Andrew Britton - The Assassin

Still, something didn’t make sense. The only place they could have been picked out was at customs in Dover, and if that had happened, they would have been arrested on the spot. The Security Service wouldn’t wait and risk losing its quarry. Neither would the Special Branch, and they certainly wouldn’t attempt to apprehend their targets on a busy London street, where hostages were plentiful.

So if there was surveillance, Vanderveen realized, it was focused on the man they were planning to meet in less than thirty minutes. The realization filled him with a strange combination of apprehension, anger, and relief.

They passed a group of noisy teenage boys lounging in the doorway of a Pizza Hut. The young men stopped joking around to leer at Raseen as she walked past, but she was oblivious, her face troubled. Vanderveen waited patiently, giving her time to reach her own conclusion. As they continued walking, the restaurants started to fade away, to be replaced by the historic, weathered stone facades of the West End’s theatre district. Finally, she leaned in and said, “It’s not us. They would have moved in already, Will. They would have arrested us in Dover.”

“I agree.”

“Then we can’t make the meet,” she said, stating the obvious.

Vanderveen felt something cold and wet hit his hand, then his face, the drops coming down in rapid succession. The people passing by seemed to take it in stride. Umbrellas appeared out of nowhere, springing up into view like the bulbs in a flowering field. Raseen huddled close and pulled her hood over her dark head. “What are we going to do?” she asked, her voice muffled by the waterproof fabric in front of her face.

He thought for a moment, weighing the risks. One car meant they were watching the man in the gray suit, but they weren’t ready to move. Pulling out was not an option; he couldn’t afford to wait. It was worth the stretch.

“We’re going ahead with it. Just stay on your toes, and be ready to do what I say.”

Five minutes after Vanderveen and Raseen entered the lobby of the Savoy, the green Opel sedan shuddered to a halt on Southampton, a narrow road feeding into the Strand from the north. Ian Haines, the man in the driver’s seat, picked a Starbucks container out of the holder between the seats, shook the empty cup, and scowled. Cracking a window, he unbuttoned his blue flannel shirt, pulled it off, and tossed it into the backseat. Underneath, he was wearing a plain gray T-shirt. The rain was starting to come harder now, rattling against the windshield as he thumbed the TRANSMIT button on his two-way radio. “Mike, what do you have?”

A hiss of static, then, “Nothing at the moment. I’ve got eyes on the front of the building.”

“Good. You get anything useful?”

Mike Scott was easily the best photographer in the unit. He ran his own successful business on the side, shooting family portraits out of a small studio on the east end of Fleet Street. “I got him from both sides of the road. Kind of hard to pick out his face in the crowd, but I think we’ll end up with some usable shots.” A pause, then the other man said, “I’m bloody soaking out here.”

Haines chuckled mildly. “Our relief shows up in an hour. You can hang on ’til then, right?”

“Whatever you say, mate. You’re the boss.”

Haines laughed again at the inside joke. He and Scott had worked together for six years, yet strangely enough, neither man knew where the other fell on the government pay scale. Both had served in the British Army, Scott with the Blues and Royals, Haines with the 2nd Battalion of the famed Parachute Regiment. Scott was by far the younger of the two, having left his unit as a corporal in ’98. Haines, on the other hand, finished two tours in Northern Ireland during the late seventies, then went to the Falklands to play his part in the brief war with Argentina. He nearly applied to the Special Air Service — God knows his commanding officer had suggested it often enough — but more than a decade of sustained, bloody combat was enough for the young sergeant.

Instead, Haines decided to get out altogether, leaving the regiment in ’84. After years of mediocre, unsatisfying jobs, he decided to apply for a position with the Security Service, otherwise known as MI5. The Service was primarily tasked with countering terrorist activity, both at home and abroad. He wasn’t expecting much, considering he’d never attended university. Much to his surprise, he was vetted after an intensive screening process and assigned to a mobile surveillance unit.

Haines took to the work immediately; his only regret was that he hadn’t applied sooner. The work was interesting, the scenery changed, and the job was not as physically challenging as he’d been led to believe. After his time with 2 PARA, everything else was easy by comparison, including the seventy-five-day training course the Service had put him through. Even now, at fifty-two years of age, Haines was by no means the oldest member of the unit. Watchers came in all shapes and sizes, and for good reason. Variety made a good surveillance team almost impossible to spot.

Looking over to the passenger seat, Haines lifted his copy of the Times and stared at the full-color photograph underneath. Generally speaking, members of the mobile surveillance unit were given very little information about the people they were assigned to track. Such was the case here; with respect to the man they were trailing now, Haines knew only the basics. Samir al-Askari was twenty-seven years old, a graduate of Eton College and the London School of Business. Currently, he was an account manager for the Export amp; Finance Bank in Amman; for this reason, he had been assigned the code name “Banker.” He had flown into Heathrow that morning on a Jordanian passport, and was immediately picked up by one of the watchers who staffed MI5’s airport office. Interestingly enough, the watch list that named al-Askari had been generated by MI6, but it fell to the Security Service to keep tabs on him on British soil. Haines wasn’t sure how al-Askari had earned himself a following, but to be honest, he didn’t really care. All they had to do was keep track of him until the relief showed up, and then they could get an early jump on the weekend.

Haines glanced at his watch, then ran a hand through his iron gray hair. Fifty minutes to go.

They had used their time in the lobby efficiently. The shop on the ground floor offered a small selection of exorbitantly priced clothing, most of it bearing the Savoy logo. After a few minutes of searching, Vanderveen managed to find a plain navy ball cap and a black windbreaker, which he brought to the counter. Raseen picked out a bright red anorak with a detachable hood. Vanderveen frowned at the color, but there wasn’t much else to choose from. Once he had paid, they made their way up to the fifth floor. Raseen tapped lightly on the door. It swung open, and they stepped inside.

Vanderveen moved into the room and looked around quickly, vaguely taking note of the cream-colored walls, dark wood, and opulent furnishings. The door from the hall opened into a small sitting room. Passing through, he poked his head into the bedroom, finding it empty. Closing the door, he turned and walked to the rain-streaked windows, where he pulled the drapes shut, blocking out an impressive view of the Thames and the South Bank. Then he opened the credenza, turned on the television, and upped the volume to a dull roar. Finally, he flicked on the lights and turned back to their host.

The courier had been watching all of this with a slight smile on his dark, narrow face, as if amused by the American’s paranoia. Vanderveen was instantly annoyed; everything he had just done was based on common sense, and it should have already been taken care of. His mind was still locked on the car Raseen had pointed out, and the courier’s seemingly lax attitude was doing nothing to improve his disposition.