PLEDGE OF HONOR: A Mark Cole Thriller (8 page)

9

Thames House was an imposing place, an Imperial Neoclassical office block made of Portland stone, like many of London’s finest buildings. Nearly a hundred years old, it had been described in the 1930s as ‘the finest office building in the British Empire’, and Cole could see why.

There were three major intelligence services in the UK. MI6, more properly known as the Secret Intelligence Service, performed the same function of foreign intelligence gathering as the American CIA, and was housed in the familiar stepped ziggurat building at Vauxhall Cross on the other side of the River Thames. Government Communications Headquarters worked closely with America’s National Security Agency; responsible for electronic and signals intelligence, it occupied ‘The Doughnut’, an iconic donut-shaped building in the suburbs of Cheltenham, a hundred miles from London. The Security Service – commonly known as MI5, due to its World War I designation as the Directorate of Military Intelligence Section 5 – dealt with internal security, including counter-espionage, counter-terrorism, and the protection of British parliamentary democracy and economic interests. It fulfilled the same remit as some elements of the FBI, though it wasn’t a law enforcement agency and had no powers of arrest. It carried out investigations, and advised the country’s various police agencies on what action was needed; its officers were subsequently restricted from carrying out any direct action of their own.

Cole had been shown into Thames House via the link block which sat between the two much larger blocks to either side, which had once only been connected by a simple archway. A uniformed guard had greeted him, then buzzed up for Special Agent Travis who had come to sign him in.

Another guard at the internal security desk took Cole’s fictional details, then issued him with a security pass that Cole clipped to his lapel.

‘Good night’s sleep?’ Travis asked as they walked down the wide, tiled hallway. Men and women in business suits passed them on all sides, the same as in any office building in the world. ‘Jet lag?’

‘Great night’s sleep thanks,’ Cole replied, ‘no jet lag at all, I dropped right off. I’m not used to sleeping in a bed that nice, I’ll tell you that. Trouble is, I could get used to it.’

Travis smiled. ‘Yeah, it’s a nice little place. Stay here any longer, and you get an apartment instead, and it’s nowhere near as nice. Property prices here are out of this world, and my entire place is smaller than my old college dorm room, you know?’

‘I’ve heard that,’ Cole agreed. ‘I’ll enjoy it while I can.’

‘Be sure to do that, my friend. Not that you’ll probably have much time for R&R on this trip, it’s going to be keeping us all pretty busy.’

‘Where are we going now?’ Cole asked as Travis led him to a bank of elevators.

‘Third floor,’ he replied as a door opened and they stepped inside, ‘JTAC’s based up there, the Joint Terrorism Analysis Center. It’s got people from all the agencies in the UK, as well as people like us from friendly nations. It’s taking point on the investigation, and I’ll introduce you to Bryce Kelly, the guy who runs the place. He’ll tell you what your role’s gonna be in this.’

‘Good,’ Cole said, knowing that Kelly was already going to have had the word sent to him to give Cole/White a broad remit, right from the President’s office. Travis probably wouldn’t know about it, but Cole’s role there wasn’t going to be given to him by the British officer; it should already have been insisted upon by the American government.

The elevator doors opened, and Travis and Cole presented their security passes to a pair of security guards, who nodded their assent and buzzed them through to the JTAC offices.

The place was a hive of activity, but smoothed out with a typical British elegance which made everything seem rather less excitable than equivalent centers in the States. Cole imagined the smoked glass, hi-tech operations room at the National Counterterrorism Center in McLean, Virginia, and contrasted it with the neoclassical, marble-faced interior of the British JTAC. It leant a sense of relative tranquility to a place which dealt with life and death issues on a minute-by-minute basis.

The two men walked past desk after desk of intelligence analysts and investigative officers, Travis introducing Cole to several of them as they went. They were a pleasant bunch, and Cole was impressed with the various agencies they represented; the majority were Security Service personnel, but there were also people from SIS, GCHQ, the military’s Defense Intelligence Staff, and the Metropolitan Police Counter Terrorist Command, as well as members of various foreign intelligence and security agencies. On his short walk through the busy room, Cole met officers from the CIA and FBI, the Australian Federal Police, the French Police Intervention Force, the Royal Canadian Mounted Police’s Emergency Response Team, the Czech Rapid Reaction Unit and the German Federal Police, and Cole knew that this was just a handful of the agencies represented here. It was a real melting pot, and he found himself impressed with the British operation.

Eventually, they drew up outside a closed, black wooden door with the nameplate
Bryce Kelly, Director – JTAC
. Travis knocked once, and a voice quickly boomed back from the other side. It was muffled through the door, but Travis must have taken it to mean
please come in
, as he immediately swung the door open, gesturing for Cole to step through into the office beyond.

‘This is where I leave you,’ Travis said. ‘Good luck, my friend.’

‘Thanks,’ Cole said, before he took in the scene before him, a large office with a huge wooden desk given pride of place at the rear, just in front of a window giving out onto what Cole assumed would be a fantastic view of the Thames.

Behind the desk sat an enormously large man. He looked tall even sitting down, and the height was at least matched by his fantastic girth. It had perhaps been muscle once upon a time, and Cole guessed the man might well have been a fearsome rugby player many moons ago; but the muscle had turned to fat over the years, and it looked like Bryce Kelly was a man who now enjoyed the good life. But as he stood and offered a huge hand, Cole saw that the suit was well-cut, and he hid the bulk well; he could probably still move if he had to, Cole surmised, and despite the receding hairline and the puffy cheeks, the look in the eyes was that of fierce intelligence, combined with the competitiveness of the true alpha-male.

Cole took the hand, observing the two other people in the room as he did so. Sitting rather uncomfortably on a black leather sofa resting against one wall, a man and woman in near-identical navy blue suits waited with folders clasped across their laps. The man was short and tough-looking, with the nose of a long-time boxer; the woman was blonde and quite incredibly beautiful. Cole guessed that she was Scandinavian, tall and slim, her face highlighted by high cheekbones and perfect skin. He wondered, briefly, what their role would be here; but he was sure he would find out soon enough.

‘Mr. White,’ Kelly said jovially, ‘how nice to finally meet you. Your government speaks very highly of you.’ He was still pumping Cole’s hand as he spoke, looking into his eyes from an almost uncomfortably close range. The man was smiling, but Cole wondered if he was upset that he’d been sent under presidential authority. Would he feel that Cole was going to get in the way of his investigation?

‘Under different circumstances, it would be a pleasure to be here,’ Cole replied. ‘The FBI high command speaks very highly of you.’

Kelly finally let Cole’s hand drop. ‘I doubt that,’ he said with a smile, ‘but I’ll accept the compliment. But you’re right about one thing, these are tragic circumstances that bring you here. Not wishing to be rude, but why
are
you here, by the way?’ The intelligent eyes glinted. ‘As far as we’ve managed to ascertain, no US citizens were hurt in the attack, and we already have as many FBI liaisons as we can manage. Why do we have the pleasure of one more?’

Cole remained calm in the face of the passive-aggressive questioning; the man was either putting on a show for the pair on the couch, or else he was just put out by being ordered around by Washington. Cole knew that Kelly knew the exact reason for his visit; President Abrams had told Adam Gregory, who had subsequently informed the British Home Secretary, who had then told the Director General of MI5, who would then have told Bryce Kelly. But if he wanted to play a game, Cole was happy to indulge him.

‘I was told you’d been informed of the reason for my visit, and my authorization for being here,’ Cole said evenly.

Kelly gave Cole a thin smile. ‘Indulge me.’

‘Okay,’ Cole said, ‘I am here on the direct authorization of the Director of the FBI, at the request of the President of the United States, to aid and assist in your investigation into the recent incident in Wembley, in any way I can. The reason for US involvement is – on the one hand – a desire to help our ally. The other – and, as I’m sure you understand, more important reason – is to check that there is nothing going on here that will cause any future threat to the United States. As I’m sure you will appreciate, an attack like this – well, if it could happen here, it could happen back home as well, and I’m here to learn anything I can to help ensure we’re prepared for this new type of threat. This might be the start of a new front in the war on terror, and we don’t want to get caught out.’

‘Like we were, you mean?’ Kelly said with a raised eyebrow.

Cole nodded. ‘Yes,’ he said, not caring if he hurt the director’s precious ego, ‘like you were. Like
we
were, back on Nine Eleven.’ He held Kelly’s gaze, unfazed by the big man in front of him. ‘There’s no shame in being the first to be caught out. Who would have predicted using passenger jets as weapons?’ He shrugged. ‘But if we don’t learn the lessons – and learn them
fast
– then there
is
shame, and we’ve not fulfilled out primary duty as a government, which is to protect our citizens. So if we’ve got a new breed of terrorists who are gonna start targeting schools, start killing
children
, then we’re sure as hell gonna do everything in our power to stop them. And
that
, sir, is why I’m here.’

There was a brief pause in the dialogue as Kelly assessed the man in front of him, sizing him up, and for a moment Cole thought that the JTAC director was going to erupt all over him; but then the big man’s face broke into a wide smile that seemed perfectly genuine.

‘Good answer, old chap,’ he said happily, ‘bloody good answer. Don’t take any shit from anyone, that’s my advice, not even from me. Good man.’ He sat down behind his desk, the seat creaking from his weight. ‘Sorry about the crap, I just like to find out the salt of the men who’ll be working here, you know? Get the cut of their jib, so to speak.’

Cole didn’t know, not exactly; the Englishman might as well have been speaking a foreign language. But he got the general idea, and smiled in return. ‘I understand perfectly, sir,’ he said. ‘And I just want to assure you, I’m not here to take over, I’m not here to get in your way, I’m just here to observe what’s happening, to help if I can, and to report back what I find to my superiors back in the States.’

But Kelly was already engrossed in a set of papers on his desk, seemingly having forgotten about Cole already. ‘Yes, yes,’ he muttered, ‘I’m sure.’ He looked back up at Cole briefly. ‘That’s all I have for you,’ he said. ‘Operational brief will be given by Tom and Liz over there, they’ll fill you in on what’s happening.’ He looked back down at his papers, and the pair on the couch rose, gesturing at the door.

‘Thank you sir,’ Cole said to Kelly, who just grunted in reply; and then he turned around and followed Tom and Liz out of the room, wondering if they would be any easier to get along with.

10

‘You’ll have to ignore the director,’ the man said as they entered another office, this one much smaller and located within the main hub of the Wembley investigation section. ‘That’s just how he is with everyone, a bit of an eccentric, but he’s got a bloody good brain on him, that’s for sure. We’re lucky to have him.’

The woman closed the door behind them, and the man extended his hand. ‘Tom Cranshaw,’ he said in what Cole took to be a northern accent, perhaps from Manchester.

‘Mark White,’ Cole said, shaking his hand before turning to the woman with a raised eyebrow.

She took Cole’s hand and smiled, breaking the icy façade. ‘Elizabeth Morgan,’ she said with a cut-glass English accent, and Cole found himself surprised; but on reflection, the Scandinavian in her blood could well be from her mother’s side, or could perhaps even be several generations distant. ‘A pleasure to meet you, Mr. White.’

‘Call me Mark, please,’ Cole said. ‘Mr. White always makes me think of that guy out of Reservoir Dogs, you know? Who played him, uh . . .’

‘Harvey Keitel,’ Cranshaw said with a grin. ‘Superb movie that, mate, bloody superb.’

Cole grinned back, glad to have broken the ice to some degree. ‘One of the best,’ he said, turning to Morgan. ‘Have you seen it?’

She shook her head.  ‘I guess I’m too young for it,’ she said with a mischievous smile, ‘it was
way
before my time.’

Cole and Cranshaw both laughed. ‘Hey,’ the Englishman said, ‘I might look older, but I’ve had a tough life. Don’t forget, I’ve read your file, I know just how old you are.’ He turned to Cole. ‘Amazing what a bit of Botox will do, isn’t it, Mark?’

‘Piss off,’ Morgan said with a smile. ‘This is what a clean diet and healthy living gets you. Try and lay off the beer and fags, and see what happens.’

‘No thanks,’ Cranshaw said, ‘they’re all I’ve got in life, if I gave them up, what would I have left?’

Morgan shook her head pityingly. ‘Such a sad little man,’ she said in mock-sorrow, before turning to Cole. ‘Well, if I’m calling you Mark, please call me Liz.’

‘Will do, Liz,’ Cole said. ‘So what’s the plan?’

‘Got a bit of paperwork to do,’ Cranshaw said, sliding over some forms to the desk in front of Cole, ‘just the normal bureaucratic bollocks, you know the score. Bit of paperwork to keep the admin guys and girls in employment.’

‘We’ve got the same thing back home,’ Cole confirmed, sure now that he was going to like working with these two agents, who seemed far more normal than their boss.

‘And then we’re going to fill you in on the current situation in the car,’ Morgan said.

‘The car?’ Cole said, looking up from the forms. ‘Where we headed?’

‘East Lane Primary School,’ Cranshaw explained. ‘We figured you’d want to get eyes-on as soon as possible.’

‘You figured right,’ Cole said, picking up a pen and starting on the paperwork. ‘So let’s get this ‘bollocks’ out of the way, and get started.’

Javid Khan surveyed the scene outside the synagogue with professional eyes. He was just one in a crowd of hundreds – men, women and children drawn to the site of the previous day’s carnage like moths to a flame, filled with the same morbid curiosity as car drivers slowing down to look at a road traffic accident. It was something inherent in some parts of humanity; undesirable perhaps, but an intrinsic part of our nature, nevertheless.

Many of them held placards, denouncing terrorism and so-called ‘Islamic extremism’; the women wept, while the men shouted angrily, but it did not fool Khan for a moment. He knew the infidel were more concerned over getting a look at the scene of the crime than they were about the tragedy they claimed to be protesting about.

But Khan was rather more interested than most, as he had something of a personal interest in yesterday’s actions. After all, he had known the three young men who had started the whole thing.

He wasn’t able to get too close to the synagogue, held back as he was by the police barriers which surrounded the area. The main one was set up around the perimeter of the synagogue itself, essentially following the iron railings which already separated the building from the streets beyond; another double barrier snaked off from the synagogue’s front gate, leading away back across East Lane, towards the elementary school.

A slight shudder passed through Khan’s bones as he thought of what his boys had accomplished. Allah be praised, it had been a fantastic strike against one of the Great Satan’s key allies. A part of him felt sorry that it had had to be children – after all, he had five of his own – but his guilt was more than assuaged by the brilliance of the plan, and the long-reaching effects it would have on the world.

He looked dismissively at the synagogue; the Jews he felt less sorry for. They had merely got what was coming to them, justice served to them at last. It had been the same for years, the Jews killing his brothers and sisters with impunity. When the Israelis massacred over two thousand Muslims in Gaza back in 2014, three quarters of them had been civilians. The Israeli death toll? Just seventy-one, and less than ten percent had been non-combatants. But who were labeled as terrorists? Not the Israelis; never the Israelis, backed as they were by the key Jewish economic interests of the United States. So who cared if a few Jews got killed in a London synagogue? Not Javid Khan, that was for sure.

It was then that he noticed for the first time the hostile looks he was getting from some members of the crowd, and he sensed the threat of violence in the air. Perhaps they
were
upset, he thought with some amusement; or at least, more upset than he’d supposed.

Good.
Let them be upset.

Let them come, let them attack me.

It would merely help the cause.

He sniffed and turned away from the angry young men who stared at him, and thought about the morning’s media write-up. It had amused him as he’d read several different papers over a cup of sweet tea. They’d found the computers, seen the online propaganda, and already drawn the conclusion of lone wolf attacks by self-radicalized extremists. Only one columnist had mentioned the possibility that there might be someone behind them, someone supplying funding, weapons and training.

But it was sure to come out sooner or later; that much was inevitable, unless the British police and security services were truly incompetent. He watched some of their number at work now, dozens of uniformed and non-uniformed personnel buzzing around the scene; some were protecting the site with submachine guns, others were still scouring the area for forensic evidence. It made Khan laugh, this search for evidence; the men had already been killed, why did the authorities still need to prove anything?

A light rain started to fall, and Khan checked his watch. It was nearly eleven, and time to move onward, toward East Lane Primary School.

He had a deadline to meet, and he didn’t want to be late.