‘Yes?’ Abrams asked impatiently.
‘It’s just that you might not want to pin yourself too closely to this Asset. I’ve received intelligence that this operative is the former agent known as Mark Cole, one of Charles Hansard’s hired assassins.’
Mason paused as there were collective gasps from around the room, and Richards admired his sense of theater.
‘Although he was believed to have been killed in Austria, at the time of his supposed death there was still an arrest warrant out for him, relating to the deaths of dozens of our own agents throughout Europe.’ Mason looked around the room, all eyes turned to him. ‘He was also implicated in the death of Bill Crozier, who at the time was Director of the CIA’s National Clandestine Service.’
‘Those agents who were killed were all later suspected of being tied to Hansard’s own group,’ Abrams fired back, ‘and there was never any evidence that this man had anything to do with it.’
‘Nevertheless,’ weighted in Milt Staten, the Attorney General, ‘having spoken to Clark and some of our other colleagues, it is clear that this Mark Cole — if it is indeed him — should be brought in for questioning on charges of assassination, treason and murder.’
Abrams looked around the room, disbelief on her face; it was clear that she felt she’d been set up, betrayed. Richards’ smile only widened.
‘I’ve taken the liberty of drawing up a warrant for his arrest,’ Staten concluded with a grave tone, ‘if you’ll beg my pardon, Ellen. I felt time was of the essence.’ He turned then to the image of Commander Treyborne, who was waiting patiently yet furiously as the politicians went about their self-interested cliquish little games back in the capital. ‘Commander Treyborne,’ Staten instructed the military officer, ‘as Attorney General of the United States, I order you to arrest Mark Cole and bring him back to the United States for questioning and possible trial for the aforementioned charges.’
Richards nodded across the table at Mason, still smiling. Assassination, treason and murder.
Perfect.
‘And I suggest,’ Richards added, just to get his own little dig in, ‘that we take whatever this killer has to say about mystery crates and North Korean agents with a very large pinch of salt.’
Treyborne’s face was grim as he entered the bridge, where the Asset and his troop leaders were now going through the day’s events.
He saw Navarone and the other leaders noticeably tighten up as they saw his face; they instinctively knew something was about to happen.
And when Treyborne raised his H&K MP-10 submachine gun in the direction of the mysterious agent, they all immediately followed his lead and went for their own weapons, until they were all trained on the man they knew only as the Asset.
Mark Cole looked around at them, not making any sudden moves, hands rising slowly in surrender. ‘Is there a problem?’ he asked.
Treyborne shook his head sadly. ‘I’m sorry, son. I really am. But I’ve just been ordered by our attorney general to place you under arrest and bring you back to the United States for questioning on charges of assassination, treason and murder.’
Cole nodded his head in understanding. Someone had talked.
‘Okay,’ he said, looking around at the confused but determined faces of the men surrounding him. ‘But you were right before. We do know each other. And before you go through with this, maybe I should tell you who I really am.’
The Lion emerged from a cell in the second basement of the Ministry of Interior building, hood, robes and camera equipment stored safely back in the briefcase he carried at his side.
Abd al-Aziz Quraishi had just made another recording for his followers throughout Saudi Arabia and around the world, another call to arms under the banner of Arabian Islamic Jihad. As he waited for the elevator that would take him back up to his fourth floor office, he reveled in the irony. The basement cells were for torturing enemies of the regime, and here he was, inciting revolt from within. It was beautiful, a poetic justice that could only come from Allah.
As he rose upwards through the building, cell phone service was restored and he felt a vibration in his pocket. He took out his phone and read the message, anger rising instantly to the surface.
The Americans had re-taken the Fu Yu Shan.
He controlled his breathing, his self-mastery overriding his initial anger immediately. What did it mean? What would they be able to learn?
At a push, they might get Suprapto to talk, and he might let slip that he was hired by Jemaah Islamiyah to hijack the ship. But it was unlikely in the extreme that they would be able to find out that Jemaah Islamiyah had in turn been instructed to hire the pirates by the Lion’s own organization. And even more unlikely that they would know about the crate, or be able to find out what was in it. And they certainly wouldn’t know that the crate was now in an AIJ safe house, under the protection of Amir al-Hazmi, the Hammer of the Infidel; being examined by a team of loyal scientists in an underground laboratory while his volunteers waited above to be called to action.
But it was a matter for concern nevertheless, and as soon as Quraishi was back in his office, he placed a call to al-Hazmi on his secure phone.
‘Amir,’ he began in his melodic voice, ‘there have been complications. We will have to move our timetable ahead. Tell the scientists to start the procedure.’
He received confirmation from his trusted second-in-command, and replaced the receiver.
Everything happens for a reason, he considered as he paged his secretary for a cup of jasmine tea.
If the timetable was being moved up, then it could only be the will of Allah.
The West would just have to fall sooner than planned.
PART FOUR
1
Dan Chadwick wasn’t looking forward to this. The flight from Dallas/Fort Worth International was nearly nineteen hours, and his destination wasn’t exactly the Caribbean.
He’d never been to Dhahran before, and yet the thrill of discovery was noticeably absent. It was, after all, in Saudi Arabia — an Islamic country still ruled by a monarchy with its strict shariah law, and not one he had ever had a desire to travel to. And yet Dhahran was the seat of Saudi National Oil, the world’s largest oil company, and was therefore a very common destination for executives from his own company.
Chadwick had only joined Texas Mainline Oil last year, and this was to be his first meeting with his opposite number at Saudi National Oil. But the unexpected call from Ezzard Kaplan, TMO’s chief executive, had been unequivocal; Chadwick was to drop everything and make his way to the airport for the flight to Dhahran that very evening.
His meeting was to be with Abdullah Al-Zayani, Senior Vice President of Finance, Strategy and Development; a potential investment deal was in the offing between Saudi National Oil and Texas Mainline Oil, and Kaplan wanted Chadwick — as TMO’s Vice President of Finance — to start discussing the money. Chadwick could see why Kaplan was keen — the deal could potentially be worth over a billion dollars a year to the American company.
It did mean, however, that the pressure would be on right from the start, and Chadwick knew that the nineteen hours aboard the plane would be spent in harassed preparation for the endless meetings ahead.
At least he would have the comfort of the executive lounge before setting off, he considered as he stepped out of the company limousine, into the baking Texan heat, right outside the terminal’s entrance. Maybe he could start the day off with a nice martini to steady his nerves.