149

 

NATIONAL COUNTERTERRORISM CENTER, TYSON’S CORNER

Canning’s phone rang. He picked up the handset, listened intently, said three words: “Good. Thank you.”

He hung up, turned to Peters, Furlong, and Southward. In the Eastern Time Zone, it was late, past 10:00 P.M., but none of them were tired. They were fired up on adrenaline, bolstered by caffeine. Paper cups littered the table, along with the remains of a sandwich dinner and an empty tube of Tums. Canning’s dyspepsia had gone nuclear, but at that moment he didn’t care. Southward sat upright, spine scarcely touching her chair back. Furlong slouched, thin legs stretched out under the table. Peters lounged against the bombproof glass window, gazing into the darkness, conjuring images of his own. He wheeled round as Canning began to speak.

“Ali Al Baharna is no more. The yacht Zephyr will be reported as lost at sea. A casualty of the storm.”

“Live by the storm, die by the storm,” mused Peters. He took a seat at the table, eyed his boss keenly. Was this a victory, or a failure? Canning’s eyes were cold, revealing nothing.

Canning nodded. “I wonder if Al Baharna really did create the ARk Storm, or whether it would be happening anyway?” he asked.

“Who can know,” replied Southward. “What matters was his intention. He wanted to create it. And hell, maybe he really did. We won’t know the death tolls for days, for weeks if it keeps raining. What we do know is that he has more than enough blood on his hands to justify killing him and the rest of the Jihadis he had on board.”

Peters glanced across at Southward. He’d wondered if she would shed a tear, go all queasy, but her hand as she lifted her coffee cup to her lips was rock steady and in her eyes was the glow of triumph.

He reached out his hand, shook hers.

“Your trail,” he said. “Good job!”

She smiled.

“In at the beginning, in at the end,” intoned Canning, giving Southward the ghost of a smile.

Oddly, it was only Chris Furlong who wondered who else had been on board, who might not have been a Jihadi, but he said nothing, just sat in the still office, hands folded in his lap.

*   *   *

Canning picked up the phone again, rang the number at ARk Storm Ops. Del Russo took the call, listened hard, smiled. He hung up, walked over to Dan, Gwen, and Holdstone.

“Went down,” was all he said.