The Camelot Code (33 page)

Gareth Madoc watches a replay of the al-Qaeda footage in the office of Troy Hemmings, the chief analyst from the SSOA’s North American Watch Team.

The former Harvard graduate is a thoughtful, bespectacled man who always wears a white shirt under a brown or black jumper and matching slacks. Today is a brown day and he crosses his suede shoes under his desk as he hits pause on the remote control in his hands.

‘Well?’ Madoc is anxious for his expert opinion.

‘It’s interesting for three reasons. First, it is Ali bin al-Shibh saying this and not al-Zawahiri. It means there must have been some power shift, otherwise Ayman would have been making this keynote, not one of his more promising lieutenants.’

‘Maybe al-Zawahiri is trying to take more of a back seat. He’s old now and perhaps recognizes the need to have a younger man front the organization.’

Hemmings nods. ‘That’s very possible. He’s extremely bright and undoubtedly was the brains behind bin Laden.’

‘But is al-Shibh really ready to step up?’

The analyst takes a second before answering. ‘Yes, I think so, especially with Ayman al-Zawahiri and other grey beards behind him. Mokhtar Belmokhtar was expected to fill that void, but he got killed in Mali.’

‘Old one-eye was a good hit.’

‘Certainly was. Did you recognize anything familiar about the opening and closing of al-Shibh’s speech?’

‘Educate me.’

‘Back in oh-seven, on the sixth anniversary of the 9/11 attacks, bin Laden released a video entitled
The Solution
. It was a long message made directly to the American public. He told them to abandon capitalism, condemn their government for military involvement in Iraq and Afghanistan and cleanse themselves by joining Islam.’ Hemmings points to the freeze frame of al-Shibh on the monitor. ‘This guy opened and closed with almost verbatim quotes from that speech. Just as Obama borrowed from Kennedy, he’s borrowed from bin Laden.’

‘So you think al-Shibh is being cast as the new bin Laden?’

‘That’s what it seems like to me.’ He warms to his theory. ‘This address of his is
very
clever. It’s going to win the support of the old guard as well as new recruits. If al-Shibh’s Trinity operation is successful this video will signal the resurrection of al-Qaeda.’

It’s not a thought that sits well with Madoc. ‘You said there were three reasons why this speech is important. I’m hoping the third is a clue to where any impending attacks might be.’

‘It could be. I’d like to watch it a few more times before giving you a definite answer, but it seems to me that post the appointment of a new and more likeable Pope they’re turning their anger on religious leaders and intend to make them targets rather than government buildings or members of the public.’

‘What about the attacks on Grand Central and the Eurostar?’

‘Distractions. Attention-grabbing distractions that are merely steps towards the big event, the one that will be most historically remembered.’

The SSOA leader is sceptical. ‘How can you be so sure?’

‘I can’t, Gareth. I can’t ever be
sure
. But look at the speech. It was full of religious references. Praise for Allah. Condemnation for those who turned their backs on Islam. Reminders of old sayings such as “an eye for an eye” and “kill the killer”. At least twice he mentioned the worshippers of false gods and then there was that plea for people to turn their backs on the Catholics and Jews and all the lies about the Prophet Jesus.’

The analyst clears the video from his computer screen and types a command in a search box. ‘And don’t forget this.’ He leans back so his boss can see.

A folder marked ‘Fatwa’ appears on screen and out of it comes a document entitled ‘World Islamic Front Against Jews and Crusaders’.

‘This was published under bin Laden’s name,’ says Hemmings, ‘but everyone knows Zawahiri was the author, just as they know no other terrorist on the planet has launched as many successful assassinations and terror attacks as he has.’ He turns to Madoc. ‘Al-Shibh is following in his footsteps. He’s restarting an age-old war – the Holy War.’

Sir Owain’s helicopter flies him, Mitzi and George Dalton to London. They pick up the south bank of the Thames around West Kensington and follow it down to a private helipad east of Vauxhall.

A black cab takes them the final three miles to Southwark. The taxi and the two nondescript cars in front and behind it are all owned and manned by members of the SSOA.

Mitzi barely speaks as they head past the Elephant and Castle roundabout and down the A3 for the final part of the journey. Her mind is filled with the sharp sound of Amber’s screams. She plays nervously with the thin silver chain around her neck and the steel Rolex pinching her wrist. Both pieces of jewellery contain hidden microphones, receivers and tracking devices. Further trackers are concealed in her silver stud earrings and the heels of both shoes.

Dalton is sat next to her in the back of the cab. Owain is on a flip-down seat opposite them and is keen to settle her nerves. ‘George and I will get out in a moment and the cab will drive to the middle of the High Street and park. Stay inside until they call you. Don’t forget to ‘pay’ the driver when you get out – they may be watching. The cab will go and wait around the corner and be ready to collect you.’

She nods hesitantly.

‘Remember, we have a lot of good people already out walking this street or sat in cars. There’s no way you’ll ever be out of our sight.’

‘Thanks.’

He turns and talks to the driver. ‘Colin, pull over when you can; we need to be on foot.’

The cabbie indicates left and slides the old black taxi into a bus stop.

Mitzi watches the two men get out. They shut the door, shake hands and part like friends going separate ways.

Two minutes later, the cab is drawing to a halt again. Mitzi checks her phone for what must be the hundredth time. It’s on. Fully charged. The mute button hasn’t accidentally been pressed. She hasn’t missed a call.

Seven o’clock comes and goes.

So does ten past.

And twenty past.

Five minutes later it rings.

‘Fallon.’

The distorted male voice gives her a simple instruction: ‘The George Pub – walk through every room. We will find you.’

Bob Beam, Damon Spinks and Eleonora Fracci are studying a 3D map on a wall monitor in the briefing room. They look away as Helena Banks walks in and takes a seat at the long table.

Beam explains that he thinks the search should concentrate on an area east of San Francisco Bay. ‘This particular rectangle of dense forest lies within a forty-minute drive from the ranch where the girls were abducted.’ He traces a hand across the monitor. ‘The grid that’s marked runs horizontal along the 580 from Castro Valley to Dublin, then vertical down the 650 from Dublin to Sunol, horizontal across the 84 to Niles, then up from Niles along the 238 back to Castro. It takes in a lot of public parks and places to hide. You’ve got Hayward Memorial, Pleasanton Ridge, Recreation, Garin and Dry Creek. That’s more than a hundred square acres of land.’

Helena doesn’t agree with his strategy. ‘I think you’re off. Concentrate the search there and you could make a big mistake.’

‘Why?’

‘Our geo profile suggests the kidnappers struck at night because they wanted to drive long, not short.’

‘Makes sense,’ says Eleonora. ‘They are professionals so they would know to strike when people are most tired and law-enforcement resources are weakest.’

Helena continues, ‘We estimate that they drove for a minimum of an hour. Which, if they went through the back roads, would take them up to Shepherd Canyon Park, or if they mixed freeway and minor roads they could get as far as Mount Diablo.’

Spinks looks pained. ‘Diablo is what, twenty thousand acres?’

‘At least,’ confirms Helena. ‘If you take into account the surrounding lands, you’re closer to a hundred thousand.’

‘And it’s high,’ says Beam, warming to the idea. ‘Diablo is about three thousand feet above sea level. If you hole-up in a cabin out there you can see people coming for miles.’

‘We like it because of Oakland,’ adds Helena. ‘Both Kay and I think Oakland is the chosen evac point. We believe that when it’s over, they’ll ignore San Fran International and try to get out from there.’

‘How far is the airport from Diablo?’ asks Eleonora.

‘Forty miles. It’d take them about an hour to get there.’

Beam studies the map on the monitor and the original grid he’d marked out. It no longer seems as viable as it did. ‘Okay, let’s prioritize our actions in the area that Helena suggests. But listen, that
doesn’t
mean we totally ignore anything that comes in pointing to other zones.’

‘I’ve already asked for camera footage from San Mateo Bridge,’ says Eleonora. ‘And from Bay Bridge too, in case they took a scenic route.’

Spinks has a bonus for them. ‘I called a friend running a helicopter flight business out at Camp Parks. He’s promised to help out, under the cover of running tourist trips, so I’ll give him locations near Diablo to scout.’

Beam checks his watch. ‘We need to get moving. Let’s have search teams briefed and out within the hour; I’ll fix for some of our people to start searching for rentals – cars, lodges, houses and whatever else is out there. Everyone get praying; we need a break and need it quickly.’

Mitzi hands over ten English pounds to the cab driver. She walks along Borough High Street and through large green gates announcing, ‘The George – London’s only surviving galleried coaching inn and the home of fine cask beers’.

The hostelry is a long three-storey building painted in white and black. Two of the upper storeys have wooden galleries from which dangle flower baskets. Mitzi passes over a large cobbled area filled with dozens of drinkers at rough wooden tables.

She enters through a side door near a sign showing St George slaying a dragon. People are squashed into a warren of tight downstairs rooms. The noise is so loud she’s scared of not hearing her phone. She holds it up so she can see the flash of any incoming calls as she pushes her way through an old bar with hard bench seating into one that looks even older and less comfortable.

Both areas are brimming with either bemused tourists or drunken Londoners. Some have food on tables, others are stood drinking.

The next room is more modern – a long and bright bar of blonde wood, gleaming brass pumps and blackboards offering fresh food. The crowd hanging here looks more family orientated, with mums, dads and kids grabbing the best tables by the windows.

Her phone rings.

‘Hello.’

No one answers.

‘Damn!’ Mitzi looks at it accusingly. Only two of those little signal lines. The reception must be bad.

She moves into a hallway to get better reception.

After five minutes and no call, she climbs a set of paint-chipped stairs to a series of uneven floors and private function rooms. Several people pass her. None have the alertness she’d expect of someone involved in a kidnapping.

By the time she finds the Gallery Bar, she’s uncomfortably hot and orders a glass of mineral water with ice. While waiting, she hears tourists discussing how Shakespeare and Dickens used to drink here. Given how long it takes to be served she wonders if they’re still around.

She takes her change and is dropping it in her purse when the phone rings again.

Mitzi almost drops her cash as she answers. ‘Fallon!’

Again, there’s no pick-up.

She scans the bar. No one is looking at her. The place is full of regular-looking thirty-somethings, a few business types and a group of young guys in the far corner. None of the waiters or waitresses is paying her any attention.

Mitzi tries to stay calm. She sips the drink at the bar. After ten minutes she starts walking again. Back downstairs, she puts her now-empty glass on a table and goes to the only place she’s not yet visited.

The restroom.

It’s cold and smells of damp plaster and cheap air freshener. She uses a stall, then washes her hands. The mirror above the sink gives a cruel reminder that her face is still bruised and her panda eyes now bloodshot.

She waits patiently for a thin brunette in black jeans, matching waistcoat and white T to finish drying her hands under a noisy wall-mounted blower.

Their eyes lock. Mitzi glances towards the door. An athletically built woman, mid-thirties with short blonde hair, has her back against it.

In her hand is a gun.

The brunette smiles, holds out a palm and waggles her fingers. ‘Give me the memory stick.’

Owain Gwyn slides into the shadows of a thin passageway off the main street, just down from The George and takes the call. ‘Gareth, I’m on foot and in public, is this urgent?’

‘It is,’ confirms Madoc. ‘I’ve this minute sent you a digital file. It’s of the al-Qaeda video that’s just been shot.’

Owain watches a silver Mercedes halt near the pub entrance and two burly men slip out. ‘Do we know the targets?’

‘No. It was a revealing speech, but not in that kind of way. I had Hemmings watch and he thinks the main target is likely to be a religious leader.’

The men disappear into the pub but the Merc stays on double yellow lines, its hazard lights flashing.

‘We’ve been over this. I’m not willing to approach the Vatican with a view to cancellation unless you can give me more specific intel.’

‘I can’t do that. Not at the moment.’ On his desk monitor, Madoc sees al-Shibh thank Korshidi and prepare to leave the house where they’ve been filming. ‘Our new friend is on the move, so I’m going to have to go. Before you dismiss the risk completely, please look at the recording and make your own mind up.’

‘Okay, I will.’ Owain watches the Mercedes pull away from the kerb and head down the street towards London Bridge. ‘I’ll find time in the next hour.’ He glances at his watch. It’s even later than he thought. ‘The Pope is already in Wales, but his first public appearance isn’t until the morning. If he’s in danger, that’s when any attack will come.’