Firefight

SEVENTEEN

Will had chosen Trafalgar Square for a reason.

If Priestley was worried, if he thought Kate's call was more than just a crank, there would be surveillance here tonight — snipers for his protection and someone to photograph whoever he met. Will had decided on Trafalgar Square because he knew he could put a pretty good bet on where the surveillance would be set up. The roof of the National Gallery offered a full vista over the square and if Will had been instructed to set up surveillance over the place, that's where he would have chosen.

He had returned to Paddington Station just after 15.00 hours to pick up his rucksack from the left-luggage locker. His plan had been to travel to the West End by underground, but when he got to the Tube station he saw that it was being patrolled by armed police — the unmistakable signs of a city on high terrorist alert. He couldn't risk trying to get into the underground with a rucksack full of weaponry on his back — chances were that he'd be stopped and searched and all hell would break loose.

Instead he hailed a black cab, which took him to Covent Garden. It was early evening by the time he arrived in the West End. He approached Trafalgar Square from the north, down Charing Cross Road and into St Martin's Place, grateful for the swarming crowds into which it was possible to melt anonymously. Approaching from this direction meant that he didn't have to cross Trafalgar Square in order to reach his destination, an advantage because he couldn't be sure how early any surveillance would be set up and it was essential that he wasn't spotted.

There was building work in progress at the church of St Martin-in-the-Fields, which meant there was scaffolding outside it, all the way up to the clock tower. He hadn't counted on that, but it was going to help. The five-thirty evensong service was in progress and the church was nearly half full. As Will slipped inside, he hoped his casual clothes and rucksack made him look like an aimless tourist there to see the sights and for a good ten minutes he stood at the back of that impressive church, listening to the monotone voice of the priest intoning a sermon. It was nearly dark outside and the huge chandeliers cast a warm yellow glow over the heavy wooden pews, illuminating the intricate patterning of the ceiling.

Will wasn't interested in the church's decorative qualities, however, nor the priest's no doubt well-meaning message. He could pray to his God for peace to all men as much as he liked, but Will knew that sometimes peace came at a greater price. That price was war and just at the moment he felt like a one-man army fighting a battle with an enemy he could never defeat through strength alone. He continued to stand at the back, looking around. Anyone who saw him would think he was just taking in the surroundings, but in fact he was searching for something quite specific.

There were two ornate balconies along the length of each side of the church and at the altar end there was a door, which he presumed led up to them. As the service came to a close and the disparate congregation rose to their collective feet and started milling about the aisle, Will edged around the side of the pews and headed for the door that he hoped would take him upwards. He opened it confidently, as if he had every right to do so and, sure enough, behind it was a flight of stone steps. He hurried up them, two at a time.

He reached the top of the stairs and looked around. There was a door leading to the balcony, but a second flight of steps headed upwards. Will was just about to climb them when he heard a voice.

'May I help you?'

He turned round to see a black-robed priest smiling blandly at him.

Will blinked. 'I was just coming up to the balcony,' he replied, instinctively. 'I just wanted somewhere quiet to sit and—'

'Reflect?' the priest completed his sentence for him. He stepped to one side and indicated the balcony door. For the first time since he had put it on, Will felt the rucksack full of military equipment digging into his back. 'You should find it more peaceful up here than downstairs on the dance floor. 'The priest's smile grew broader at his own little joke.

'Thank you,' Will murmured. He stepped on to the balcony and took a seat at the end of the pew. He'd give it a couple of minutes before he made his way up the stairs again. He bowed his head in an expression of mock piety and waited.

Two minutes passed and when Will checked, the priest had left. He silently slipped up the stairs which wound upwards in a circular fashion. The sound of the congregation's hubbub down below faded away, as did the light. By the time Will had navigated his way up into the bell tower he was practically engulfed in darkness. And that suited him just fine.

The four sides of the bell tower were open to the elements and from this vantage point — beyond the scaffolding — Will had a reasonable view of Trafalgar Square and the crowds and traffic that thronged around it. But more importantly, he looked down on to the roof of the National Gallery. From here, he would be able to see everything he needed.

He glanced at his watch. Ten past six. Just under an hour until the meeting time. From his rucksack he removed the small NV binoculars he had taken from the stake-out and put them to his eye. A flick of the switch and the roof of the National Gallery was instantly illuminated in a dull green glow. He zoomed in closer and examined the area.

No one. Not yet.

Switching off the power, he sat down behind the wall of the bell tower. Out of sight, just where he needed to be.

Every fifteen minutes, he checked. He felt comfortable that no one would see him up here — they would be doing surveillance for a civilian on the ground. But at half past six there was still no one. At quarter to seven, no one. Will began to feel on edge. What if Ahmed had been stringing him a lie? What if Operation Firefight was no more than a creation of the Afghan's warped imagination?

Will looked at his watch. Five to seven. He closed his eyes, took a deep breath, then switched on his NV binoculars for another look over the rooftops.

He didn't see them at first, as they seemed somehow to blend into their surroundings. But after a few seconds of looking, a figure suddenly jumped out at him. He zoomed in closer. The man was wearing a helmet and some sort of flak jacket. But he wasn't carrying a gun, as Will might have expected. He was carrying a camera with a telescopic lens and it was pointed out towards Trafalgar Square.

And then, as soon as one of them had caught his eye, he saw the rest. There were maybe five or six in total — two of them with cameras, the others with sniper guns, trained and waiting, ready for anything suspicious.

It was all he needed to see. Confirmation. Now he could leave and implement the next part of his plan.

But then, curiosity got the better of him. He turned his binoculars away from the surveillance team on top of the National Gallery, aiming it instead towards the throng of Trafalgar Square. There were hundreds of people there, milling around, gazing up at Nelson's Column or sitting on the vast stone lions that kept guard. Hundreds of them. But at the foot of the enormous plinth, standing still and in clear view of the surveillance team, was a man. Will had to concentrate on steadying his hands so that he could get the figure in view and as he did so he zoomed in closely on his face.

Donald Priestley stood alone, his hands plunged firmly into his pockets to ward off the cold. Even at this distance Will could see that his jaw was set, his face grim. Every now and then his eyes would flicker upwards and it was clear to Will that the CIA man was aware of the surveillance team high above him.

Will switched off the binoculars and stowed them safely in his rucksack. For some reason the sight of Priestley had both shocked and exhilarated him. The CIA man had taken the bait; all he had to do now was reel him in. However, Priestley would be on high alert and it would take all of Will's powers of deception and persuasion to implement the next stage of his plan.

But I've got you running scared now, you bastard, he thought to himself as he hurried down the stairs to the main body of the church.

I've got you running scared.

Donald Priestley poured himself a large whisky, downed it, replenished his glass and then took a seat on the leather sofa. The plush house on West Halkin Street in Mayfair that came with the job was warm and comfortable, yet the American felt chilled to the bone — not only from standing outside in the cold as part of this evening's wild goose chase, but also out of uneasiness. The phone call from that woman had knocked him off-kilter. Who the hell was she? Some hack trying her luck, acting on the back of a rumour? But where could she have got such a rumour? Only two people in the country knew about Operation Firefight: Priestley himself and Faisal Ahmed. His secretary knew the name, but not what it meant. And stateside it was hardly common knowledge — only the highest echelons of the CIA were in on it. Even the White House weren't aware of the policy.

But this wasn't Ahmed's style — Christ knows, Priestley had done enough work to try and get inside the man's head of late. No, something else was going on. He took another sip of his whisky, leaned back on the sofa and closed his eyes.

It scared him shitless that Faisal Ahmed was out there. He had been certain that blowing Ahmed's cover in the British terrorist organisations he had infiltrated on the CIA's behalf would have been the end of him — those bastards were animals and ruthless with it. More fool him, he supposed, for underestimating the job his countrymen had done of training the bloodthirsty Afghan in the first place. And he'd been even more of a fool for thinking that the British, with their stiff upper lips and excruciating sense of fair play, would have been able to locate Ahmed, even after his people had planted the idea in their minds that he was going to blow up half of London. How a halfwit like Lowther Pankhurst had ever made it to DG of MI5, he'd never know.

'Shit!' he said out loud to himself. The sooner he was called back to Langley, the better. He looked around him. At least this place was secure — guards on all the doors and high-level security at all the entrances and exits. A perk of the job and one he was glad of — he only really felt safe when he was at home.

A buzzer sounded. Priestley got to his feet and wandered over to the heavy mahogany desk, pressing a button on the little intercom his staff used to communicate with him. 'Yeah?'

Another American voice came over the loudspeaker. 'There's a guy at the front entrance, Mr Priestley, insists on seeing you. Says his name is Will Jackson. Shall I get rid of him?'

Priestley paused and his eyes momentarily narrowed. 'Will Jackson?'

'That's right, sir.'

Again he fell silent. Will Jackson. Back from the dead — and on the very day that someone had spooked him about Operation Firefight. Coincidence? Unbidden, an old saying came into his head. Keep your friends close, but your enemies closer.

'Show him up,' Priestley instructed. He sat down again on the leather sofa and waited.

Moments later, Jackson was standing in the doorway to his room.

'Will,' Priestley greeted him, warily. 'Don't take this the wrong way, but I'm surprised to see you here.'

Jackson's face gave no clue to what he was thinking. 'I'm kind of lucky to be here, sir,' he replied.

Priestley inclined his head. 'Well, you'd better come in. What can I fix you to drink?'

'Nothing.'

'Fair enough, Will. Have a seat and tell me, does Lowther Pankhurst know you're still — ?' His voice trailed away.

'Alive?' Jackson supplied. 'Probably not. I came to you first.'

'But not immediately, Will. You've been missing for nearly forty-eight hours.'

For a moment it seemed to Priestley that Jackson wasn't going to answer; he suddenly seemed like his mind was somewhere completely different. But eventually he spoke. 'I don't suppose you'll ever know what it's like,' he said in little more than a whisper. 'To come so close to catching the man who murdered your family and to watch him get away. Don't take it personally, but I didn't really feel like a dressing-down from you and Lowther Pankhurst until I got my head in order.'

Priestley inclined his head a little. The man sounded sincere, at least. 'I suppose you know about your colleagues.'

Jackson nodded. 'Ahmed got the better of us. You weren't joking when you told us he was good. He managed to get me out of the way, nail Drew and Kennedy, then escape with his sister. A pretty spectacular fuck-up, all in all.'

'I won't pretend I don't agree with that, Will. Pankhurst's kind of pissed too. Hell, that's the understatement of the year.'

A pause. Priestley stood up and looked out of the ornate window and the prison-like bars beyond. 'So you didn't see or speak to Ahmed,' he said, lightly.

'Oh, I spoke to him all right.'

Priestley felt a sudden coldness in his blood. He turned slowly to look at the SAS man.

'I chased him,' Jackson continued. 'I chased him and caught up with him.'

'Why the hell—?' Priestley spat, before suddenly gaining control of his emotions. 'What — why the hell didn't you shoot him?'

'Because he had an MP5 with laser sights aimed at my head,' Jackson replied,'and he made me discharge my weapon into the ground.'

Priestley's lips went thin. 'Why didn't he just kill you?' the CIA man asked. It was framed as a question, but Priestley knew it was more like wishful thinking.

'Because Latifa told him not to. Seems she was grateful to me for getting her out of the Stan and from stopping your boys from waterboarding her.'

'Maybe if "my boys" had waterboarded her a bit more,' Priestley couldn't stop himself from saying,'we wouldn't be in this situation.'

'I don't think so,' Jackson replied, quietly.

Priestley breathed out heavily in frustration and struggled to control his temper. He looked straight into Jackson's eyes. 'What else did Ahmed say, Will?'

Jackson's face remained unreadable. 'He asked me if it was you who sent me to kill him.'

Priestley continued to breathe steadily. 'And what did you tell him, Will?'

'He had an MP5 aimed at my head. I told him the truth. He said he wasn't surprised. His exact words were, "Don Priestley knows the next bullet I have is for him."'

Jackson's words themselves were like bullets and Priestley steadied himself by holding on to the corner of the large wooden desk. 'Why did he say that, Will?'

So much rested on the SAS man's answer.

'I was hoping you might be able to tell me that,' Jackson replied. 'I'm afraid neither of us were in the mood for an extended chat. He made me turn around and walk away. When I looked again, he was gone.' Jackson stared at him thoughtfully. 'Why you, sir?' he asked. 'Why would Faisal Ahmed want you dead before anyone else?'

Priestley nodded, slowly. Was Jackson telling the truth? The CIA man had been trained to tell when someone was lying and he could see none of the telltale signifiers. But years in the job had taught Priestley to make suspicion his default position. He still hadn't forgotten about the charade in Trafalgar Square and although Jackson had said nothing to suggest he knew about Firefight, he had equally said nothing to suggest he didn't.

'Why are you here, Will?' he asked, plainly. 'Why are you reporting all this to me and not to Pankhurst? He's your handler.'

'I don't have a handler,' Jackson replied with a sudden burst of anger. 'I left the Regiment two years ago and to my knowledge I never signed up again. Pankhurst's been using me, manipulating me for his own ends. Fuck it, you both have. But all I want to do is kill Faisal Ahmed. Pankhurst's leads have all dried up, so it seems to me that you and I can help each other.'

Priestley blinked. 'I'm not sure I quite follow you, Will.'

'Ahmed told me straight that he's got a bullet with your name on it. Seems to me that if I want to get to him, all I have to do is hang around you.'

'Forgive me, Will, but I don't quite see what I get out of it.'

'A bodyguard,' Jackson replied. 'Twenty-four seven.'

Priestley smiled, but he was aware of it being a rather sickly smile — the sort of smile that only a man talking about his own potential assassination could give. 'That's very kind of you, Will,' he said. 'But my position is such that if I want a bodyguard, I really only have to say the word.'

Jackson shrugged. 'That's up to you,' he said. He stood up and now it was his turn to look through the window. He paused. 'When he comes for you,' he said, his voice subdued, 'it won't be in a dark alleyway like in the movies. It'll be when you least expect it. In a crowd, in a restaurant, when you're lying in bed — sometime when you feel safe.' He turned back to the CIA man. 'I'm the only person you can call on who's seen Ahmed in the last five years. I've looked into his eyes. I'll recognise him in an instant. Have me by your side and you might even live to see Christmas.'

Priestley fell into a terrified silence. There really wasn't much he could say to that.

'And there's one other thing,' Jackson added. 'Faisal Ahmed really wants you dead. I don't know why and I don't reckon I'll ever find out. But this terrorist attack of yours, I think it's just a red herring.'

Priestley did his best to remain expressionless.

'But you know what? I don't care. You and Pankhurst can play your little games as much as you like. Ahmed killed my family and I want him dead. I want him dead even more than he wants you dead. If you think that's a resource you can just ignore, then fine. But it'll be your funeral, sir, so you'd better start planning it.'

Jackson's stark warning seemed to ring in the air and sent a chill all the way through Priestley's body. Perhaps this SAS man whom MI5 seemed to trust so implicitly was right. Perhaps there was something to be said for going along with his proposal.

At least for now.

The guy really wanted Ahmed's head on a plate, that much was beyond doubt. Why not let him do what he wanted? After all, once Ahmed was dead, Priestley could deal with Will Jackson more permanently.

He nodded his head. 'All right, Will,' he said gravely. 'You've got yourself a deal.'

Latifa Ahmed watched her brother as he slept.

The flat in which they were staying — fifteen floors up a vast concrete tower block on a council estate fifty miles out of London — was more like a fortress than a home. Huge bolts sealed the front entrance closed and there was weaponry and ammunition everywhere. This was not a room designed for comfort. Latifa knew that Faisal had places like this dotted all over the country. When they had arrived, however, she hadn't been able to stop herself from sounding like her mother, dead these thirty years, and asking him how he could call such a place home.

Faisal's answer had been simple. 'I would rather be alive in a prison than dead in a home.'

He lay now on a thin mattress on the floor, his ever-present gun by his side. It seemed to her that she had never seen Faisal without his weapon, not since he was a child of ten. She had never actually witnessed him killing anybody, though, not until he rescued her a couple of nights previously. He had shot those two men so unthinkingly, showing such a lack of remorse, that she could not help looking at him differently now. It had been all she could do, slung over his shoulder as they escaped that house, to beg him not to kill Will Jackson, the man who — despite everything — had done so much for her. Faisal hadn't been pleased with the idea, but she felt she had at least done something to stop the bloodshed.

He had been such an idealistic little boy; but now, looking at his chest rising and falling and at the surroundings in which they found themselves, she could not help wondering what it was he was fighting for. Maybe the fight itself was everything.

Faisal's eyes flickered open and his hand moved automatically to his weapon as he snapped himself into awareness. He smiled at Latifa when he realised she was there; but she found herself unable to return that smile.

'You have been looking at me in that way ever since we got here,' Faisal said in quiet Pashto as he stood up and walked to the sink to splash cold water on his face.

'I keep thinking of the men you shot, Faisal,' she replied. 'Does it not bother you?'

He sighed. 'I have already told you, Latifa,' he said, impatiently. 'It was them or me. Would you have preferred to see me lying dead on the floor?'

'Of course not,' she murmured.

'They were soldiers, Latifa. Soldiers die. They knew that when they came after me.'

Latifa tried to bite her tongue. She knew she ought not to ask the question that was on her lips, but suddenly she couldn't help herself. 'And what of the little girl, Faisal? Will Jackson's little girl. Was she a soldier too?'

Faisal suddenly slammed his fist on the wall. 'I have explained that to you,' he shouted. 'Do not ask me about it again.'

And then Latifa was on her feet, hobbling towards her brother, who had menace in his eyes. His breath was shaking. 'Do not try to scare me like you scare them, Faisal,' she whispered. 'I am your sister. Have you forgotten what I have undergone to keep you safe?'

He lowered his eyes.

'When that man told me what you did to his family, I did not believe him. I did not want to believe him. I did not think you could do such a thing. But you have changed, Faisal. You have turned into something you never meant to be.'

'It was not supposed to happen,' he told her. 'It was an accident.'

'An accident? How can you say that? It was a little girl and her mother. How can you carry on with this way of life with such an accident weighing on your shoulders? Can you not see that it was only a matter of time before such a thing happened? That it will happen again?'

Faisal looked defiantly at her; but for all his fierceness she saw nothing more than the little boy she had once known. She stretched out her arms and cupped his face in her hands.

'Can you not see,' she whispered, 'that this will only end one way? The Taliban nearly killed you as they nearly killed me. We have both been given a second chance at life, Faisal. We must not squander it. What will I do if you are killed and I have no one else left in the whole world?'

Brother and sister looked deep into each other's eyes, but Faisal could not weather that stare for long. He moved her hands away from his face. 'You don't understand,' he said. 'For years I did the Americans' bidding. For years, Latifa. I was one of them. I believed I was fighting for the right side. Even when they asked me to start making phoney terrorist attacks against the British, I believed it was the right thing to do.' He turned back to look at her again. 'Believe me, Latifa. When that woman and child died, no one was more anguished than me. But then they asked me to start killing innocent civilians and I knew it was wrong.'

His brow was furrowed now and his features seemed strangely tortured. 'Can you not think what it must have been like, to realise that the people you have served all your life are not what you thought they were? Can you not understand how difficult it was to deny them? And can you not see the depth of their betrayal? After all I had risked for them, to leave me to the vultures.' Faisal's nostrils flared and he looked away from his sister.

'We can leave here,' Latifa whispered. 'Leave this country. Hide away. We don't need to have anything more to do with these people, Faisal. You cannot fight the might of the Americans, so why risk your life doing it?'

'Because I'm a soldier. All my life I have fought for someone. But now, I fight for myself.' His eyes flashed. 'Donald Priestley will pay for what he did to me, Latifa. I will not have it any other way.'

His words seemed to puncture Latifa's soul. 'And after him,' she asked. 'What then? Where will it end, Faisal? When will it end, all this killing? What about Will Jackson? He is a good man, but I have seen the hate in his eyes when he speaks your name.'

Faisal frowned. 'I am grateful to Will Jackson for what he did for you, Latifa, and I spared his life at your request. But I will not do so again. I do not blame him for wanting me dead — in his position I would want the same. But if he is foolish enough to come searching for me, he knows the stakes. He knows I will not hesitate to kill him.'

Latifa closed her eyes. It was impossible for her to express to her brother the deep sadness she felt at hearing his words; impossible for her to relay the dreadful sense of foreboding that seemed to permeate to her very core.

'But what,' she asked, her voice hesitant, 'if he kills you first?'

As she spoke, Faisal had his back to her. But when he heard those words, he turned his head and glanced over his shoulder. The look he gave her almost stopped Latifa's heart. In that instant, perhaps for the first time ever, she saw not the little boy she had taken care of all those years ago in a small village in Afghanistan; she saw not even the idealistic young teenager who spent his days picking off hated Russian soldiers with his well maintained AK-47; nor even the CIA-trained agent who had managed to infiltrate the highest levels of al-Qaeda for so many years.

She saw none of these things. Instead, standing before her, she seemed to see a different person. The contours of his shoulder muscles were pronounced and sinewy; his jaw was set; his lips unsmiling. But it was his eyes that shocked her most of all. They were flat. Emotionless. Murderous. The cold, unfeeling eyes of a killer.

And for the first time in her life, Latifa Ahmed felt afraid of her brother.

He did not answer her question, but that look told Latifa everything she needed to know. She bowed her head and stared out of the window while Faisal bent over, picked up his weapon and started taking it to bits, preparing to clean it.

Preparing to use it. And soon.