Abuse of Power

17

“This has to be a mistake,” Tony said, staring at the screen.

As much as Jack wanted to believe that, the proof was right in front of them. Abdal al-Fida was an employee of the British government. And his previously deleted personnel file had been flagged to indicate that he’d been living here on a G-2 diplomatic visa. He lived at an address in Newham, London, and had arrived in the U.S. less than a month before the carjacking.

“I wish it was a mistake,” Jack said. “But what we have here is a major embarrassment to the Brits, and they’re doing whatever it takes to make it go away. Could you imagine the shit storm they’d see if it came out they had a terrorist on the books?”

“They couldn’t have known what he was up to.”

“Which makes it even more embarrassing. The guy was obviously a mole and that means they’ve had a serious security breach. Not something they’d want made public.”

Tony looked doubtful. “So they send in MI6 to clean up? There’s gotta be more to it than that. They killed a teenager, for God’s sake. And what about Bob Copeland?”

Jack was a strong believer in Occam’s razor, that the most obvious explanation was usually the best one. But Tony had a point. Had Copeland been killed simply because he’d discovered a security breach? Or was there another reason altogether?

Like Operation Roadshow, he thought.

The Home Office was overly sensitive to criticism, but would they go this far to protect themselves?

“Um, what exactly are you guys getting me into here?” Karras said, suddenly looking very nervous. “Maxie never mentioned anything about bombers and dead teenagers. Maybe you two should leave.”

Jack ignored him and got to his feet, started pacing. He needed to think about this.

Tony gestured to the screen. “Whatever the case, this guy’s probably buried in somebody’s backyard by now. And without him, what do we have?”

“More speculation,” Jack said.

“Exactly.”

“Guys-” Karras said.

Jack didn’t seem to hear him.

What if this al-Fida guy isn’t dead? What if he immediately fled for home after botching the bombing? It didn’t seem likely, but Jack would be stupid not to check into it.

Karras got to his feet now. “I mean it,” he insisted. “I don’t want anything to do with whatever you’re into. You need to get out of here.”

Jack stopped pacing and turned to him. “Fine, but one last thing. Would you be able to hack into an airline and pull up their flight manifests for the last week or so?”

“Sure, but that doesn’t mean I want to.”

“I’ll triple your fee.”

“Hey, money isn’t every-”

“What about some intel about Maxine?”

Karras hesitated. “What kind of intel?”

“Coming to you was her idea,” Jack lied. “She has all kinds of regrets and if she finds out you went that extra mile for us she’d probably be real appreciative.”

“Really?”

“Haircut and a shave and-who knows?”

He could see that the prospect excited Karras. The guy hesitated a moment longer then sat back down. “Quadruple the fee.”

“Done.”

“What airline do you want to start with?”

“What else?” Jack told him. “British Airways.”

It took Karras a while to find what Jack was looking for, but his instincts had proven right and they didn’t have to leave the British Airways network to prove it.

There was a flight out of LAX to London the day after the carjacking, and Abdal al-Fida was one of the first class passengers. The ticket had been charged to the British embassy’s travel account. This didn’t mean al-Fida was still alive, but the possibility existed and that was enough for Jack to hang his hopes on.

Twenty minutes later he dropped Tony off at his car outside Maxine’s with promises that they’d reconvene at the Sea Wrighter after he’d picked up Eddie. But as he drove toward his apartment he decided to take a detour to the Arco station on Mission, the place where Jamal and Leon had first seen al-Fida. It was nighttime; the same attendant might be on duty.

The guy at the register was nodding off, a travel magazine in his lap, open to a story about Amsterdam.

Jack rapped on the countertop and he came awake with a start. “Uh?”

“GNT News,” Jack said, showing him his expired credentials. “Were you working here the night of the bombing?”

The counterman blinked a couple times to clear the cobwebs, then hastily set the magazine aside. “Uh, yeah. Yeah, I was here. Why?”

Jack brought out a copy of al-Fida’s personnel photo that Karras had printed out. “Do you remember this man? He would’ve stopped for gas shortly before midnight.”

The counterman squinted at it. “Do you know how many people come in here every night? I guess I coulda seen him but I don’t remember.”

“What about surveillance video?”

The man looked up like he was Eddie asking for more spaghetti. Jack had expected that. He flipped a twenty onto the counter. The man laid a hand on it and swept it off like a croupier.

“It’s on a forty-eight-hour cycle. It would’ve been erased by now.” He paused. “But it’s funny you ask, because the feds were in here looking for it last night, right after my shift started.”

Jack was surprised. “Did they say why?”

“Just that they were looking for a suspect in a bank robbery. But they didn’t show me any pictures or anything. They made me play the video back, like they thought I was lying.”

“And you’re sure they were FBI?”

He looked at Jack blankly. “The head guy flashed a badge.”

“Did you look at it closely?”

His expression told Jack it was obvious he hadn’t.

Typical.

“What did they look like?”

He shrugged. “Like feds. What are they supposed to look like?”

“Did you see what kind of car they were driving?”

“I think it was an SUV of some kind.”

“An Escalade, maybe? Black?”

He shrugged again. “Could be. Don’t quote me.”

“I won’t,” Jack promised. “Thanks for your time.”

He pocketed the photo then went back to his car and sat for a while. He had been hoping to get confirmation that the man Jamal and Leon had seen really was Abdal al-Fida, but he’d known it was a long shot. Leon had sounded sure on the phone, but Jack wasn’t completely comfortable hanging an entire theory-as thin as it might be-on the word of a grieving teenage carjacker. Any good attorney would tell you that eyewitness testimony is rarely reliable, even though a shocking number of people have gone to jail because of it.

But then why else would the British consulate delete al-Fida’s file? Why not just archive it like the others? And why fly him out of the country immediately after the blast?

Jack started his car and pulled out of the gas station, easing into the flow of traffic.

Too many questions, he thought. Too many questions and not nearly enough answers.

Jack had traveled only a few blocks when he saw the Escalade in his rearview mirror.

A little less than a block behind him, it was hidden by several other cars. The darkness and the shining headlights made it difficult to see, but every once in a while they’d pass through a brightly lit area, illuminating the SUV as if it were standing on a showroom floor.

Jack knew there were bound to be other Escalades on the road, that this could be nothing more than paranoia at work, but it looked just like the car in the video-and he had a very strong feeling there was a Brit behind the wheel. There was something about the way he was maneuvering, the slightest hesitation, as though he were consciously trying to remember which side of the road he had to be on.

They weren’t trying very hard to conceal themselves, but there was no reason they should. They didn’t know about Leon’s video, so they couldn’t know that Jack was on to them. He wasn’t sure when or where they had picked him up, but if they saw him coming out of the Arco station they had a right to be curious.

Hitting the accelerator, he quickly changed lanes, cutting in front of a Nissan Sentra and getting an angry blast of horn for his trouble. Glancing in his mirror, he saw that the Escalade hadn’t reacted. It kept a steady pace about six cars behind him.

Could he be wrong? There was one way to find out.

At the next intersection, Jack made an abrupt left turn and picked up speed, dividing his attention between the road ahead and his rearview mirror. Several seconds ticked by and no sign of the Escalade, but just as he was about to chalk this up to an overactive imagination, the car came barreling through the intersection in hot pursuit.

The driver was handling the vehicle more aggressively now, and Jack knew without a doubt that he was in trouble. Tightening his grip on the wheel, he punched the accelerator and weaved between two cars, hearing more horns in his wake.

He took a sharp right at the next intersection, and again picked up speed, blasting past several more cars. He was half a block in when he saw the Escalade again, tearing around the corner behind him.

But as he continued up the street, it suddenly occurred to him that he was making a mistake. He shouldn’t be running from these people at all. This was his chance to find out what was going on.

Sure, it could be dangerous, but part of the reason he’d gone to his apartment last night was to prepare for just such a possibility. Unless you were a theater critic or society reporter, journalism was a dangerous racket.

Zipping past several parked cars, he screeched to a halt under a pool of light at the corner, cut the engine, and snagged the trunk lever as he jumped out. He moved quickly to the rear of the car and threw open the lid, then popped the latches on the rifle case inside and took out his Remington shotgun, which was loaded with 12-gauge rounds designed to mince a deer.

It was overkill, but that was the point.

By the time he turned around, the Escalade was on top of him.

Jack perched himself on the lip of the trunk and laid the rifle across his forearm, making it clear that it wouldn’t take much for him to swing it into action.

The Escalade came to an abrupt halt about twenty yards away and sat idling for a moment. Jack squinted, trying to make out the faces behind the windshield, but the car’s headlights prevented it. Several seconds ticked by, and he kept his gaze steady, doing his best to hide the effects of the adrenaline pounding through his veins.

Then the passenger door opened, and a man of about forty climbed out. He wasn’t wearing sunglasses, but Jack recognized him just the same. He closed the door then slowly moved forward and stopped in front of the Escalade’s bumper, spreading his hands to show they were empty.

“The weapon isn’t necessary, Mr. Hatfield.” His accent, not surprisingly, was decidedly British. “All we want to do is talk.”

“All I want is to stay alive,” Jack said. “And answers to a few questions. I figure I’ve got a better chance at both if I’m heavily armed.”

“Spoken like a true American.”

“Thanks,” Jack replied.

He hadn’t meant it as a compliment and Jack’s proud response caused him to start visibly, as if he weren’t so sure the “American” wouldn’t pull the trigger.

“So?” Jack said. “How about those answers?”

“I’m not quite certain what it is you think is going on here, but whatever it is you’re mistaken,” the man said.

“Is that why you’re following me?”

“We mean you no harm.”

Jack stifled a laugh. “I know of at least two dead people who would disagree.”

“You think that has something to do with us?”

“Not ‘think,’” Jack said.

“And who might these people be?”

Jack sighed. “Don’t waste my time, all right? I know you’re MI6 or special ops, and I know you were at Jamal Thomas’s house yesterday. So why don’t we cut through the bull. You can start by telling your name.”

“Adam Swain,” he said.

Jack had no idea if the name was real-somehow he doubted it-but it would do for now.

“And you’re right,” Swain continued. “We are MI6.”

“Okay, Adam. Now what’s so important to the Home Office that you had to execute a fifteen-year-old kid?”

Swain’s eyebrows went up. “Execute? Hardly. We’re not in the child-killing business. From what I’ve been told, the poor little bastard died of an overdose.”

“Helped along by you.”

Swain smiled. “You watch too many television shows, Mr. Hatfield. All we did was talk to the boy. Nothing more. Just as we’re talking to you. If you want to blame anyone for his death, blame that frightful mother of his and that filthy sty she raised him in. It’s a wonder he survived this long.”

“He had a busted arm and a limited radius,” Jack said.

“He was also in a lot of pain,” Swain replied. “Maybe his mother wanted to ease it. Or maybe she just didn’t want to deal with it.”

Partly true, but Swain’s condescension rankled Jack. “What about Bob Copeland? Do we blame that on his mother?”

“I have no idea who you’re talking about.”

“I told you not to waste my time.”

“And I don’t intend to,” Swain said. “But I don’t know anyone named Copeland.”

“You don’t watch the news?”

“BBC America, and this Mr. Copeland didn’t turn up there.”

Also possible, Jack had to admit.

“I’m not a big fan of fiction, Mr. Hatfield. But I did catch that press conference two days ago, and I heard the questions you asked. If you’re as good at what you do as I’ve been told you are, then you’ve undoubtedly discovered our friend Abdal al-Fida by now.”

Jack was surprised. He had been holding al-Fida as one of his trump cards and hadn’t expected Swain to bring him up.

Swain must have seen this in his expression because he smiled again, saying, “Yes, that’s right. I have no problem admitting-off the record, of course-that Mr. al-Fida was driving that Land Rover. And I have no problem telling you that we fed a cover story to the FBI and the local police. But we had good reason for that. al-Fida is not what you seem to believe he is.”

“And what would that be?”

“A terrorist.”

Jack couldn’t stifle the laugh this time. “So he was driving around in a car full of C4 just for the hell of it?”

Swain was silent for a moment. Then he said, “What I’m about to tell you is highly classified.”

“I’m sure it is.”

“Which means I have to be able to trust you, Mr. Hatfield. I need assurances that you’ll keep it to yourself.”

Jack considered his options and how little information he actually had. This Swain could be lying, of course. But if he wasn’t “All right,” Jack told him. “You have my promise.”

“Nothing gets written, aired, or anonymously blogged. Your word.”

“Cross my heart,” Jack said.

Swain studied him for what must have been at least thirty seconds, as if weighing whether he should continue or simply turn around and leave.

Jack waited patiently. More than anything, the man’s hesitation gave this the veneer of truth. But only the veneer. This kind of hesitation was Intelligence 101, the act of pretending to let someone in on a big secret. That was half the battle in convincing them the information was accurate.

Swain finally said, “Abdal al-Fida is an MI6 asset. For the last two years he’s been working for us as a deep cover mole, infiltrating one of the most ruthless Islamic extremist organizations in the world.”

“Which is?”

“I’m not at liberty to say more than that. But that carjacking was an unfortunate incident that essentially put him-and us-out of business for the time being.”

“I’m not sure I understand,” Jack said. “Why was he driving a car full of C4?”

“He had just taken delivery of it and was headed for a rendezvous with members of his cell. If we hadn’t rushed him out of the country when we did, they would have executed him for his-let’s call it initiative.”

“You mean launching an attack on his own.”

“Just so. That particular cover story was hatched to prevent the cell from knowing that we were on to them.”

“But the whole thing about the hicks up north, the Constitutional Defense Brigade. Wouldn’t that whole thing signal the enemy that something was being covered up? They know who was driving that Land Rover… I know who was driving that Land Rover… they’d have to figure the FBI knew it, too.”

Swain smiled again. “The CDB arrests merely confirm their faith in the investigative incompetence of American law enforcement. They have, after all, been operating here with impunity for nearly two years.”

Jack considered that, and on the surface the story seemed at least semiplausible. And if he were a trained seal like so many of his colleagues, he might have taken Swain’s word for it and called it a day.

But Jack wasn’t in this for the fish. And Swain’s version of events left too many questions unanswered-not the least of which was, if the driver of the Land Rover was merely making a supply run, why had those explosives been fully wired for detonation?

Abdal al-Fida wasn’t headed to a rendezvous, and that fact alone was enough to put Swain’s story in the “doubtful” category.

How stupid did this guy think he was? It was time to play his second trump card.

Tightening his grip on the Remington, Jack said, “So tell me something.”

“Haven’t I already told you enough?”

“Yeah, well, I’m hoping for something that resembles the truth, this time.” He paused. “What does any of this have to do with Operation Roadshow?”

There was a shift in Swain’s gaze, a nearly imperceptible widening of the eyes that told Jack he’d struck a nerve, just as he expected he would. And Jack couldn’t help but enjoy the surge of satisfaction he got from catching the man off guard. Not just because he had surprised Mr. “Swain,” but because it validated the impression that this guy was not truly a big boy.

The smugness that had permeated the entire conversation abruptly disappeared. Swain’s expression went flat, and his next words were clipped and passionless, as if he were prepping for a kill.

“Tread carefully, Mr. Hatfield. This line of inquiry will get you nothing except, perhaps, an early grave.”

Start throwing stones and see who throws one back.

Jack’s palms were sweating. He shifted the Remington in his hands to reassert his grip. “Is that what you told Bob Copeland?”

“I should warn you,” Swain said, “that at this very moment there’s a sniper crouched in the back of our truck pointing an extremely accurate weapon at your head.” He gestured to Jack’s shotgun. “All it takes is my signal and before you can squeeze off a single shot your brains will be splattered all over the boot of your car.”

Jack’s throat tightened. Was this a bluff? A shooter would have to aim a little high to account for the downward deflection of the bullet caused by the Escalade’s windshield, but a basic armor-piercing round would certainly do the trick.

Bye-bye Jack Hatfield.

“So why am I still standing?” he said.

“Two reasons,” Swain told him. “First, we have no real desire to clean up another mess in a less than optimal location. Not here, not now. And second, as sad as this may be, you don’t really pose all that much of a threat to us.”

“Meaning what?”

“Despite what my own prime minister might think, you have no credibility, Mr. Hatfield. I think that was proven by the derision at that press conference. No one took you seriously then, and there’s no reason they would now.”

“Yet here we stand,” Jack said.

“Because I want you to understand the gravity of the situation in which you’ve found yourself. Trust me, if you continue to pursue this line of inquiry we will consider you a genuine problem and react accordingly. Is that understood?”

Jack stared at the Escalade’s windshield and considered calling Swain’s bluff. But he decided not to push his luck. The man was right about one thing: not here, not now.

“Understood,” Jack said tersely.

Swain smiled again, but there was no humor in it. “Excellent. I’m glad we could come to this agreement.”

Then he turned, went back to the Escalade and climbed in. A moment later, the SUV shot backward, quickly turned around in an empty space, and disappeared up the street.

It was only then that Jack realized he was trembling.

Returning the Remington to its case, he closed the trunk, then climbed back behind the wheel.

Contrary to what he’d told Swain, he had no intention whatsoever of adhering to their so-called agreement. And he knew Swain wouldn’t, either. When the time and environment were right, those men would strike again and Jack could only assume that he’d be the victim of a sudden heart attack or a tragic accident.

Worst of all, he still knew nothing about Operation Roadshow. And with Bob Copeland dead, there was little chance of him learning anything more.

He halfway considered calling the one man who had stuck by him during the Truth Tellers debacle-Senator Harold Wickham-but if Wickham were to start digging like Copeland had, who was to say he wouldn’t wind up suffering the same fate? Jack couldn’t have that on his conscience.

As he started the engine, he pulled his cell phone out and hit speed dial. A moment later, Tony Antiniori answered.

“I was getting worried,” his friend said. “Where the hell are you?”

It was amazing how reassuring it was just to hear Tony’s voice. Part of it was the fact that it was Tony himself, but part of it was having a friend on deck with him during a blow. Someone watching his back.

“I got sidetracked,” Jack told him. “I think it’s time for me to get a little more proactive with this story.”

“What does that mean?”

There was only one way Jack knew to make any leeway here and hopefully get the information he needed.

“I’m going to London,” he announced.

To which Tony replied, “I don’t think so, Jack.”