The End Game (A Brit in the FBI 3)

Zahir knew there were no cameras nearby, not in this area, and no tourists, unless they were certifiable. He walked around to the back of the hotel. It was quiet, almost too quiet. He stopped walking, stood very still. He’d stayed alive this long because he always trusted his instincts. He pulled out his Walther PPK from its battered holster under his arm and began moving forward again, slower this time, his gun at the ready.

There wasn’t supposed to be anyone here yet, but as he rounded the edge of the building, he saw a young man, his back to Zahir, standing very quietly. In this dying city, he was simply another shadow, of no consequence.

Wait. Was this his contact? From Colonel Rahbar? Or was he sent by the Hammer? How did this make any sense? Zahir moved, quick as a striking snake, grabbed the young man around the neck, pressed the Walther to his temple.

He whispered in the boy’s ear, “Don’t turn around, and don’t struggle, or I’ll have to shoot you, and I’m not in the mood to kill a child.”

The young man stiffened. “I am not a child. I have done my job and done it well for six years now. I am here to give you a message.”

Zahir loosened his hold around his neck. “Speak.”

He drew in a deep breath, and when he spoke Zahir heard cool authority, realized this young man wasn’t an amateur, not a simple messenger. Despite his seeming youth, he knew what he was doing, knew the stakes, knew well Zahir could kill him if wanted to, yet he’d come and he seemed calm and in control. Zahir was impressed.

The young man said, “As you can see, I did not bring the plans, I could not.”

“And why do you not have my plans?”

“My asset texted me that since the explosion at Bayway Refinery and the loss of life, he is no longer safe. He thinks he is being watched. He fears that if he provides these plans to you, the FBI will find out and take him. He claims he must stop everything he is being paid well to do for us and cover his tracks. And, he told me, he is sorry to let us down.” The kid snorted.

“I could not move him because he is hysterical, the weak-kneed ass, and has forgotten what he owes us. Colonel Rahbar has instructed me to tell you that you must find another way to accomplish your mission.”

He leaned against the young man’s ear and whispered, “Find another way when this one is so perfect? No, I don’t think so. I cannot believe you are allowing this puling coward to tell you what he will and will not do, to give you orders, to give Colonel Rahbar orders.”

“He refuses to act and I cannot obtain the blueprints myself. If I could I would, but I cannot. The Hammer agrees, you must find another way.”

“I see, so Rahbar and the Hammer feel this fool is too valuable to threaten or kill.”

“I believe so.”

Again Zahir whispered against his ear. “Here is what is going to happen. I will see to it myself that your American traitor does as he was paid to do. Paid very, very well, I assume. You will now take a message directly to him from me, from Zahir Damari. Where does this man work?”

“In Baltimore.”

“Excellent. You will tell this asset of yours that if he does not bring the plans to a diner called Silver Corner in the Inner Harbor at precisely ten o’clock tomorrow morning, I will not only destroy him, I will blow up his world. Do you think he will believe me?”

The young man’s voice was no longer flat, emotionless; it was filled with eagerness. “I did not agree with Colonel Rahbar or the Hammer, so I will gladly tell him. If he does not believe you, he is a fool as well as a coward and he would deserve what you will do to him.”

“In case he isn’t convinced, tell him I am a great fisherman and that I quite enjoy gutting fish. Now go, do not look over your shoulder. We wouldn’t want you turning into a pillar of salt.”

The young man drew a deep breath when Zahir lifted the gun from his temple. He turned and walked away, his footsteps sending the rats scurrying, the only sound in the quiet morning. He did not look back. Did Zahir hear him whistling? A boy after his own heart.

25

PAWN TAKES C3

One Observatory Circle

Washington, D.C.

Vice President Callan Sloane set her encrypted iPad on the coffee table. It was early, and she needed to mainline some caffeine before digging in to the PDB—President’s Daily Brief. Outside the window, her assigned Secret Service agents strolled along the veranda and through the white-latticed gazebo into the gardens, enjoying the beautiful spring morning. Soon it would be hot and humid, everyone sweating, her included, a typical D.C. summer, but for now, the air was clear and cool, the flowers bloomed, and Callan was left to her own devices for another hour. She liked eating alone in the living room, with none of her people sneaking in to get a breath of air-conditioned air, or the cook bustling around preparing for the inevitable twice-weekly dinner parties.

Every day started the same for her. Rise at six; hit the treadmill; shower, feed and play with the cats; then move downstairs; grab the coffee, apple, and granola bar she preferred; and set up shop in the living room. It was clean and serene, with lush floor-to-ceiling draperies and cool, neutral beige tones, not the cluttered mess of her upstairs office or the formal severity of her two White House offices. It was much more her.

She drank her coffee from a chipped blue mug she’d brought from home when she’d moved into the vice president’s mansion. The mug had once read DODGERS, a gift from her baseball-loving dad before he’d died of a sudden heart attack five years before. She treasured it, couldn’t talk herself into not using it, though it would break one day and then where would she be? Up to her ears in Super Glue.

The PDB was the first thing she looked at once she settled in for breakfast. It was a daily intelligence publication that had started with President Truman, back in the late forties, to brief him on the immediate threats to the United States.

Callan set down her coffee and swiped a finger across her highly encrypted iPad. She knew what was tops on the PDB today—the bombing in New Jersey. It was being attributed to the terror group Celebrants of Earth. There’d also been a major cyber-attack on the oil sector, possibly tied to the Bayway bombing. But the biggest item would be about the current peace talks in Geneva and Israel’s balking over Iran’s latest claim that they had no plans to launch any nuclear weapons ever, even in the distant future, at Israel. Like anyone would believe that, ever, except for the president. The world’s going to Hell in a handbasket, as her grandmother used to say. Callan took some comfort from the knowledge that this was the belief of every generation, probably back to the cavemen. Truman had dealt with far worse than her boss, President Jefferson Bradley, but it was a different world back then. Today the nation’s enemies no longer wore uniforms and goose-stepped to cheering crowds. Now their enemies were faceless. They attacked silently, by land, sea, air, or computer, something Truman couldn’t have imagined.