Ted Bell - Warlord

A high-ranking minister in the P.M.'s cabinet, Anthony Soames-Taylor normally worked at Downing Street. But he would be in Washington for three whole weeks. He was scheduled to attend a series of secret CIA meetings on Anglo-American joint security measures against urban weapons of mass destruction. This emergency session had been called in light of the latest intelligence coming out of Pakistan and Afghanistan.

Number one concern on the Western intel community's list: the radical Islamic takeover of an unstable Pakistan. Besides granting radical Islam a home base, at least one hundred nuclear weapons would fall into the hands of the West's avowed enemies.

The repercussions would obviously be devastating. Not only the nuclear threat posed by the rogue nation, but the encouragement of homegrown terrorists in both America and Britain to engage in more violence.

Sahira was deep into a close inspection of a transcript when one of her two desk phones began blinking red. Shit. It meant the director general of MI5, Lord Malmsey, was calling her. At this time of night on a Saturday, it was most likely not good news.

"Dr. Karim," she said cheerfully, picking up the receiver.

"Sahira, glad I caught you; we've a situation on our hands. Not sure how serious it is yet, but it certainly has that potential. I'll need your immediate involvement. Are you quite busy?"

"No, sir, not at all. How can I help?"

"Well, here it is. A flash emergency signal has just been received from one of the British Air ticket agents out at Terminal Four, Heathrow. But I'm now looking at live feeds from all the T-4 CCTV security cameras out there and I can't see a damn thing out of the ordinary."

"Someone hit a button accidentally?"

"Possibly. Nevertheless, I've already spoken to Heathrow's head of security and ordered our own team out there to Level One readiness, with instructions to stand by until we know what the hell, if anything, is going on. Could be a false alarm, of course. The permanent Heathrow security forces have also gone on alert standby. No one makes a move until we have an accurate threat assessment."

"How can I help, sir?"

"Had a thought. Just occurred to me. I recall that at our breakfast meeting this morning you mentioned your fiance was flying BA to Washington Dulles tonight on the nine thirty. Correct?"

"Yes, sir. Anthony is probably checking in at Terminal Four as we speak."

"Flying first class, I imagine?"

"No, sir, Tony always flies economy. Says screaming babies are character-building. He'll be in the main hall."

"I'd like you to ring his mobile. Casual chat, good-bye and that sort of thing. But ask him if he's aware of anything at all out of the ordinary out there. Anything we should know about. Don't alarm him, no panic, just say you got an odd call you're running down, probably nothing, you know the drill. Ring me back as soon as you've spoken."

"Will do," she said, hanging up, grabbing her shoulder bag, and tossing her mobile inside as she headed for the door. Her black Mini was parked in the Thames House underground garage. She would call Anthony as soon as she was en route to Heathrow. At this time of night on a weekend, she could be there in less than half an hour. She'd tune in to BBC World News radio and monitor the situation on the way.

Tires squealing as she tore around and around the endless parking garage levels, she speed-dialed Anthony on her Bluetooth handsfree.

"Hullo?"

"Anthony, darling, it's me. Missing you already, if that's not inappropriate. You okay?"

"Fine, fine. Just missing you already, too, if that's not too pathetic."

"No, no. It's good. Missing is good. Listen, we got this call a few minutes ago about a possible situation at Terminal Four. Anything weird going on out there that catches your eye?"

"Nope. Nothing but the glamour of modern air travel and those of us lucky enough to be in the queue, so far. I'm snaking along in a human conga line that will ultimately dump me into the bosom of our so-called security checkpoint, whereupon I shall duly remove my shoes and tiptoe through the tulips. I think it would save a good deal of time if everyone went through security naked and then got dressed at the other end, don't you?"

"OK, good, nothing to worry about then. But, darling, if you do see anything even slightly odd, do ring me right back on my mobile straightaway, will you, sweetie?"

"Yes, of course. If you don't hear from me, I'll call you when I land at JFK in the morning. Love you."

"Love you, too."

Sahira downshifted as she exited the garage at a high rate of speed, nearly taking the turn on two wheels.

MR. AND MRS. H. B. BOOTHBY, first-class passengers to New York on BA Flight #44, were next in line to check in. They'd been in London for a week, staying at Claridge's, sightseeing, doing a little shopping, and taking in some theater. They were going home tonight only because Henry had a one o'clock tee time on Long Island, out at Shinnecock tomorrow afternoon.

"Henry," Dottie Boothby whispered to her husband, "do you notice anything odd about the fellow right behind us? Don't look now…"

Henry Boothby took a deliberately casual quick peek over his right shoulder and saw a perfectly ordinary-looking young man, late twenties, nicely dressed in a dark suit, white shirt, navy tie. He had one of those Bluetooth devices in his ear and was speaking into a little microphone extending near his mouth. The young man caught him looking and smiled, not in an unfriendly way at all. He carried on speaking quietly with someone on his mobile phone.

Henry said to his wife, "No. Perfectly decent-looking young man."

"He smells."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean he stinks, Henry. Like he hasn't bathed in a month, that's what I mean."

Her husband leaned into her and smiled.

"Dottie, I don't smell a thing. Your nose is just too sensitive that's all and-"

"You know what it is? I'll tell you what it is. It's fear sweat, that's what it is."

"Dottie, if I didn't know you better, I'd say you were guilty of racial profiling. And, dear, you know how I feel about that kind of-"

"Next in line, please," the attractive blond BA agent said. Her name tag said "Rosetree." A perfect English rose, Dottie Boothby thought, all that golden hair piled neatly atop her head, the sweet blue eyes, the rosy bloom on her dewy cheeks. She looked for a ring and was amazed some rakish young man about town had not taken this prize.

The Boothbys advanced to the counter and placed their passports in front of her. She was as efficient and friendly as she'd been trained to be and it was only a couple of minutes before they had their boarding passes and were en route to engage the modern nightmare of boarding an airplane.

"I'm going to find Airport Security, right now," Mrs. Boothby said as they moved away from the counter.

"Why?"

"You're supposed to report anyone suspicious, that's why."

"Dottie, don't be ridiculous. You can report someone who acts suspicious. You simply cannot report someone who smells suspicious."

"Next in line, please," Agent Allison Rosetree said as the bickering Boothbys disappeared into the crowded main hall.

"Good evening," the young man said, putting his British passport on the counter. She noticed he had a medium-sized aluminum suitcase with wheels and a pull handle. She also noticed strong body odor and a slight sheen of perspiration on his face and filed it away, a fact to remember. Fear of flying was the number one cause, she reminded herself.

Miss Rosetree routinely ran his passport through the scanner, smiled at the result, and said, "Seat 3-A, a window, Mr. Mahmood. You don't start boarding until nine p.m., so please feel free to enjoy our first-class Speedwing Lounge to your right after you pass through security. Everything looks lovely for a smooth flight across the Atlantic, arriving on time at JFK at eight a.m. Eastern Standard. Do you wish to check that luggage or carry on board?"