and the terror cell in Sweden. Rabbit hutch was the code name it had been given. “How was it compromised?”
“Local authorities are being very tight-lipped. They suspect a foreign intelligence agency had targeted the cell.”
Standing’s blood pressure was starting to rise. “Which intelligence agency?”
“They believe it was the French.”
“The French? How the hell would they have been involved?”
“They have some sort of evidence pointing to the DGSE’s Action Division. They seem pretty convinced it was them. The French, of course, are denying it.”
“Of course they’re denying it,” snapped Standing. “There’s no way the French could have put any of this together.”
“Well, someone did.”
Ashford was right. “Tell me what happened.”
“The hutch operated two apartments, one across the street from the other. One was where operations were handled. The other was a completely sterile safe house. All computers, cell phones, and what-have-you were kept in the operations apartment.
“Somehow the location of the apartments was uncovered. An assault team outfitted to look like the Swedish Security Service attempted to take them down.”
“Attempted? Meaning they didn’t succeed?”
“The operations apartment was rigged to explode, and when the assault team hit, it did.”
“What about the safe house apartment?” asked Standing.
“Two of the faux Swedish Security operatives were seen going into that building as well. One man from the hutch was thrown from the window and killed. There was also gunfire. According to witnesses, when the phony Security Services men exited the building, they had another man with them. He was bleeding. They had a car parked outside. They laid him on the backseat and then the three of them drove away.”
Standing’s heart suddenly stopped beating. “Was it Westminster?”
All of the terrorist network’s commanders and lieutenants had been named after locations in the United Kingdom. The head of the network, Aaazim Aleem, was Oxford, Mustafa Karami, Westminster.
“No. He was much younger,” said Ashford.
“Was he from the hutch?”
“Some said he looked Arab, some said Italian, but I think we should assume he was one of ours.”
“Okay, but why only take him?” asked Standing. “What happened to the rest of them? Where’s Westminster?”
“Including the man who had been thrown out the window, they have found seven bodies at the safe house apartment. They were all younger men in their twenties and early thirties.”
“So no sign of Westminster. What about Cardiff?” he asked, referring to Sabah.
“Based on what I have been able to glean,” replied Ashford, “they are not among the dead at the safe house, which means-”
“Either they were in the operations apartment when it blew, or they managed to escape altogether.”
“Correct.”
Standing worked to keep his anger in check. First they had gotten to Aazim and now they had tracked down Karami. He needed to think. “Could the Americans be behind this?” he asked.
“Carlton and his group? I don’t know how they could have located the hutch, but they were the ones who tracked down Oxford, so we should probably put them at the top of our list.”
“I don’t want to hear ‘probably.’ I want to hear ‘for certain.’ You have a relationship with them. Use it.”
Ashford was getting angry again. “And just what am I supposed to do? Ring them up and ask if they happened to have anything to do with hitting a terror cell in Sweden? We were lucky to have taken care of Oxford before they could turn him over. If I start asking questions about Sweden, they’re going to get suspicious.”
“Then you’d better see to it that they don’t. You’re the spook, you figure it out,” said Standing, adding, “If Westminster did manage to get away, how long until he makes contact?”
“It depends on how long it takes him to get to the alternate safe house. Once he’s in place, we’ll hear from him.”
“If you don’t hear from him in the next eight hours, cut him out of the loop and promote the next commander.”
“That would be Birmingham.”
“Fine,” replied Standing.
“And if Westminster does make contact, what do you want me to tell him?”
Standing thought about it for a moment. Whether it was the Americans or not, someone had managed to track down the Uppsala cell. Whom they had taken out of the safe house and driven away with was anyone’s guess. Someone was way too close. They needed to step up their plans. All of the attacks had been color-coded. “The silver- and goldsmiths have already received the newsletter, correct?”
“Yes,” said Ashford, using the code words for the next attacks. “Silver and gold are ready to go, but do you really want to jump that far ahead?”
“We don’t have much choice, do we? Somehow, trade secrets have been compromised. I want silver tomorrow and gold the day after.”
“I’ll handle it. Anything else?” asked Ashford.
“Have you cleaned up your mess in Los Angeles?”
“I’m still working on it.”
“Well, work faster,” said Standing. “Your ass is on the line.”
Ashford was about to reply, when Standing disconnected the call and the line went dead. Arsehole, he thought to himself. His dislike for the man was growing by the hour.
Nevertheless, Standing had every right to be angry over what had happened in Los Angeles. The fact that Ashford couldn’t reach his contact only made him look more unprofessional. He was going to locate him soon, or else come up with some sort of Plan B. As soon as silver and gold were unleashed, the United States was going to be locked up tighter than a drum.
CHAPTER 34
The Carlton Group’s offices were located in a nondescript glass office building ten minutes from Washington Dulles International Airport.
Pat Murphy, the surviving assaulter from the Uppsala operation, and Andy Bachmann, the former CIA man, had hitched a ride home on the jet with Harvath. Murphy kept to himself in the back of the plane. He’d lost his entire team, and Harvath knew there was nothing he could do to help assuage what the man was feeling. Harvath had simply thanked him again for pulling him out of the building, handed him the bottle of Maker’s Mark, and left him alone.
After the post-landing formalities at Dulles, a team met Murphy to accompany him home. It was standard operating procedure. The man had been through too much to just be sent off on his own. Bachmann offered to go along, too.
Harvath extended the assaulter his condolences once more and told him that he’d be in touch. Before climbing into one of the black Suburbans the Old Man had sent to the airport for them, he thanked Bachmann and asked him to make sure Murphy had anything he needed.
When the vehicle pulled out onto the Dulles Toll Road, it was just after midnight. It took them eight minutes to get to the office.
They pulled into the underground parking structure and Harvath was let out near a service door. He punched a code into a pad at the wall, the lock released, and Harvath entered a short maintenance corridor. At the end was a service elevator. He looked up at the surveillance camera in the corner and then waited for the elevator to be sent
