Chris Ryan - Osama

‘I’m sure Her Majesty would be delighted to know that you approve.’

Delaney’s guest had one of those British accents that ordinarily made him shiver with joy. So clipped, so restrained, so white. Now Delaney ignored the hint of diplomatically repressed sarcasm and leaned forward, his eyes sparkling behind his horn-rimmed glasses, his lips trembling with amusement. ‘There are people in this very building who will try to tell you that the doughnut is a superior—’

‘Mason, I wonder if we might move the subject on?’

Delaney smiled, dunked the remainder of his biscuit, and waited for his guest to continue.

‘First, on behalf of the service I’d like to congratulate you on Operation Geronimo.’

‘Come, Peter. MI6 played its part. Your people were very helpful.’

Peter Schlessinger, like Delaney himself, had no official title within the British Secret Service – at least none that Delaney was aware of. The Brit continued in a businesslike fashion: ‘We have, of course, seen increased terrorist activity in the past few days. That’s only to be expected. Our services are liaising, naturally, but I’m not sure how much of the day-to-day stuff reaches you.’ Schlessinger bent down, picked up a leather briefcase, opened it and removed a sheaf of papers. ‘Most of it’s low-level, of course, but not all. Three men arrested at our East Midlands Airport, one of whom was trying to smuggle ammonium nitrate in a colostomy bag onto a flight to Newark.’

‘Delightful,’ Delaney murmured.

‘We have three individual cells planning to plant explosive devices in the foundations of the Olympic Village in east London at some point during the next two months…’

‘A year ahead of schedule,’ Delaney observed. ‘I didn’t know they had it in them to be so well prepared.’

‘Nobody wants another 9/11, Mason,’ Schlessinger said, perhaps a little piously. ‘We’ve had our people watching the site ever since the games were announced. A single watch battery could power a hidden detonator for several years. But that’s by the by – all three cells are compromised. Frankly they won’t be laying so much as a turd without us knowing about it.’ Delaney’s eyes widened in surprise at the director’s language. ‘There won’t be another Munich – our combined intelligence is too good. We can guarantee the safety of any American athletes in 2012.’

Delaney returned his cup to the table, then sat back on the sofa and pressed his fingertips together. ‘Do I sense the word “but” peeking over the hill, Peter?’

For a moment, Schlessinger didn’t reply. He returned the papers to his briefcase and clicked it shut before replying to his American counterpart.

‘Fifty per cent of our intelligence comes from sources outside the UK or the US, Mason. You don’t need me to tell you that.’

Delaney inclined his head in acknowledgement.

‘We will be withdrawing from Iraq in the next few months, and the President’s rhetoric with regard to Afghanistan has not gone unnoticed.’

‘Your point, Peter?’

‘My point, Mason, is that the fewer people we have in the region, the more difficult our job of collecting information. Yours and mine. Does the President really believe that just because Osama bin Laden’s at the bottom of the Indian Ocean with rocks in his shoes, the terror threat level is going to reduce?’

‘We confiscated several hard drives—’

‘Oh, come on , Mason. You know as well as I do that there are a hundred bin Laden replacements out there as we speak, just waiting for the chance to light up the sky. Don’t tell me you disagree.’

A pause. Delaney removed his glasses, scrutinized the lenses from a distance, then replaced them.

‘I do not disagree.’

‘Then why… ’

Delaney held up one chubby finger.

‘I do not disagree, but this agency does not dictate American policy, no matter what some people would like to believe. We are a tool of the federal government, nothing more. In many ways, you British have more influence in this matter than the entire agency.’

Schlessinger looked confused.

‘Let me explain, Peter. Some presidents establish their popularity by sending their soldiers to war. Others establish it by bringing them back home. Both approaches have their supporters among the little people.’

‘The little people?’

‘The public, Peter. The naive, uninformed public. If their opinion sways, then mark my words: the President’s opinion will sway in a similar direction. Does the CIA have the ability to sway public opinion? Alas, no.’

There was a knock on the door. It opened immediately. Delaney looked up with sudden annoyance that fell away when he saw Scott Stroman. His assistant’s handsome young face was serious, yet not without a gleam of triumph.

He turned back to Schlessinger. ‘I do enjoy our little chats, Peter.’

Schlessinger looked confused. ‘Mason, we have a lot to discuss. I’ve flown in especially to—’

‘We’ll do it again soon, no?’

The British man blinked, clearly angry, but then stood up. Delaney smiled blandly at him, but remain seated. ‘So long, Peter,’ he said in a sing-song voice, and his eyes followed his guest to the door.

Neither Delaney nor Stroman spoke until it was shut.

‘Tell me, Scott,’ Delaney demanded in a bored tone. ‘What do the British put in their tea that makes them all such fucking idiots? They’re so passive-aggressive you just want to give them a slap.’ And when Stroman failed to respond, he asked quietly: ‘You have something?’

The triumph in Stroman’s face grew more pronounced. He stepped over to where Delaney was sitting and handed him a single sheet of paper. Delaney’s eyes scanned it: a list of ten alphanumeric strings.

Flight numbers.

‘How?’ he asked quietly.

‘Shampoo,’ Stroman replied. ‘They have people working in a factory in Delaware that supplies pretty much every drugstore in the country. Including outlets past security at JFK, LAX, you name it.’

Delaney smiled. ‘Would you be so good, Scott, as to tell Herb Sagan that I would like a word in his exquisitely crafted ear?’

Stroman nodded. ‘Anything else sir?’

‘Yes. I’d like to speak to Ashkani. I want to thank him personally.’

Stroman nodded, but instead of turning and leaving the room, he lingered awkwardly.

‘Come, Scott, we’ll have time to play when this is over.’ Delaney approached his assistant and brushed one finger against his perfectly formed right cheekbone. ‘He is a greater patriot than you know,’ he breathed.

Scott gave him one of those nervous, handsome smiles he so adored.

‘Yes, sir,’ he said, then left the room quietly.

Three thousand miles away, in a solitary house by the sea, an old lady was frowning. ‘What in heaven’s name is that noise, Dandelion?’ Bethan Jones asked her cat. Dandelion seemed more interested in Jeremy Kyle and didn’t respond.

It had started at about ten o’clock – two hours ago – the monotonous, regular knocking. It was coming from upstairs. She was used to the pipes banging in this old house – her Gethin had been able to fix it when he was alive, but there was no way she could tackle the plumbing at her time of life. She supposed she could call out a plumber to look at it, but from what she’d read in the papers they would probably be immigrants and she wouldn’t even be able to understand them. No, she’d ask Mr Ashe to take a look. He wouldn’t mind.

She wondered where he was and why he hadn’t come in to say hello. She had heard him return in the early hours. She knew it had to be him, because Dandelion would have yowled and mewed and stuck her claws into the blankets of Bethan’s bed if a stranger had entered the house before dawn, or indeed at any time. Besides, she had heard him moving around upstairs as she lay there dozing. He had been noisier than usual, but she couldn’t complain: he was normally so quiet that you wouldn’t know he was there. Such a nice man. So thoughtful …