Chapter Eight
December 17
MI5 Station, London
United Kingdom
“I just don’t understand the rationale behind this behavior.” Wallace Crawford wrinkled his brow and tossed his spectacles on the large brown conference room desk. “We have protocols, agreements in place, precisely to avoid situations like this.”
Justin was not surprised by the very un-British gesture of MI5 Director Crawford. Over the last twenty minutes, he had grilled Justin and Carrie on their “unsanctioned” operation in Waltham Forest and had given way to more than one outburst. “I understand, sir. But as pointed out earlier, things did escalate at such a fast pace that further communication became impossible.”
Crawford shook his half-bald bullet-shaped head. “How long does it take to ring my agents and give them a situation report? Twenty, thirty seconds?” He pursed his lips. “This is inexcusable, Mr. Hall, and intolerable.”
Justin shrugged. “We informed your station about al-Nueimi’s sighting at the safehouse. When we arrived, there was no MI5 presence, and no indication of your desire to cooperate. So we—”
“So you decided to take matters into your own hands, isn’t that right? But let me remind you, Mr. Hall, that this isn’t Canada, Austria, or one of those war-ravaged Middle East countries. Here, in my homeland, I’m responsible for what happens.”
“Yes, I get that—”
“No, no, I don’t think you do. My office was still assessing the intelligence obtained, when your gun-blazing cowboys attacked the house, leaving behind a trail of dead men.”
“Terrorists, sir.”
“Innocent British citizens. Now I have this mess to clean up, a community in revolt.”
“And we were able to stop a major terrorist attack about to happen in your homeland. That’s also your responsibility, right?”
Crawford peered at Justin. “I don’t appreciate your making light of this situation. And the man detained at Tower Hill isn’t talking. He already has defense counsel—one of the best law firms in London—and we can’t get any information out of him.”
Justin glanced at Carrie sitting to his right, then leaned forward. “I’d like to speak to him. Perhaps I can change—”
“No, that’s not going to happen, Hall. It will only aggravate the situation. And at this point, I need more aggravation like I need a heart attack.”
Crawford loosened the knot of his black tie, undid the top button of his crisp white shirt, and drew in a couple of deep breaths. His rosy cheeks shone brighter, and his double chin seemed more inflated now that it could hang loose.
Justin wondered if the director was really going to collapse right in front of them because of stress. “So, what are our next steps, then?”
Crawford cocked his head. “It seems I’m having trouble getting you to understand this situation. There are no our next steps. The only reason why you’re not under arrest is because of the embarrassment it would cause to MI5 and my country. But your operation in London is terminated.” Crawford’s fiery eyes gave Justin a harsh look. “And if you’re thinking that you don’t get orders from me, that’s the order of your chief, Mr. Flavio Moretti. He’s expecting your call.”
Justin nodded and stifled a grin. He had already talked to his chief, who had informed Justin about Crawford and the tongue-lashing he was going to give to Justin. Flavio had also assured Justin that Crawford was little more than a “tempest in a teapot.” Let him vent his anger, keep calm, and carry on with the mission, Flavio had said.
“So we’re done here, sir?” Justin leaned back on his seat.
“For now, but I’ll require a full, complete report of everything that happened. Don’t leave out any details.”
“Of course, otherwise it wouldn’t be complete.”
Crawford shook his head then reached for his glasses. It seemed he could not determine if Justin was being smart-alecky or sincere in his reply, since he had kept his voice void of emotion. “You can make yourself scarce now, Mr. Hall, and Ms. O’Connor.” Crawford made a dismissive wave toward the door.
“Thank you, sir,” Carrie said. “I’m sorry things went sideways.”
“The blame lies only with your agency. My hands are clean.”
Carrie nodded.
Justin stood up and offered Crawford his hand. Crawford hesitated for a moment while holding Justin’s eyes, then returned a small nod and stretched out his hand. Justin shook it, and it felt cold and slippery, like a snake’s skin. “Have a good night, sir.”
Crawford dropped his eyes to the heap of folders in front of him. “It’s going to be a long, tiresome night, and there’s nothing good about it.” He again waved his right hand toward the conference room’s door.
Justin shrugged, but said nothing else. He buttoned his jacket, then nodded toward Carrie, who walked out ahead of him.
Outside in the hall, they met Vale and Dolina. She had been wounded by shrapnel during the firefight, and a butterfly bandage was fastened to the right side of her forehead. “How did it go?” Dolina asked.
Justin shrugged. “Uh, as expected.”
“So it’s business as usual?” Vale asked.
“Not quite. The man MI5 arrested at the safehouse is off limits. He has a lawyer, and Crawford doesn’t want to rock the boat.”
“And we’ll do what MI5 says this time?” Vale’s question carried the unmistakable tone of rebellion.
Justin looked around. The hall was empty, but he noticed a couple of cameras mounted near one of the corners. He moved closer to Vale. “For now, we’ll play by the rules. If we can’t find anything else without the detainee, we’ll reconsider. But Crawford is furious, and I’d rather not push his buttons, again,” he said in a hushed tone.
“On the topic of making our allies furious, Arkady gave me an earful already,” Dolina said. “He’s downstairs, waiting for us—well . . . for you.” She nodded at Justin.
He shrugged. “As if I haven’t ruffled enough feathers already . . .”
They took the elevator to the ground floor. As they stepped into the large hall, Arkady was pacing near the front entrance. He turned his head and a deep frown spread across his face. “Justin, may I have a word with you?”
“Of course, Arkady. I was just coming to see you.”
“Oh, good, follow me then.”
He waited until they were on the sidewalk dimly lit by a single streetlight. Arkady walked a few paces so they could be beyond earshot of the two guards posted near the station’s entrance. His head swiveled around as he looked at a couple of pedestrians walking past them. Once they were gone, Arkady looked at Justin, “What’s going on here?”
“What do you mean, Arkady?”
“I mean this operation. The SVR gives you everything on al-Nueimi, and you go behind our back and try to grab him.”
“We didn’t go behind your back. We informed you of the safehouse’s location. Claudia made the call. But you were unavailable, and we couldn’t wait.”
“Oh, is that the case?”
“Yes, that’s it, and that’s all. We sent you the after-action report, with all details. We left nothing out.”
Arkady shook his head. “We need to have an understanding, Justin, if this operation is to succeed, and we’re to catch al-Nueimi. We need to work together.”
“I agree, and we are.” Justin nodded. He paused for a moment. “Perhaps we can communicate better.”
“Yes, and stay together.”
“Of course.”
Arkady offered a small nod, but the frown remained on his face. “Okay, okay, water under the proverbial bridge. Let’s start fresh. What did MI5 say?”
“Scolded me for not waiting for them.”
“Yes, you seem to have made that a habit.”
Justin gave Arkady a sideways glance but let his comment slide. “And they don’t want us to go on with our mission. Officially, my boss has agreed to that.”
“And unofficially?”
“The mission hasn’t changed.”
“Good, because we’ve got some new intel.” Arkady tapped his jacket front pocket.
“And?”
“We don’t have to worry about MI5. Al-Nueimi is no longer in London or in the UK for that matter.”
“Where is he?”
“I’ll tell you when we get there.”
Justin shook his head. “No, Arkady. Tell me now.”
Arkady looked deep into Justin’s squinting eyes. “No surprises?”
“You have my word.”
“Al-Nueimi is in Sweden.”
“Sweden?”
“Yes. Stockholm.”
“Why Sweden?”
“Why not Sweden? The country is a paradise for returned jihadists. They receive free housing, travel IDs, tax cuts in an effort to reintegrate them into society. Over 300 Swedish nationals fought with ISIS and other terror groups as recently as last month. More than half of them have returned to Sweden. Fertile ground for recruiters like al-Nueimi.”
“Once a terrorist, always a terrorist.”
“You have any doubts?”
“No, not really. You can take a man out of ISIS, but can you truly take ISIS’s macabre ideas out of the man’s heart?”
Arkady shook his head. “Impossible. We have reports of ISIS ‘secret cells,’ fighters trained to wage jihad on European capitals. Brussels, Vienna, Berlin, Paris, Stockholm. No place is safe.”
Justin nodded. “Yes, I’m aware of those reports. These fighters have received longer training. They’re taught urban combat, surveillance and counter-surveillance tactics, and how to operate independently.”
“Lone wolves.”
“Yes. So we head to Stockholm right away?”
“We have a private jet ready at Heathrow.”
“Who’s ‘we’?”
“A Russian oil company we often use for covert ops. Makes things easier when it comes to customs and immigrations.”
“Diplomatic cover?”
“Naturally.” Arkady grinned.
“I like how Russians think.” Justin had used the same strategy when entering Yemen and other hot spots.
“I’m glad you do. And hopefully this time, our operation will truly be joined.”
“What happened to water under the bridge, Arkady?”
Arkady shrugged. “Just wanna make sure we understand each other.”
“We do. Now let’s go.”
“All right. I’ve got to call the pilot, make sure he’s ready.”
Justin nodded. “All right. I’ve got to make a phone call as well.” He sighed as his mind went to Karolin. He had cancelled their romantic evening, and Karolin had not taken it well. Now he was going to give her even more bad news. I don’t know how much longer I can do this to her, breaking her heart one piece at a time. And I truly don’t know how much longer she can take it. He sighed again, stepped away from Arkady, and pulled out his phone.