Don Pendleton - Terminal Guidance

“Able, I’ve arranged a private flight for you to Logan. Your credentials will ID you as Justice Department agents on special assignment. Your weapons will be in a separate, secure case. When you touch down you can go direct to the Hertz rental stand, where a vehicle has already been booked for you. It’s in your cover name, Carl. And rooms are also booked at the Boston Marriott.”

Price turned to McCarter. “David, there’s an Air Force supply flight due to leave at seven tomorrow morning. We can have Phoenix Force there in time. You will touch down at RAF Mildenhall. Orders have been cut that will get you on board and delivered safely, no questions asked. Car will be waiting for you to pick up on base. After that you’re on your own. When you want to move on, a USAF plane will fly you on a regular supply run to Afghanistan, where you’ll be shipped out to the forward Marine base close to the border with Pakistan.”

“What about Gary and Rafe?” McCarter asked.

“They’ll be flown to the same base and choppered in across the border at night for a rendezvous with our contact. He’ll drive them into Peshawar to where they’re staying. This guy can give only limited assistance, so when he drops you at your hotel and gets you settled, he’ll move on.”

“Sounds playable,” McCarter said.

“Just to make sure you all have your cover names correct,” Price said. “David, you’re Jack Coyle, because your guy in London knows you from previous meetings. Samuel Allen?” Manning held up a hand. Rafe—Fredo Constantine, and Cal, you are Roy Landis.”

“Do I look like a Roy?” James asked.

“What the hell does a Roy look like?” McCarter retorted.

“T.J.?” Price said, moving on before the banter gained momentum.

“Daniel Rankin at your service, ma’am.”

London

“I have a feeling the old town isn’t what it used to be,” David McCarter said.

While James drove the BMW, Hawkins at his side, the Briton, sitting in the rear, was staring out the window of the rental SUV Stony Man had arranged for them. They were heading toward the East End, where McCarter had arranged to meet up with Greg Henning. The man was part of a Scotland Yard Special Branch counterterrorist unit. Phoenix Force had come into contact with Henning a couple years back, during an operation that had taken them to the U.K. McCarter and the tough cop had sparred on their first meeting, but as the mission moved on they came to respect each other. Henning, a hard-nosed cop from the old school, had little tolerance for anyone classed as a terrorist. He and McCarter had met up a number of times when the Briton was visiting London and the man from Scotland Yard had made it clear he was ready to help if assistance was needed. When McCarter called him, Henning had agreed to meet in his favorite East End pub.

“Drop me off,” McCarter said when the rendezvous point came into sight, “and carry on to the hotel. Get checked in and relax. I’ll be in touch.”

“Watch your back, boss,” Hawkins said. “Looks like a rough area.”

McCarter grinned, patting him on the shoulder. “You don’t know the half of it, T.J.”

James and Hawkins watched McCarter’s tall figure cross the street, pause briefly at the door, then vanish inside the pub.

“Maybe we should hang around,” Hawkins suggested.

“No need,” James said as he pulled away. “He’ll be fine. David’s on home ground here. He’s a lot safer than we are.”

MCCARTER SLIPPED OFF his topcoat as he moved inside the pub. At this time of day the place was quiet, with only a dozen customers scattered around. The interior didn’t appear to have changed in the past ten years. The only thing missing were the wreaths of cigarette smoke. Since the government had banned smoking in buildings, the air might be cleaner, but the ambience had vanished along with the tobacco smoke.

Greg Henning waved when he spotted McCarter, then he pushed himself to his feet and reached out to shake his hand. “Pint, is it?” he asked.

McCarter nodded and sat down, watching Henning cross to the bar and order his drink.

“Bit scary, all this clean air,” McCarter said when Henning placed his glass on the table and resumed his seat.

“Bloody nanny mentality,” the cop muttered. He watched McCarter swallow a good third of the beer. “Looks like you needed that.”

“You’ll never know,” McCarter said. “Can’t get a decent glass of beer in America. It’s like the proverbial gnat’s piss.”

Henning laughed, a deep hearty sound. He was a well-built man with a craggy, lived-in face, and he was wearing his dark hair longer than he had the last time McCarter saw him.

“So what’s so urgent, Jack?”

Jack Coyle was the cover name McCarter had used the first time he and Henning met, and he’d retained it ever since. Henning understood it was a false identity, but it didn’t seem to bother him, and he never probed for information. He knew McCarter was part of an American covert group that undertook difficult, high-risk operations. Henning had a blunt, no-nonsense attitude and a deep dislike of anything that hinted at terrorism. In his job as part of London’s antiterrorist unit he had seen the results firsthand and hated what the bombers and radicals could do. As far as he was concerned such thugs warranted no consideration.

“We’re trying to connect dots,” McCarter said. “There are indications of a possible bomb threat against the U.S. and Pakistan, designed to make some kind of statement about U.S. presence and what we’ve made out to be pay-back for involvement with the Pakistani administration. You’ve probably heard about the recent killings in Peshawar and the bombing of the aid agency there.”

“It was all over the news,” Henning said. “A bloody business. Heard about the assassinations here and in the U.S., too. Were those events in line with what you’re looking into?”

McCarter nodded. “We reckon so. All part of a buildup to the main event. Our initial intel gave us some leads, including a few names of people sympathetic to the bombing campaign.”

“Here in London?”

“Yeah. Some of the extremists are on U.S. and U.K. watch lists. As usual, no one has anything hard enough to move on.” McCarter paused. “But we’re not bound by anything like that, Gregory, my old chum.”

Henning smiled. He knew exactly what McCarter was hinting at. “If it looks like a duck, quacks like a duck, it most probably is a duck,” he said. “Too many of these known individuals are being allowed to wander around free and clear.”

“I just need some guidance,” McCarter said. “From someone with up-to-date local intel. It’s worth another pint, Gregory.”

“First time I met you I knew you were cheap,” Henning said. “And it’s always the same.”

“Hey, last time I bought you two pints.”

Henning grinned. “You know, I’d almost forgotten about that. I suppose anything you want has to be under the radar?”

“I don’t want anything landing back at your door.”

“You think I’m worried about that? Don’t. I’ve seen the results of bombings. The damage done to people. Faces shattered beyond recognition. Not pretty. And don’t ever excuse it by giving these bastards a name—except terrorists. Murderers. Heartless sons of bitches. Any potential threat taken off the streets is fine by me. Where doesn’t matter. Bloody hell, Jack, we’re all in this whether we want to be or not.”

Henning drained his beer and lapsed into silence. McCarter went to the bar and ordered two more pints, brought them back and placed one in front of the cop. Henning laid his open hands on the table. Cleared his throat.

“I think I went off on one there. Sorry.”