Don Pendleton - Terminal Guidance

The Briton feigned innocence. “I was just keeping the conversation going.”

“How did he react to that?”

“Stamped his little feet when he walked away,” McCarter said.

“Then sent a tail car after us,” Hawkins interjected. “They tried to push us off the road, then started shooting.”

“Christ, Jack, when you blokes start something you really start something.”

“One way of putting it,” McCarter said. “We’re punching in the dark here, Gregory. We have the threat of a hit, but we don’t know when or where, so no time for being subtle or checking the rule books. If that means kicking arses to make things happen, then we kick.”

“I’ll handle the car for you. Get it moved where no questions are the order of the day,” Henning said. “Give you a ride back to your hotel?”

“Thanks, mate. Your tip about Prem looks like it paid off. That bugger is involved in something. I’ll bet my pension on that. We can have our people check out his company. Maybe they’ll come up with something useful. If they don’t I’ll most likely go back and beat it out of him before I set fire to his warehouses.”

“Maybe the day hasn’t been a total waste, then,” Henning said.

“McCarter might not be joking,” Hawkins said.

“Oh, I know that,” the cop acknowledged. “Listen, I think I have a lead on who might have been selling us out. I had my suspicions and was going to follow them through, but I was given an assignment and had to drop what I was doing. When you called and brought me up to date, certain things you said tied in with my own theory. So expect a call if I hit pay dirt.”

McCarter nodded. “You watch your back, Gregory. Rats may be squirmy little buggers, but they have sharp teeth when they’re backed into a corner.”

Henning led them to his parked SUV and they all climbed in. He swung the vehicle around and drove out of the garage. As he pushed into the traffic, he activated his car phone and punched in a speed dial number. When his call was answered Henning gave explicit instructions to whoever was on the line, making it clear what he needed done. He finished the call and sat back, smiling.

“Your wheels will disappear in the next couple of hours. Never to be seen again. I’ll insert a stolen-vehicle report for you. Call the rental firm and tell them the car was nicked earlier this afternoon. There’s a pad on the dash there. Write down this number and quote it to the rental company. They’ll use it when they contact the local cops. It’s a crime case number. Rental company can use it when they make a claim on their insurance.”

McCarter wrote down the information and tucked the paper in his jacket. “Always knew the Met was a bloody good outfit.”

“’Met?’” Hawkins repeated.

“Metropolitan Police,” Henning said. “London’s city police force. Go all the way back to 1829. They always say those were the good old days. With what we have to deal with now I’m starting to think that could be true.”

“Gregory, we live in parlous times,” McCarter said. “All we can do is keep up the good work.”

“Hey, you two, “James said, “enough of the down-home philosophy. It’s like listening to a couple of old-timers rocking on the porch.”

Back at the hotel McCarter contacted Stony Man and spoke with Barbara Price. He gave her an update, including the fate of their rental.

“Well, at least letting your pal handle the disappearance should avoid awkward questions about bullet holes,” Price said. “I’ll make a call and sort out another car for you.”

“Thanks. We need some in-depth information about Samman Prem and his company. Shipping. Any connections. Hell, you know the drill.”

Greg Henning’s earlier investigation went back a couple weeks. Even then he’d been aware he was breaking every rule in the book, but his conviction that he had the right man dictated he do something about it. Operating in the counterterrorist unit had exposed him to the inner workings of the terrorist mind, and the things he had seen and heard only proved what he suspected. Terrorism, in all its twisted forms, was the scourge of the twenty-first century. It fed on hypocrisy, hid its evil under religious dogma, using the logic of persuasion and in most cases blatant brainwashing of vulnerable minds. The hate fostered by the al Qaeda generation of terrormongers was done via the teachers and advisors, men who stayed away from the results of their haranguing, never exposing themselves to risk. They remained in safety, dispatching their acolytes to kill and maim, and in many instances to be killed them selves in suicide attacks, willing to destroy with the promises of eternal life in paradise.

Nine/eleven, the London bombings and countless other atrocities were claimed as victories for the jihad. Each strike was celebrated by cheering, howling mobs, while the innocent victims were grieved by the survivors. There was little sense to it all, but in the aftermath, the Western governments realized this was going to be a long battle. The security agencies slowly began to understand the complexities of this new kind of war, and after false starts gathered themselves unto some semblance of coordination.

Perfection was still a distance away, but antiterrorist organizations slowly emerged. Greg Henning volunteered for the U.K.’s counterterrorist squad the day he heard it was being formed. He saw it as a total necessity, and pushed himself to the limit once he had been fully accredited. It was a job that demanded every agent give total attention, then more. Henning had been married in his younger years, but the partnership hadn’t lasted, ending in divorce after six years. His work in the new unit meant he needed to be there on a 24/7 basis. It suited him.

His understanding of the job and its requirements was cause for concern when it became suspected there could be a leak within the unit. He found the concept of a traitor repulsive. The squad was manned by professional men and women who put themselves on the line and worked endless shifts to keep ahead of the terrorists. To have one of their own passing information, weakening the group’s ability to stay focused, was unthinkable and totally unacceptable.

Being in the top echelon within the department, Henning was given a briefing by his immediate superiors. They had suspicions but no proof. Initial investigation had been difficult. If there was a traitor inside the unit, any checking had to be undertaken with great care, for fear of alerting the mole. It was one of those near impossible situations. It could have easily broken up the team, each member suspicious of his or her partners. Any prolonged procedure would damage trust and imperil the smooth workings of the department.

Henning had already fixed his attention on a single member of the unit, having been alerted by the man’s behavior. He closed in on the individual in his own surreptitious way, quietly and with an almost indifferent attitude.

The man’s name was Lewis Winch. A smart and confident agent, he held a high ranking in the unit. His brief was to act not only as a U.K. operative, but also to liaise with European and American agencies. Winch had made this his prime role and had built a reputation as a brilliant negotiator when it came to handling awkward international conflicts. There were still territorial stumbling blocks to deal with when it came to diplomacy directives, and Winch seemed to have the techniques for smoothing things over. Within the department he was almost a law unto himself. He came and went, making frequent visits to the Continent and even the U.S.A. He was often out of the department on consultations, as he put it.

Henning wasn’t sure how or when he began to have an unsettling feeling where Winch was concerned. His suspicions might have been aroused by the man’s increasing attitude of what Henning could only call twitchy. Winch seemed to be looking over his shoulder metaphorically, reacting awkwardly whenever someone approached him, almost with paranoia. Henning told himself he was looking too hard, seeing things that meant very little, but he found he was studying Winch whenever the man was around.