Terminal Guidance

“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.”