Don Pendleton - Terminal Guidance

Hussein still expressed doubt. “This man is not of our faith. He is a Westerner. How can he be trusted?”

“Because he is a Westerner and he lives by their corrupt ways. His life is centered around acquiring personal wealth. As long as it is on offer he will forgo any loyalty to his own. The man has no religion. No higher authority. Like his faithless society, his creed is to serve himself only. So while he remains useful to me I will take advantage of his vile expectations.”

“Use the serpent, but be wary of his fangs,” Qazi said.

Prem, picking up his phone, nodded. “Winch has proved extremely adept at providing sensitive information. The man has gained the confidences of many in the security community.” He paused, allowing himself a smile. “Saeeda, where do you think we got our hands on the scheduling that allowed us to hijack the Barracuda UAV?”

“That was Winch? Ah, a valuable asset, then,” Hussein agreed.

“And a very rich one. His hidden bank accounts must be extremely healthy by now.”

Prem made his call. When it was answered, he spoke briefly at first, to establish safe contact. “I hope we are able to talk freely.”

“This is the safe number I gave you,” Winch said. “Do we have a problem?”

“There has been a development that might become worrying. A short time ago three men came to the dock. They identified themselves as security personnel. The ID they showed me said they were from the police. London Metropolitan CTS attachment.”

“Was there an authorization signature?”

“G. Henning—senior agent. Does the name mean anything to you?”

“Yes. Were they just snooping around, or did they have a definite purpose?”

“The one I spoke to said they knew all about us. That they were watching closely.”

“Sounds like they were fishing.”

“Did I not mention that Colonel Rahman was identified by name? Does that suggest fishing, Mr. Winch?” Prem’s tone had lost any pretense of friendliness. “I suggest you look into this. Find out what is going on. Agent Henning needs to be dealt with if he is sending in people to check me out. I do not like to be investigated in such a way. It is why I employ you, Winch. And pay you handsomely to prevent this kind of thing from happening.” He paused. “You agree?”

“Yes.”

“I dispatched three of my people to follow and deal with these men. If they do not succeed it will be down to you to engage your mercenaries to handle them. I will let you know what unfolds. In the meantime your task is to make certain Mr. Henning is unable to conduct his inquiries further. Do you understand?”

“Understood,” Winch said. “It will be handled immediately. Personally.”

“Do not contact me until the matter is concluded.”

“The usual arrangement?”

“Of course, Mr. Winch. Do not worry about it. You will definitely get what is coming to you.”

Winch failed to recognize the irony in Prem’s words.

Prem ended the call and replaced the handset.

“He can do this?” Qazi asked.

“I believe so. He has never failed me yet and I see no reason why it should be any different this time. It must not be different. Our purpose here in the U.K. is much more than assisting in Rahman’s operation, important as it is. Our whole network could be jeopardized. I will not allow that to happen.” Prem picked up the phone again. “I must call Colonel Rahman and update him on the situation. If matters escalate he will not be pleased if he has not been advised.”

“Tell him I will be leaving on the evening flight back to Pakistan,” Qazi said. “There is nothing else here for me to do.”

THE CITROËN ACCELERATED as the road narrowed, bounded on either side by older houses in various stages of redevelopment. The French-built car powered up to within a foot of the Phoenix Force vehicle.

“Naughty, naughty,” McCarter muttered. “I hate tailgaters. But I have a way of dealing with them.”

The Briton stomped on the brake. As the Phoenix Force BMW slowed, the driver of the Citroën was forced to do the same. The car lurched, tires squealing as it dropped back, smoke whipping from the tires. McCarter pushed his foot down again and took the BMW up to the maximum he could risk on a public road.

“Never a cop around when you need one,” he grumbled. “Any other time the place would be crawling with patrol cars and the road lined with speed cameras.”

“I think these guys know that, too,” Hawkins said. “And I don’t reckon they’re about to quit and go home to Momma.”

“You think I went too far with Prem?” McCarter asked.

James glanced at the Briton and didn’t miss the slight smirk on his lips. “You wanted him to react, didn’t you?”

“Was that what I did?”

“Dammit, David, you know how these guys hate anyone pissing them off. Right now you’ve probably been issued with a fatwa all your own.”

“Bloody hell, me on a level with Salman Rushdie. Next thing, the queen will be offering me an OBE.”

Tires screeched as the Citroën swept into the opposite lane and started to draw level with the SUV.

“That guy behind the wheel is one reckless dude,” James said.

“You think?” Hawkins commented. “Oh, great…”

“What?”

“Gun,” Hawkins yelled.

The BMW shuddered as a stream of slugs struck the right-hand rear side panel.

McCarter responded with a jerk to the wheel that sent the BMW into the path of the chase car. There was a hard thump as the two collided. The Citroën rocked under the impact. The shooter, leaning out of the rear window, was knocked back inside the car, giving Hawkins the chance he needed. He had already powered down his window, giving him a clear shot as he leveled his Beretta and triggered a triple volley. The shooter, righting himself, caught the 9 mm slugs in his throat and jaw. Hawkins caught a brief glimpse of the guy jerking back from the window, blood spurting from his torn flesh.

Swinging the wheel again, McCarter slammed the Citroën a second time. It swung away, hitting the far curb. The impact bounced the Citroën up onto the sidewalk, the wheels turning despite the driver’s attempt to maintain a straight course. The car plowed into piles of building materials in of one of the houses. Hawkins, watching through the rear window, saw the vehicle slide, then flip over onto its side, crashing headlong through the stacks of lumber and sheeting.

McCarter raised his eyes to the rearview mirror.

“Oops,” he said. He met Calvin James’s eyes. “Cal, call Henning and let him know what just happened. Tell him we need to get this car off the streets. He’ll know somewhere we can meet up without any kind of audience.”

“ANY DAMAGE?” Henning asked. He had met Phoenix Force at a basement garage of a closed office block off the Bayswater Road. The garage was gloomy, with water dripping from the low concrete ceiling.

“Only to the car,” James said. “And one of the opposition ran into a couple of bullets.”

“Good.” Henning peered at the buckled front end and the ragged bullet holes at the rear. “Business as usual, Jack. Never fails. Minute you set foot in the old town, all hell breaks loose.”

“He has that effect wherever he goes,” James said.

“I believe you.” The cop leaned against the hood of the BMW. “I take it all this was a result of you going to visit Samman Prem? How did you find him?”

“Tetchy,” McCarter said. “Thinks a lot of himself. Didn’t take it too well, me hinting we have the goods on him.”

“He wouldn’t. Not a winning personality, our Mr. Prem. I’d go as far as saying he is an arrogant little jerk.”

“Poking him with a stick didn’t help his disposition,” James added, glancing sideways at McCarter.