Firefight

I've got you running scared.

* * *

Donald Priestley poured himself a large whisky, downed it, replenished his glass and then took a seat on the leather sofa. The plush house on West Halkin Street in Mayfair that came with the job was warm and comfortable, yet the American felt chilled to the bone — not only from standing outside in the cold as part of this evening's wild goose chase, but also out of uneasiness. The phone call from that woman had knocked him off-kilter. Who the hell was she? Some hack trying her luck, acting on the back of a rumour? But where could she have got such a rumour? Only two people in the country knew about Operation Firefight: Priestley himself and Faisal Ahmed. His secretary knew the name, but not what it meant. And stateside it was hardly common knowledge — only the highest echelons of the CIA were in on it. Even the White House weren't aware of the policy.

But this wasn't Ahmed's style — Christ knows, Priestley had done enough work to try and get inside the man's head of late. No, something else was going on. He took another sip of his whisky, leaned back on the sofa and closed his eyes.

It scared him shitless that Faisal Ahmed was out there. He had been certain that blowing Ahmed's cover in the British terrorist organisations he had infiltrated on the CIA's behalf would have been the end of him — those bastards were animals and ruthless with it. More fool him, he supposed, for underestimating the job his countrymen had done of training the bloodthirsty Afghan in the first place. And he'd been even more of a fool for thinking that the British, with their stiff upper lips and excruciating sense of fair play, would have been able to locate Ahmed, even after his people had planted the idea in their minds that he was going to blow up half of London. How a halfwit like Lowther Pankhurst had ever made it to DG of MI5, he'd never know.

'Shit!' he said out loud to himself. The sooner he was called back to Langley, the better. He looked around him. At least this place was secure — guards on all the doors and high-level security at all the entrances and exits. A perk of the job and one he was glad of — he only really felt safe when he was at home.

A buzzer sounded. Priestley got to his feet and wandered over to the heavy mahogany desk, pressing a button on the little intercom his staff used to communicate with him. 'Yeah?'

Another American voice came over the loudspeaker. 'There's a guy at the front entrance, Mr Priestley, insists on seeing you. Says his name is Will Jackson. Shall I get rid of him?'

Priestley paused and his eyes momentarily narrowed. 'Will Jackson?'

'That's right, sir.'

Again he fell silent. Will Jackson. Back from the dead — and on the very day that someone had spooked him about Operation Firefight. Coincidence? Unbidden, an old saying came into his head. Keep your friends close, but your enemies closer.

'Show him up,' Priestley instructed. He sat down again on the leather sofa and waited.

Moments later, Jackson was standing in the doorway to his room.

'Will,' Priestley greeted him, warily. 'Don't take this the wrong way, but I'm surprised to see you here.'

Jackson's face gave no clue to what he was thinking. 'I'm kind of lucky to be here, sir,' he replied.

Priestley inclined his head. 'Well, you'd better come in. What can I fix you to drink?'

'Nothing.'

'Fair enough, Will. Have a seat and tell me, does Lowther Pankhurst know you're still — ?' His voice trailed away.

'Alive?' Jackson supplied. 'Probably not. I came to you first.'

'But not immediately, Will. You've been missing for nearly forty-eight hours.'

For a moment it seemed to Priestley that Jackson wasn't going to answer; he suddenly seemed like his mind was somewhere completely different. But eventually he spoke. 'I don't suppose you'll ever know what it's like,' he said in little more than a whisper. 'To come so close to catching the man who murdered your family and to watch him get away. Don't take it personally, but I didn't really feel like a dressing-down from you and Lowther Pankhurst until I got my head in order.'

Priestley inclined his head a little. The man sounded sincere, at least. 'I suppose you know about your colleagues.'

Jackson nodded. 'Ahmed got the better of us. You weren't joking when you told us he was good. He managed to get me out of the way, nail Drew and Kennedy, then escape with his sister. A pretty spectacular fuck-up, all in all.'

'I won't pretend I don't agree with that, Will. Pankhurst's kind of pissed too. Hell, that's the understatement of the year.'

A pause. Priestley stood up and looked out of the ornate window and the prison-like bars beyond. 'So you didn't see or speak to Ahmed,' he said, lightly.

'Oh, I spoke to him all right.'

Priestley felt a sudden coldness in his blood. He turned slowly to look at the SAS man.

'I chased him,' Jackson continued. 'I chased him and caught up with him.'

'Why the hell—?' Priestley spat, before suddenly gaining control of his emotions. 'What — why the hell didn't you shoot him?'

'Because he had an MP5 with laser sights aimed at my head,' Jackson replied,'and he made me discharge my weapon into the ground.'

Priestley's lips went thin. 'Why didn't he just kill you?' the CIA man asked. It was framed as a question, but Priestley knew it was more like wishful thinking.

'Because Latifa told him not to. Seems she was grateful to me for getting her out of the Stan and from stopping your boys from waterboarding her.'

'Maybe if "my boys" had waterboarded her a bit more,' Priestley couldn't stop himself from saying,'we wouldn't be in this situation.'

'I don't think so,' Jackson replied, quietly.

Priestley breathed out heavily in frustration and struggled to control his temper. He looked straight into Jackson's eyes. 'What else did Ahmed say, Will?'

Jackson's face remained unreadable. 'He asked me if it was you who sent me to kill him.'

Priestley continued to breathe steadily. 'And what did you tell him, Will?'

'He had an MP5 aimed at my head. I told him the truth. He said he wasn't surprised. His exact words were, "Don Priestley knows the next bullet I have is for him."'

Jackson's words themselves were like bullets and Priestley steadied himself by holding on to the corner of the large wooden desk. 'Why did he say that, Will?'

So much rested on the SAS man's answer.

'I was hoping you might be able to tell me that,' Jackson replied. 'I'm afraid neither of us were in the mood for an extended chat. He made me turn around and walk away. When I looked again, he was gone.' Jackson stared at him thoughtfully. 'Why you, sir?' he asked. 'Why would Faisal Ahmed want you dead before anyone else?'

Priestley nodded, slowly. Was Jackson telling the truth? The CIA man had been trained to tell when someone was lying and he could see none of the telltale signifiers. But years in the job had taught Priestley to make suspicion his default position. He still hadn't forgotten about the charade in Trafalgar Square and although Jackson had said nothing to suggest he knew about Firefight, he had equally said nothing to suggest he didn't.

'Why are you here, Will?' he asked, plainly. 'Why are you reporting all this to me and not to Pankhurst? He's your handler.'

'I don't have a handler,' Jackson replied with a sudden burst of anger. 'I left the Regiment two years ago and to my knowledge I never signed up again. Pankhurst's been using me, manipulating me for his own ends. Fuck it, you both have. But all I want to do is kill Faisal Ahmed. Pankhurst's leads have all dried up, so it seems to me that you and I can help each other.'

Priestley blinked. 'I'm not sure I quite follow you, Will.'

'Ahmed told me straight that he's got a bullet with your name on it. Seems to me that if I want to get to him, all I have to do is hang around you.'