CHAPTER 17
London
Parker pulled up the collar of his coat to block the drizzle from the late fall storm. It was another wet day, and he found London in late fall depressing. At least he had a new Barbour rain jacket suited to the climate. He wouldn’t wear a cap, and his long hair and new beard were damp from the continuous drizzle. So he stood there, in the dark and rain and cold at nearly three in the morning, waiting for a bus that should soon be arriving carrying a certain man.
He was exhausted. His trip had grown lengthy long before his arrival in London. On a C-37 Gulfstream to Germany he boned up with the language instructor from Monterey on the subtleties of Bosnian and Arab languages. The Agency jet was set up more like a small office, from end to end, with documentation, clothing, haircuts, inoculations, cultural training, and everything else that could be crammed in. He’d had no time or room for sleeping. Fortunately, after meeting the real Zabara in Germany, Parker was able to get one hard, solid hour of sleep on the flight to England.
I must be crazy.
Parker rarely had self-doubt. He had learned some time ago that doubt can never be a benefit to anything. But in only a few days he had gone from private citizen to deep-cover agent.
If it weren’t important, I wouldn’t be here . . .
The reason for the mission obliterated any doubt: Everything the Agency knew, everything that they told him about Yousef al-Qadi, only confirmed what he suspected. Not only had he helped kill Parker’s parents, he would also kill many thousands more if not stopped.
A fire-engine-red double-decker bus pulled around the corner, and Parker climbed onto its rear, heading directly toward the stairway to the second deck. A man with a baseball hat stood on the first step, blocking the stairs with his weightlifter’s body. Parker measured well over six feet, but the stranger towered above him. The guard had a crew cut below his cap, clearly a member of the military. Parker took a step toward the stairway and the stranger put his hand across the landing and grabbed the railing on the other side.
Parker glanced around to see that the few remaining passengers were sitting up front near the driver. It was a slow day and, being mid-morning, the passenger traffic had slowed down considerably. He leaned over to the man.
“Scott.”
The oversized stranger immediately pulled his arm away from the railing.
Parker climbed the curved stairs up to the second deck. It was empty except for one man sitting near the front reading the London Times.
Scott laid down the newspaper when the bearded man came up and sat down in the seat across from him
“Well, William, it’s good to see that you made it.”
“Thanks.”
“Our unit has put together several articles for you. They should keep the hook baited.” With the help of MI6, Parker was to publish a quick series of fiery op-ed pieces supposedly penned by Sadik Zabara. Britain’s own Scotland Yard had not been told the truth, that “Zabara” was in fact a deep plant, for fear of a potential leak. Consequently, Parker, aka Zabara, was already being listed by several domestic law-enforcement agencies as a danger. His initial comparison of Al Qaeda to the American Revolutionary heroes had already stung his host country twice while rapidly making him into a folk hero for the extremist Muslim community in Great Britain.
“The e-mail from Yousef came.”
“Yes.”
“I’m supposed to be in Peshawar by noon on November seventh.”
Scott blinked. “What else?”
“Nothing. It simply said that if I wanted to meet a great leader I was to be at the Khyber bazaar at noon.”
“That’s it?”
“I imagine Yousef has not survived this long without being cautious.”
“This is a new PDA,” Scott changed the subject abruptly, handing Parker what looked like a BlackBerry cell phone. Unlike a BlackBerry, however, it had no logos on it. “It wasn’t ready for you earlier.”
“Okay.”
“It’s a Sectéra Edge. It can handle top-secret, and if you lose your password, it becomes a four-ounce brick. No one can get into it.”
“An Edge? That’s poetic.” Parker was leery of having his life depend upon any technology, let alone a cell phone, but he wasn’t planning on using it much anyway.
“It has your new articles attached to the e-mail in it.” Scott knew that Parker could retype the stories, adding his touches that identified his style, and submit them to the editor.
“Watch this.” Scott held up the phone. “It’s Bosnian.” The initial screen showed a bold blue-and-white Telekom Srpske logo. “You have to go through two windows and a password to get into the inner phone.”
Parker took the phone and scanned through the initial screens.
“What about my backup?” Parker asked, referring to Afghanistan.
“We’ve got your support team ready.”
“Moncrief has to be on it.”
Scott nodded.
“And I need to meet the leader of the team.”
“Okay.”
“How’s the missus?” Scott asked wryly, referring to Zabara’s wife and her niece, who were living with him.
Parker was not amused. “At night she comforts her niece, who still cries for her parents.” Parker had spent hours already listening to Zabara’s wife rocking the child in her arms and singing to her softly in their Bosnian language. It was not pleasant.
“Well, once they get through this, they get their golden ticket.”
“What do you mean?”
“All three of them will be relocated to the U.S., get new names, and be made American citizens.”
Parker had assumed as much. Still, he was amazed at what the wife was putting her niece and self through. Zabara was being kept well out of sight, probably at some remote location in Scotland.
“Scott, I need you to do something.”
Scott shrugged.
“A favor.”
“What is it?”
Parker knew he had Scott over a barrel. The entire mission depended upon this one man. At this point, any request could be made.
“I need you to get me somewhere by tomorrow night at the latest.” Parker handed him an address written on a piece of paper.
“Are you serious?”
“Yes, very.”
Scott stood as the bus approached its next stop.
“This is where I get off. The password for your phone is x-ray, alpha, niner, question mark, five, percent.” Scott spelled it out so there would be no doubt.
“What is that supposed to mean?”
“Nothing. It’s just what the techs say is a reliable password. Take care that you don’t forget it. I’ll e-mail you about your request.”
Parker watched as Scott—clearly not happy about Parker’s special request—and his bodyguard crossed over Green Street and hailed a taxi. He activated the telephone and typed in the password. A Microsoft Windows operating system opened. Parker selected the e-mail application and saw only one, from Scott.
“Whatever you need.” It had, as an attachment, two new stories.
Parker turned it off and slipped it into one of the inner pockets of the Barbour coat. It was getting colder. Might even see some snow. That’s when it occurred to him. He was the same city where his parents had spent their last night. It had snowed then as well.
Yeah, he thought, This is worth it.