“The next one,” answered Scott through the earpiece. “It arrives in forty-seven seconds. Get on it, even if you have to crowd out other passengers. The rush at the up-channel station is beginning to slow. The following train will have too much open space.”
Exactly forty-seven seconds later, the next train pulled into the station. The doors opened and a bright feminine voice warned, “Mind the gap.” No one did. The masses crammed themselves into the already loaded cars. Nick herded Chaya ahead of him, shouldering a lanky teenager with green hair and studs in his eyebrows out of the way. As the cheerful voice advised them to mind the doors, he took a sip of his coffee and winked at the angry teen still standing on the platform. The kid slapped the door.
A moment later, the train lurched into motion and the crowd swayed as one body. Chaya gripped a vertical bar with white knuckles. The passengers around her engulfed her tiny form. She leaned a shoulder into Nick to gain a little space from a gristly, hairy individual. The man seemed all too content to have his oversized gut pressed against a pretty girl. As the train reached full speed, Nick took a final sip of coffee. It was much too sweet for his taste, and it had grown tepid. Perfect. He held the cup low and removed the lid. “Go,” he said through his teeth.
“Executing,” said Scott. “Three, two, one…”
The brakes locked, sending a terrific squeal ripping through the train. The passengers fell into one another. The lights flickered. With a little extra guidance, Nick’s coffee flew from his open cup. A flying wall of brown liquid hit Chaya in the back of the head.
Her hands flew up in shock and surprise. “Ugh!”
“I am so sorry. What a klutz.” Nick wiped her back with the sleeve of his coat, and her heavyset admirer joined in from the other side, a model of English chivalry. She batted them both away.
Scott’s voice sounded in Nick’s ear again. “Stage two in three, two, one…”
Every light in the car brightened and then popped. Sparks showered down. The passengers screamed.
Moments later, Chaya was still trying to get the coffee out of her hair, her fingers dripping. The dark and the screaming passengers did not concern her nearly as much as the horrible, sticky liquid.
The train operator made a desperate announcement over the PA system. “Remain calm, everyone. Please remain calm. We’ve only had a little power surge. Do not attempt to open the doors. The train will begin moving again shortly.”
He was right. The train jerked into motion again, but the lights never came back, blown out by the surge. The big man next to Chaya patted her sleeve, leaving his hand there a little too long. “Don’t worry none, darlin’. You’re safe with me.”
Right.
Chaya felt behind her back for Nick, but her hand went straight to the door. He was gone.
Nick emerged from a utility stairwell into daylight on Russell Square. He felt a pang of guilt at leaving Chaya alone in the dark with her chivalrous friend, but only a small pang.
After all, she was blackmailing him—was being the operative word. He glanced down at the paper in his hand to make certain he had lifted the right one from her peacoat. Then he crumpled it up and tossed it into a recycle bin. So much for the fake warrant and Chaya’s adoring magistrates.
CHAPTER 34
Anyone follow you?” asked Scott, checking up and down the hallway as Nick pushed past him into the apartment.
“You mean the girl?”
“I mean the police, the bobbies, Scotland Yard.” Scott checked the hall one more time before he closed the door. “What we just did was highly public and highly illegal. It could be classified as terrorism.”
“You’ve done a lot worse.”
“Yes, but from the safety of a bunker on the most well-defended military base in America. Out here I feel exposed.”
Geeks. “Welcome to field ops. Have you spoken to the colonel?”
Scott nodded.
“Katy?”
“She’s fine. Walker’s man in Germany has her well protected, and he hasn’t seen any threats. He said she almost made him in the first hour.”
“That’s my girl.” Nick strolled over to Scott’s computer station and jiggled the wireless mouse. “Find Kattan yet?”
“I’ve made some progress,” said the engineer, rushing after him and slapping his hand aside. “A timeline is taking shape.”
Nick knew better than to joust with Scott for control of the workstation. Instead, he retreated to the couch and collapsed onto the cushions. He leaned his head back. “Keep talking.”
“After I rebuilt the subject’s digital profile with the videos from IBE, I ran a search against Heathrow’s customs files.” As Scott spoke, he bustled back and forth to either end of the couch, adjusting a pair of cigar-sized cylinders fixed to the top of telescoping stands. “My software achieved a ninety-percent match on a passport that came through yesterday from Cairo.”
Nick’s head remained a dead weight on the couch cushion. “Giving us an alias that he’ll never use again.”
“Yes, but it also gave us a solid starting point for our London timeline.” Scott made a final adjustment to one of the cylinders and then sat down at his workstation. “Look.”
Nick raised his head and saw that the living room wall had become a three-dimensional map of London, projected by the apparatus Scott had set up. Weaving through the digital buildings, a red line connected several dots, each with an associated time.
Scott clicked his mouse and the first dot expanded from Heathrow, growing into a passport photo that seemed to stand out from the wall. The name underneath read Mohammed Jibreel, but Nick recognized the young Masih Kattan from his fleeting appearances in DC and Budapest. He must have suffered many reconstructive surgeries in the years following the strike, but he still bore a resemblance to his father, mostly around the eyes.
“This is a customs hit,” said Scott. “The new digital profile gave me several more shots from Heathrow, but eventually Kattan disappeared into the Tube.” The first picture shrank back into its dot and a new one sprang out of the next, showing Kattan getting into a van. “Our first piece of new data occurs here. Unfortunately, Molly and I can’t determine where he got the van. Maybe he rented it — maybe it was left for him. I haven’t recovered any shots of the plates. However, we’re sure he drove it directly to IBE.” Two video stills appeared. One showed Kattan entering IBE’s lobby and the other, several minutes later, showed him leaving with Maharani. Both men carried boxes of equipment. No gun was visible.
“Maharani is a willing hostage,” said Nick, rising from the couch and stepping closer to examine the second still. With the three-dimensional projection, he felt like he could reach out and grab the biochemist — yank him away from the terrorist. If only it were that easy. “There has to be some form of coercion, here, besides brute force. What do the Hashashin have on this guy?”
“Unknown.” The stills shrank back into the map, and the last dot opened out of central London, this one a repeating video of Kattan and Maharani carrying their boxes across a small plaza. “This is where we lose him,” said Scott, frowning as the two men disappeared into an office building. “There were no more hits yesterday.”
“And this morning?”
“I’m still running searches on the last twelve hours.” The chair squeaked morbidly as Scott slowly swiveled around to face the couch. His expression was deadpan. “Nothing so far.”
Nick’s phone buzzed. CJ. He put it to his ear and said, “Gimme a sec,” and then covered the receiver and nodded to Scott. “Keep at it. I’ve got to take this.”