Ops Files II--Terror Alert (27 page)

“We can assume he didn’t go to Dover from Manchester for the weather.”

“All due respect, but our job isn’t to assume anything. Now return to Dover, or if you like, to London, and get some rest. It’s out of our hands now. We’ll speak tomorrow morning and you’ll be debriefed.”

Maya hung up and fumed. She’d been treated like a child the entire time she’d been in England, even after everything she’d achieved. The arrogance of her superiors mirrored that of their British counterparts, apparently. She was green, barely more than an intern, and thus not to be taken seriously.

Fine. She’d get a room, and damn the cost. The expense account would just have to absorb it.

Abreeq yawned as he rounded another bend on the rural road, his speed as stately as a hearse so as not to attract attention. He hadn’t seen another vehicle in a half hour, not since passing through Lympne Village. The map he’d found in the glove box had proved invaluable, and after perusing it he had a mental image of the route he’d take to reach his ultimate destination.

Killing the couple had been easy. Once he’d seen their vehicle, seemingly just asking for it in the shadows of the MSA, he’d realized that it was perfect for his purposes. He’d approached the man, who was filling a water bottle from a spigot, and asked for directions in broken English. The man had shrugged and resumed his task, and Abreeq had slashed his throat before he’d had a chance to twist the tap back on.

The wife had emerged from the restroom, and Abreeq had waited until she was at the vehicle to jump her. She’d died screaming into his hand, writhing like a wild animal as she sensed her end approaching.

He’d dragged them both into the brush and stripped them of their identification, and had manhandled the device into their vehicle and been on his way within minutes of laying them to rest. As he’d hoped, the convoy of police cars hadn’t given his new ride a glance as he drove past them, which told him they had no idea what they were dealing with. Abreeq knew he couldn’t rely on that ignorant apathy for any length of time, but intended to capitalize on it while he could.

The couple wouldn’t be immediately identified, and once they were, it would take hours more to establish whether they had rented a car or driven their own vehicle to the coast. By which time it would be too late to stop him – he’d be hiding in plain sight.

A fox darted across the road in front of him and he slowed, grinding his teeth at the sound of the keg sliding forward. He hadn’t had time to secure it, but he’d need to soon. Until now he’d been focused on putting distance between himself and the police.

He coasted to the shoulder and peered through the windshield at the total darkness around him. The fog had thinned as he’d made his way inland, but was still thick enough that visibility was impaired. Abreeq switched off the headlights and checked on the keg. After improvising bindings with some towing rope, he was back behind the wheel, the vehicle’s diesel engine clacking along with the monotonous regularity of a locomotive.

Abreeq made a turn south in the sleeping hamlet of Woodchurch, onto a single-lane road that stretched through farmland. He was in no particular hurry and had elected to stay to back roads, well away from any main arteries or major metropolitan areas. Minutes stretched into several hours, and at half past four he pulled onto a dirt track behind a grove of trees and shut off the motor, determined to get a few hours of sleep so he wouldn’t be too groggy for the big event the next day.

He moved into the rear of the vehicle, stripped off the bloody sweatshirt, and replaced it with a clean one. After double-checking his weapon and setting it by the pillow, he lay down and closed his eyes, the bucolic landscape around him silent as the grave.

~ ~ ~

Maya found a reasonable-looking establishment near the coast and roused a sleepy innkeeper to the front desk with the ring of a bell. The old man looked surprised to have been awakened from his slumber at the late hour but was more than happy to accept her money in exchange for a room. She declined a guided tour to the second-floor digs and instead took the key from him, hoisted her bag, and set off up the stairs, a headache starting in the deepest reaches of her skull from the tension of the last hours.

Her cell rang as she was stripping off her clothes, and she hopped to the small table she’d placed it on, her pants around her ankles. She glanced at the screen – the same London prefix.

The head of station’s distinctive voice was grim when she answered, and got straight to the point.

“Our contacts tell us that the wounded man from Dover has disappeared.”

“What? He was dying. What are you talking about?”

“Nobody’s sure. At first they thought it was some sort of a mix-up at the hospital, but he hasn’t been admitted at any of the local facilities, so it could be something more…ominous.”

“How does a dying man vanish into thin air?”

“Obviously he had help.”

“That tells me that perhaps we aren’t the only ones with sources in the police force.”

“While I typically argue against making any hasty decisions, I tend to agree with you.”

She frowned. “Every step of the way this has gone from bad to worse. Is there anything else? Any promising leads?”

“Not at this time.” He paused. “I’m afraid Jeff didn’t make it. We just got the call.”

Maya swallowed hard. “That’s a shame. He was a good agent.”

“I know.”

“His last order was to stop Abreeq at all costs.”

“Yes. There was history there.”

“We haven’t done a particularly stellar job.”

“It’s a big country. You’re only one person. Did you get a room?”

“Yes. Dover.”

“Fine. Let’s talk tomorrow. Maybe there will be some positive developments overnight.”

“That would be nice.”

“Leave your phone on just in case.”

Maya set the cell back on the table and yawned, then stepped out of her pants and pulled her shirt off. Once in the bathroom, she scrubbed the dark base off her face and noted that her eyes were red. She looked as bad as she felt. She’d failed to catch the terrorist, Jeff was dead, and what career she’d had could well be in jeopardy. Everyone involved would be looking hard for someone to blame for the fiasco and trail of dead bodies, and she, as the junior agent in the field, was a prime target. It wouldn’t matter in the end that she’d gone to impossible lengths to get to Dover, and had come within minutes of apprehending Abreeq. It would only be remembered that her supervisor had died while with her, and the assumption would be that her carelessness had killed him – an easy leap to make given the string of failures to date.

None of which mattered to her right then. She was exhausted, and her mind was playing tricks on her, painting worst-case scenarios, assuming she’d be scapegoated. Whatever happened tomorrow, she had no control over it, and the best she could do was get some rest.

Maya stumbled to the bed, shut off the bedside lamp, and rested her head on the pillow, staring mutely at the overhead light fixture in the near total darkness. She willed her eyes to close, but her mind was still redlining, churning over the events of the evening, searching for meaning in the random chaotic events.

She turned over and sighed. She was missing something. Some niggling detail that was important, but she was too tired to recognize. The sense of having overlooked a critical element was powerful, but in the end her body’s need for sleep won out, and she drifted into restless slumber, tossing and turning as an occasional foghorn or buoy bell sounded in the distance like a lament for her fallen peers.

One kilometer southwest of Northiam, England

Abreeq shifted and grunted as sun streamed through the stolen camper’s windows, and then sat up on the uncomfortably thin mattress and scowled at the sunlight. A quick glance at the time told him he’d been asleep for a little over three hours, although he felt like he’d just nodded off. He stretched his arms over his head and his hand bumped the hard edge of his pistol as if to remind him of his duty. He reluctantly swung his legs off the bed and slipped his shoes on, and then moved to the cab.

The fog was burning off, revealing a long expanse of shimmering green grass wrinkled by a mild breeze. There was nobody in sight, so he checked the small caravan refrigerator and found a bottle of orange juice along with enough food to feed a small army. Apparently the French had no more interest in England’s culinary delights than he did and had brought their own from Paris. He spied a wedge of mild cheese and several rolls wrapped in plastic, and settled in for a quick breakfast before getting on the road.

His repast was interrupted by a banging at the caravan door. He froze with his food halfway to his mouth, and the banging sounded again, accompanied by an annoyed British voice.

“You, in there. Come on, wake up.”

Abreeq chambered a round and shifted his gun to the small of his back before pulling his shirt over it. He rose and headed for the door.

“Yes?” he called out, peering through the windshield with a sidelong glance. No police vehicles.

“You’re on private property. Open the door.”

Abreeq debated telling the man to get lost, but decided that appeasement was the best approach, and so unlocked the door and swung it open. A reed-thin man with white hair and a face tanned the color of bark glared at him, a bird gun cradled in his arms.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t realize,” he said, affecting his version of a French accent.

“There’s such a thing as trespassing, you know,” the man growled, obviously angry. “We have laws over on this side of the water.”

“Yes, yes. I’ll just be moving on, then,” Abreeq apologized. “I meant no offense.”

“I don’t have to tell you how worrisome it is to find strangers using your land for a toilet.”

“I didn’t do that.”

“Next bloody thing, I’ll wager.”

“Again, I am sorry. I will go.”

“Best make it fast before I lose my temper. You lot think you can do whatever you like. Seen enough of it to last me two lifetimes.”

“Okay,” Abreeq said. “I can pay you for staying here.”

He immediately saw his error as the color flushed the old man’s face. “Bloody cheek. You squat on my land, then offer to toss me a few coins? Go on. Get out of here with your gypsy mobile.” The old man spat. “Bloody wogs.”

Abreeq’s pupils contracted to pinpoints. “What did you say?”

“It’s my land. I can say whatever I want. Get off of it, now.” The geriatric raised the shotgun.

Abreeq’s reflexes were far faster than the old farmer’s, and before he had consciously thought about it, he’d twisted the gun barrel away from him, dislocating the man’s trigger finger and knocking him backward. The farmer stumbled a few steps and tripped over a small rock, howling with pain and outrage. Abreeq watched as he pitched backward in slow motion and hit the dirt with a grunt.

Abreeq moved toward the man, intending to help him up and apologize, but quickly saw that the man was hurt. Something had broken when he’d fallen, and he was writhing in pain, hate radiating from his eyes. “You filthy wog bastard. I’ll see you behind bars for this–”

The thread of control that was holding him back snapped in Abreeq’s brain, and he grinned menacingly as he raised the shotgun over his head like an axe. The old man realized what he was about to do and threw his arms up defensively, but the gesture hardly slowed the stock as Abreeq brought it down with all his might, shattering the farmer’s forearm and slamming into his collarbone.

The farmer screamed in agony and Abreeq kicked him in the ribs. “There. You like that? What was it you called me? A filthy wog bastard? I’ll show you what I really am. The angel of death,” Abreeq hissed, and aimed the heavy wooden stock at the farmer’s head like a home-run hitter swinging at a fastball.

The old man’s skull twisted to the side with a sickening crack, and he convulsed. Abreeq watched him die, twitching in his beloved dirt, and as the farmer grew still, he unzipped his pants and peed on the man’s face – a symbolic gesture, as he was already dead, but a satisfying one for the terrorist.

When he was done, Abreeq tossed the gore-crusted shotgun by the farmer’s side and walked to the rear of the caravan, where a fifty-year-old pickup truck was parked. Abreeq shielded his eyes from the rising sun and looked off down the road into the distance. Nothing moved but a crow taking to the air a hundred meters beyond the truck’s bumper. The terrorist watched its flight until it disappeared into a far grove of trees, and then calmly returned to the camper and climbed aboard.

He snatched up his roll and cheese and took a bite as he slid behind the wheel and started the engine. After a long pull on the orange juice, he put the transmission in gear and let out the clutch. The camper lurched along the shoulder, and then it was on the pavement with a bounce. Abreeq looked in the side mirror at the dead man lying in the dirt and shook his head.

“So much hate and anger. Didn’t anyone ever tell you it was dangerous to carry that around with you?” he murmured in Arabic, and then repeated it in English with a pronounced British upper-crust accent. “Bloody wog. Bloody wog bastard.” He caught a glimpse of his eyes in the rearview mirror. They looked wild, but he didn’t care. He laughed out loud. “Who’s the bloody bastard now?”

The hysterical edge slowly receded as he drove, and as he finished his breakfast, he cursed silently. “Stupid, stupid, stupid,” he whispered, slamming the steering wheel with his hand. He shouldn’t have killed the old man. It was always possible that he’d called someone before confronting Abreeq. Said something about a French caravan trespassing on his land. Out in the country, it was likely that a landowner like the farmer knew everyone. When he was found, there would be a manhunt.

Another manhunt.

His concern was interrupted by a roadside sign marking a tributary to the left. He laughed again, the tension leaving him as he read it out loud.

“Hastings, 15 kilometers.”

Abreeq directed the caravan onto the larger road and smiled to himself as the last of the fog burned away, leaving a relatively warm, cloudless morning in its wake.