Firefight

His words seemed to puncture Latifa's soul. 'And after him,' she asked. 'What then? Where will it end, Faisal? When will it end, all this killing? What about Will Jackson? He is a good man, but I have seen the hate in his eyes when he speaks your name.'

Faisal frowned. 'I am grateful to Will Jackson for what he did for you, Latifa, and I spared his life at your request. But I will not do so again. I do not blame him for wanting me dead — in his position I would want the same. But if he is foolish enough to come searching for me, he knows the stakes. He knows I will not hesitate to kill him.'

Latifa closed her eyes. It was impossible for her to express to her brother the deep sadness she felt at hearing his words; impossible for her to relay the dreadful sense of foreboding that seemed to permeate to her very core.

'But what,' she asked, her voice hesitant, 'if he kills you first?'

As she spoke, Faisal had his back to her. But when he heard those words, he turned his head and glanced over his shoulder. The look he gave her almost stopped Latifa's heart. In that instant, perhaps for the first time ever, she saw not the little boy she had taken care of all those years ago in a small village in Afghanistan; she saw not even the idealistic young teenager who spent his days picking off hated Russian soldiers with his well maintained AK-47; nor even the CIA-trained agent who had managed to infiltrate the highest levels of al-Qaeda for so many years.

She saw none of these things. Instead, standing before her, she seemed to see a different person. The contours of his shoulder muscles were pronounced and sinewy; his jaw was set; his lips unsmiling. But it was his eyes that shocked her most of all. They were flat. Emotionless. Murderous. The cold, unfeeling eyes of a killer.

And for the first time in her life, Latifa Ahmed felt afraid of her brother.

He did not answer her question, but that look told Latifa everything she needed to know. She bowed her head and stared out of the window while Faisal bent over, picked up his weapon and started taking it to bits, preparing to clean it.

Preparing to use it. And soon.

EIGHTEEN

CIA Headquarters, Langley, Virginia, USA.

Bradley Heller, Director of the Central Intelligence Agency, and Tyler Moore, Director of National Intelligence, sat on opposite sides of a large mahogany desk. The DCIA's office was richly appointed, with expensive art on the walls, comfortable furniture and floor-to-ceiling windows that looked out over a neatly kept lawn that nobody other than the carefully vetted groundsmen ever walked upon. It was bright, clear and cold outside; inside it was invitingly warm. Between them was a steaming pot of coffee that Heller's PA had just brought in before leaving them to their discussions.

Despite the comfortable surroundings, however, the DCIA and the DNI were troubled.

'I want to just keep you in the loop about the situation in London,' Heller told his colleague. Bradley Heller was a tall man in his mid-sixties with thinning grey hair and a deeply lined face. Tyler Moore was younger by several years, but he still seemed older than his actual age.

'Have they located Ahmed?'

Heller shook his head. 'And they've lost the sister.'

Moore gave him a look as if to say, These goddamn British.

'I know,' Heller replied. 'I know. One of their guys caught up with him, but Ahmed got away.' He handed Moore a thin file across the desk.

Moore opened it. 'Will Jackson,' he murmured, before starting to read. It took him four or five minutes to absorb everything in the file. 'Quite a resumé,' he noted as he finished.

'It seems he and Faisal Ahmed had a conversation before Jackson let him get away.'

Moore's eyes narrowed. 'A conversation? Where did they meet, a gentlemen's club?'

'Hardly that,' Heller murmured.

'You think this Will Jackson knows? About Firefight, I mean?'

Heller took a sip of his coffee. 'Impossible to say,' he replied, his voice measured. 'We've got no direct evidence to suggest that Ahmed told him anything;but we'd be foolish to assume that Jackson's in the dark.'

A silence fell between the two of them as they both considered the implications of what Heller had just said.

'Of course,' the DCIA continued after a moment, 'we can make a reasonable assumption that Ahmed's sister is in the know. And now this Will Jackson. Firefight relies on its secrecy, but we suddenly seem to be springing leaks.'

Moore sniffed. 'Leaks can be plugged.'

'Of course,' Heller replied. 'But you have to find them first. We've no idea where the sister is at the moment.'

'What about Jackson?'

Heller inclined his head. 'Jackson's a bit easier.' He handed Moore an A4-sized photograph. 'You know Don Priestley, of course.'

Moore nodded, recognising Priestley's features in the photo.

'The man just behind him,' Heller continued, 'is Jackson. He claims Ahmed is planning a hit on Priestley.'

Moore looked dubious. 'Why would Ahmed admit that to Jackson?'

'My thought exactly. But Priestley seems to think Jackson's telling the truth.' He sipped at his drink once more. 'I know Don very well,' he said. 'His instincts are good and right now he's running scared. He called me personally yesterday, requesting a transfer back to Langley.'

'Will you be granting it?'

'No,' Heller said, firmly.

'But do you think Ahmed is really—?'

'I think it's possible, yes.'

'Then we should—'

'Please, Tyler,' Heller held up a hand. 'Hear me out. Jackson has offered to bodyguard Priestley in the hope of getting a crack at Ahmed. Hardly regulation, I know, but in the circumstances it's quite neat. At the very least having Priestley on the ground gives us a chance of drawing Ahmed out into the open. And it keeps Jackson close. I've instructed Priestley to go along with Jackson. That way we can eliminate him once he's served his purpose.'

Moore raised an eyebrow.

'Look at the options,' Heller continued. 'If Jackson kills Ahmed, our problem goes away. If Ahmed kills Jackson, then at least one of our potential leaks has been plugged. And if his target is Priestley, he's going to want to take out Jackson first, wouldn't you say?'

'I guess so,' Moore replied. 'But what if he doesn't? What if he gets Priestley first? He's an American, Bradley. He's one of us.'

Heller nodded. 'I know,' he said, quietly. 'I don't like it any more than you do. But we can't get sentimental about this. If word of Firefight leaks we'll be facing an international crisis. I don't think the world needs the US and the British at each other's throats just now, do you?'

Moore took a deep breath. 'Of course not.'

'And anyway,' Heller continued. 'If Jackson gets through this, we know where he is. It won't take long for us to find out if he knows about Firefight. And if he does, well then — we'll be in a position to deal with it, won't we?'

Moore bit his lip. The longer he did this job, the more difficult it became to unwind the strands of right and wrong. In fact, he wasn't even sure that he knew what those words meant any more. He wondered if, given a few years, he would become quite as unaffected by the moral murk as Heller seemed to be. How many times do you have to make decisions like this, he asked himself, before they stop keeping you up at night?

'At what stage do we take this to the President?' Moore asked.

'We don't,' Heller said, firmly. 'We've gone to great lengths to make Operation Firefight officially deniable. Our duty to the President is very clear and that's to keep him in the dark. The moment he's informed about what has been going on, we start playing a whole new ball game.'

Tyler Moore stood up from his seat. 'Thanks for keeping me informed, Bradley,' he said, softly.

Heller inclined his head and, as Moore turned his back on him, he was sure he could feel the DCIA's eyes watching him as he made for the door. Before he could leave, Heller spoke again.