Chris Ryan - Osama

Wallace’s face was white. ‘How did you get this information, Mason?’

The glance that Sagan and Delaney shared was only momentary, but filled with meaning.

‘Your predecessor was very fond of that question, Jed,’ Delaney sighed.

‘Mason, the President’s going to—’

‘The President, Jed, does not want to know where this information came from, believe me. It’s a lot easier for him to deny all knowledge when he has no knowledge, wouldn’t you say? And in approximately…’ he looked at his watch ‘… eight hours’ time, he’ll be able to tell the nation that he has just foiled a plot to blow up five domestic and international flights in mid-air, and that on top of his recent PR success in Pakistan. I don’t think right-minded people will be asking too many questions about where the information came from. Am I wrong?’

Wallace looked uncertain. ‘You know what his manifesto was, Mason. An end to torture… extraordinary rendition…’

Delaney started to stand up. There was a new edge to his voice. ‘Well, Jed, if the President would rather have a 9/11 of his very own…’

‘For God’s sake sit down, Mason,’ Wallace snapped. Delaney gave a look of mild surprise at this display of authority, before settling back once more. Wallace turned to Sagan. ‘Herb, run it past me one more time. If I’m going to wake him, I want to have my ducks in a row.’

Sagan nodded. He had notes in the bag by his feet, but having worked on this since breakfast time he didn’t need them. ‘We have evidence of a coordinated mid-air strike over American soil. Five flights in total. Projected death toll, just over 1000 people. Thanks to Mason’s source, however, we have the precise flight numbers. We know which aircraft the terrorists are targeting. Tampa to JFK, Boston to LAX, Orlando to Montreal, Philadelphia to Seattle, Cincinnati to Newark. They all depart between 0500 and 0505 hours, so they’ll be in the air simultaneously.’

‘And in time for the whole eastern seaboard to wake up to the news,’ Mason murmured.

Sagan continued: ‘There’s a shampoo factory in Delaware. At midday yesterday we apprehended a US national who admitted receiving money from an unknown source in return for filling certain bottles of certain batches with the chemicals necessary to create binary explosives. The batches in question were earmarked for drugstores beyond the security gates at Tampa, Boston, Orlando, Philly and Cincinnati. They left the factory two weeks ago and there’s no way to trace them.’

Wallace’s face was still pale. ‘I’m assuming we need to ground all flights in and out of the US?’

Sagan and Delaney exchanged another glance.

‘That won’t be necessary, Jed,’ said Sagan. ‘We have the situation under control…’

‘How?’ Wallace breathed.

‘We’re going to isolate the terrorists before they get on the planes. We’re already coordinating with the Transportation Security Administration, Immigration and Customs Enforcement. And of course the Feds. We’ve planted air marshals among the passengers on each flight. We’ll load them onto buses from the gates, but none of them will get within sniffing distance of an actual aircraft. Once we’ve quarantined the passengers, we’ll search them. In a few hours’ time we’ll have a bunch of Al-Qaeda brains to pick. Without anything approaching coercion, naturally.’ He gave Wallace a flat look.

There was a silence in the room.

‘The President will need to give the final go-ahead for the strategy,’ Sagan said.

‘He’ll want to know the potential risk to the other passengers.’

‘I’m not going to sit here and tell you it’s risk-free, Jed.’

Wallace nodded. ‘Tampa, Boston, Orlando, Philadelphia, Cincinnati.’ He repeated Sagan’s list. ‘You’re sure that these five flights are the only ones that are being targeted?’ He had directed the question towards Delaney, who affected a look of surprise at having been consulted.

‘I’m ninety-three per cent sure,’ he said. He smiled at Sagan. ‘Herb does love his statistics.’

Wallace ignored the barb. ‘I’ll wake the President now,’ he said. ‘Wait here. I’ll be back with an answer.’

He left the room. Sagan and Delaney sat silently, two enemies, joined by a common purpose.

‘Ninety-three per cent, Mason?’ Sagan asked.

Delaney raised an eyebrow. ‘Maybe ninety-two.’

The two men went back to their wordless waiting.

Pembrokeshire, 0715 hours.

Under normal circumstances it would have taken no more than fifteen minutes for Joe to get from the beach to Ashkani’s safe house. Carrying a traumatized Conor, and with Eva limping along beside him, it took nearly an hour. By the time they approached the front door, which Joe had left unlocked, he had given up offering Eva words of encouragement to help her push through the barrier of pain and exhaustion. He could feel her body convulsing. She badly needed medical attention. So did Conor.

The hallway stank of the rotting corpse of the old woman. Eva showed no sign that she even knew what she was stepping over – her glazed eyes were as desensitized as Conor’s. With difficulty, Joe manoeuvred the two of them up the stairs. It was with an overwhelming sense of relief that he turned left at the top, into the room where he had found Ashkani’s passport. He didn’t know why he wanted them to stay in this room – it was just a vague sense that Ashkani, whoever he was, had been a pro, and that there was a chance of finding medical supplies in here. Plus, of course, he wanted to strip the place down for information.

He helped Eva and Conor over to the bed on the far side of the room. Eva collapsed heavily onto its edge. Her lips had a bluish tinge. Her shaking hands clutched the wound on the side of her abdomen. Joe gently lowered Conor from his shoulder and sat his son next to her.

‘You OK, champ?’

Conor’s blank face looked around the room. For a few seconds he appeared not to know where he was, but then his eyes widened. He slipped off the bed, his head in his hands, and curled up into a little ball on the floor. No words escaped his throat, just a pathetic mixture of frightened sounds.

Joe knelt down and put his hands awkwardly on his son’s shoulders. ‘Hey champ,’ he whispered. ‘It’s all right… he’s gone… I’m here now…’ His words had no effect. The boy remained huddled on the thin carpet.

Joe turned his attention to Eva. Her face was racked with pain and she winced as he removed the hooded top to look at the wound. It was a mess, no doubt about it. The skin where the bullet had clipped her was torn and the tissue beneath it was a bloody pulp. The heavy bleeding seemed to have stopped, but Eva was very weak and in great pain. He couldn’t risk moving her any further.

‘Ashkani?’ she breathed. Her voice was fragile and cracked.

Joe looked around the room. ‘You needn’t worry about him.’

A pause. Speech was clearly a huge effort for Eva. ‘Is he dead?’

‘I shot him in the back of the head. That normally does the trick.’

Joe strode into the hallway and started checking out the other rooms on the first floor. The old lady’s bedroom – a riot of floral wallpaper, floral bedding and a violet carpet – revealed nothing but clothes, photographs and a handful of old jewellery. The spare bedroom, with its two single beds, was similarly empty. His search of the bathroom, which didn’t give the impression of having been used very often, despite the limescale stains around the edge of the roll-top bath and inside the sink, was more productive. In the mirrored cabinet above the sink he found a pile of large swabs, still in their sterile packaging, and a roll of bandage. He rushed back to Eva, ripped open the swabs and pressed them against her wound, before tying them into position with the bandage. Eva winced, but didn’t cry out. Joe was grateful for that. ‘You’ll be OK,’ he told her, and she nodded as though she believed him.