'Pissed,' Priestley supplied helpfully in his American drawl.
'Quite,' Pankhurst muttered. 'Recently, however, there has been a development.'
'What sort of development?' Will asked.
Pankhurst sniffed. 'A significant one,' he said flatly. 'We've been picking up a lot of intelligence chatter about Ahmed — nothing concrete, but it was clear something was in the offing.' He narrowed his eyes. 'You are aware, I suppose, of the existence of what certain people have taken to calling "black camps"?'
'Yeah,' Will said slowly. He had heard the rumours of course — that there were places outside the legal jurisdiction of America and Britain where suspects were taken to be interrogated in ways that were illegal in more civilised countries. Places they could be tortured without there being any comeback. Places you didn't want to end up.
'Well, we got lucky with one of our leads. A joint British and American operation apprehended a young Pakistani student in Rome three days ago. He was taken to a black camp and — ' again Pankhurst seemed to search for the right word, '- persuaded to reveal everything he knew about, well, everything. He informed us that Faisal Ahmed is planning a terrorist strike against London some time in the next three weeks. Something major. We bled our informant dry, but that was all he could tell us. We don't know where it's going to happen and we don't know when. All we know is, it will happen.'
Pankhurst's stark prediction seemed to echo around the room. The two men stared at Will for a while without saying anything.
'Well, I don't know what you think I can do about it,' he said in an attempt to break the uncomfortable silence.
The two men remained expressionless. The American turned again to look out of the window. 'I was in New York on 9/11,Will,' he said quietly. 'I've never seen such horror. I've never seen fear like that in anybody's eyes. But you know what? Compared to Faisal Ahmed, the men who plotted and carried out that attack were amateurs. Ahmed's the best there is — if he wanted a major strike on London, he has the capability to make it the most horrific act of violence we've ever seen.'
'Fine,' Will replied. 'I still don't see where I come in.' He was getting impatient now and wanted to leave. His eyes flickered over to the door and he wondered what would happen if he just walked out.
'You come in, Will,' Pankhurst said quietly,'because you've been out of service for the last two years.'
Will blinked. 'What are you talking about? That makes no sense at all.'
'I told you, Will. We have a mole. We don't know who it is and we don't know where it is. Most importantly, we don't know how far their influence extends. You, however — ' Pankhurst gave him a thin smile. 'As far as we can tell, you've had no contact with the military or with the authorities since you retired two years ago. We've been watching you for a while, Will, and it seems your longest conversations have been with the gentleman round the corner who runs the off-licence.'
Instantly Will stood up. 'For fuck's sake,' he muttered. 'I don't have to listen to this shit.'
He made for the door.
'I apologise, Will,' Pankhurst announced. 'That was uncalled for. Please, sit down and hear me out.'
Will stopped in his tracks. He found that he was shaking, but at least his brain hadn't turned to jelly. He knew Pankhurst was going to finish saying what he had to say — if Will walked out before that happened, chances were that he'd only be dragged in again, and probably a lot less politely than last time. A frown wrinkled on his forehead as he turned and sat down again.
'Thank you, Will,' Pankhurst said quietly, and for a moment Will thought he sounded genuinely grateful. 'The truth is, we need you. We need someone clean and we need someone we think might just be a match for Ahmed and for the operation we have in mind. We don't have many options, Will. We don't have any options, apart from you.'
'I'll level with you, Will,' Priestley continued. 'I wanted to put one of our boys on this job. But then Lowther showed me your file and even I've got to admit it's impressive. You've fought your way out of some pretty nasty corners.'
'Yeah, well that was a long time ago. If you've read my file closely enough, you'll see that I've got more reason to hate terrorists than most. But there's nothing I can do about it. Not now. I've been out of it for too long.'
'I don't think that's true, Will,' Pankhurst said. 'I saw the way you dealt with my people this morning.'
Will shrugged. 'Whatever,' he said. 'I'm not interested. You can find someone else and that's my last word. Now if there's nothing else, I'd like to go.'
'Actually,' Pankhurst said a bit too quickly, 'there is something else.' He exchanged a worried glance with his CIA counterpart, then took a deep breath. 'There's one other thing I haven't told you.'
Will's eyes narrowed. 'What?' he demanded.
'I mentioned that Ahmed's bombing campaign had practically no casualties, that they were like warning shots.'
'Yeah?'
'There was one exception. Two exceptions, actually. 'The director looked piercingly at him and as he spoke Will felt a sickness in his stomach and a hot surge of adrenaline. Pankhurst took another A4 photograph from the sheaf and held it lightly in his fingertips. 'It was two years ago,' he said, his voice flat. 'A bomb outside a department store in Knightsbridge. Two casualties, both female, a mother and daughter.'
He handed the photograph to Will. Drawn to it like a bystander to an accident, he looked at the image. He knew it well, of course. It had haunted his dreams for months on end. He recognised the curve of the woman's back as she wrapped herself around her dead child. He recognised the way the little girl's long, honey hair was spattered over her bloodstained face.
His hand started to shake even more.
'I'm sorry to have to tell you this way,' Pankhurst continued, relentlessly. 'But you need to know. Faisal Ahmed killed your family, Will. And now you're the only one who can do anything about it.'
FOUR
The room seemed to spin.
Will was barely aware of the other two men as they stood there, watching him intently, checking to see what his reaction would be. The photo in his hand seemed to fill all his senses, to bring back all the grief like a sharp shard of glass slicing right through him. He found that he was biting on his lower lip, so hard that he could taste the hot, metallic flavour of his own blood, and without a word he stood up. The picture fell to the floor as he did so, but Will didn't bother to pick it up. He had no need of a photographic reminder of that scene. It was etched on his brain and would be until the day he died.
'You bastards,' he whispered.
The two men remained silent.
'You fucking bastards!' he shouted. 'Why didn't I know about this before?'
'It wasn't necessary, Will,' Pankhurst replied calmly.
'I'll decide what's fucking necessary!' he yelled. 'They were my family. Not a couple of pawns in your fucking game.' His body was shaking now and he felt violent. He wanted to hit them, to make them feel his pain; but something stopped him, paralysed him. He looked from one to the other and their blank gazes infuriated him even more. In the end, he simply turned and left the office, slamming the door. Neither Pankhurst nor Priestley tried to stop him.
His blood running hot in his veins, Will half-walked, half-ran through the corridors of Thames House. He didn't wait for a lift to get to the ground floor; instead he used the stairs, taking in several steps at a time. It felt better that way, as though he were putting distance between himself and the information he had just learned. People turned to look at him as he tore past them and at the exit two security guards stood in his way, clearly suspicious of him. He barged through them and out into the streets.