Ted Bell - Warlord

The cave he'd so carefully chosen was not a cave at all. Although, from the rough wooden-beamed exterior, it looked exactly like the countless others in these mountains.

The cave was actually a half-mile-long tunnel.

It had been built by the Taliban fighters for moments precisely like this one, when emergency escape from imminent attack by enemy forces was necessary. The tunnel had taken more than a year to complete. It burrowed all the way through the rugged mountain. At the other end, another anonymous cave mouth overlooked an entirely different valley.

He knew air support was being called in; it was happening now. USAF F-15Es would be streaking up and down this valley looking for Taliban on the run after the failed assassination attempt on Prince Harry. And troops from the Blues and Royals regiment would be racing up the mountainside in search of the dead sniper and any other enemy combatants who'd run for cover.

Eventually, they would find the corpse outside the cave where Khalid's horse remained, waiting for his dead master's return. But they would not find this entrance to the tunnel, carefully hidden for decades at the extreme rear of this deep cave. He reached it, reined in his horse, and dismounted.

Smith cursed himself as he pulled at the small boulders, clearing away an opening large just enough to accommodate horse and rider. He remounted the stallion and rode through the hole he'd made into the semi-darkness, the distant opening on the other side of the mountain soon visible as a tiny wavering disc of sunlight far ahead.

He'd made two very stupid mistakes. He'd not counted on the enemy spotters and snipers possibly surveilling the mountains above the camp with exactly the same powerful sniper scope and weapon Khalid had been using!

Unforgivable.

And, two, in his haste he'd left the very latest English sniper weapon available beside the dead sniper's body. Virtually impossible for anyone outside the British military to acquire. And yet this dead Taliban fighter had one, and they would assume he knew how to use it.

An English gun. An extremely rare and unusual weapon that could only have come from an English source. They could never trace it to him, of course. How could they? Still, it was a grievous lapse of judgment.

But now, for the first time in all these years of immaculate success, he'd left behind a bloody clue. He knew enough about clues to know that even one could be fatal. Especially with the full force of both British intelligence services arrayed against him.

He emerged into the hard light, dug his spurs into his horse's flanks, and raced toward the safety of Sheik al-Rashad's compound. Just four days ago, he and Khalid had decamped for the mountains above Tangin, supremely confident and sure of success.

As he galloped down and through the narrow valley, he took stock of his situation. He had always thought of himself, when he thought of himself, as a kind of magician. Or, better still, a composer. Yes, exactly that. A conductor orchestrating his own composition, a complex design he had been weaving since childhood, its dark threads, its potent symbols; all those myriad strands of his existence that required the dexterity of a true virtuoso in order to keep flowing.

This mistake, this frayed strand threatened everything; all of his meticulous plans now needed to be accelerated before they unraveled completely. He needed to step back and take a serious look at the fabric of his life. Hit the reset button. Make certain no more missteps were made in these few remaining weeks culminating in his ultimate objective. He could ill afford the one mistake he'd just made.

Still, perhaps the one, but no more.

HAWKE AND SAHIRA, DELAYED BY TRAFFIC, arrived at the nurses' station a little after seven in the evening. Visitors' Hours ended at eight, so they would still have more than enough time for a visit.

"Lord Malmsey, please," Hawke said.

"Just one moment," the starchy nurse said, peering up at him over the tops of her silver-framed glasses. He must have passed muster because she was calling up the approved visitor register on her computer screen. "Your names?"

They gave them.

Just prior to the hospital visit, the two had enjoyed an early dinner at Tamarind in Mayfair, Hawke's favorite Indian restaurant. Sahira was dressed in black, a silk suit with white pearls at her neck, having attended three funerals that afternoon. In the soft light, he'd watched the burden of grief lift from her shoulders as the first scotch smoothed the rough edges off the day.

There had been no shortage of things to talk about. Sahira told Hawke the details of the river-based attack on MI5 and Hawke had given her a blow-by-blow account of storming an IRA safe house in Northern Ireland called the Barking Dog. He kept his tale brief. He was more interested in an eyewitness account of the brazen attack on MI5 in central London. The message the terrorists had delivered that day was plain enough: all bets are off.

"Thank God you weren't hurt, Sahira," Hawke said when she finished, reaching across the table to cover her hand with his. An expression of genuine concern flickered across his face. And in that brief moment, despite all else, she knew that, at the very least, this man cared.

She looked at the big hand covering hers, smiled at his simple gesture of protection, and said, "Alex, what still rankles is how brazen it was. As if these damn people woke up, looked at each other, and said, 'Nothing on today, mates, let's sail up the river and blow up MI5.' Terrorism works, Alex. The people of London are terrified. That something like this could occur in broad daylight, on a bastion of British-"

"Very few alive remember the Blitz," Hawke said mildly.

"I suppose not."

"It's going to get much worse," Hawke said, "based on what your intelligence analysts decrypted in the computers we found at the IRA safe house."

"Yes, much worse." She thought for a moment and added, "It's amazing more of us weren't killed. There are two thousand people working at Thames House. We suffered seven deaths and thirty-two wounded. You know, it's so odd the way things work sometimes. Just ten minutes before the attack, Lord Malmsey asked that I come up to his office."

"Yes?"

"He's never done that before. I'm always summoned from on high by some anonymous secretary to some anonymous conference room. At any rate, he asked for an update on our latest IRA investigations and I gave him what I had, which, prior to your amazing discoveries in Ireland, was hardly substantial. He stood at the window with his back to me, gazing down at the river. I made some silly small talk and took the lift back down to my floor. Had I remained in his office another five minutes it could be me in that hospital room tonight, not him."

"Or both of you."

"Yes, I suppose you're right. He's lucky to be alive, you know. A razor-sharp shard of flying glass from his window sliced open the side of his neck, ear to chin. Nicked an artery. Were it not for Five's own first responders, he'd have bled out right there on his own office carpet."

"LORD MALMSEY IS JUST DOWN that long corridor on your left," the senior nurse said. "Near the end. You'll see two detectives outside his door. They know you're coming."

"How's his lordship faring?" Sahira asked.

"As well as can be expected. There are many others here, also wounded in the attack, who are not doing nearly so well. And those poor others who-"

"Thank you," Hawke said to the nurse, taking Sahira's arm and steering her down the hallway.

When they entered Lord Malmsey's room, they found Montague Thorne standing at the man's bedside, the two men engrossed in a quiet conversation in the dim light of a bedside lamp. Catching a glimpse of Hawke and Sahira, Thorne turned to greet them.