Nina gripped Eddie’s hand. ‘Oh, my God. He’s actually saying it straight out. He’s not even going to the British government first — he’s making an allegation to the world.’ Even Nadel was shocked by the bluntness of his boss’s declaration.
‘We know the identity of the individual who carried out both attacks,’ the President continued, staring into the camera as if addressing his suspect directly. ‘As for those who authorised this person to commit mass murder in pursuit of a cynical political agenda, we also know who they are.’ He paused, his gaze intensifying. ‘We know where they are. Our intelligence agencies are sharing information with their British counterparts as I speak. I trust that the British government will join us in our mission to bring these criminals to justice. Because make no mistake: we are coming for them.’
Brice arrived at his destination, an anonymous terraced house on a west London street. The journey had taken longer than expected. Even outside central London, the city was still in a state of chaos, the capital’s main arteries clogged by people fleeing the imagined threat of another attack. He had also had to stop to attend to his lacerated hand. The bleeding was now under control, but he could still feel the metal shards embedded in his flesh.
The safe house door quickly opened after he knocked. ‘I’m here to see Bill,’ he said, using a simple passphrase. The man who answered nodded and let him in. ‘I need treatment for shrapnel wounds,’ he went on, displaying his wounded hand.
‘I’ll take care of it in the back, sir,’ said the field officer, directing him down the hall.
A television was on in the front room. Brice glanced in as he passed, seeing another man standing watching it. A news channel showed the American President making a speech. Offering sympathy and assistance to the British people, he guessed; an inevitable gesture, although surprisingly soon after the event.
A table in the spartan kitchen had been covered by a plastic sheet and laid out with surgical items and dressings. ‘Sit down, sir,’ said the medic. ‘Let me see your hand.’
Brice placed his injured hand palm-up on the table, wincing as he opened his fingers. The other man examined it. ‘Some of these cuts are practically through to the bone,’ he reported. ‘Do you want a painkiller?’
‘I need to stay lucid,’ Brice replied. ‘Just get on with it.’
‘Okay, sir.’ The medic picked up a pair of slender tweezers and began removing the metal fragments.
Brice breathed deeply, trying to focus on something other than the pain. The sound of the television gave him a distraction. Schilling had finished his speech, the news channel’s presenters now discussing its content…
‘He said US intelligence already knows who carried out the attack on Parliament,’ said a woman, ‘and that it’s the same people who brought down Flight 180 last year. The question is: if they knew, why weren’t our security services warned?’
A man started to respond, but Brice was no longer listening, trying to contain his shock. The only possible way Mukobo’s rescue could have been connected to what he had just done was if Nina Wilde had reached the US embassy with the incriminating video. The Removal Men had failed!
The pain in his hand was all but forgotten as his mind whirled into overdrive. His cover had been blown — which meant he was now the number one target worldwide for US intelligence.
He couldn’t allow himself to be captured. The myth of a hardened agent being able to endure torture indefinitely was just that, pure fiction; the reason spies and soldiers were taught about so-called ‘enhanced interrogation’ techniques was not to resist them, but so they could use them effectively on others. He would break, eventually.
And when he did, he would expose his superiors.
He did not know C on a personal level — very few at SIS did — but professionally was well aware of his reputation as a ruthless pragmatist. Quentin Hove’s own reputation, on the other hand, was one of low cunning, opportunism and possessing all the backbone of a jellyfish. What both men had in common, though, was their survival instinct. They would throw their closest friends under the proverbial bus to save themselves… and Brice was well aware that he was not even their friend, but an employee. An asset.
A disposable one.
His SIS training had drummed into him the very real possibility that he might have to sacrifice his own life for his country. It was something he was willing to do — but not for this. He had saved his country, ensured that the right people would remain in power for a generation or more and set the nation back on the road to greatness. He wanted to see all of that come to pass. And he would, he decided with a surge of anger. He wasn’t about to let the Americans spirit him away to a black site — or be found dead in a staged suicide, a speciality of GB63.
He knew he was safe for now. If the two men at the safe house had been ordered to eliminate him, he would have been dead within seconds of the front door closing. But that could change at any moment; all it took was a phone call.
A stab of pain from his hand as the medic removed a half-inch sliver of gunmetal. He grimaced, then controlled his breathing once more, listening to the television in the next room — and for the sound of the other man’s phone.
‘I need to speak to President Schilling,’ said Hove, struggling to keep his voice from cracking in fear. ‘We’ll resume this meeting later.’ The COBRA attendees filed from the briefing room. ‘C, if you’ll wait for a moment,’ he added as Armitage stood. ‘I want to discuss the… foreign intelligence implications before I talk to him.’
‘Of course, Prime Minister.’ C returned to his seat.
The two men waited for the room to clear — then Hove leapt up in near-panic. ‘My God. My God! If the Yanks know that Brice brought down that plane, then — then the evidence will point straight to us!’
‘There is no evidence, Prime Minister,’ said C, though he was now hiding his own concern. ‘Even if they have this recording of Brice, all they have is the baseless bragging of a former officer who went rogue — and clearly went insane — in a quest for personal glory and riches. There is no provable link between Flight 180 and Brice.’
Hove was not mollified. ‘And what if the Americans catch Brice? What if he talks?’
‘He won’t. Sir, I need to return to SIS headquarters to take care of this. But be assured, it will be taken care of.’
‘Go on, then. Go!’ the politician snapped. ‘Deal with it!’
‘Of course, Prime Minister,’ replied C, unctuousness barely covering contempt. He stood, taking out his phone as he headed for the exit. ‘This is C. Put me through to the men at the west London safe house.’
‘Almost done,’ said the medic, carefully drawing a suture through Brice’s palm. The stitches in the agent’s right hand made it appear to be wrapped in bloodied centipedes. ‘I still need to bandage it, but I think I’ve got all the shrap.’
Brice nodded, but his attention was elsewhere. He had just heard the man in the front room respond to a phone call. He listened more closely. The other field officer lowered his voice, his words masked by the television. There was only one reason he wouldn’t want to be overheard…
The medic snipped the suture with scissors, then put them on the table and turned to open a pack of sterile dressings. ‘Okay, I’ll get this—’