The End Game (A Brit in the FBI 3)

“I need your people, your government, back at the table in Geneva, to cooperate with President Bradley’s talks.”

“Our stance hasn’t changed, Callan. We won’t capitulate here, we can’t afford to, and you of all people know exactly why we can’t. Iran has their warheads pointed at us. Any concessions on our part right now will be tantamount to opening the border and letting the dogs through. They stand down, take those reactors offline permanently, then we’ll talk, but you know they have no intention of doing that, not in my lifetime.”

“We’re working on it, Ari, I promise you we are. If you’d give us one bit of a good-faith showing—”

“I can’t believe I’m hearing this, from you of all people. You, who knows firsthand what we’ve sacrificed, how we’ve continued to bend and compromise. Do you wish to ignore that we’re under constant attack? That we live daily with death riding on our shoulders and blood in our coffee shops? My own innocent young daughter, slaughtered, moldering in the ground? And yet you, you, come to me with Bradley’s message, asking my government to accept their lies?”

“I’m asking that you consider the possibility of reaching a lasting peace, Ari. Think of the possibilities, keep an open mind, that’s all.”

He laughed once, short and bitter. “A lasting peace. You will never see past the end of your nose. No, it’s not your nose, it’s his, Bradley’s. H

e doesn’t want to see that Iran has no intention of cooperating, or working toward peace, with us, Israel. They want us destroyed. They say it out loud for the world to hear. Even Colonel Rahbar, he’s saying all the right things as he sits at the table, pandering to the president. These peace meetings—they’re all for show.”

She agreed with him, but she said, “Perhaps this time is different, perhaps—”

He cut her off. “Tell me why there’s a contract out?”

Her heart froze. “What? What did you say?”

“We intercepted an e-mail going to Jordan last night. In it were wire transfers to a series of accounts we’ve been monitoring. We believe it’s the Iranians, acting with Hezbollah. We believe they belong to—”

“Don’t say it,” she said sharply, all personal animus forgotten. “Not on this line. Do you have any tangible proof of this?”

“He’s gone. Three months ago, he flew to Mexico, through London. There was a small slaughter outside of Ciudad Juárez. A group of ISIS jihadists we’ve been collectively watching. A pollero, a local coyote, is missing as well. Official word is a pissed-off drug lord killed them, but I saw the pictures. It’s his work, without doubt. He’s on the move, Callan, and he’s in the United States.”

“And the target?”

Ari said simply, “There may be more than one target, but as yet, it’s unverified. The only one we know for sure is you.”

26

KNIGHT TAKES E4

Nicholas’s Brownstone

East 69th Street

Upper East Side

Nicholas woke without an alarm at six. He felt good, rested, despite only a few hours of sleep. He turned on the TV as he stretched and listened to the local weather. It appeared the weather agreed with his mood, sunny and clear and warm, a perfect spring day shaping up outside. Quite different from his usual mornings in London—rain, rain, and more rain. He did miss London, but New York’s weather was hard to argue with. The city was growing on him.

His good mood swept him through a shower, shaving, dressing. His ruined clothes were nowhere to be seen, which meant Nigel had been in his rooms already this morning.

He took care selecting his clothes; he needed to look shipshape and in control since there would be cameras and press and meetings with other agencies. A gray three-button suit from Barneys, a white Turnbull & Asser shirt with a hint of cream stripe, his grandfather’s cuff links, polished wing tips. Yes, he would do. He started to put on a red tie, then opted for a muted purple. Zachery would be wearing red, no sense competing.

He went to the kitchen for his breakfast. Nigel was nowhere to be seen, but a surprise—he’d made oatmeal. It was much better than Cook Crumbe’s bitter excuse for oatmeal at home.

While he ate, he read the headlines on his iPad. The Bayway bombing was the lead, as expected, the photos from the scene in daylight even more devastating and graphic than he remembered. He glanced at his palms. The burns weren’t bad this morning, what with all the burn cream he’d used. He thought of Rex Cedarson, Bob Ventura, and Kenneth Chantler, the waste of it, and Mr. Hodges, a good man, now dead. No reason for any of it, a show of arrogance.

He drank two strong cups of Earl Grey—sent directly from Fortnum & Mason, thanks to his mum, Mitzie—had a second bowl of brown sugar–laden oatmeal while he checked his e-mail. Nothing from Adam Pearce yet, but it had been only a few hours. Give the boy a chance to make the appropriate inroads.

He got into his car, a sporty, very maneuverable BMW 335i. His new baby was sapphire black with a gray leather interior and dark burl walnut to announce the final touch of class. Though he missed his Jaguar, buying the BMW was cheaper than having the Jag shipped over from England. Well, almost. He loved the way the BMW drove. He’d named the car Freya after his first ancient Fiat from his parents when he was sixteen.

He checked traffic on his mobile, knew it would take him less than twenty minutes to get to Federal Plaza.

Mike called before he hit FDR Drive.

“Are you on your way?”