Authors: Chris Ryan
‘Mason, I wonder if we might move the subject on?’
Delaney smiled, dunked the remainder of his biscuit, and waited for his guest to continue.
‘First, on behalf of the service I’d like to congratulate you on Operation Geronimo.’
‘Come, Peter. MI6 played its part. Your people were very helpful.’
Peter Schlessinger, like Delaney himself, had no official title within the British Secret Service – at least none that Delaney was aware of. The Brit continued in a businesslike fashion: ‘We have, of course, seen increased terrorist activity in the past few days. That’s only to be expected. Our services are liaising, naturally, but I’m not sure how much of the day-to-day stuff reaches you.’ Schlessinger bent down, picked up a leather briefcase, opened it and removed a sheaf of papers. ‘Most of it’s low-level, of course, but not all. Three men arrested at our East Midlands Airport, one of whom was trying to smuggle ammonium nitrate in a colostomy bag onto a flight to Newark.’
‘Delightful,’ Delaney murmured.
‘We have three individual cells planning to plant explosive devices in the foundations of the Olympic Village in east London at some point during the next two months . . .’
‘A year ahead of schedule,’ Delaney observed. ‘I didn’t know they had it in them to be so well prepared.’
‘Nobody wants another 9/11, Mason,’ Schlessinger said, perhaps a little piously. ‘We’ve had our people watching the site ever since the games were announced. A single watch battery could power a hidden detonator for several years. But that’s by the by – all three cells are compromised. Frankly they won’t be laying so much as a turd without us knowing about it.’ Delaney’s eyes widened in surprise at the director’s language. ‘There won’t be another Munich – our combined intelligence is too good. We can guarantee the safety of any American athletes in 2012.’
Delaney returned his cup to the table, then sat back on the sofa and pressed his fingertips together. ‘Do I sense the word “but” peeking over the hill, Peter?’
For a moment, Schlessinger didn’t reply. He returned the papers to his briefcase and clicked it shut before replying to his American counterpart.
‘Fifty per cent of our intelligence comes from sources outside the UK or the US, Mason. You don’t need me to tell you that.’
Delaney inclined his head in acknowledgement.
‘We will be withdrawing from Iraq in the next few months, and the President’s rhetoric with regard to Afghanistan has not gone unnoticed.’
‘Your point, Peter?’
‘My point, Mason, is that the fewer people we have in the region, the more difficult
our
job of collecting information. Yours and mine. Does the President really believe that just because Osama bin Laden’s at the bottom of the Indian Ocean with rocks in his shoes, the terror threat level is going to reduce?’
‘We confiscated several hard drives—’
‘Oh, come
on
, Mason. You know as well as I do that there are a hundred bin Laden replacements out there as we speak, just waiting for the chance to light up the sky. Don’t tell me you disagree.’
A pause. Delaney removed his glasses, scrutinized the lenses from a distance, then replaced them.
‘I do not disagree.’
‘Then why . . . ’
Delaney held up one chubby finger.
‘I do not disagree, but this agency does not dictate American policy, no matter what some people would like to believe. We are a tool of the federal government, nothing more. In many ways, you British have more influence in this matter than the entire agency.’
Schlessinger looked confused.
‘Let me explain, Peter. Some presidents establish their popularity by sending their soldiers to war. Others establish it by bringing them back home. Both approaches have their supporters among the little people.’
‘The little people?’
‘The public, Peter. The naive, uninformed public. If their opinion sways, then mark my words: the President’s opinion will sway in a similar direction. Does the CIA have the ability to sway public opinion? Alas, no.’
There was a knock on the door. It opened immediately. Delaney looked up with sudden annoyance that fell away when he saw Scott Stroman. His assistant’s handsome young face was serious, yet not without a gleam of triumph.
He turned back to Schlessinger. ‘I do enjoy our little chats, Peter.’
Schlessinger looked confused. ‘Mason, we have a lot to discuss. I’ve flown in especially to—’
‘We’ll do it again soon, no?’
The British man blinked, clearly angry, but then stood up. Delaney smiled blandly at him, but remain seated. ‘So long, Peter,’ he said in a sing-song voice, and his eyes followed his guest to the door.
Neither Delaney nor Stroman spoke until it was shut.
‘Tell me, Scott,’ Delaney demanded in a bored tone. ‘What do the British put in their tea that makes them all such
fucking
idiots? They’re so passive-aggressive you just want to give them a slap.’ And when Stroman failed to respond, he asked quietly: ‘You have something?’
The triumph in Stroman’s face grew more pronounced. He stepped over to where Delaney was sitting and handed him a single sheet of paper. Delaney’s eyes scanned it: a list of ten alphanumeric strings.
Flight numbers.
‘How?’ he asked quietly.
‘Shampoo,’ Stroman replied. ‘They have people working in a factory in Delaware that supplies pretty much every drugstore in the country. Including outlets past security at JFK, LAX, you name it.’
Delaney smiled. ‘Would you be so good, Scott, as to tell Herb Sagan that I would like a word in his exquisitely crafted ear?’
Stroman nodded. ‘Anything else sir?’
‘Yes. I’d like to speak to Ashkani. I want to thank him personally.’
Stroman nodded, but instead of turning and leaving the room, he lingered awkwardly.
‘Come, Scott, we’ll have time to play when this is over.’ Delaney approached his assistant and brushed one finger against his perfectly formed right cheekbone. ‘He is a greater patriot than you know,’ he breathed.
Scott gave him one of those nervous, handsome smiles he so adored.
‘Yes, sir,’ he said, then left the room quietly.
Three thousand miles away, in a solitary house by the sea, an old lady was frowning. ‘What in heaven’s name
is
that noise, Dandelion?’ Bethan Jones asked her cat. Dandelion seemed more interested in Jeremy Kyle and didn’t respond.
It had started at about ten o’clock – two hours ago – the monotonous, regular knocking. It was coming from upstairs. She was used to the pipes banging in this old house – her Gethin had been able to fix it when he was alive, but there was no way she could tackle the plumbing at her time of life. She supposed she
could
call out a plumber to look at it, but from what she’d read in the papers they would probably be immigrants and she wouldn’t even be able to understand them. No, she’d ask Mr Ashe to take a look. He wouldn’t mind.
She wondered where he was and why he hadn’t come in to say hello. She had heard him return in the early hours. She knew it had to be him, because Dandelion would have yowled and mewed and stuck her claws into the blankets of Bethan’s bed if a stranger had entered the house before dawn, or indeed at any time. Besides, she had heard him moving around upstairs as she lay there dozing. He had been noisier than usual, but she couldn’t complain: he was normally so quiet that you wouldn’t know he was there. Such a nice man. So
thoughtful
. . .
Thump.
Thump.
Thump.
The sound was suddenly louder than before, and the old lady grew agitated. It didn’t, on reflection, really
sound
like the pipes. ‘Oh dear,’ she muttered. ‘What should we do, Dandelion? Go and look? Oh dear . . .’
She heaved herself up from the sofa. Dandelion jumped off her lap and gave her a reproachful miaow as she hit the floor. Bethan was too preoccupied with the stiffness in her joints to notice. Once she was on her feet, she fumbled for her stick and, leaning heavily on it, struggled to the door.
Thump.
Thump.
Thump.
It was even louder now. Did it sound like it was coming from Mr Ashe’s room? Her hearing really wasn’t what it once was . . .
Bethan didn’t like using her stairlift. Oh, it was better than the alternative, but it made her rather giddy and at her age it could take the best part of a day to recover. With her frail, trembling hands, she strapped herself in securely, brought down the arms so that she had something solid to hold on to, and pressed the button that would take her upstairs. The motor hummed noisily as the chair started its slow ascent.
Thump.
Thump.
Thump.
It was definitely coming from the room at the top of the stairs. ‘Mr Ashe?’ she called weakly. ‘Mr Ashe, is everything all right?’
What on earth could it be?
The stairlift stopped. It was only halfway up. Bethan pressed the button again, but there was no movement. ‘Oh dear . . .’ She was getting agitated again. ‘Oh . . .’
‘Good morning, Mrs Jones,’ said a quiet voice from the bottom of the stairs.
Bethan started, and looked down to her left.
‘Oh, Mr Ashe,’ she said, patting her chest lightly to demonstrate her relief that it was him. ‘I didn’t hear you. My hearing’s not what it . . .’ She looked from the bedroom door back down to her lodger.
Mr Ashe smiled, and continued to gaze up at her from the bottom of the stairs.
‘There’s a dreadful knocking sound, Mr Ashe. I didn’t know what it was. I thought perhaps you were—’
‘It’s nothing, Mrs Jones. Come back downstairs. I’ll deal with it.’
Bethan found herself frowning slightly. She glanced up at the door of Mr Ashe’s room again. ‘Of course,’ she said finally. ‘Thank you, you’re so kind.’
Mr Ashe smiled again and, after he reset the power switch, the stairlift descended. Bethan unstrapped herself and accepted his arm as he helped her back into the sitting room. The knocking sound returned as they entered. ‘Probably just the pipes, Mr Ashe,’ she said. ‘My Gethin used to see to all that, you know.’
Mr Ashe helped her onto the sofa. Dandelion jumped back onto her lap.
‘I wonder, Mr Ashe, if you’d mind having a look?’
‘Of course.’
He inclined his head towards her, then walked towards the door.
‘Oh, Mr Ashe!’
‘Yes, Mrs Jones?’
‘It
is
good to have you back again. Isn’t it, Dandelion?’
But Jeremy Kyle was in full flow, and yet again Dandelion failed to reply.
Mr Ashe checked that the sitting-room door was firmly closed behind him. As he crossed the musty hallway, he heard the sound again. He calmly climbed the stairs, inserted his key into the door of his bedroom, and opened it. Standing in the doorway, he observed the source of the knocking.
The boy was where he had left him: his body and legs tied to a ladder-back chair, his hands bound behind his back and with packing tape stuck over his mouth. The bruises on his face were substantially worse than when Mr Ashe had inflicted them – great purple welts, some of them weeping a colourless liquid, like tears. The chair was tied to the ancient yellow radiator on the far wall. At first his abductor couldn’t work out how the boy was making this noise. He closed the door behind him and stepped into the room – past the single bed on the left with its patchwork quilt, past the round table bearing his laptop and satellite phone, along with piles of books and documents. Only when he was a few paces away from his prisoner did he see what had happened. The boy had managed to wriggle his left foot out of the rope that had previously bound his ankle. Now, knowing that it was his last chance, he started banging his free foot repeatedly and more rapidly on the floor.
Within twenty seconds Mr Ashe had silenced it, retying the rope so tightly around the boy’s ankle and the chair leg that he whimpered with the pain. Standing back, he examined the child’s face. Although he could see the fear in his eyes, he felt a measure of respect that he had tried to raise the alarm. Maybe he was, after all, his father’s son.
With a sudden swipe he slapped the back of his hand across the boy’s face, making sure to hit an existing welt.
Pulling a chair up to the round table, he sat down and removed his leather-bound copy of the Koran from his coat pocket. He then rearranged some of the books on the table to access a small radio, boxy and bright orange, which he switched on. The radio emitted crackly white noise. He fully extended the aerial, then minutely adjusted the wheel on the side until the white noise subsided somewhat and a male voice became audible. It said a single word – ‘Three’ – before the white noise returned.
Mr Ashe laid the radio on his laptop and looked back at the boy. The petrified child was staring at him, shaking with fear and pain. Mr Ashe raised one finger to his lips, but otherwise remained expressionless.
Two minutes passed. The male voice returned to the radio.