for the first and second devices. Call me only if absolutely necessary. Good luck.” He rose, reached across his cart and took the handle of hers, then he walked back in the direction from which he had come.

Jasmine sat long enough to check the area for anyone following him or watching her. Finally, satisfied that she was unnoticed, she took the handle of the other shopping cart and towed it toward home. She noted that the grocery items she had ordered were the top layer in the cart. What was underneath was heavier.

She walked back to her flat, taking a circuitous route, checking reflections in shop windows and, occasionally, stopping to look at displays. It took her forty minutes to reach home.

She pulled the cart up the steps carefully, one at a time. When she was halfway up, the front door opened and a woman she didn’t know stepped outside.

“That looks heavy,” the woman said. “Let me help.”

“That’s all right,” Jasmine said. “I’ve got it.”

“Let me get the door for you, then.” The woman held it open and watched as she muscled the cart inside. She was English, mid-thirties, mousy hair, a plain coat, sensible shoes. Jasmine had never seen her in the building, and she was alarmed.

“We’ve just moved into the building,” the woman said. “My name is Sarah.”

“Welcome,” Jasmine said. “You’ll like the building.”

A small car drew up outside. “Oh, there’s my husband. Please excuse me.”

“Thank you for your help,” Jasmine said.

The woman got into the car and it drove away.

Jasmine left the cart in the hallway and ran to the rear of the building, looking out the window halfway up the stairs to the next floor. A woman and a child in the garden, a small dog in the woman’s lap.

Jasmine ran back down the stairs and checked the street. A couple of cars passed without slowing down. A postman walked down the street, carrying his bag.

Jasmine let herself quickly into her flat, then checked all the windows overlooking the street. Nothing out of the ordinary. Everything normal.

She took the cart into the kitchen, unloaded and put away the groceries, then wheeled the cart into the pantry and locked the door.

She checked the windows once more, then took off her dress and threw herself on the bed. Half an hour later, she was sleeping. An hour after that she woke with a sense of panic.

Something was wrong.

Felicity had just returned from her weekly lunch with the head of MI-5, which was responsible for domestic counterintelligence, when her phone buzzed. “Yes?”

“Architect, this is Mason. We may have gotten lucky. A woman who is employed as an agricultural analyst in the Foreign Office may have spotted Jasmine.”

“When and where?”

“A little over an hour ago, in Notting Hill Gate. She and her husband moved into the building last week. She went home for lunch, and as she was going out again, she opened the door for a woman with a shopping cart: five-nine, pretty face, no makeup, wearing a Muslim headdress, unremarkable dress, sensible shoes. She believes the woman lives on the first floor of the building.”

“Why didn’t the FO woman call sooner?”

“She was delayed in traffic getting back to her office, where she had left our flyer, and it took her a few minutes to find it and make the comparison. She called the duty officer, as requested on the flyer.”

“So the woman she spotted is in the building now?”

“We have no reason to believe otherwise. Shall I raise the alarm?”

“Not yet. Get some people into the street, try and set up surveillance directly across from the building.”

“I’ll get the surveillance camera footage from the street immediately.”

“Wait on that,” Felicity said. “I don’t want New Scotland Yard involved until we’re ready to move, nor do I want MI-5 hearing about this until I tell them personally. First, I want photographic identification. If she leaves the building, I want her followed: team of twenty, six vehicles, greatest possible discretion. If she meets anyone, follow both. Do not intercept without my personal authorization. Call me when we have live surveillance. How long?”

“Twenty minutes.”

“Then go!”

“Yes, Architect.” Mason hung up.

It was probably a false alarm, Felicity thought, but still, she was excited.

—

Jasmine looked at her cell list and dialed a number.

“Yes?”

“I’m blown. I want a black taxi
now
and two further vehicles, and I want this building watched, round the clock. How soon?”

“Stand by.” He went off the line, then came back. “Taxi in twelve minutes,” he said. “Clean up as best you can.”

“That won’t be necessary,” she said, then hung up. She undressed and put on jeans and a sweater and pulled her hair back into a ponytail. She packed a carry-on bag and threw personal items into a leather tote bag. She went to her safe and removed the spare passports and cash and tossed them into the tote bag, then she went to the kitchen pantry, looked on a high shelf, and took down a shoe box containing five cell phones. She dumped four of them into the tote, then lifted the lid of the box in her shopping cart and connected the fifth phone, pulling off the sticky label containing the number. Ten minutes gone.

She exited the flat, leaving the door off the latch, and stood near the outside door, watching the street. Half a minute later, a black taxi came to a stop in the street and gave a short beep. The rear door on her side slid open. She opened the front door and, looking neither left nor right, walked in a leisurely fashion down the front steps and got into the cab. The driver pressed a button, and the door closed.

“First transfer in three minutes,” the driver said, and the cab drove away at a normal pace.

—

As Jasmine’s taxi made its first turn, Jasmine looked out the rear window and saw another black taxi enter the street. A few blocks later, her cab turned into a mews, rounded a corner, and stopped. A gray Ford sedan waited, its engine running. She got out of the cab and into the rear seat of the sedan, tossing her luggage in ahead of her.

“Get down,” the driver said, then he drove out of the mews, made a turn, then more turns. Finally, she transferred to a Volkswagen Beetle driven by her contact.

“What happened?” he asked.

“Do you have anyone in the street yet?”

“A shopkeeper across the street a few doors down. What happened?”

“When I came home from my meeting, a woman I didn’t know was leaving the building. She allowed the door to close to slow me down, then she introduced herself as Sarah and said that she and her husband had just moved into the building. Finally, she opened the door for me, and I went inside. Half an hour passed before it hit me: I saw a corner of a plastic ID card clipped to the collar of her blouse, under her jacket. Looked like a government ID, and she was too interested in me. That’s when I called you.”

—

Mason got out of the taxi with a female estate agent carrying a clipboard. They walked up the stairs of a house with a “Flat to Let” sign out front. Inside they walked up a flight and the woman took out a bunch of keys, found the correct one, and opened the door.