He shrugged. “Like feds. What are they supposed to look like?”
“Did you see what kind of car they were driving?”
“I think it was an SUV of some kind.”
“An Escalade, maybe? Black?”
He shrugged again. “Could be. Don’t quote me.”
“I won’t,” Jack promised. “Thanks for your time.”
He pocketed the photo then went back to his car and sat for a while. He had been hoping to get confirmation that the man Jamal and Leon had seen really was Abdal al-Fida, but he’d known it was a long shot. Leon had sounded sure on the phone, but Jack wasn’t completely comfortable hanging an entire theory-as thin as it might be-on the word of a grieving teenage carjacker. Any good attorney would tell you that eyewitness testimony is rarely reliable, even though a shocking number of people have gone to jail because of it.
But then why else would the British consulate delete al-Fida’s file? Why not just archive it like the others? And why fly him out of the country immediately after the blast?
Jack started his car and pulled out of the gas station, easing into the flow of traffic.
Too many questions, he thought. Too many questions and not nearly enough answers.
Jack had traveled only a few blocks when he saw the Escalade in his rearview mirror.
A little less than a block behind him, it was hidden by several other cars. The darkness and the shining headlights made it difficult to see, but every once in a while they’d pass through a brightly lit area, illuminating the SUV as if it were standing on a showroom floor.
Jack knew there were bound to be other Escalades on the road, that this could be nothing more than paranoia at work, but it looked just like the car in the video-and he had a very strong feeling there was a Brit behind the wheel. There was something about the way he was maneuvering, the slightest hesitation, as though he were consciously trying to remember which side of the road he had to be on.
They weren’t trying very hard to conceal themselves, but there was no reason they should. They didn’t know about Leon’s video, so they couldn’t know that Jack was on to them. He wasn’t sure when or where they had picked him up, but if they saw him coming out of the Arco station they had a right to be curious.
Hitting the accelerator, he quickly changed lanes, cutting in front of a Nissan Sentra and getting an angry blast of horn for his trouble. Glancing in his mirror, he saw that the Escalade hadn’t reacted. It kept a steady pace about six cars behind him.
Could he be wrong? There was one way to find out.
At the next intersection, Jack made an abrupt left turn and picked up speed, dividing his attention between the road ahead and his rearview mirror. Several seconds ticked by and no sign of the Escalade, but just as he was about to chalk this up to an overactive imagination, the car came barreling through the intersection in hot pursuit.
The driver was handling the vehicle more aggressively now, and Jack knew without a doubt that he was in trouble. Tightening his grip on the wheel, he punched the accelerator and weaved between two cars, hearing more horns in his wake.
He took a sharp right at the next intersection, and again picked up speed, blasting past several more cars. He was half a block in when he saw the Escalade again, tearing around the corner behind him.
But as he continued up the street, it suddenly occurred to him that he was making a mistake. He shouldn’t be running from these people at all. This was his chance to find out what was going on.
Sure, it could be dangerous, but part of the reason he’d gone to his apartment last night was to prepare for just such a possibility. Unless you were a theater critic or society reporter, journalism was a dangerous racket.
Zipping past several parked cars, he screeched to a halt under a pool of light at the corner, cut the engine, and snagged the trunk lever as he jumped out. He moved quickly to the rear of the car and threw open the lid, then popped the latches on the rifle case inside and took out his Remington shotgun, which was loaded with 12-gauge rounds designed to mince a deer.
It was overkill, but that was the point.
By the time he turned around, the Escalade was on top of him.
Jack perched himself on the lip of the trunk and laid the rifle across his forearm, making it clear that it wouldn’t take much for him to swing it into action.
The Escalade came to an abrupt halt about twenty yards away and sat idling for a moment. Jack squinted, trying to make out the faces behind the windshield, but the car’s headlights prevented it. Several seconds ticked by, and he kept his gaze steady, doing his best to hide the effects of the adrenaline pounding through his veins.
Then the passenger door opened, and a man of about forty climbed out. He wasn’t wearing sunglasses, but Jack recognized him just the same. He closed the door then slowly moved forward and stopped in front of the Escalade’s bumper, spreading his hands to show they were empty.
“The weapon isn’t necessary, Mr. Hatfield.” His accent, not surprisingly, was decidedly British. “All we want to do is talk.”
“All I want is to stay alive,” Jack said. “And answers to a few questions. I figure I’ve got a better chance at both if I’m heavily armed.”
“Spoken like a true American.”
“Thanks,” Jack replied.
He hadn’t meant it as a compliment and Jack’s proud response caused him to start visibly, as if he weren’t so sure the “American” wouldn’t pull the trigger.
“So?” Jack said. “How about those answers?”
“I’m not quite certain what it is you think is going on here, but whatever it is you’re mistaken,” the man said.
“Is that why you’re following me?”
“We mean you no harm.”
Jack stifled a laugh. “I know of at least two dead people who would disagree.”
“You think that has something to do with us?”
“Not ‘think,’” Jack said.
“And who might these people be?”
Jack sighed. “Don’t waste my time, all right? I know you’re MI6 or special ops, and I know you were at Jamal Thomas’s house yesterday. So why don’t we cut through the bull. You can start by telling your name.”
“Adam Swain,” he said.
Jack had no idea if the name was real-somehow he doubted it-but it would do for now.
“And you’re right,” Swain continued. “We are MI6.”
“Okay, Adam. Now what’s so important to the Home Office that you had to execute a fifteen-year-old kid?”
Swain’s eyebrows went up. “Execute? Hardly. We’re not in the child-killing business. From what I’ve been told, the poor little bastard died of an overdose.”
“Helped along by you.”
Swain smiled. “You watch too many television shows, Mr. Hatfield. All we did was talk to the boy. Nothing more. Just as we’re talking to you. If you want to blame anyone for his death, blame that frightful mother of his and that filthy sty she raised him in. It’s a wonder he survived this long.”
“He had a busted arm and a limited radius,” Jack said.
“He was also in a lot of pain,” Swain replied. “Maybe his mother wanted to ease it. Or maybe she just didn’t want to deal with it.”
Partly true, but Swain’s condescension rankled Jack. “What about Bob Copeland? Do we blame that on his mother?”
“I have no idea who you’re talking about.”
“I told you not to waste my time.”
“And I don’t intend to,” Swain said. “But I don’t know anyone named Copeland.”
“You don’t watch the news?”
“BBC America, and this Mr. Copeland didn’t turn up there.”
