mi5 headquarters, thames house, london,
2:00 p.m. gmt
Nolan had been mistaken about the shoulder of lamb with rosemary sauce. Although it was cooked perfectly, it seemed the Crimea Club chef had some aversion to seasonings; it was totally bland—the kind of meal that gave British food its international reputation. The SAS team had all ordered the filet of beef with Béarnaise sauce—cooked to a perfect medium rare and looking delicious. Shae and K had gone for the grilled Dover sole with lemon and herb butter. When Kristen began ordering the salmon fish cakes and K had coughed to attract her attention and subtly shook his head no, Terry had to suppress a laugh. After that warning, Kristen had also ordered the sole. As the waiter walked away, K made a comment comparing the fish cakes unfavorably to axle grease, which he claimed was not only more tender but more flavorful. The entire table burst out laughing, bringing looks of consternation from the elderly club members in mid soup-slurp. No wine had been ordered with the meal. Apart from the ladies ordering Diet Cokes, the rest of the table had ordered coffee with instructions to the waiter to keep it flowing. The only interruption to the meal was when a waiter entering the kitchen dropped a plate. Instantly, guns were drawn, and the men were on their feet forming a protective cordon around K and the two ladies. The other diners were shocked, of course, and the men returned to their seats, but the maître d’ expertly smoothed things over, and the meal was finished without further incident.
After lunch, K told his four-man permanent security team to have two more cars brought over to drive them back to Thames House. At last, Terry was coming home to roost. K had Nolan and Huntington ride with him and during the drive gave them a heads-up on the prime minister’s decision to follow his plan to have the residents of the city shelter in place.
“Has Her Majesty signed Queen’s Order Two?” asked Huntington.
“She did so this morning,” replied K.
“So, the entire British military is being deployed?”
K nodded. “As of yesterday, all leave was cancelled, and troops currently away from their units were ordered back to base. Reserve and territorial units are being called up, and all police officers and civil defense personnel are on a two-hour notice to report for duty. That will most probably change by morning. Soldiers are being deployed as discreetly as possible to Northern Ireland to try and prevent any follow-up attacks. Also, troops are to be deployed to every major city. Food rationing is going to be implemented to prevent hoarding.”
“Bloody hell,” said Nolan. “This is not going to end well.”
“No, I’m afraid it’s not,” replied K. “That’s why we have to stop this.”
“What’s next?” asked Huntington.
“Today we’re going to have Shae work with one of our people to put together a photofit of the woman and also look over our mugshot database. We’ve already put the word out to the local constabularies, ports, and airports to be on the lookout for Patrick O’Keith. If we can grab him then he’ll tell us where the woman is once our inquisitors get their hands on him.”
“That’s if she’s here,” said Huntington.
“Oh, she’s here,” replied K. “My people have been looking at CCTV footage from Biggin Hill, and they were both spotted going through the small terminal building there. Unfortunately, she knew she’d be surveilled and was wearing a hat and kept her head down. We do, however, have a clear shot of O’Keith. They were picked up by private car, a white Range Rover, which we tracked almost to the city but lost when it exited the A23 near Streatham Common. The car was found abandoned near the North Dulwich train station an hour ago. What vehicle they used after that we have no idea. We have over a hundred officers from the Metropolitan Police reviewing CCTV footage of every vehicle on the surrounding roads, checking the four-hour period when they would have ditched the car, but it’s like looking for a needle in all the haystacks in Great Britain combined. We don’t know where our two main players switched cars—it could have been miles away from where the car was left.”
“So we’re screwed,” replied Nolan.
“There is one thing,” said K. “It’s the reason I wanted to talk to you two away from the others. We need to offer some bait to get An Dailtín to make a move.”
“I don’t particularly like the sound of that,” replied Nolan.
The car came to a halt, and K looked out the window. “We’re here. We shall discuss this further—later.”
Terry was more than a little surprised that the vehicles had stopped outside the main entrance to the building instead of going straight down to the underground carpark, but he shook it off as paranoia.
It had been a number of years since he had been in the building, and he was quietly surprised at how much had changed. Gone were the desks that had lined the room with their antiquated computers, replaced by modular cubicles and the latest high-end computer systems. Banks of monitors dotted the room, forming large screens when needed. He also noticed a kitchen in one corner that had a stock of various pastries and snacks. I guess the war on terror has significantly increased MI5’s budget.
Shae spent an hour working on the photofit, and after it was completed, they ran the sketch through the facial recognition database. One of the people handling the identification process told Nolan that Shae was handling herself like a boss, which surprised everyone, given her recent ordeal. They got a couple of hits, but these were quickly dismissed. Then it was on to the mugshots. After an hour, Shae requested a break, as the images were beginning to blur into each other. The group headed to a coffee shop a couple of blocks away and sat outside in the crisp London day enjoying the fresh cool air. Then it was back for another marathon session. Before they left for dinner, K called Nolan and Huntington into his office.
“So, no luck?” he asked.
“Sorry, sir, nothing so far,” said Terry. “We are planning to come back tomorrow to look through the Interpol and FBI mugshots, but to be honest, I’m not holding out for her having much luck.”
“I guess that brings us to the other matter we discussed earlier.”
“The other matter?” inquired Huntington.
“He means the bait thing,” replied Terry.
K sat back in his chair and ran through the idea he’d come up with to draw out their female adversary. When he finished, there was an uncomfortable silence between the three men.
“Well?” he asked. “What do you think?”
Huntington remained silent and looked over at the MI5 operative.
“Please excuse my language, sir,” Terry said, “but are you out of your fucking mind?”