Terminal Guidance

“What?”

“Gun,” Hawkins yelled.

The BMW shuddered as a stream of slugs struck the right-hand rear side panel.

McCarter responded with a jerk to the wheel that sent the BMW into the path of the chase car. There was a hard thump as the two collided. The Citroën rocked under the impact. The shooter, leaning out of the rear window, was knocked back inside the car, giving Hawkins the chance he needed. He had already powered down his window, giving him a clear shot as he leveled his Beretta and triggered a triple volley. The shooter, righting himself, caught the 9 mm slugs in his throat and jaw. Hawkins caught a brief glimpse of the guy jerking back from the window, blood spurting from his torn flesh.

Swinging the wheel again, McCarter slammed the Citroën a second time. It swung away, hitting the far curb. The impact bounced the Citroën up onto the sidewalk, the wheels turning despite the driver’s attempt to maintain a straight course. The car plowed into piles of building materials in of one of the houses. Hawkins, watching through the rear window, saw the vehicle slide, then flip over onto its side, crashing headlong through the stacks of lumber and sheeting.

McCarter raised his eyes to the rearview mirror.

“Oops,” he said. He met Calvin James’s eyes. “Cal, call Henning and let him know what just happened. Tell him we need to get this car off the streets. He’ll know somewhere we can meet up without any kind of audience.”

“ANY DAMAGE?” Henning asked. He had met Phoenix Force at a basement garage of a closed office block off the Bayswater Road. The garage was gloomy, with water dripping from the low concrete ceiling.

“Only to the car,” James said. “And one of the opposition ran into a couple of bullets.”

“Good.” Henning peered at the buckled front end and the ragged bullet holes at the rear. “Business as usual, Jack. Never fails. Minute you set foot in the old town, all hell breaks loose.”

“He has that effect wherever he goes,” James said.

“I believe you.” The cop leaned against the hood of the BMW. “I take it all this was a result of you going to visit Samman Prem? How did you find him?”

“Tetchy,” McCarter said. “Thinks a lot of himself. Didn’t take it too well, me hinting we have the goods on him.”

“He wouldn’t. Not a winning personality, our Mr. Prem. I’d go as far as saying he is an arrogant little jerk.”

“Poking him with a stick didn’t help his disposition,” James added, glancing sideways at McCarter.

The Briton feigned innocence. “I was just keeping the conversation going.”

“How did he react to that?”

“Stamped his little feet when he walked away,” McCarter said.

“Then sent a tail car after us,” Hawkins interjected. “They tried to push us off the road, then started shooting.”

“Christ, Jack, when you blokes start something you really start something.”

“One way of putting it,” McCarter said. “We’re punching in the dark here, Gregory. We have the threat of a hit, but we don’t know when or where, so no time for being subtle or checking the rule books. If that means kicking arses to make things happen, then we kick.”

“I’ll handle the car for you. Get it moved where no questions are the order of the day,” Henning said. “Give you a ride back to your hotel?”

“Thanks, mate. Your tip about Prem looks like it paid off. That bugger is involved in something. I’ll bet my pension on that. We can have our people check out his company. Maybe they’ll come up with something useful. If they don’t I’ll most likely go back and beat it out of him before I set fire to his warehouses.”

“Maybe the day hasn’t been a total waste, then,” Henning said.

“McCarter might not be joking,” Hawkins said.

“Oh, I know that,” the cop acknowledged. “Listen, I think I have a lead on who might have been selling us out. I had my suspicions and was going to follow them through, but I was given an assignment and had to drop what I was doing. When you called and brought me up to date, certain things you said tied in with my own theory. So expect a call if I hit pay dirt.”

McCarter nodded. “You watch your back, Gregory. Rats may be squirmy little buggers, but they have sharp teeth when they’re backed into a corner.”

Henning led them to his parked SUV and they all climbed in. He swung the vehicle around and drove out of the garage. As he pushed into the traffic, he activated his car phone and punched in a speed dial number. When his call was answered Henning gave explicit instructions to whoever was on the line, making it clear what he needed done. He finished the call and sat back, smiling.

“Your wheels will disappear in the next couple of hours. Never to be seen again. I’ll insert a stolen-vehicle report for you. Call the rental firm and tell them the car was nicked earlier this afternoon. There’s a pad on the dash there. Write down this number and quote it to the rental company. They’ll use it when they contact the local cops. It’s a crime case number. Rental company can use it when they make a claim on their insurance.”

McCarter wrote down the information and tucked the paper in his jacket. “Always knew the Met was a bloody good outfit.”

“’Met?’” Hawkins repeated.

“Metropolitan Police,” Henning said. “London’s city police force. Go all the way back to 1829. They always say those were the good old days. With what we have to deal with now I’m starting to think that could be true.”

“Gregory, we live in parlous times,” McCarter said. “All we can do is keep up the good work.”

“Hey, you two, “James said, “enough of the down-home philosophy. It’s like listening to a couple of old-timers rocking on the porch.”

Back at the hotel McCarter contacted Stony Man and spoke with Barbara Price. He gave her an update, including the fate of their rental.

“Well, at least letting your pal handle the disappearance should avoid awkward questions about bullet holes,” Price said. “I’ll make a call and sort out another car for you.”

“Thanks. We need some in-depth information about Samman Prem and his company. Shipping. Any connections. Hell, you know the drill.”

CHAPTER FOUR

Greg Henning’s earlier investigation went back a couple weeks. Even then he’d been aware he was breaking every rule in the book, but his conviction that he had the right man dictated he do something about it. Operating in the counterterrorist unit had exposed him to the inner workings of the terrorist mind, and the things he had seen and heard only proved what he suspected. Terrorism, in all its twisted forms, was the scourge of the twenty-first century. It fed on hypocrisy, hid its evil under religious dogma, using the logic of persuasion and in most cases blatant brainwashing of vulnerable minds. The hate fostered by the al Qaeda generation of terrormongers was done via the teachers and advisors, men who stayed away from the results of their haranguing, never exposing themselves to risk. They remained in safety, dispatching their acolytes to kill and maim, and in many instances to be killed them selves in suicide attacks, willing to destroy with the promises of eternal life in paradise.

Nine/eleven, the London bombings and countless other atrocities were claimed as victories for the jihad. Each strike was celebrated by cheering, howling mobs, while the innocent victims were grieved by the survivors. There was little sense to it all, but in the aftermath, the Western governments realized this was going to be a long battle. The security agencies slowly began to understand the complexities of this new kind of war, and after false starts gathered themselves unto some semblance of coordination.

Perfection was still a distance away, but antiterrorist organizations slowly emerged. Greg Henning volunteered for the U.K.’s counterterrorist squad the day he heard it was being formed. He saw it as a total necessity, and pushed himself to the limit once he had been fully accredited. It was a job that demanded every agent give total attention, then more. Henning had been married in his younger years, but the partnership hadn’t lasted, ending in divorce after six years. His work in the new unit meant he needed to be there on a 24/7 basis. It suited him.

His understanding of the job and its requirements was cause for concern when it became suspected there could be a leak within the unit. He found the concept of a traitor repulsive. The squad was manned by professional men and women who put themselves on the line and worked endless shifts to keep ahead of the terrorists. To have one of their own passing information, weakening the group’s ability to stay focused, was unthinkable and totally unacceptable.

Being in the top echelon within the department, Henning was given a briefing by his immediate superiors. They had suspicions but no proof. Initial investigation had been difficult. If there was a traitor inside the unit, any checking had to be undertaken with great care, for fear of alerting the mole. It was one of those near impossible situations. It could have easily broken up the team, each member suspicious of his or her partners. Any prolonged procedure would damage trust and imperil the smooth workings of the department.

Henning had already fixed his attention on a single member of the unit, having been alerted by the man’s behavior. He closed in on the individual in his own surreptitious way, quietly and with an almost indifferent attitude.

The man’s name was Lewis Winch. A smart and confident agent, he held a high ranking in the unit. His brief was to act not only as a U.K. operative, but also to liaise with European and American agencies. Winch had made this his prime role and had built a reputation as a brilliant negotiator when it came to handling awkward international conflicts. There were still territorial stumbling blocks to deal with when it came to diplomacy directives, and Winch seemed to have the techniques for smoothing things over. Within the department he was almost a law unto himself. He came and went, making frequent visits to the Continent and even the U.S.A. He was often out of the department on consultations, as he put it.

Henning wasn’t sure how or when he began to have an unsettling feeling where Winch was concerned. His suspicions might have been aroused by the man’s increasing attitude of what Henning could only call twitchy. Winch seemed to be looking over his shoulder metaphorically, reacting awkwardly whenever someone approached him, almost with paranoia. Henning told himself he was looking too hard, seeing things that meant very little, but he found he was studying Winch whenever the man was around.

A definite sign appeared the day the reports started coming in about the killing and bombing in Peshawar. Henning saw Winch’s reaction as the large wall-mounted plasma TV began to show the images. The whole of the main office was watching, so Winch’s response was noticed only by Henning. He saw Winch turn away and hurry to his own office, where he took out a cell phone. Seated at in his own desk, Henning witnessed Winch’s actions through the open blinds. He couldn’t hear what the man was saying, but from his expression it was plain he was agitated. The call went on for a couple of minutes before he cut the conversation and dropped the cell phone back into the desk drawer, then snatched his coat off its hook and exited.

Henning went to his office window, which overlooked the street. As he had somehow expected, Winch stepped into view from the building and hailed a taxi. Henning’s office was only one floor up so he was able to read the number on the cab’s license plate. He turned and jotted it on his desk pad.

Nothing unusual in someone taking a taxi.

Except that this was Lewis Winch.