Critical Threat

Twenty

Six months later

He had the look of a hunted man, even though he was the hunter. He now sported a full, unkempt beard and his eyes stared out like a beast from the jungle, for ever watching and checking. He was truly exhausted and was beginning to doubt whether he could maintain the pace, despite his innate fitness and personal determination.

Maybe it was time to give up, hand the mantle over to someone new.

Except that he wouldn’t. It would be tantamount to admitting defeat and he would see this thing through to the bitter end, whatever the toll on himself. After all, he had pleaded — begged — for this chance and been given it and, mentally drained and exhausted as he was, it would reach its conclusion.

He rubbed his tired eyes and replaced his sunglasses, watching the hordes of people swarming by in the intense morning sunlight already baking the streets.

Hell, this place was busy. He didn’t think he had seen anywhere more so; even New York paled by comparison.

Karl Donaldson, dressed in loafers, chinos and a Real Madrid soccer shirt, sat outside the Cafe Zurich at the top of the first part of La Rambla, possibly the best-known thoroughfare in Barcelona. He pulled the peak of his baseball cap down over his hawk-like eyes and slouched down in the metal-framed chair, wondering if today would be the one.

La Rambla stretches one mile from the Placa Catalunya, where Donaldson was sitting, down to the Rambla de Santa Monica, and is a massive tourist attraction with its souvenir shops and stalls, human statues, fortune-tellers, card sharps, puppeteers, dancers and musicians. It draws thousands of visitors each day, who pulsate up and down in a swell of humanity.

Ordinarily, Donaldson would have loved this. He had been to Barcelona a couple of times with his wife, Karen, and fallen in love with its vibrancy, its food, its wine, history and people. But this was no romantic break … he scowled at the thought of his wife; not at her — he loved her deeply — but because he had neglected her so much over the last six months — had not even spent two consecutive nights with her in the last three — and she was becoming edgy and worried about him and their marriage. He had made and broken several promises to her recently and their whole relationship was straining at the seams.

He resolved that if nothing came of today, he would take a week off, sweep her off her feet and get back into her good books … until he set off again doing something he could not even tell her about — hunting down the dangerous, elusive, Mohammed Ibrahim Akbar.

After Donaldson and everyone else had missed him in Blackburn, a special multi-agency team had been quickly assembled, dedicated to tracking down Akbar. Donaldson had almost got down on his knees to get a place on it, then had become totally obsessed with Akbar, who seemed to have a sixth sense when it came to avoiding the clutches of Donaldson’s team.

Akbar’s will-o’-the-wisp trail had led Donaldson and the small team to the Middle East, Africa and across all of Europe and finally, it was hoped, here to Barcelona. It was known that he had been fund-raising on behalf of AQ and the intelligence suggested he was supposed to be meeting a man in Barcelona who took a cut from the African street traders who pitched illegally on the waterfront, selling wares such as fake designer sunglasses, watches and clothing, then passed a generous percentage of that on to Al-Qaeda.

The man, of North African origin, went by the name of Suleiman, was known to the Spanish intelligence service and had been under the surveillance of Donaldson’s team for six days, but Akbar had not shown. It looked increasingly likely that the intel was incorrect — what a surprise — and Donaldson would have to wait again for another snippet which would get him back on Akbar’s scent.

Donaldson felt like a greyhound chasing a rabbit that was always out of his reach and was inexhaustible.

He shifted uncomfortably in the chair as a trickle of sweat rolled down his back into the crack of his backside. He took a sip of his mineral water. The ice had melted and the water was lukewarm … rather like Akbar’s trail.

‘Suleiman’s on the move,’ a tinny voice said and Donaldson resisted the urge to touch the minute earpiece fitted into his left ear, just in case he was being watched. One mistake followers often make, even though it is drummed into them in training, is succumbing to that instinctive desire to press their almost invisible earpieces so they can hear better, especially in a crowd. It’s one of those silly mistakes that can completely wreck an operation and put individuals in unnecessary danger. The voice was from one of his fellow team members who had been sitting on Suleiman’s apartment on the Calle Comtel in the Old City. ‘Heading towards La Rambla,’ said Jo, the only female operative on the team. She was a CIA agent. ‘Looks like he’s going for his usual,’ she said. This meant that Suleiman was going to stroll down La Rambla as he did each morning, constantly checking to see if he was being followed, then take a seat in a pavement cafe near to the Maritime Museum where he drank copious amounts of coffee into which he dunked donuts. From there he would conduct his morning’s business. As yet he hadn’t clocked the team, which probably meant whilst he was going through anti-surveillance motions, he was getting lazy about it. The team was also very good, but not good enough, or big enough, not to get spotted eventually.

Unless Suleiman had actually seen them and was playing a game … always a possibility.

Donaldson settled back. His job was static observation that morning.

He ordered a cafe con leche, thinking about how he and his family had actually drank here in the past … then his mind flicked to Henry Christie and the reaction he’d had to the way Fazul Ali had been treated. Henry would be even more upset to learn that Ali had died whilst being interrogated and had had to be disposed of. It hadn’t happened whilst Donaldson had been talking to him, but as a result of a bad reaction to some drugs that Dr Chambers was testing out which had given him a heart attack. Donaldson shrugged mentally, not even remotely moved by the thought of Ali’s death, since he was just as bad as Akbar. What bothered him was his own relationship with Henry and how it might be revived — or was it just to be another casualty of this war?

‘Moving down La Rambla,’ Jo piped up, describing Suleiman’s movements.

Perhaps he would try and speak to Henry once this Akbar thing was over … but he would not apologize. No way …

‘Seems to be the same old routine,’ Jo said.

Donaldson closed his eyes briefly — but not for long. His coffee came and he paid the waiter immediately, just in case he had to move quickly. There was nothing more embarrassing for someone on surveillance than being chased by a bill-wielding waiter demanding payment. It drew attention. Thinking back to Henry also made Donaldson speculate about Mansur Rashid, who in some respects was similar to Suleiman: a legit businessman on the face of it, but providing funds for AQ at the same time. Rashid had completely gone off the radar since Blackburn and rumour was that Akbar had seen him as a liability, someone who couldn’t control his temper, who allowed his emotions to get the better of him — firstly by killing his wayward wife and then the private investigator he had been stupid enough to hire who then got in a position from which he could blackmail Rashid. Akbar had no place for people like that and it was believed that Rashid had been murdered somewhere in Pakistan. Whether that was true or not, no one knew, but Rashid had never appeared on the intelligence radar since that fateful day in Blackburn.

‘He’s taking his time today … a lot of a/s activity,’ Jo said, meaning anti-surveillance.

Donaldson sat up. Suleiman was being extra careful today for some reason. The hairs on the back of his muscular neck prickled. No more closing of eyes, no more daydreaming, he told himself.

Jo and Jed were on Suleiman.

Terry and Marcus were somewhere behind them.

Barney, the team leader, was sitting at the cafe Suleiman was expected to visit.

Two others were on a free reign — Wayne and Harry.

And he was sitting here.

Maybe today, he thought.

‘He’s turned around, nearly made me,’ Jo said shortly. ‘He’s on Ferran now.’ For ease, the team had dispensed with using the Spanish word calle, meaning street. ‘Travelling quite quickly, carrying a black briefcase.’

The other members of the team acknowledged this change of habit.

Despite the urge to join in, Donaldson remained at the cafe. His hand dithered excitedly when he drank from his coffee.

‘Now left up Banys Nous,’ Jo related.

The followers slotted in behind him and though he used several quick manoeuvres, they stuck with him, were not seen, following him through the narrow streets until he turned into a restaurant on Calle Montsio called Els Quatre Gats, making Donaldson raise his eyebrows. He knew the place, had been there with Karen, drawn by the fact it was once a popular hangout for artists such as Picasso. It was a beautiful old building, circa 1897, an ideal place to meet someone for a coffee.

‘He’s sat at a table just inside the door,’ Jo said, ‘and he’s ordered.’

Perhaps he was just having a change of scenery, Donaldson thought, glancing across in the direction of the huge department store on the other side of the square, El Corte Ingles, then allowing his eyes to pull back, rove across the crowds, examining individual faces, then settle on the front door of the Hard Rock Cafe diagonally opposite to where he was positioned.

And there he was.

Emerging from the front door. Wearing a baggy Green Day T-shirt and dark glasses.

Mohammed Ibrahim Akbar. The man who had murdered hundreds of people across the globe, who had recruited young men and women to blow themselves and others to pieces, who raised and collected money for AQ … and who had killed two of Donaldson’s closest friends amongst many other innocent people in Nairobi in 1998.

Donaldson recognized him immediately, a face etched on his mind for eternity.

Donaldson stood up as naturally as he could and walked to the pedestrian crossing which would take him across to the mouth of La Rambla, just as Akbar himself was swallowed up in the mass of bodies in that wide street.

Akbar was walking quickly, then stopped abruptly, ostensibly to admire one of the human statues dressed like a cowboy, painted silver. Donaldson swerved into a magazine stall just before Akbar’s head swivelled round to check behind him. Through a gap in the side of the stall, Donaldson got a good look at him, confirming the ID and feeling his heart accelerate sickeningly.

A swell of adrenaline surged into the American’s system as he said, ‘I’m on Akbar,’ into the minute mike fitted into the collar of his football shirt. He gave the location and described Akbar and his clothing.

‘Confirm, confirm,’ the voice of Barney said excitedly.

‘Confirm.’

‘OK — your call, Karl … how do you want to run it?’

He emerged from the stall as Akbar set off in the direction of the Monument a Colon at the end of La Rambla.

‘He’s edgy and careful … don’t want him spooked.’

‘Tell me,’ Barney said.

‘OK — Jo and Jed stay on Suleiman … Terry, Marcus to the bottom of La Rambla … You stay put, Barney, he’s headed in your direction. Wayne, Harry to make to your location, too … I need to check if he’s alone … he could have back-up.’

‘You got it.’ Barney asked if everyone understood.

And meantime Akbar walked down La Rambla, past the junction with Calle Ferran, the street Suleiman had walked up.

Behind him, Donaldson became acutely aware of two things … the Sig 9 mm pistol tucked into the waistband of his pants at his spine and the flick knife strapped to his right ankle. Both items seemed to burn holes into his bones.

Using his tradecraft, Donaldson kept both his quarry in sight and himself out of sight, constantly scanning to be certain that Akbar was alone, not being supported by a team, or being tailed by another intelligence service. He knew that Mossad were also after him.

He was pretty certain Akbar was alone. He was about to relay this information when, without warning, Akbar burst into a sprint and plunged headlong into Calle Escudellers in the Barri Gotic, Barcelona’s superbly preserved medieval quarter.

‘He’s running, he must have made me,’ Donaldson said, discarding all pretence of subtlety and racing after him.

The change in atmosphere and temperature was dramatic in the tight, shadowy streets of the gothic quarter, sending an instant chill through Donaldson.

As his big feet pounded into the ground, he was amazed that it always came down to this; despite all the technology in the world, the hunt for a fugitive always came down to a confrontation, whether it be in the mountains of Afghanistan or the backstreets of Boston; ultimately it was always a one-on-one.

Akbar skidded out of sight twenty metres ahead as he spun into Passatge Escudellers. Donaldson flung himself after him, feeling for his pistol as he ran, his fingers curling round the stock, but as he entered the passage, Akbar, wily as a fox, was already out of sight.

‘Shit,’ he uttered, but kept running hard, having to believe that he would catch and destroy him. There was nowhere the man could have disappeared to, must have gone down the next tight alleyway which connected to the street which ran parallel. ‘Lost eyeball,’ he panted down the radio.

Exclamations in several forms came back as replies.

‘Still with you,’ Barney said, meaning the deployment of the team was still down to Donaldson.

‘Everyone keep going as instructed,’ Donaldson said as he emerged on to a wide street which he powered across and into the continuation of the alley opposite, hoping he was still going in the right direction. But, running on from street to street, down likely looking alleys and losing his sense of direction, there was no sign of Akbar.

He had disappeared into the city.

Finally, Donaldson jarred to a halt and walked a few metres down another narrow alley and came into a deserted, brightly sun-lit square, not much bigger than a courtyard, which somehow seemed to have no shadow in it. His face was a contorted mask of anger and annoyance at himself. Akbar had been that far from him. Arm’s length. He had nearly had him.

The disappointment was like a raging animal inside him. He stopped to catch his breath in the square, not exactly sure where he was. He squinted up at the high medieval stone walls surrounding him, narrow windows in them.

‘Totally lost him,’ Donaldson admitted into his radio, still gasping for air and now sweating heavily. ‘He’s gone, shit!’ He punched the air in frustration.

‘So where are you?’ Barney asked into his ear.

‘Where am I? Not a clue,’ he said disgustedly.

‘Agent Donaldson,’ came a voice from behind him.

Suddenly all of the American’s vital functions seemed to freeze up. He rotated slowly to see a man who had materialized from nowhere standing not ten feet away.

‘Akbar,’ Donaldson hissed.

He nodded, smiled.

‘How the hell do you know me?’ Donaldson asked.

‘Know thine enemies — and their motivations,’ he said. ‘Though I wouldn’t have known it was you except for a small mistake you made.’

‘Which was?’ Donaldson was judging how quickly he could cover the gap and draw his weapon.

‘Who in this city pays for their drinks before they need to? A knowledge of culture is a vital tool in our armoury, wouldn’t you say? Keeps us alive.’

Donaldson swallowed.

‘Then I recognized you properly at the magazine stall.’

‘In that case, if you know so much, you’ll also know there’s a team on your ass and they’re all closing in now.’

‘Following your directions?’ Akbar smiled again, his perfect white teeth a testament to the dentistry of the western world. ‘I think not. Either way, I know time is of the essence for both of us.’ He raised his right hand in which was a small calibre pistol pointed easily at Donaldson’s body mass. ‘I’m afraid I’m a man who does not like to be pursued by fanatics and I will take every opportunity to dispose of them. You see, I know your motivation and it’s best if you are dead.’

Just at that moment, from the eaves high above them, there was a loud cry and the mass beat of wings as a huge flock of pigeons took off.

Akbar’s eyes glanced up for a split second.

Donaldson knew he could not make the distance between him and his prey, so he pitched himself to the side, rolling across the uneven paving, drawing the Sig from the small of his back — a manoeuvre he’d practised hundreds of times in training — and as he came up, the gun swung round and he fired twice — at exactly the instant Akbar fired at him.

The bullet from Akbar’s small gun seared into Donaldson’s abdomen with a sickening jolt. A terrible pain splayed through him.

Gasping, tasting something horrendous in his mouth, he managed to clamber to his knees, woozily steeling himself to look at the wound just below the rib cage on his left side. He yanked up his blood-soaked shirt to inspect himself, but saw nothing positive. It looked bad — was bad, he knew.

Though his vision became suddenly blurred and he felt nauseous, he looked to where Akbar had been standing. Was he still there? Had Donaldson missed? Had he escaped again?

Crawling on hands and knees, leaving a trail of thick blood in his wake, Donaldson found Akbar, who had managed to stagger several feet away before falling in a crumpled heap.

Donaldson groaned in agony, coughed and spat out some blood as he tried to concentrate on looking at Akbar’s body. He didn’t appear to be moving, though his eyes were open and staring. His clothing was blood soaked. Donaldson had shot him twice, once in the chest, once in the neck.

But Donaldson wanted to be sure before he himself died.

Using the last ounces of his determination, fighting through the tsunami of weakness that was pervading his mind and body, he dragged himself to lie next to Akbar, placed the muzzle of the Sig, which weighed a ton, against the terrorist’s temple, and pulled the trigger.

‘Critical threat neutralized,’ he said, before falling backwards and looking at the pigeons circling high above in the clear blue sky.