‘Tonight,’ says Nabil, ‘at the height of rush hour, one of our sisters will walk into Grand Central Station and turn a dull New York day into a truly historic one.’
35
The daily briefing paper that Lance places in Owain’s hands is not dissimilar to one that will shortly be passed to the President of the United States.
But this missive hasn’t been compiled by US or even British intelligence agencies. It’s come from the Arthurians’ Watch Team, a hand-picked group of security experts who gather information on the biggest threats to world security.
Today’s dossier runs from A-U. From Afghanistan and Algeria to Uzbekistan. Down the alphabet of terrorism, Owain learns of changes in strength, new affiliations and successful and failed strikes. He picks up early intelligence on Cambodia’s Khmer Rouge, the Zviadists in Georgia, the Japanese Aum Supreme Truth movement, Hamas, and the Harakat ul-Ansar in Pakistan. He reads and absorbs it all, then settles on the separate paper that is always prepared for him.
The one marked MARDRID.
The title is the name of a company in the Spanish capital that is a front for an arms supplier, delivering tanks to Syria, warplanes to Iran, missiles to North Korea without compunction. Its CEO is Josep Mardrid, entrepreneur and evil personified.
Owain reads each line carefully, knowing that somewhere in the world Mardrid is most probably perusing a detailed report about him and his various activities. If Myrddin’s prophecies are right, they will meet again soon. Just as their ancestors did. Then there will be blood. Such a torrent of blood that it will sweep away some of the finest lives the world has ever known.
36
‘You’re going the wrong way.’ Irish jabs a thumb towards the front gate as he fishes for the last of the clean tissues in his pocket. ‘The car and the exit are over there.’
‘I’ve never had a good sense of direction.’ Mitzi saunters down the service road that snakes around the back of the embassy.
He sneezes then asks her, ‘Where you going?’
‘Garage will be down here. I figure we have less than five minutes before the Head of Ambassadorial Whitewash checks with security that we’ve gone.’
Irish struggles to keep up. ‘Hey, we have no warrant and my captain doesn’t even know that we’re here. He’ll kick my ass if you cause any problems.’
‘Thought you said your ass was hard and kick-resistant?’
‘I lied. I have a soft pussy of an ass, a real—’
‘Enough, or I’ll kick it myself.’
They follow the road as it winds through the cover of giant trees. In the clearing is a crop of old outbuildings and a spread of blacktop where embassy cars are parked.
Near the vehicles are a gas pump, oil drums, and a long single-storey garage with rolled up doors. Inside is a dark-brown Range Rover that looks several years old and alongside it, a black Jaguar, a supercharged XJL.
Mitzi’s gaze skips over the roofs and hoods. Right at the back she sees a silver Lincoln MKZ, with a panoramic roof.
‘Well looky look!’ She runs her fingers down the wing. ‘Don’t this seem familiar?’
‘This year’s model.’ Irish floats envious eyes over the badging and plump leather interior. ‘Three-point-seven-litre V6 engine, with rich leather and wood trim. We’re talking forty, maybe forty-five thousand dollars.’
‘You wouldn’t get change out of fifty.’ The comment comes from a ginger-haired man in blue overalls. He wipes his fingers on a rag even dirtier than his hands. ‘Can I help you with somethin’?’
‘Lieutenant Fitzgerald, DC Police.’ He flips his badge. ‘Who are you?’
‘Chas Dawkins. I’m the embassy’s chief mechanic — what’s wrong?’
‘You got records, Chas? Can you tell me where these cars might have been and who’s been driving them — like you, for example?’ Irish raises an accusatory eyebrow.
‘Me an’ the rest of the boys don’t do nothing but test drives and most of that’s on private roads.’ He gestures to the garage. ‘If the cars are taken out they have to be signed for. I’ve got logs.’
They walk into a darkness that smells of oil, petrol and spirit-based cleaners. Mitzi looks back for the security guards who will inevitably come.
Chas rifles through the drawers of a tatty wooden desk that has an ancient computer sat on top, along with a collection of dirty mugs that should have been washed yesterday. He produces an A3-sized hardback blue book and opens it. ‘What day and car you interested in?’
‘Friday last.’ Irish feels his heart jump. ‘Who had the Lincoln that night, say from eight onwards?’
The mechanic runs a finger down the columns until he finds a name and signature. ‘Mr Dalton.’
‘Who’s he?’ Mitzi watches a black Ford Expedition roll to a halt outside the garage.
‘George Dalton. He’s a consul.’
She sees guards slide from their vehicle, hitch up their pants, belts heavy with guns. ‘How long did he have the car?’
Chas has his head in the book. ‘Dropped it at the airport on Sunday morning. We pick—’
‘Don’t say anything else, Mr Dawkins.’ The order comes from a guard in his mid-fifties. ‘These people got no right to be here asking you questions.’
Mitzi winks at him. ‘You did good, Chas. Whatever the Stasi here say, you’ve done the right thing.’
37
‘The thing is’ — Nabil Tabrizi looks across at Halem and Malek as he speaks — ‘none of us is going to leave this room. Not until long after the suicide vest has been collected and Grand Central Station is bathed in the blood of the infidels.’ He studies their eyes for a sign of worry, a flash of recognition that one of them will be unable to contact his masters and prevent the attack.
Malek is the first to break a tense silence. ‘May I see the vest?’
The cell leader regards him with suspicion. ‘Why?’
‘To check it will work. These garments are prone to malfunction.’
Aasif holds it up. ‘Or is it because you want to sabotage it?’ Perhaps loosen a connection or two?’
The bomb-maker stays calm. ‘I am a professional and I am acting professionally.’ He turns his head towards the cell commander. ‘Do you respect my opinion and my skills, or not?’
‘Give it to him,’ says Nabil curtly.
Aasif carefully passes it over.
The commander slips a Glock from his belt and inspects the magazine. It’s a check done more out of boredom than anything else. ‘You are very quiet, Halem. What is on your mind?’ The rack of bullets makes a ratcheting click as it’s shoved back into the gun.
Antun feels Nabil’s eyes boring into him. ‘I was wondering if any thought had been given to the scanners at the station and how to get past them? Or is the plan just to explode the device outside?’
‘Much thought has gone into this plan,’ says Nabil. ‘The explosive is TATP and it will pass the scanners. Won’t it, Malek?’
‘It will. As you say, the maker has used triacetone triperoxide. It’s a crude but sensitive charge made up mainly of acetone, hydrogen peroxide and a strong acid like hydrochloric or sulphuric acid.’ He turns one of the vest pockets around to show the packed chemicals. ‘Because most security scanners are really only nitrogen detectors, they won’t pick this up. It is what we bomb-makers call “transparent”.’