Will ignored him. He strode over to the bathroom, checked it out, then turned to Priestley. 'You can shower now,' he said. 'Any longer than a minute and I'm coming in.'
Priestley looked as if he were about to say something, but clearly thought better of it. He grabbed a towel and, with a scowl at Will, stomped into the bathroom.
Fifteen minutes later they were leaving the house — Will first. There was a different armed police officer at the door, but Will recognised him from a previous shift. He greeted the officer with a brief, comradely nod, while Priestley stood in the doorway without even seeming to notice him. The car was waiting just outside. Priestley stayed at the front of the house while Will examined the undercarriage of the vehicle for anything suspicious. Once he was satisfied that all was as it should be, he returned to the house, took Priestley rather brusquely by the arm and ushered him into the back seat. Moments later they were off.
Will drove towards Thames House, where Priestley was due to meet Lowther Pankhurst. He couldn't help feeling a twinge of anxiety, not because of Ahmed — even he, Will thought to himself, would not be so foolish as to try a hit within the confines of MI5's London headquarters — but because he had had no contact with Lowther Pankhurst since that night on the North Downs. No doubt the Director General knew what Will was doing; what he thought about a former SAS man plying his trade for the CIA was another matter.
At Thames House they were swiftly ushered up to Pankhurst's office, Will leading the way. As they waited for the Director General to invite Priestley in, Will looked around. Was it really only twelve days since he was first summoned here? Only twelve days since he first heard the name of Faisal Ahmed? As the two of them waited in silence in the comfortable anteroom, it seemed to Will as if Faisal Ahmed had been in his mind far longer than that. The idea of catching up with him had become an obsession.
The idea of killing him.
A door opened and Pankhurst appeared. The Director General smiled tersely at Priestley, then looked over at Will and gave him a meaningful look. 'Do come in, Don,' he said, politely. 'If you can be spared, that is.'
Priestley looked over at Will, who nodded, and the CIA man disappeared into Pankhurst's office. Will took a seat and rested his head against the wall. He should sleep, he thought to himself, now he was somewhere safe. He shut his eyes and tried to relax, but for some reason sleep wouldn't come. A secretary appeared and offered him coffee, which he accepted gratefully.
A large window faced out on to the street below and Will clutched his hot mug of coffee as he looked down. Despite the early hour it was already crowded with busy commuters making their way to work. Will had barely been near a television in the past few days, but on the one occasion he had seen the news it had been filled with the jowly features of the Commissioner of the Met, warning Londoners to be on high alert. How many of these people would be getting on the Tube, he wondered, with a sense of apprehension? Would they feel comforted by the sight of heavily armed police officers in the street? For a second, he felt a twinge of doubt. Perhaps he was going about this the wrong way. Perhaps he was letting his own vendetta compromise the safety of other people. The Director General of MI5 was just in the next room. Will had access; he knew he'd be heard out. Maybe he should just walk in there and tell Pankhurst everything Ahmed had said. About Operation Firefight. About what the CIA were up to.
He took a gulp of his coffee and allowed the hot liquid to burn his throat. No. It would be too high-risk. Operation Firefight was easily deniable — Will would never be believed by the British. God knows he'd racked his brains trying to think of ways to prove what he knew, people he could go to. But, ultimately, it would be foolish. If it leaked out to the CIA that he knew what they'd been doing, he felt sure that at some point in the none too distant future, he himself would be meeting with a mysterious accident.
Will turned aside from the window and the bustling commuters. He was going to do this his way.
The door opened and Priestley walked out. Pankhurst was there too. 'I wonder, Don,' he addressed the CIA man, 'if I might have a private word with Will.'
A look of nervousness crossed Priestley's face and Will opened his mouth to object. But before he did so, Pankhurst interrupted. 'Come now, gentlemen,' he said, quietly. 'I hardly think we're at risk within the confines of Thames House, do you?'
Will sniffed. 'All right,' he told Pankhurst, before turning to the American. 'Don't leave this room,' he instructed. 'And stay away from the window.'
Priestley looked over at the window in alarm, then made his way to the far side of the room. Will strode past Pankhurst into his office. The Director General closed the door behind him and took a seat at his desk.
'Sit down, Will.'
'I'll stand.'
'Whatever suits,' Pankhurst murmured. He took a deep breath, collecting his thoughts. 'I was a little taken aback that you decided to debrief yourself to Donald Priestley and not to me after the little debacle on the North Downs.'
'I don't work for you,' Will replied flatly.
'Agreed,' Pankhurst replied. 'But I did rather think you were working with me.' He stared at Will for a moment. 'I'm not sure if you're aware,' he continued, 'but they're burying Mark Drew and Nathan Kennedy this afternoon. Three o'clock.'
Will felt his jaw clenching. He hadn't known that, as it happened. And frankly, just at that moment, he could do without the image of his unit being lowered into the ground, their families weeping at the side of the grave. He could do without the thought of the Regiment gossip and disapproval at his absence. He knew how easily it could have been him.
'I know that there's an army myth, Will, that people like me don't care when people like you get killed on active service. But it's not true. We're the guys that send you into battle and, when things go wrong, we might not feel it in the gut as much as the soldiers, but we do feel it, Will. We feel it. Mark Drew and Nathan Kennedy should be spending Christmas with their families. My job is to make sure that their deaths mean something.'
He continued to stare at Will for a long, uncomfortable time.
'So would you care to tell me,' he asked plainly, 'what the hell is going on?'
Will took a deep breath. For some reason it filled him with anger to hear Pankhurst talking about Drew and Kennedy in that way; yet there was no doubting the simple sincerity in the DG's voice. Still, Will had made his decision. He knew how he was going to play this.
'I'm sure Priestley filled you in,' he said.
Pankhurst leaned back in his chair, his fingers pressed lightly together. 'Don Priestley has told me a lot of things,' he said. 'Not many of them make a great deal of sense.'
Will remained tight-lipped.
'All right, Will,' Pankhurst continued, his voice oozing patience. 'If you're not going to put your cards on the table, perhaps you'll allow me to tell you what I've been thinking.'
'Go ahead,' Will replied, unemotionally.
'I understand why you're sticking to Priestley like a limpet: you think Faisal Ahmed is going to make an assassination attempt. But why? What has Priestley done, personally, to warrant that? You're a clever man, Will. I don't believe you haven't asked yourself that question. Or maybe you already know the answer.'
Will didn't reply, leaving the Director General's accusation hanging in the air.
Pankhurst shrugged. 'Have it your way, Will,' he said. 'But at least tell me one thing. London is on high terror alert. It costs us millions to do this and I can't help thinking we're barking up the wrong tree. Are we barking up the wrong tree, Will?'