Andrew Gross - Reckless

Naomi smiled at her as best she could and glanced at her watch. “The car should be here anytime. Are you ready?”

“Shortly,” Sheera al-Bashir replied. She didn’t have any makeup on and her eyes looked drawn from a very difficult night. She managed a reluctant smile. “We’re just packing up a few of the boys’ toys.”

Naomi nodded. “Sure.”

Fifteen minutes. Naomi came over and sat next to Hauck, smiling, partly philosophically, acknowledging that there were no winners in this kind of thing, and partly with a glimmer of satisfaction that they would finally be able to get to the truth. People plotting against the United States. And who was behind the murders of Marc Glassman and James Donovan?

“You did good.” Hauck winked, proud.

“Thanks.” She exhaled nervously, as if there was some small detail she hadn’t checked. Or double-checked. But there wasn’t.

“Quite the three days, huh?” He grinned. “Be sure and let me know when you’re planning your next vacation.”

“I’ll do that,” Naomi said, with a smirk.

“The south of France would be nice. If there’s ever anything going on there…”

She glanced at her watch again. “Maybe I should check in with my contact at the Exchequer…”

“Relax,” Hauck said with a squeeze of her arm.

Then she pointed up the block. “There it is.”

A black Mercedes SUV with darkened windows had come into the mew from the direction of Knightsbridge. It drove around the square and pulled to a stop in front of the house.

Naomi was relieved.

The driver’s window rolled down. One of the police guards stepped out of the car and checked the driver’s ID. He nodded in confirmation up at Naomi.

She sucked in a breath. “Let’s get this done.” She went up and knocked on the door again. This time a housekeeper answered. “The car’s here.”

A short time later the door opened back up and Sheera came back out, a tote bag over her shoulder, clasping the hands of her two young sons. The little one was still in his pj’s and obviously had been crying, forced to leave his home. He clutched a stuffed bear. A few suitcases were dragged out to the doorstep. A second agent jumped out of the Mercedes. He looked up and down the street, then quickly went up the stairs, taking the bags, and loaded them into the back of the SUV.

“Don’t forget the ski bag,” Sheera said, pointing back inside. “It has some things for the kids in it.”

The agent nodded agreeably. “We should have room, ma’am.”

Seconds later, Marty al-Bashir came out onto the steps. He was dressed in an open plaid shirt, blazer, khakis. A bulletproof vest he had been given the night before. The second agent put himself in the line of fire. Al-Bashir’s demeanor was sullen and resigned. Yesterday, he had been running the largest investment fund in the world. Today, his fate was in the state’s hands. A computer case was slung over his shoulder. He stepped up to Naomi. “Can you tell us where we’re going?”

“You should hurry,” she said. The agent stowed the last case in the trunk. Al-Bashir followed him down. “Everything will be made clear on the way.”

Before he got in, he looked at Naomi with a final, deflated smile. “You called it ‘jihad,’” he said. “It was never about terrorism. You’ll see. This was much larger than terrorism.”

Naomi pushed him into the car. “You better get on.”

He climbed into the backseat next to his wife. The accompanying agent shut the door, waved officiously to the policemen. He hopped in front, and then, without a siren, as if it were just a normal limo on its way to the airport, the Mercedes circled the mew and drove off through the grid of one-way streets back out to the main road.

It was done.

As it drove away, Hauck caught sight of the face of their youngest boy through the rear window, turning back a final time, grabbing one last look at his home.

Naomi exhaled. “That wasn’t exactly easy.” She nudged Hauck and they headed back down the street to their cab.

“Never is.”

His role was over now. She and the Feds would take it from here. He’d probably head back to the States that afternoon. He had a life to resume and a lot of things to explain.

Naomi’s cell phone rang. She checked out the display, saying to Hauck, “My contact at the Exchequer…”

She listened, then stopped, her face suddenly turning ashen. She looked back at Hauck, the blood rushing out of her face.

“What’s wrong?”

Naomi’s jaw fell open. “She said the government’s Range Rover is close by. It’ll be here in three minutes.”

Hauck’s heart stopped. He ran into the street, straining to find the black Mercedes moving away up the block.

He caught only the rear taillights as it disappeared around the corner.

T hat wasn’t them! That wasn’t them!”

Naomi sprinted over to the detectives from Scotland Yard. “It wasn’t them. The car was bogus. Did anyone get a look at the plates?”

The two policemen looked at them, completely stunned. Then they jumped in their car, one with his cell phone out, the other spinning it around, siren beeping, and took off after the Mercedes.

Naomi started in after.

“No.” Hauck grabbed her by the arm. He remembered the maze of one-way streets that led out to Park Lane. The SUV could be on any of them. “Come with me!” He pulled her in the other direction. “This way!”

He took off in the opposite direction, Naomi running a stride behind. Toward Hyde Park, out of the quiet mews. How could this have happened? Everything had been tightly controlled. Only insiders knew. It was like with Thibault all over again. He just knew they had to get to that car before it disappeared into traffic. Or they’d never see the al-Bashir family again.

They shot around the corner. It led to a short residential row of Georgians that intersected Chesterfield on the diagonal. Mayfair Terrace. Hauck stopped, frantically tried to reconstruct the labyrinth of streets and squares and how they led back onto the main road. He realized he had only minutes. He pointed toward a street. “Down here!”

They ran down it, his pulse on overdrive, as if his own daughter was in that car.

Naomi took out her gun. She kept up stride for stride. They got to the end of the street. It led to two more streets, each splitting off in a different direction. Hauck had no idea where they led. He scanned both ways, trying to calculate where the Mercedes would have to intersect back with Park Lane.

Naomi looked in both directions, white with fear. “We can’t lose them, Ty!”

“Down here!” He chose left and prayed. The street was like a replica of Chesterfield Mews. More expensive homes. There was a fancy, small hotel across the street. Ahead of them a family stepped out on the sidewalk with a stroller. “Federal agents,” Naomi yelled, almost barreling into them as they ran by.

At the corner they both stopped, looked around in frustration. “Are you sure?”

“No,” he said. He scanned around frantically for some sign of the car. “I’m not sure!”

He didn’t see it! He knew they had only about a minute to find the car, maybe seconds, and then it would disappear into traffic. There could be dozens of black Mercedes SUVs around the city.

Without a read on the plates, they could be anywhere.

His heart was pounding.

His gaze turned to a small street that cut off on a diagonal in the direction of Park Lane, a church on the corner. His instincts said go. The bell was tolling. People milled around in front. Past them, Hauck could see that it seemed to connect with a larger street up ahead. He spotted traffic, people crossing by.