Firefight (29 page)

'I need to, er—' Priestley made a slightly embarrassed
gesture.

Will looked at his watch. 6.30 p.m. Regular as fucking
clockwork. He nodded, then brushed past Priestley, through
the bedroom and into the bathroom. The CIA man followed
him and stood watching at the door, while Will checked
the marble-clad bathroom. There were bars outside the
window, but he peered out just in case, looking for signs
of tampering. Once he was satisfied that all was as it should
be, he nodded at Priestley. 'Go ahead,' he told him.

Priestley walked into the room, a rather hangdog expression
on his face, while Will left. He shut the door and stood
guard outside.

It had been a long forty-eight hours. Just being with
Priestley, the man murkily implicated in what had happened
to his family, was strain enough, let alone the constant
watching. The constant waiting. Every second he expected
something to happen. Every second he expected to see
Faisal Ahmed coming at him.

It would happen. He knew it would. And when it did,
Will just had to be ready. He had to make sure that his
plan was sound.

From the bathroom, suddenly, there was a noise.

Breaking glass.

Will felt his skin tingle, then a calm descended upon him.
It was always like this when you went into battle. The wait
was agonising, but when the moment arrived everything
kicked in. The training, the preparation - it happened
without thinking. He pressed himself against the wall to
one side of the door and raised the handgun.

He listened carefully: the shuffling of feet.

Any minute now, he thought to himself. Give yourself a
few moments. Burst in now and he'll be expecting you; hold
back for a moment and you'll have the element of surprise.

His mind was acutely clear. Crystalline.

He took a deep breath. With one foot he kicked the door
open and burst into the bathroom, his gun pointing out in
front of him, his finger poised on the trigger, ready to shoot.

Priestley was alone. He was standing at the sink, his trousers
still unbuckled and his shirt hanging out. He looked at the
handgun with horror.

Will's eyes darted around the room. Only at the last
moment did he see the glass smashed on the floor.

'I - I dropped it,' Priestley stuttered, his face white. 'I -
I'm sorry. I just got kind of panicky, and my hand started
trembling—' He looked down at himself, at his state of
semi-undress, and an expression of embarrassment crossed
his face. 'Shit,' he hissed. 'Why can't they just call me back
to Langley, those bastards? Why can't they just fucking airlift
me out of here?'

Because they're a step ahead of you, Priestley,
Will thought to
himself.
They're a step ahead of you and they're hoping we might
be the answer to all their problems the minute we each have Ahmed's
bullets in our skulls. You think Ahmed's your enemy? Well let me
tell you - you've got more enemies than you'll ever know.

Will lowered his gun. He was breathing heavily, he realised,
and he was staring at Priestley in disgust. The man looked
pitiful, pathetic. How powerful he must have felt, giving the
orders that put lives at risk. And now look at him. A contemptible
sight. Nothing but a weak man, terrified for his life.

Unable to stand up for himself.

Unable to stand up to the consequences of his actions.

'Get dressed,' Will spat, finding him too repugnant even
to look at. 'Get dressed and I'll call out for food. I'm fucking
starving.'

*

Midnight.

The lights in Faisal Ahmed's flat were low and he didn't
speak a word as he made his preparations. He put on
nondescript clothes, then went about the time-consuming
business of shaving off his beard. When it was done, he
turned almost defiantly to his sister. It made him look
younger, Latifa thought. She had not seen him cleanshaven
for many years and the sight took her back to the
time when she had been like a mother to him.

She
still
felt like a mother to him, she realised, and at
that moment she felt a mother's anxieties. Latifa had begged
him countless times not to go and each time he had steadfastly
ignored her pleas. On the few occasions when he did
speak of it, he always said the same thing. 'I'm just doing
what I have to do, Latifa. You don't have to understand it
- you just have to accept it.'

But she could not accept it. 'Please, Faisal. Please do not
leave me. What if you come to harm? What will happen
to me then?'

'I will not come to harm,' Faisal said, as he dismantled
one of his many guns and placed the constituent parts into
his bag.

'You don't know that, Faisal. You have given them warning
that this is what you are going to do. He will be surrounded
by security.'

A whisper of a smile played across Faisal's lips. '
You
were
surrounded by security as well,' he noted, and to Latifa's ear
his voice had the sound of a little boy gloating.

'Your pride will be your undoing, Faisal.'

For a moment he stopped what he was doing. He put
down his bag, turned and walked towards his sister. She
looked away from him, but he gently stretched out his hand
and lifted her chin so that their eyes met again.

'Latifa,' he said, softly. 'Listen to me. The Russians killed
our parents in front of us. Do you remember that day, Latifa?
Do you remember it as vividly as I do?'

'How could I forget, Faisal?'

'Do you remember the way the blood seeped from their
bodies and was absorbed by the earth?'

She nodded, tears welling up in her eyes.

'Every time I killed a Russian soldier, I did it for them.
I did it for their memory, so they would look down on me
and be proud. For all those years you gave me looks of
such disapproval; and yet you never tried to stop me, because
somewhere deep down you understood what I was doing.'

Latifa jutted out her chin. She refused to agree with him,
yet she felt unable to disagree.

'The man I am going after now,' Faisal continued, 'he
tried to do to me what the Russians did to our parents.
He would not have pulled the trigger, of course. But he
was responsible. And if he had been successful, he would
have gone on to kill innocent people. People like our
parents, Latifa. So look me in the eye now and tell me I
am doing the wrong thing.'

He stared hard at her and she faltered under that gaze.
There was nothing she could say to him, she saw that now.
Nothing that would turn him back from the path he had
chosen. 'I just don't want to lose my little brother,' she said,
weakly.

Faisal lowered his hand. 'You lost your little brother many
years ago, Latifa. I am not the same person. I am what the
Americans made me and if that comes back to haunt them,
I am a ghost of their own making.'

She looked at him again. His features were dark.
Unrelenting.

'But there is one thing I swear to you, Latifa. Whatever
happens, either now or in the future, I will see to it that
you are safe. You have suffered enough on my account and
as God is my witness I will see to it that such things do
not happen again.'

She felt the tears coming to her eyes again as her reckless,
impetuous brother made these promises she knew he
could not keep.

'And you know that I am a man of my word, Latifa. You
know that.'

Latifa shook her head. She felt somehow crushed by the
power of her despair.

'Yes, Faisal,' she replied. 'You are a man of your word. I
know it.'

When dawn came, it brought with it streaks of red across
the sky. Will Jackson stood at the window of the room
adjoining the one where Priestley slept, grateful in some
ways that the night had passed, but wondering what the
day would bring. The red sky seemed to shout a warning
at him.

Will had gone beyond tiredness now. Perhaps he would
be able to grab some sleep here and there when Priestley
was in meetings, but if not it didn't matter. He was surviving
on raw adrenaline at the moment and he felt as if he could
stay awake for days. For as long as it took to get the job
done.

Priestley was an early riser and it wasn't long after dawn
that Will heard him moving about in his bedroom. He
knocked on the door, then opened it to see the American
walking around wearing nothing but a pair of boxer shorts.
He had more of a gut than Will might have expected from
seeing him fully clothed and he looked over in annoyance.
'A bit of privacy would be nice.'

Will ignored him. He strode over to the bathroom, checked
it out, then turned to Priestley. 'You can shower now,' he
said. 'Any longer than a minute and I'm coming in.'

Priestley looked as if he were about to say something,
but clearly thought better of it. He grabbed a towel and,
with a scowl at Will, stomped into the bathroom.

Fifteen minutes later they were leaving the house - Will
first. There was a different armed police officer at the door,
but Will recognised him from a previous shift. He greeted
the officer with a brief, comradely nod, while Priestley
stood in the doorway without even seeming to notice him.
The car was waiting just outside. Priestley stayed at the front
of the house while Will examined the undercarriage of the
vehicle for anything suspicious. Once he was satisfied that
all was as it should be, he returned to the house, took
Priestley rather brusquely by the arm and ushered him into
the back seat. Moments later they were off.

Will drove towards Thames House, where Priestley was
due to meet Lowther Pankhurst. He couldn't help feeling
a twinge of anxiety, not because of Ahmed - even he, Will
thought to himself, would not be so foolish as to try a hit
within the confines of MI5's London headquarters - but
because he had had no contact with Lowther Pankhurst
since that night on the North Downs. No doubt the Director
General knew what Will was doing; what he thought about
a former SAS man plying his trade for the CIA was another
matter.

At Thames House they were swiftly ushered up to
Pankhurst's office, Will leading the way. As they waited for
the Director General to invite Priestley in, Will looked
around. Was it really only twelve days since he was first
summoned here? Only twelve days since he first heard the
name of Faisal Ahmed? As the two of them waited in silence
in the comfortable anteroom, it seemed to Will as if Faisal
Ahmed had been in his mind far longer than that. The idea
of catching up with him had become an obsession.

The idea of
killing
him.

A door opened and Pankhurst appeared. The Director
General smiled tersely at Priestley, then looked over at Will
and gave him a meaningful look. 'Do come in, Don,' he
said, politely. 'If you can be spared, that is.'

Priestley looked over at Will, who nodded, and the CIA
man disappeared into Pankhurst's office. Will took a seat
and rested his head against the wall. He should sleep, he
thought to himself, now he was somewhere safe. He shut
his eyes and tried to relax, but for some reason sleep wouldn't
come. A secretary appeared and offered him coffee, which
he accepted gratefully.

A large window faced out on to the street below and
Will clutched his hot mug of coffee as he looked down.
Despite the early hour it was already crowded with busy
commuters making their way to work. Will had barely
been near a television in the past few days, but on the
one occasion he had seen the news it had been filled with
the jowly features of the Commissioner of the Met,
warning Londoners to be on high alert. How many of
these people would be getting on the Tube, he wondered,
with a sense of apprehension? Would they feel comforted
by the sight of heavily armed police officers in the street?
For a second, he felt a twinge of doubt. Perhaps he was
going about this the wrong way. Perhaps he was letting
his own vendetta compromise the safety of other people.
The Director General of MI5 was just in the next room.
Will had access; he knew he'd be heard out. Maybe he
should just walk in there and tell Pankhurst everything
Ahmed had said. About Operation Firefight. About what
the CIA were up to.

He took a gulp of his coffee and allowed the hot liquid
to burn his throat. No. It would be too high-risk.
Operation Firefight was easily deniable - Will would never
be believed by the British. God knows he'd racked his
brains trying to think of ways to prove what he knew,
people he could go to. But, ultimately, it would be foolish.
If it leaked out to the CIA that he knew what they'd
been doing, he felt sure that at some point in the none
too distant future, he himself would be meeting with a
mysterious accident.

Will turned aside from the window and the bustling
commuters. He was going to do this
his
way.

The door opened and Priestley walked out. Pankhurst
was there too. 'I wonder, Don,' he addressed the CIA man,
'if I might have a private word with Will.'

A look of nervousness crossed Priestley's face and Will
opened his mouth to object. But before he did so, Pankhurst
interrupted. 'Come now, gentlemen,' he said, quietly. 'I
hardly think we're at risk within the confines of Thames
House, do you?'

Will sniffed. 'All right,' he told Pankhurst, before turning
to the American. 'Don't leave this room,' he instructed. 'And
stay away from the window.'

Priestley looked over at the window in alarm, then made
his way to the far side of the room. Will strode past Pankhurst
into his office. The Director General closed the door behind
him and took a seat at his desk.

'Sit down, Will.'

'I'll stand.'

'Whatever suits,' Pankhurst murmured. He took a deep
breath, collecting his thoughts. 'I was a little taken aback
that you decided to debrief yourself to Donald Priestley
and not to me after the little debacle on the North Downs.'

'I don't work for you,' Will replied flatly.

'Agreed,' Pankhurst replied. 'But I did rather think you
were working
with
me.' He stared at Will for a moment.
'I'm not sure if you're aware,' he continued, 'but they're
burying Mark Drew and Nathan Kennedy this afternoon.
Three o'clock.'

Will felt his jaw clenching. He hadn't known that, as it
happened. And frankly, just at that moment, he could do
without the image of his unit being lowered into the ground,
their families weeping at the side of the grave. He could do
without the thought of the Regiment gossip and disapproval
at his absence. He knew how easily it could have been him.

'I know that there's an army myth, Will, that people like
me don't care when people like you get killed on active
service. But it's not true. We're the guys that send you into
battle and, when things go wrong, we might not feel it in
the gut as much as the soldiers, but we do feel it, Will. We
feel it. Mark Drew and Nathan Kennedy should be spending
Christmas with their families. My job is to make sure that
their deaths
mean
something.'

He continued to stare at Will for a long, uncomfortable
time.

'So would you care to tell me,' he asked plainly, 'what
the hell is going on?'

Will took a deep breath. For some reason it filled him
with anger to hear Pankhurst talking about Drew and
Kennedy in that way; yet there was no doubting the simple
sincerity in the DG's voice. Still, Will had made his decision.
He knew how he was going to play this.

'I'm sure Priestley filled you in,' he said.

Pankhurst leaned back in his chair, his fingers pressed
lightly together. 'Don Priestley has told me a lot of things,'
he said. 'Not many of them make a great deal of sense.'

Will remained tight-lipped.

'All right, Will,' Pankhurst continued, his voice oozing
patience. 'If you're not going to put your cards on the table,
perhaps you'll allow me to tell you what
I've
been thinking.'

'Go ahead,' Will replied, unemotionally.

'I understand why you're sticking to Priestley like a limpet:
you think Faisal Ahmed is going to make an assassination
attempt. But why? What has Priestley done, personally, to
warrant that? You're a clever man, Will. I don't believe you
haven't asked yourself that question. Or maybe you already
know the answer.'

Will didn't reply, leaving the Director General's accusation
hanging in the air.

Pankhurst shrugged. 'Have it your way, Will,' he said. 'But
at least tell me one thing. London is on high terror alert.
It costs us millions to do this and I can't help thinking we're
barking up the wrong tree.
Are
we barking up the wrong
tree, Will?'

Will blinked. Pankhurst was perceptive - he had to grudgingly
admit that. But he couldn't answer the question, not
without giving the game away. 'I'm not your security adviser,
sir,' he said quietly.

Pankhurst breathed out deeply. 'Very well, Will,' he said,
passing his hand over his eyes. 'You'd better get back to
him. He's acting like a frightened schoolgirl.'

Will nodded, then turned towards the door. But before
he could open it, Pankhurst spoke again.

'Will?' he said. There was something in his voice. It was
less official. Friendly almost.

He turned. 'Sir?'

Pankhurst was looking at him with intense concentration.

'Good luck, Will,' he said. 'Whatever it is you're doing.'

Will inclined his head slightly. 'Thank you, sir,' he replied,
before leaving the DG's office and closing the door behind
him.

*

It was gone six in the evening by the time Will parked
outside Priestley's Belgravia residence once more and the
strains of their enforced proximity were becoming even
more evident. As soon as the car came to a halt, Priestley
made to open his door.

'Don't move!' Will shouted at him and the American froze.

'What is it?' he asked, breathlessly.

'For Christ's sake,' Will told him. 'You know the drill by
now.' He opened his own door, handgun at the ready,
checked up and down the street and did a visual sweep of
the rooftops. Only when he was satisfied that he had the
all-clear did he open Priestley's door and hustle him up
past the armed police officer. Will entered the house first,
then gave Priestley the sign that he could come in.

Priestley strode impatiently down the chequerboard
hallway, slung his coat over the banister of the stairs and
started making his way up. 'Don't take this the wrong way,
Will,' he drawled, his voice grumpy, 'but I'm starting to
wonder if a bullet in the head isn't preferable to another
evening of us sitting upstairs scowling at each other.'

'Your call,' Will murmured.

Priestley stopped halfway up the stairs and looked back at
Will. His face had morphed into an unpleasant sneer - halfway
between fear and contempt, Will thought. 'Come on,' he spat,
before turning and climbing the rest of the stairs.

Will stared balefully at him from the ground floor as he
disappeared round the corner. The sooner this was over, he
thought to himself, the bett—

He stopped.

Something wasn't right.

At the top of the stairs was a CCTV camera which
covered the landing leading to the rooms they were using.
Normally a small red light indicated that it was in use, but
as he stared at it Will could see that the light was off. He
felt his heart in his mouth as he looked over his shoulder
at the camera covering the hallway.

No light.

Will knew immediately what it meant. The CCTV had
been disabled and there could only be one reason for that.
How Faisal Ahmed had got into the house, he didn't know.
How he had disabled the CCTV without anyone being
alerted, he didn't know. But of one thing he was sure.

Ahmed was here.
Now
.

Will looked back towards the front door. It was shut and
there was no indication that the police officer outside knew
what was going on.

The next minute was crucial. Everything he had been
preparing for up to this point rested on what happened
now.

Ahmed would have been watching them. No doubt
about it. Ahmed would know that the first person to enter
any room was Will. He would know which rooms they
were camping out in. His eyes flickered up. There was no
sign of Priestley. He would be approaching the room right
now.

Will bounded up the stairs, quickly but lightly. As he
moved, his brain worked as speedily as his feet. Timing was
everything now. Critical. He had to play it just right. The
first shot had to be his.

He stopped, as an idea crystallised in his mind.

Ahmed had respect for his abilities as a soldier; somehow
he knew that. He would suspect that Will had seen the
cameras were disabled. And he would assume that a good
SAS man would follow standard operating procedure in a
situation like this and enter the room first. He'd be ready
and waiting.

Something the Afghan had said when they last met flicked
through his brain.
Sometimes we think we are knights, when in
fact we are merely pawns.

Today they were neither. Today they were both kings,
each trying to outwit the other, both one step away from
checkmate.

And it was Will's move.

At the top of the stairs he saw Priestley waiting obediently
by the door of the room. Will walked silently down
the corridor, doing his best to look nonchalant. When he
was three metres from the door he raised his right hand
and flicked it, as if to indicate to Priestley that he should
just go in.