SIX

LONDON, ONE YEAR EARLIER

DR. SAHIRA KARIM LOOKED AT HER WATCH. Nearly eight o'clock on a Saturday night. Instead of being where she should be, or, at least, where she dearly longed to be, namely, out at Heathrow putting her fiance, Anthony, on his night flight to New York, she was sitting at her work-cluttered desk at Thames House. Reams of intercepted cellular transcripts and stacks of neighborhood surveillance reports loomed before her.

It promised to be a long night.

At least her newly acquired corner office came with a spectacular view of the Thames River, flowing beneath the gracefully arched Lambeth Bridge just to her left. Tonight the bridge was aglow with slow-moving traffic, wavering halos of white headlamps, and flashing red taillights crisscrossing in the misty rain.

Completed in 1930, Thames House, the stately buildings where Dr. Karim had worked ever since leaving university, were designed in the "Imperial Neoclassical" tradition of Sir Edward Luytens. Headquarters of MI5, or Five, as it was called, the massive complex was a huge improvement over the Secret Service's former digs on Curzon Street and, later, at 140 Gower Street.

Standing almost directly across the Thames, on the Albert Embankment at 85 Vauxhall, stood the headquarters of MI5's "sister" intelligence agency, MI6. This edifice was an unashamedly modern affair, architecturally controversial, and sometimes referred to as "Legoland" by the wags across the river at Five.

In the British Secret Service, there are two distinct entities: MI6, which deals with international intelligence and security matters; and MI5, which deals strictly with domestic affairs, including Northern Ireland. Both halves of the equation had become increasingly complex since 9/11 and the rise of radical Islam, hence Dr. Karim's preposterous workload on this rainy Saturday evening in June.

Dr. Karim was a striking woman, tall, with olive skin, gleaming black hair that brushed her shoulders, full red lips, and dark, liquid eyes beneath long black lashes. She dressed conservatively, as befitted her position, but there was always a startling flare of color just at her neck, flaming scarlet or shimmering yellow silk. Born an only child some thirty years ago in the grim slums of New Delhi, she emigrated with her family to London, and a tiny flat in Fulham, when she was ten. She'd embraced London on sight and had thrived in it ever since.

She'd moved up a bit in the world since her humble origins in the squalid back alleys of her childhood. Sahira had recently been named MI5's new director of domestic intelligence. Her primary responsibilities included Northern Ireland-related terrorism as well as the domestic Islamic extremist groups active in London and throughout the country. Since the most recent London tube and bus bombings, everyone in the building had been on edge, waiting for the next attack.

MI5's counterterrorism section, under Sahira's direction, had foiled more than a few potentially devastating bombings, but that was not common knowledge outside Thames House, nor would it ever be. One of Sahira's primary qualifications for the job was her scientific background in nuclear and nonnuclear weaponry.

In addition to her international affairs credentials, Dr. Karim had a nuclear physics and engineering background, and she sometimes dabbled in weapons design at MI5. Her proudest achievement was a "warbot," an "unmanned ground vehicle" she had nicknamed "Ugg." A few had been produced and were in use by the British Army in Afghanistan. In addition to guns and cameras, Ugg had sensors capable of detecting poison gas, airborne bacteria, and nuclear radiation.

ONE VERY TROUBLING THING CURRENTLY on her radar was an IRA splinter group, which called itself the "Real IRA" or the "New IRA." Ignoring the long-standing peace since the Good Friday Agreement, the New IRA cell had recently been stirring up a lot of trouble in Northern Ireland. Their strategy was simple: if they killed enough British soldiers, members of the former Royal Ulster Brigade, and civilians, they would surely invite loyalist retaliation, and thus reignite the violent struggle for a unified Ireland.

A year ago, dissident Republicans had murdered two British Army soldiers. More recently, a six-hundred-pound bomb had been discovered, buried just outside the village of Forkhill, in south Armagh, Northern Ireland. Meant to kill a Police Service of Northern Ireland patrol, it had been located and disarmed by Dr. Karim and her MI5 Weapons Disposal team just before it exploded. In addition to the deaths and injuries, it would definitely have generated fierce reprisals, and a tidal wave of renewed violence.

Daily, new and ever-increasing threats from Northern Ireland surfaced, and they whistled over Sahira's head like a scythe.

Closer to home were the radical Islamic terrorists born to immigrant parents right here in Britain. Ever since the horrific London transit bombings in the summer of 2005, Sahira's section had been focused on suspicious activities in the heavily Pakistani inhabited regions of East London. And working-class towns like Leeds and Birmingham.

After years of study, she knew this highly volatile domestic Muslim population demanded constant vigilance and never-ending surveillance. The United Kingdom was now home to the largest immigrant Arab population in Europe, one that was always simmering. And one that could boil over at any given moment.

That's why she was sitting here tonight instead of out at Heathrow kissing Tony, her fiance, good-bye. They had managed to squeeze in a quick farewell lunch at the Ivy, and he'd given her a lovely string of antique pearls from Asprey's, but still. She already missed him. They were to be married in less than a month.

A high-ranking minister in the P.M.'s cabinet, Anthony Soames-Taylor normally worked at Downing Street. But he would be in Washington for three whole weeks. He was scheduled to attend a series of secret CIA meetings on Anglo-American joint security measures against urban weapons of mass destruction. This emergency session had been called in light of the latest intelligence coming out of Pakistan and Afghanistan.

Number one concern on the Western intel community's list: the radical Islamic takeover of an unstable Pakistan. Besides granting radical Islam a home base, at least one hundred nuclear weapons would fall into the hands of the West's avowed enemies.

The repercussions would obviously be devastating. Not only the nuclear threat posed by the rogue nation, but the encouragement of homegrown terrorists in both America and Britain to engage in more violence.

Sahira was deep into a close inspection of a transcript when one of her two desk phones began blinking red. Shit. It meant the director general of MI5, Lord Malmsey, was calling her. At this time of night on a Saturday, it was most likely not good news.

"Dr. Karim," she said cheerfully, picking up the receiver.

"Sahira, glad I caught you; we've a situation on our hands. Not sure how serious it is yet, but it certainly has that potential. I'll need your immediate involvement. Are you quite busy?"

"No, sir, not at all. How can I help?"

"Well, here it is. A flash emergency signal has just been received from one of the British Air ticket agents out at Terminal Four, Heathrow. But I'm now looking at live feeds from all the T-4 CCTV security cameras out there and I can't see a damn thing out of the ordinary."

"Someone hit a button accidentally?"

"Possibly. Nevertheless, I've already spoken to Heathrow's head of security and ordered our own team out there to Level One readiness, with instructions to stand by until we know what the hell, if anything, is going on. Could be a false alarm, of course. The permanent Heathrow security forces have also gone on alert standby. No one makes a move until we have an accurate threat assessment."

"How can I help, sir?"

"Had a thought. Just occurred to me. I recall that at our breakfast meeting this morning you mentioned your fiance was flying BA to Washington Dulles tonight on the nine thirty. Correct?"

"Yes, sir. Anthony is probably checking in at Terminal Four as we speak."

"Flying first class, I imagine?"

"No, sir, Tony always flies economy. Says screaming babies are character-building. He'll be in the main hall."

"I'd like you to ring his mobile. Casual chat, good-bye and that sort of thing. But ask him if he's aware of anything at all out of the ordinary out there. Anything we should know about. Don't alarm him, no panic, just say you got an odd call you're running down, probably nothing, you know the drill. Ring me back as soon as you've spoken."

"Will do," she said, hanging up, grabbing her shoulder bag, and tossing her mobile inside as she headed for the door. Her black Mini was parked in the Thames House underground garage. She would call Anthony as soon as she was en route to Heathrow. At this time of night on a weekend, she could be there in less than half an hour. She'd tune in to BBC World News radio and monitor the situation on the way.

Tires squealing as she tore around and around the endless parking garage levels, she speed-dialed Anthony on her Bluetooth handsfree.

"Hullo?"

"Anthony, darling, it's me. Missing you already, if that's not inappropriate. You okay?"

"Fine, fine. Just missing you already, too, if that's not too pathetic."

"No, no. It's good. Missing is good. Listen, we got this call a few minutes ago about a possible situation at Terminal Four. Anything weird going on out there that catches your eye?"

"Nope. Nothing but the glamour of modern air travel and those of us lucky enough to be in the queue, so far. I'm snaking along in a human conga line that will ultimately dump me into the bosom of our so-called security checkpoint, whereupon I shall duly remove my shoes and tiptoe through the tulips. I think it would save a good deal of time if everyone went through security naked and then got dressed at the other end, don't you?"

"OK, good, nothing to worry about then. But, darling, if you do see anything even slightly odd, do ring me right back on my mobile straightaway, will you, sweetie?"

"Yes, of course. If you don't hear from me, I'll call you when I land at JFK in the morning. Love you."

"Love you, too."

Sahira downshifted as she exited the garage at a high rate of speed, nearly taking the turn on two wheels.

MR. AND MRS. H. B. BOOTHBY, first-class passengers to New York on BA Flight #44, were next in line to check in. They'd been in London for a week, staying at Claridge's, sightseeing, doing a little shopping, and taking in some theater. They were going home tonight only because Henry had a one o'clock tee time on Long Island, out at Shinnecock tomorrow afternoon.

"Henry," Dottie Boothby whispered to her husband, "do you notice anything odd about the fellow right behind us? Don't look now…"

Henry Boothby took a deliberately casual quick peek over his right shoulder and saw a perfectly ordinary-looking young man, late twenties, nicely dressed in a dark suit, white shirt, navy tie. He had one of those Bluetooth devices in his ear and was speaking into a little microphone extending near his mouth. The young man caught him looking and smiled, not in an unfriendly way at all. He carried on speaking quietly with someone on his mobile phone.

Henry said to his wife, "No. Perfectly decent-looking young man."

"He smells."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean he stinks, Henry. Like he hasn't bathed in a month, that's what I mean."

Her husband leaned into her and smiled.

"Dottie, I don't smell a thing. Your nose is just too sensitive that's all and-"

"You know what it is? I'll tell you what it is. It's fear sweat, that's what it is."

"Dottie, if I didn't know you better, I'd say you were guilty of racial profiling. And, dear, you know how I feel about that kind of-"

"Next in line, please," the attractive blond BA agent said. Her name tag said "Rosetree." A perfect English rose, Dottie Boothby thought, all that golden hair piled neatly atop her head, the sweet blue eyes, the rosy bloom on her dewy cheeks. She looked for a ring and was amazed some rakish young man about town had not taken this prize.

The Boothbys advanced to the counter and placed their passports in front of her. She was as efficient and friendly as she'd been trained to be and it was only a couple of minutes before they had their boarding passes and were en route to engage the modern nightmare of boarding an airplane.

"I'm going to find Airport Security, right now," Mrs. Boothby said as they moved away from the counter.

"Why?"

"You're supposed to report anyone suspicious, that's why."

"Dottie, don't be ridiculous. You can report someone who acts suspicious. You simply cannot report someone who smells suspicious."

"Next in line, please," Agent Allison Rosetree said as the bickering Boothbys disappeared into the crowded main hall.

"Good evening," the young man said, putting his British passport on the counter. She noticed he had a medium-sized aluminum suitcase with wheels and a pull handle. She also noticed strong body odor and a slight sheen of perspiration on his face and filed it away, a fact to remember. Fear of flying was the number one cause, she reminded herself.

Miss Rosetree routinely ran his passport through the scanner, smiled at the result, and said, "Seat 3-A, a window, Mr. Mahmood. You don't start boarding until nine p.m., so please feel free to enjoy our first-class Speedwing Lounge to your right after you pass through security. Everything looks lovely for a smooth flight across the Atlantic, arriving on time at JFK at eight a.m. Eastern Standard. Do you wish to check that luggage or carry on board?"

"It's not luggage," Mr. Mahmood said, the quiet smile suddenly gone from his face.

"Sorry?"

"It's not luggage."

"Looks a lot like luggage to me," she said carefully, professionally, beginning to have serious doubts about this passenger. He leaned into her and spoke barely above a whisper.

"It's a bomb, actually."

"Sorry?"

"You heard me."

"Say again, please. I must have misunderstood."

"I said, listen carefully please, it is a bomb. Fifty pounds of extraordinarily powerful explosives. I'd like you to close this station now. Please inform those waiting behind me that you are no longer checking in passengers."

She looked him in the eye, paused, then called out to the other passengers waiting at the white line, "Sorry, ladies and gentlemen, this station is temporarily closed. My colleagues to the left will be more than happy to take care of you."

There was some mumbling, but like the trained sheep they'd all become, the numb passengers mumbled a bit then moved over to queue up at the rear of various other agent stations.

Rosetree leaned across the counter and whispered very forcefully to her passenger.

"I have to inform you, Mr. Mahmood, that such remarks, while perhaps in jest, subject you to immediate arrest. Have you been drinking? Taking prescription narcotics? Are you completely aware of what you have just said?"

"Miss Rosetree, again, listen very carefully. There are seven of us here in Terminal Four. Two here in the First Class check-in area, and five more out in the main section of the terminal. Each one of my brothers carries an identical explosive device to the one you see here. We are unidentifiable. Our passports are in order. We are in constant communication via the Bluetooth device I am currently using. This entire conversation is being monitored by my six fellow martyrs."

"Well, I-" She lowered her left hand and moved a finger toward the emergency button beneath her computer terminal.

"Both hands on your keyboard. Now. I'm aware that you have the means to signal security with your foot as well. If I or one of my colleagues should detect any aggressive action by any airport security officials or U.K. internal security forces we know are in place, we shall immediately detonate our devices using buttons like the one you see here on my extended luggage handle. Detonators. See it?"

"Yes."

"Good. Now, please, try to remain calm and do exactly as I say. If you comply, no one need die. Understand?"

"Yes."

"I want you to place a call to this number at the BBC Television Center. You will reach Mr. Simon McCoy, executive producer of BBC World News. One of my colleagues has just spoken with him and he is expecting your call. Tell him who you are and inform him that you have a passenger who wishes to be patched through immediately to the on-air presenter now broadcasting live, a woman named Betsy Post-Miller. I have a message to deliver to the British people. Unless Mr. McCoy complies immediately, Terminal Four, Heathrow, will cease to exist. Do you understand me?"

She nodded, all of her worst nightmares coming true in this surreal moment.

He passed her a folded piece of paper with a single phone number inscribed. Agent Rosetree picked up the receiver and dialed the number. A man answered immediately.

"This is Simon McCoy."

"Mr. McCoy, you are expecting this call. I am British Airways Agent Rosetree. I have a passenger here who wishes to deliver a message via your on-air presenter, Betsy Post-Miller. You are aware of the consequences should you not comply?"

"I am. Put him on. Miss Post-Miller is in the studio, on air, and expecting this call. She understands the situation."

She handed the receiver to the pale terrorist. He took the phone in his left hand, kept his right hand on the bag handle, his index finger poised above the button.

"Miss Post-Miller, am I on the air with you? Live?"

"You are."

"Do you have a close-up of me on the CCTV cameras?"

"We do."

"What am I wearing?"

"Dark suit, white shirt, dark tie."

"Good. Let's proceed."

"Please don't hurt anyone. We'll give you as much airtime as you wish."

"I would like to address the people of Britain on behalf of my fellow countrymen both here and in our beloved homeland of Pakistan. We came to your shores with high hopes and open hearts. We have found only humiliation and scorn. Our hopes have been dashed and our hearts closed because of your cruel indifference to our dreams of a better life. In our home country, your troops massacre our brothers and sisters, bombing innocent people in Afghanistan and Pakistan daily. Our children are dying daily in the fires of your bombs.

"We will accept nothing less than Taliban rule and Sharia law in our own country of Pakistan. And until the last infidel is dead, until all British forces have left our blood-soaked lands, we, the Sword of Allah, will continue our righteous jihad against our oppressors both here in Britain and in our native land. Consider this as your first warning. It is only the beginning. There is no God but God. We are the Sword of Allah! Allahu Akhbar! Allahu Akhbar! Allahu-"

SAHIRA WAS JUST ACCELERATING UP the curving Departures ramp for Terminal Four when an unearthly blast shook the ground and the sky itself caught fire all around her, a brilliant, blinding orange that scalded her eyes as she swerved the Mini violently to avoid a red London bus that was careening wildly, clearly out of control.

She smashed off a guardrail, hit a parked black taxi broadside, spun out, hit a concrete barrier, and was then flung back across the road, the steering wheel jammed painfully against her chest. She was skidding directly into the path of the bus, which suddenly was airborne, hurtling end over end toward her through the air, completely engulfed in flames. Trapped by the steering wheel, all she could do was stare at it in horror.

Astonishingly, time slowed to a remarkable degree. Slower than the slowest motion, almost coming to a stop. Sahira could distinctly see the passengers inside the bus, many of them on fire-men, women, and children tumbling about inside, flaming rag dolls trapped within the pinwheeling vehicle, hurtling through space. It seemed to be headed directly for the Mini.

She'd never felt more in God's hands than she did at that moment.

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