CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO:
London
It was 7:30 a.m. in London. Golden hues of the early morning sun already illuminated the stucco façade of 51 Belgrave Place. Inside, Steve and Sarah were having breakfast, switching back and forth between the BBC and CNN as they attempted to ascertain what the hell was happening in Moscow and Washington.
Mike Rourke had been dispatched to the newsstand in Sloane Square to pick up the morning papers. Steve had been up since five, attempting to learn something about the chaos still roiling Russia. There definitely had been a military coup led by General Borovik. But a small number of commanders, and no one knew how many, had refused to go along with the army leaders. There were still reports of fighting in some areas of Moscow and elsewhere in Russia. There was also a rumor that President Kozlov was dead.
Steve, however, was still unable to get through to Borovik. Obviously if the general had led the coup, he had better things to do with his time right now than to answer calls about Maya. All Steve could do was keep trying.
It was only 2:30 a.m. in Washington but, according to the BBC, the coming day also promised extraordinary changes in the U.S. “It looks as if the civilian politicians have chosen the route of impeachment,” said an exhausted Jane Barrett, the BBC’s Washington correspondent. “The House is planning to conduct a trial in the morning. If the majority votes to impeach President Stokes, then he will immediately be put on trial in the Senate. If two-thirds of the senators find him guilty, he’s out.”
“What’s he going to be charged with?” asked James Steele, the BBC anchor.
“No one knows yet.” Jane Barrett raised her eyebrows and shrugged. “According to the U.S. Constitution, a president can only be impeached for ‘treason, bribery and other high crimes and misdemeanors.’ However, that can mean just about anything,” she said. “And in this case the American military leaders have laid it on the line. They want President Stokes out. They’re still offering the civilians a chance to do it. But they want impeachment to be handled immediately; the entire procedure to be carried out in just one day.”
“Doesn’t sound very realistic,” said the anchor.
“Maybe not, but the word from the Joint Chiefs is it’s not just the unemployed coal miners in West Virginia who are fed up with what has been going on in Washington.”
“Do you have any further information on President Stokes?” asked Steele. “Will he actually try to defend himself against impeachment?”
“No one seems to know at this point,” said Barrett. “In fact, one rumor making the rounds is that the president has suffered a severe mental breakdown.”
Steele gave a tight smile. “That would be interesting news to those who claimed all along that Stokes was borderline psychotic.”
Meanwhile, in the basement security office at 51 Belgrave Place, Mike Rourke was checking the previous twenty-four hours of images from the surveillance cameras positioned around the house. He stopped the monitor, then rewound it, moved ahead to another frame, and saved that image, comparing it with three other frames. He repeated the process two more times, an increasingly concerned look on his face. Finally, he called Steve on the intercom and asked him to come down and take a look.
“What is it?” asked Steve, looking over Mike’s shoulder at the large monitor.
“See this image on camera four, yesterday at 2:54 p.m.?”
“That woman, yeah.”
“She turns up again at different times on four of the other cameras. “Yesterday at 5:18 p.m., 6:20 p.m., 9:27 p.m. Then again, just after midnight. She is definitely casing this place.”
“Can you go tighter on her?” asked Steve.
“I’ll bring up the contrast too.”
“The one at 5:18 p.m. is the clearest,” said Steve.
“I’ll zoom in a bit more,” said Mike. “Hey, not at all bad looking. Except there is something here on the right side of her face. Looks like a bad scar.”
“Could have been a burn,” said Steve. “I’ve seen that face before, but no idea where.” He was usually pretty good at recognizing people as part of his training. But he just couldn’t place her.
“Funniest thing,” said Sarah, who’d come down with Steve. “I’ve also seen her before.”
“But you don’t know where?” asked Steve
“Nope.”
“Hard to know what she could be up to,” said Mike.
“Maybe nothing,” said Steve. “I mean Stokes is already on the way out. I’d imagine his people are either locked up or on the run.”
“I’ll still keep an eyes peeled,” said Mike. He went over to the wall and opened a steel cabinet. “Also, just to be safe, I’ve got a small cache here. He handed Steve a Glock 17 with some ammunition clips. “And a Glock 42 for you, Miss Levin. I assume you know how to use this.”
She examined the weapon carefully, expertly inserted a clip.
“Must have to do with your skill on the cello,” said Steve.
“And I’ve got my Beretta,” said Mike. “Along with a permit. Unfortunately, we’ve got no permits for your weapons, but no point now in worrying about details.”
“Another thing,” said Mike as they returned to the ground floor, “I don’t like having that long stretch of open sidewalk in front of the house. Be right back.”
Two white construction company vans were just parking in front of the Malaysian Cultural Centre next door, where a larger basement was being excavated. Mike strolled over to the two drivers. “Hi guys, mind parking your vans in front of our place this morning?” They looked at him a bit strangely. Most normal people didn’t want the parking area in front of their homes to be tied up. “There’s fifty pounds apiece if you’ll do me that favor,” said Mike.
“No worries, mate,” said the shorter driver.
Still puzzled, the drivers returned to their vans and parked them, one behind the other, at the curb in front of 51 Belgrave Place.
“Thanks,” said Mike, handing them each a fifty-pound note. “Enjoy.”
Smiling with satisfaction, he returned to the house, poked his head in the kitchen where Steve and the others were continuing to watch the latest news, and said, “Think I’ll go back downstairs now and keep an eye on the outside cameras.”
Forty-five minutes later, Jean Swanson drove past Victoria Station and headed for Knightsbridge. She was driving a black Toyota. The trunk and floor of the back seat were filled with several plastic-wrapped parcels – more than twenty of them. They contained two hundred pounds of powerful HMX explosive. She had requested it the previous day from a high-ranking MI5 officer, with whom she had once worked in Afghanistan. She had convinced him she was on a secret antiterrorist mission for the White House which, indeed, she had once been. By the time someone in Washington finally notified MI5 that Jean’s office had been disbanded and her mission cancelled, it would be too late.
She had carefully rehearsed the route yesterday afternoon – turning on to Cadogan Place, past the Jumeira Hotel, and straight on to West Halkin Street, then slowly clockwise around Belgrave Square. The early morning traffic was light. She knew precisely where she had to position the car for the blast to be most effective: directly before the front door, as close to the curb as possible.
Shit! Two construction vans had taken the space. She had seen them yesterday, but parked next door. They’d moved. Why? Hold it – there was a large gap between the two of them. Almost three yards. All she had to do was back her car into that space. That would still place the trunk almost against the curb. Definitely would do the job. Then she’d set the timer, get out of the car, walk up the street calmly – don’t run – and two minutes later – BOOM.
In the basement, Mike continued to monitor the outside cameras. As usual, there were few people on the street. There was the regular morning parade of Mercedes, BMWs, Bentleys, and Jags carrying the bankers and brokers to work in the City. Mike’s attention was drawn to a black Toyota, moving a bit more leisurely than the others. It continued approaching, slowly, as if the driver was trying to figure something out. Then it stopped a bit beyond the front door of their mansion, and began backing towards the curb.