Nick Oldham - Critical Threat

Unless Suleiman had actually seen them and was playing a game … always a possibility.

Donaldson settled back. His job was static observation that morning.

He ordered a cafe con leche , thinking about how he and his family had actually drank here in the past … then his mind flicked to Henry Christie and the reaction he’d had to the way Fazul Ali had been treated. Henry would be even more upset to learn that Ali had died whilst being interrogated and had had to be disposed of. It hadn’t happened whilst Donaldson had been talking to him, but as a result of a bad reaction to some drugs that Dr Chambers was testing out which had given him a heart attack. Donaldson shrugged mentally, not even remotely moved by the thought of Ali’s death, since he was just as bad as Akbar. What bothered him was his own relationship with Henry and how it might be revived — or was it just to be another casualty of this war?

‘Moving down La Rambla,’ Jo piped up, describing Suleiman’s movements.

Perhaps he would try and speak to Henry once this Akbar thing was over … but he would not apologize. No way …

‘Seems to be the same old routine,’ Jo said.

Donaldson closed his eyes briefly — but not for long. His coffee came and he paid the waiter immediately, just in case he had to move quickly. There was nothing more embarrassing for someone on surveillance than being chased by a bill-wielding waiter demanding payment. It drew attention. Thinking back to Henry also made Donaldson speculate about Mansur Rashid, who in some respects was similar to Suleiman: a legit businessman on the face of it, but providing funds for AQ at the same time. Rashid had completely gone off the radar since Blackburn and rumour was that Akbar had seen him as a liability, someone who couldn’t control his temper, who allowed his emotions to get the better of him — firstly by killing his wayward wife and then the private investigator he had been stupid enough to hire who then got in a position from which he could blackmail Rashid. Akbar had no place for people like that and it was believed that Rashid had been murdered somewhere in Pakistan. Whether that was true or not, no one knew, but Rashid had never appeared on the intelligence radar since that fateful day in Blackburn.

‘He’s taking his time today … a lot of a/s activity,’ Jo said, meaning anti-surveillance.

Donaldson sat up. Suleiman was being extra careful today for some reason. The hairs on the back of his muscular neck prickled. No more closing of eyes, no more daydreaming, he told himself.

Jo and Jed were on Suleiman.

Terry and Marcus were somewhere behind them.

Barney, the team leader, was sitting at the cafe Suleiman was expected to visit.

Two others were on a free reign — Wayne and Harry.

And he was sitting here.

Maybe today, he thought.

‘He’s turned around, nearly made me,’ Jo said shortly. ‘He’s on Ferran now.’ For ease, the team had dispensed with using the Spanish word calle , meaning street. ‘Travelling quite quickly, carrying a black briefcase.’

The other members of the team acknowledged this change of habit.

Despite the urge to join in, Donaldson remained at the cafe. His hand dithered excitedly when he drank from his coffee.

‘Now left up Banys Nous,’ Jo related.

The followers slotted in behind him and though he used several quick manoeuvres, they stuck with him, were not seen, following him through the narrow streets until he turned into a restaurant on Calle Montsio called Els Quatre Gats, making Donaldson raise his eyebrows. He knew the place, had been there with Karen, drawn by the fact it was once a popular hangout for artists such as Picasso. It was a beautiful old building, circa 1897, an ideal place to meet someone for a coffee.

‘He’s sat at a table just inside the door,’ Jo said, ‘and he’s ordered.’

Perhaps he was just having a change of scenery, Donaldson thought, glancing across in the direction of the huge department store on the other side of the square, El Corte Ingles, then allowing his eyes to pull back, rove across the crowds, examining individual faces, then settle on the front door of the Hard Rock Cafe diagonally opposite to where he was positioned.

And there he was.

Emerging from the front door. Wearing a baggy Green Day T-shirt and dark glasses.

Mohammed Ibrahim Akbar. The man who had murdered hundreds of people across the globe, who had recruited young men and women to blow themselves and others to pieces, who raised and collected money for AQ … and who had killed two of Donaldson’s closest friends amongst many other innocent people in Nairobi in 1998.

Donaldson recognized him immediately, a face etched on his mind for eternity.

Donaldson stood up as naturally as he could and walked to the pedestrian crossing which would take him across to the mouth of La Rambla, just as Akbar himself was swallowed up in the mass of bodies in that wide street.

Akbar was walking quickly, then stopped abruptly, ostensibly to admire one of the human statues dressed like a cowboy, painted silver. Donaldson swerved into a magazine stall just before Akbar’s head swivelled round to check behind him. Through a gap in the side of the stall, Donaldson got a good look at him, confirming the ID and feeling his heart accelerate sickeningly.

A swell of adrenaline surged into the American’s system as he said, ‘I’m on Akbar,’ into the minute mike fitted into the collar of his football shirt. He gave the location and described Akbar and his clothing.

‘Confirm, confirm,’ the voice of Barney said excitedly.

‘Confirm.’

‘OK — your call, Karl … how do you want to run it?’

He emerged from the stall as Akbar set off in the direction of the Monument a Colon at the end of La Rambla.

‘He’s edgy and careful … don’t want him spooked.’

‘Tell me,’ Barney said.

‘OK — Jo and Jed stay on Suleiman … Terry, Marcus to the bottom of La Rambla … You stay put, Barney, he’s headed in your direction. Wayne, Harry to make to your location, too … I need to check if he’s alone … he could have back-up.’

‘You got it.’ Barney asked if everyone understood.

And meantime Akbar walked down La Rambla, past the junction with Calle Ferran, the street Suleiman had walked up.

Behind him, Donaldson became acutely aware of two things … the Sig 9 mm pistol tucked into the waistband of his pants at his spine and the flick knife strapped to his right ankle. Both items seemed to burn holes into his bones.

Using his tradecraft, Donaldson kept both his quarry in sight and himself out of sight, constantly scanning to be certain that Akbar was alone, not being supported by a team, or being tailed by another intelligence service. He knew that Mossad were also after him.

He was pretty certain Akbar was alone. He was about to relay this information when, without warning, Akbar burst into a sprint and plunged headlong into Calle Escudellers in the Barri Gotic, Barcelona’s superbly preserved medieval quarter.

‘He’s running, he must have made me,’ Donaldson said, discarding all pretence of subtlety and racing after him.

The change in atmosphere and temperature was dramatic in the tight, shadowy streets of the gothic quarter, sending an instant chill through Donaldson.

As his big feet pounded into the ground, he was amazed that it always came down to this; despite all the technology in the world, the hunt for a fugitive always came down to a confrontation, whether it be in the mountains of Afghanistan or the backstreets of Boston; ultimately it was always a one-on-one.

Akbar skidded out of sight twenty metres ahead as he spun into Passatge Escudellers. Donaldson flung himself after him, feeling for his pistol as he ran, his fingers curling round the stock, but as he entered the passage, Akbar, wily as a fox, was already out of sight.