The smirk abruptly vanished and Cartwright glared at Walker, pointing an accusing finger at his chest, millimeters from his pressed green shirt. “Here’s what I think, Colonel. I think those are your men, not Interpol’s. I think you’re running your own covert war out there, and civilians are getting killed in the crossfire.” He backed up and narrowed his eyes. “Your friend at the FBI can only stonewall me for so long. The Intelligence Oversight Committee will be conducting an investigation into these attacks, and we will be looking into Romeo Seven.”
“Romeo Seven isn’t under your committee,” said Walker, matching the senator’s scowl with his own. “You don’t have the authority.”
Cartwright nodded. “We’ll see, Colonel. We’ll see.” He sat down on the edge of his desk again and the phony smile returned. “In the meantime I’ve had Interpol deactivate the Stafford and Martignetti files. I guess those two boys are on their own.”
CHAPTER 40
The Brits were disappointingly unimaginative with their interrogation room. A folding table surrounded by sickly yellow walls — one with a large two-way mirror — and an obvious microphone suspended from the ceiling. Nick had hoped for more from Scotland Yard. He had ordered Scott to mute the earpiece signals to avoid any chance of the Brits detecting them. Now that he saw the unsophisticated facilities, he realized that measure probably wasn’t necessary. A uniformed bobby led him around the table, sat him down on a stool, and then took up a position at his shoulder, silently staring at the door.
“So, what are you in for?” asked Nick, glancing up.
The bobby said nothing. He kept his eyes level.
“You used to work the gate at Buckingham Palace, right? I almost didn’t recognize you without the fuzzy hat.”
Still nothing.
“Were you born without a personality, or did you have it surgically removed when you joined the force?”
The bobby finally reacted, looking down at Nick and pursing his lips. Then his eyes returned to the door.
While Nick was searching for some other way to harass the uniform, his interrogator entered the room, the same plainclothes superbobby from the square. He carried a file packed with papers.
“You clubbed me over the head and then drugged me,” said Nick. “Do you know how dangerous that was?”
The plainclothesman shut the door. “You stole my service weapon and fired it in a public square. Do you know how dangerous that was?”
Nick’s eyes narrowed. “You might want to start collecting job ads, Constable.”
“It’s Detective Sergeant, actually. Detective Sergeant Thomas Mercer, SO15, and you are?”
“Wasting time, here. Release me so I can find the people responsible for Paternoster Square.”
Mercer shook his head. “No, mate, you got your lines all wrong. This is the part where you say ‘Nick Stafford, Interpol,’ and then I say ‘No, you’re not,’ and then you say ‘How do you know?’ and then I slap this down in front of you.” The detective pulled a thin stack of papers from his folder and tossed them onto the table.
Nick recognized his phony Interpol file. Large block letters printed across the top said SUSPENDED. He had nothing to say to that. He tried to redirect, throw the detective a bone. “Why don’t you go look into a financial firm called Kingdom Ventures Incorporated?” He needed this guy to see him as an ally.
Mercer gave him an unexpected nod. “That is a very good idea. In fact, we already have.” He pulled another packet from his file and slapped it down on the table.
Nick had expected the Interpol file, but this one hit him like a punch in the gut. The top page was the CEO profile for KVI. Nick had seen the file before — Molly sent it to him on his way to the square — but Molly’s file had not come with a photo. Mercer’s did. Nick stared down at his own face beneath the heading MOHAMMED AJAM. It was the same picture that CJ found on the suicide bomber, and it must have been added to the digital record after the Second Sign strike, a clear setup.
Nick looked from the file back up to the grinning detective. “Don’t be an idiot. Do I look like a Mohammed?”
“Mohammed,” said Mercer, leaning forward and placing his hands on the table, “a common name taken by converts to Islam. The spelling is changed out of respect for the prophet.” He tapped the file with his index finger. “Ajam — meaning foreigner — also commonly taken by converts, particularly white guys who join fundamentalist organizations.”
This was going in exactly the opposite direction that Nick had anticipated. He switched to a different vein of evidence. “What about Dr. Maharani? He’s the scientist they’re using to build the weapon.”
“Dr. Nashak Maharani?”
Nick nodded. “You met his daughter. She told you he was kidnapped.”
“Oh yes, I talked to the Indian bird. She was all worked up. Then I called old dad’s mobile and guess what? He picked right up. He told me he didn’t want to see her. I gave her the phone, and he told her the same thing. Big alligator tears. Very tragic.” He shrugged. “Not my problem.”
Nick stared down at the table, searching his mind for a way forward. Mercer was no ally. Kattan had covered his bases. Finally, he looked up at the detective again. “I’ll tell you what. You’ve got me. I’ll give you everything, but I want to write it with my own hand so it can’t be distorted. Get me a pen and paper.”
The detective straightened. “You’re offering me a signed confession? All of a sudden it’s that easy?”
“You have enough to bury me. Consider it a professional courtesy.”
“A professional courtesy from a fake Interpol agent. That’s rich.” The Brit hesitated for a few seconds, studying Nick’s expression. Then he reached back and beckoned to someone behind the two-way mirror. “Okay, mate. I’ll bite.”
A moment later, another uniform appeared and placed a confession form and a pen on the table. Nick did not move. He stared up at the detective and coughed pointedly.
“Oh, right.” The detective nodded to the bobby behind Nick, indicating he should cut the flex-cuffs. As the man bent down, Mercer held out a warning hand. “Oi, Bob. Mind your gun.”
Nick did not fight. Once his hands were free, he took a few moments to twirl his fists and flex his blue fingers. When their color returned he removed the cap from the pen and started writing. He filled out all the personal information blocks with his Nick Stafford cover data and then stopped to stretch and twirl his wrists again. This time, when he continued writing, his left hand went to his lap. He wrote a few lines of text, replaced the pen cap, and pushed the pen and paper across the table.
Mercer glared down at the form for a few seconds and then read the lines out loud with utter disdain. “‘I am not a terrorist. I did not plant those bombs. I did not attack the London Stock Exchange.’” He frowned at the bobby. “Cuff him up and get him out of here. Let’s see how funny he is after a few more hours in the tank.”
The flex-cuffs were not as tight as before, partly because Nick was conscious when they were put on this time, able to flare his wrists a little, and partly because it was the uniform who cuffed him instead of a vengeful Mercer.