innocent schoolchildren in Pennsylvania at the hands of a suicide bomber.'
'Despicable,' Montague Thorne said.
'We found a video, sir, which has not yet been released. MI5 is currently trying to determine when it was made and where.'
'What does it contain?'
'A hooded terrorist. Four more standing behind him with AK-47s. He's got a sword at the neck of one of the two female British tourists who mistakenly entered Iran some time ago. Innocent schoolteachers from Dorset who were tried and convicted as spies.'
'What does he say?'
'Nothing, in the beginning. He simply decapitates the poor woman. The corpse is dragged away and replaced by the second woman, who is obviously hysterical and made to kneel. He places the knife at her throat and makes a brief speech in Urdu, which we've just translated. He says, and I'll paraphrase, that this is the fate suffered by all nonbelievers at the hands of Sword of Allah. The killing will continue until every last member of Western military personnel has left every last acre of sacred Arab soil. Then he looks into the camera as he raises his sword above the woman's head and says, 'We're waiting. But our patience is not infinite.''
'And then he kills her,' Sahira said.
'Bloody barbarians,' Montague Throne said, shaking his head.
'There's more, sir,' Sahira added. 'We've identified those responsible for the attack on Thames House.'
'Good work. How'd you manage that so quickly?'
'The terrorists themselves aided in our investigation. The mortars and the explosive device aboard the barge were delivered downriver by a hired truck. Whoever was driving the truck returned it to the agency to pick up his security deposit. On the off chance that he might just be stupid enough to do exactly that, the Metropolitan Police were waiting for him when he showed up.'
'IRA, I suppose?'
'No, sir. Sword of Allah. All homegrown. Pakistani. And every one of them had a prison record. Petty theft, housebreaking. But they were converted to radical Islam while in prison, sir. It is absolutely epidemic. Both here and in America.'
'One more thing and then we'll leave you in peace, sir,' Hawke said. 'There were two names that kept popping up in the preponderance of the Internet communications. You'll recognize the first from our meeting at Highgrove.'
'Tell me.'
'Smith, as I mentioned earlier.'
Thorne exploded. 'Smith? Good God. The man whom Congreve suspects of murdering Mountbatten.'
'The same.'
'And threatening the Prince of Wales,' Thorne added.
Hawke said, 'Yes. The 'Pawn' as he styles himself. I hoped to find him inside that safe house. And I did, in a manner of speaking. Encrypted in those salvaged laptops. Whoever he is, he is playing this game at the very highest levels. There was even an extremely angry exchange between this Smith and an IRA lieutenant over his failure in the attempt to murder Chief Inspector Congreve and me en route to Highgrove.'
'You must be joking,' Thorne said, incredulous.
'Astounding,' Malmsey said.
'To say the very least,' Hawke replied. 'But let me assure you, sir, that I will run this fellow to ground and I will kill him before any harm befalls the Royal Family, or he kills me.'
The room fell silent.
'And the second name, Alex? Scimitar?'
'Scimitar code name, obviously. We've no idea who he is at this point, but we will find out. That I can promise you, sir.'
'Thank you all for coming,' Malmsey said, his voice weary. 'I'd say, despite the enormity of the challenges facing us, we're making good progress.'
'But time is of the essence,' Thorne said. 'I'd like to put myself and all my resources at MI6 at your disposal, Lord Malmsey. Working together, in full cooperation, we just might crack this thing sooner rather than later.'
'Your offer is both appreciated and accepted, Monty. Thank you.'
'Good night, sir. Get well soon,' Hawke said, getting to his feet.
Thorne and Sahira followed Hawke out into the corridor, leaving the director general of MI5 alone with his troubled thoughts. He'd always been on the hot seat. Somehow, he needed to find a way to get off.
Lord Malmsey's carefully ordered world seemed to be coming apart at the seams. Spinning out of control and there didn't seem to be a damn thing he could do about it. He reached over to his night table and buzzed the nurses' station. He told the duty nurse he wanted to see his doctor first on the morning rounds. He needed out of here, and he needed out now.
FORTY-EIGHT
STOKELY JONES TOLD HARRY BROCK HE needed a damn break right this minute. Harry silently nodded yes, and the two of them went up on deck to talk things over. The little guy down in the owner's stateroom wasn't going anywhere. He was tied to the chair, his wrists tightly bound behind him with, ouch, dental floss, a trick Stoke had learned with VC captives back in the shit.
Right about now, little Yoda down there was praying for a one-way ticket to paradise. But Stoke had no intention of letting this murderous child-killing bastard keep his hot date with seventy-two virgins.
'Martyr, my ass,' Stoke had told Yoda right off. 'This is America, asshole. Unlike you, we don't kill noncombatants. You're going to spend what's left of your sorry life in a prison that makes Abu Ghraib and Gitmo look like Mr. Roger's Neighborhood.'
Cool salt air smelling faintly of iodine stung Stoke's eyes when he stepped out on deck. After the stink of sweat and cigarette smoke in the small, airless cabin below, it felt good just to breathe again. How long had they been at it, he wondered, looking at his watch. Three damn hours.
He'd grown weary of interrogating an arrogant man who'd blown up a hospital full of doctors, nurses, and sick people; more recently he had caused the deaths of nearly two hundred innocent schoolchildren in a series of school bus bombings-and showed not a trace of remorse for any of it. A man whose only regret was that he'd been stopped before he could kill more kids. A man who'd prefer to die rather than betray his religion of death.
These effing people were certifiable, no doubt about it. They were making babies faster than anybody else on the whole planet, then teaching them how to hate. And kill anybody who disagreed with them.
Great, huh?
Future's so bright, I got to wear shades.
'Good cop, bad cop thing? Just ain't working, Harry,' Stoke finally said, hands on the varnished teak railing. He willed himself to relax, eyes gazing out over the deeply rolling swells of the blue Atlantic, ruffled whitecaps marching away to the horizon. The boat they were on, Maiden Voyage, a weather-beaten and barnacle-encrusted sixty-foot Viking sport-fishing boat, was a blind CIA charter out of Cracker Boy Marine over at Grove Key marina.
Stoke had four lines out, two from the outriggers and two off the stern. They were slowly moving south at idle speed, the helm on autopilot. Fishermen. Nobody would bother them.
Earlier, Stoke had taken Maiden Voyage through Government Cut into the Atlantic and out to a preset GPS waypoint beyond U.S. territorial waters. He'd deliberately established his destination four miles outside the United States' twelve-nautical-mile limit, just to be on the safe side. He was now in international waters, a good place to have unpleasant conversations like the one they were having with the imam from the Glades prison.
The terror kingpin's real name was Azir al-Wazar. Probably Arabic for Wizard of Oz, Stoke thought, and started calling the guy 'Ozzie' just to piss him off.
