Circle of Fire (3 page)

Through the wood her feet grew wings, pounding the hard earth. Dark shadows haunted the bushes, twigs cracked like gunfire. Her breath was hot in her throat, leaves glinted like watching eyes. She ran faster than she'd ever run, racing home.

The path crumbled, pitching her down to a stream, feet sliding, fingers clawing. She scrabbled to find a foothold, then leapt, flying over silver water. Safe on the other side, she clambered uphill.

Run, Maya, run.

The path opened out into a meadow. Sun dazzled her eyes, grass tickled her calves. She headed for a dark band of bushes, thick as a secret. Thrusting the branches aside she uncovered a hidden stile, then, with a last pulse of energy, she sprang upwards, bursting from the thicket onto the edge of the cottage lawn.

She was shouting as she hurled herself through the back door into the kitchen. ‘Gran!'

Helen's eyes goggled at the sight of her crazed granddaughter; flowers fell from her hands, a vase tilted, spilling water.

‘It's Mum!' Maya shrieked. She grabbed at the kitchen table, her hands bloody and torn. ‘They got Mum.' Her arms gave way. Pain and desperation surged through her as she collapsed onto a chair.

Gran's arms were round her, squeezing Maya's bruised shoulders. She was breathing hard. ‘Who? Who's got her?'

‘Men in a black jeep, five of them. They had guns. They didn't take me, they took Mum.'

‘Where? When?'

‘In Vicar's Lane, that bad bend, past the ford. We've got to get help. Danny was killed, the other security man's injured.'

Helen went white. ‘Oh, my God,' she gasped. ‘What can I do? What can we do? OK, right. . . You sit there. I . . . I'll call an ambulance and the police.'

Maya clutched her bloody knees while Helen talked to the emergency services. She heaved in great gasps. She couldn't think straight, her head was swirling, but she was conscious of something nagging at her, something she had to do. Simon.
She had to contact Simon. There was a special number for Pam's department. What was it? She'd phoned it loads of times.

Think, think. Yes, she remembered.

Running out into the hall she picked up the house phone and dialled. It felt like an eternity passed before she was connected; the phone buzzing as she held the receiver jammed to her ear. Her insides were juddering, deep shock chilled her bones. Her mind probed and prodded, questions burnt in her brain. Where was her mum? Where had the armed men taken her? What would they do to her?

Then there was a man's voice.

‘Hello. This is Simon Maundsley.'

‘I'm Maya, Maya Brown.' Her words started to tumble out in a shrill, high-pitched voice. He told her to slow down.

‘It's Mum, she's been taken hostage. Please help, please!'

A loud intake of breath signalled his shock, but his manner was immediately brusque and businesslike. At that moment it was exactly what was needed.

Maya did her best to answer his questions, forcing her mind to track back over every painful detail. When she got to the final part – doors slamming,
the jeep driving off, Danny dead – the phone shook in her hand, violent tremors wracked her body, her voice broke into jagged pieces.

‘OK, that's enough,' Simon said. ‘You get yourself sorted. I'm going to need your help. I'll mobilise the department. Don't worry, we'll do everything we can.'

Maya nodded vacantly while Simon told her he was on his way and that he would alert various agencies, but she was only half-listening; in her head a DVD was on permanent playback – skidding tyres, doors slamming, guns waving – fear, panic, pain. She remembered the hard grip of hands restraining her; she couldn't move, could hardly breathe. Pam was arguing with them. Then she saw the empty staring eyes of Danny, the young agent. She pressed her hands over her face, but the film didn't stop.

Mum, Mum where are you?

It didn't seem real. How could it? Half an hour ago Pam had been grabbing a quick drink of water in the kitchen before they set off on their run. At the stile she'd joked, saying Maya's new running shoes were magic, at the ford she'd been clowning around, her cheeks pink, her blonde hair damp with sweat.

Maya's eyes misted with tears. She was only
vaguely aware of Helen putting a drink of tea in front of her, then holding it to her lips. ‘Drink this, you need it.'

Maya gave her a cracked smile and managed to say, ‘Thank you.'

Helen was making a brave effort; she held Maya's hand, fetched a coat and put it round her shoulders.

‘Here, you'll catch a chill,' she said, tucking the coat around her. Stroking Maya's hair, she cuddled her tight. ‘It'll be all right, it'll be all right,' she murmured.

Maya couldn't respond. When Helen put a bowl of warm water on the table and bathed her bloody hands and knees, tenderly swabbing grit from the wounds, Maya didn't care how much it hurt – the pain was almost welcome. She wished she could have done something to help her mum, wished she could have helped the agents. If only she'd taken her mobile, she could have phoned the local cops right away and they might have stopped the jeep. It was all wrong, everything was hopeless – her Mum would be miles away by now.

She imagined Pam stuffed into the back seat of the jeep, wedged in between the armed men.
She'd be going crazy. She wasn't used to feeling helpless, she was always strong and positive, always in command. Closing her eyes Maya sent her a message.

Don't give them any trouble, Mum. Do as they say. I'm sorry I was useless. I promise I'll help find you.

While Helen prised some grit from the deepest cut on her hand, Maya told her, ‘It was me they threatened. They should have taken me.'

‘Don't blame yourself, my love,' Helen said. ‘In the end it was your mum they wanted. Pam got too close to them, she knew too much.'

Maya knew her words were true. ‘But how would the kidnappers know?' she demanded. ‘How would they know what she'd discovered, unless. . .' She winced at the sting of antiseptic on her cuts. ‘Unless some slimy, double-crossing bastard betrayed her.'

Helen finished winding a bandage round Maya's wrist and gently but firmly tied the ends. ‘I suppose both sides are watching each other,' she said quietly. ‘But your mum's got the best team. She's been in worse situations than this. They'll rescue her.'

Maya wished she could feel so sure; an image
of a hooded man flashed into her head – those men were murderers, she'd seen the hate in their eyes.

Gran hoisted herself to her feet and pulled Maya close, stroking her face. ‘Are you going to be all right?'

‘Yep. I've got to be.'

‘That's my girl,' Helen said, kissing the top of Maya's head. ‘We'll get through this – all three of us.'

‘Yeah,' Maya said. ‘We will but, oh, Gran, poor Danny – his wife, his son. It's horrible.' Her jaw trembled as she spoke, her words faltered and her chest heaved big, dry, gulping sobs.

Helen clutched her tightly, rubbing at her back and shoulders. Then she cupped Maya's chin, tilted her head back and looked her full in the face. ‘It wasn't your fault – don't go thinking that – nor your mother's. What happened is dreadful, but the terrorists are to blame. They hold life cheap.' She kissed Maya's forehead. ‘Oh, my darling, you shouldn't be mixed up in all this.'

Maya swallowed hard. ‘It's all right, Gran. I'm OK.'

Helen gave her a small, forced smile. ‘Good girl.' Her eyes were tearful as she turned away and bent to pick up the basin of bloody water.

Maya stared at the flowers Helen had been arranging. Something else was niggling at her, but her mind was so muddled. . .

Think, think!

She rubbed at her cheek where gravel had grazed it, and suddenly it came to her.

Getting to her feet she told Helen, ‘I'm going up to Mum's study. I want to look at what she was working on last night.'

Gran, pouring the water down the sink, looked over her shoulder. ‘Are you sure you're up to it?' She set the upturned basin on the draining board. ‘Simon will be here soon. He's bringing a team from MI5, they'll have the best minds in the country working on this.'

Maya stood up. ‘I know. But none of them cares about Mum as much as I do.'

Entering her mum's study was shattering. Pam's laptop was on her desk, just as it had been the night before. With difficulty, because of her bandaged hand, Maya managed to open it up and log on.

Recent documents

Immediately she spotted something interesting. A file –
Red Moon.

She tried to open it.
Access denied
. She tried
another route but didn't succeed. Damn! It must be the file Mum was working on last night, and she was sure there was crucial stuff in it, information linked to the kidnapping.

Think, Maya, think.

It was hard getting her brain to function, her head felt like it was stuffed full of cotton wool, she couldn't focus. What had Pam said last night? Her eyes fell on a red file at the side of the computer. On the cover, in Pam's handwriting, was written, ‘Circle of Fire.' With a banging heart she flipped it open. It was empty – but the title stuck in her brain. Of course! Fire! That was it, the password –
Firecracker
. She typed in the word and opened the file.

Red Moon

Islamic fundamentalist cells are not operating individually but are linked throughout Europe. Their mission is to perpetrate a summer of burning – in their words, to ring Europe in a ‘Circle of Fire'
.
A series of attacks on major European cities is planned. The first will probably take place in England, followed by more attacks on public buildings in all major cities. Intelligence tells us that the first attack, possibly planned for the north of England, is imminent. . .

Her mind exploded. This was massive. Mum had
collected loads of data – surveillance reports, dates of meetings, code words, suspects. It must be the report she was going to present to the Counter Terrorism unit she headed – code name,
Viper
.

Maya scrolled down the information Pam had collated: names of organisations, dates of meetings, a list of movements and destinations – Amsterdam, Madrid, Pakistan. There were photos too, rows of mug-shots, mainly men with beards, most of them young, and a few girls, wearing headscarves.

At the bottom of one paragraph Pam had typed,
Source – Khaled Husain
.
Meeting 3.30 p.m. June 4
^th
.

Maya sat back. June 4
^th
– today! So, he was the informant she was meeting in Leeds – Khaled Husain. Pam had said she trusted him, but wasn't it a strange coincidence that on the very day of their meeting she'd been kidnapped? Was he a double agent who'd betrayed Pam? When her mum gave her the password, had she known something might go wrong? Friend or enemy, he was a crucial player.

She'd tell Simon, he had to find Khaled Husain.

The black jeep was speeding south. The men were silent, following instructions. In the back seat Pamela was wedged between two of them, hands tied behind her, eyes blindfolded, mouth gagged with tape. It was uncomfortable, but they hadn't hurt her, and they hadn't taken Maya. Poor love, how horrible for her – Pam imagined the panic, the fear that would cut to the bone.

Remember the password, Maya. Open the Red Moon file. Tell Simon he must contact Khaled. Go to the bookshop, find Khaled.

Pam was concentrating so hard on sending Maya a mind message that she jumped when a voice burst from a short wave radio. Some sort of code word was given and the driver swung the jeep sharply
to the left. In the back, an injured man moaned with every jolt.

The noise of other traffic faded as they travelled over what Pam thought were country lanes with lots of twists and turns and then, finally, the jeep bumped into a ditch and drove over a deeply rutted road. It was some sort of work depot or a farm track, Pam guessed.

She was right about the farm. The jeep stopped in front of a gate. There was a short pause while it was opened and shut and then they drove up to an old farmhouse surrounded by derelict sheds and a crumbling barn.

When the car door opened, Pam smelt an acrid scent of old bricks and lime, mixed with the stink of manure. The men on either side of her moved away and got out. Car doors slammed. She heard them unloading the man from the back; he cried out in pain.

‘Careful, careful with him,' a voice ordered.

Squeezing her shoulder blades together, Pam reared back against the seat, trying to wriggle her wrists free of the tight binding. Her training told her she should cooperate with the kidnappers, her instinct told her to escape.

A hand touched her shoulder. ‘Stay cool,' a voice said. ‘Don't make trouble and you won't get hurt.'

The voice was young and male. He had a marked northern accent. He gripped her arm and started to pull her sideways. Pam didn't resist. When her feet touched the ground, she lurched forward. A strong hand steadied her.

As they marched forward, Pam blinked and wrinkled her nose, trying to see under the blindfold but it was too thick and securely tied. She was led across some rough ground and up two steps, then her captor paused.

‘Take her inside,' a deep voice ordered.

She was pushed into what smelt like an old, damp house. Bare floorboards creaked under her feet, footsteps echoed through empty rooms. There were other people around – more footsteps, shuffling and whispering. It was unnerving not being able to see. The man guiding her shoved her down onto a hard chair.

It was important not to lose her nerve, to keep her dignity. She wished she wasn't in her running clothes, and that she was wearing something that covered more of her body than the tight vest and small pink shorts. But how many times had she told recruits,
‘If you behave like a victim, you'll become one'?