Yes indeed, the signs had been good. Even the weather — sunny with a little edge to it, a lovely New England late summer day — was cooperating. A nice, relaxing weekend split between quality time with the kids, and Netflix and chill with Tess, was on the cards. Until the phone call.
The ominous phone call summoning him to 26 Federal Plaza.
A call to duty.
“London? Today?” Reilly asked, frowning.
Ron Gallo, the Assistant Director in Charge of the New York Field Office of the FBI and Reilly’s far-from-beloved boss, leaned back and spread his arm wide, palms open. “According to the intel, that’s where the action is. There’s a flight leaving Newark in an hour. You’ll need to be on it.”
Reilly’s frown deepened.
The intel was thin, no doubt. It had originated in the UK the night before, courtesy of GCHQ’s massive eavesdropping and metadata surveillance programs. It involved a bunch of unknown hostiles planning something that involved “the books,” making a move on some unspecified “American specialists” that weekend, and targeting none other than the great Satan, of course — terrorist-speak for the US.
Par for the course in terms of the kinds of intel the FBI and various intelligence agencies look into on a daily basis, intel which mostly turns out to be bogus. In this case, however, one of the voices belonged to a person of interest who MI5, Britain’s domestic counter-intelligence and security agency, had heard before, but had so far failed to identify, all of which meant that the chatter was taken seriously. The Feds would have probably left it to the spooks at MI5 to deal with on their own while keeping the Bureau in the loop, except that one of the goons happened to mention the dreaded T word.
The one that meant Reilly would be dragged into this.
Templar.
Reilly nodded, to himself, doing a mental fast-forward through what the weekend was probably going to look like.
“I guess I’m off to London then,” he grumbled.
“Hey, don’t look so disappointed. I’ve always wanted to visit, and you get to do it on the Bureau’s dime.”
“Terrific,” Reilly said with a slow, ponderous nod. He wasn’t really thinking about Big Ben or the London Eye. He was more worried about how he was going to keep Tess from wanting to stick her nose into this and tag along. If she heard something involving the Templars was going down, she’d insist on being part of it. She’d been dragged into these nasty affairs twice before, and the last thing Reilly wanted was for her to get in harm’s away again.
No, he’d make sure Tess wouldn’t get involved. But he had an idea of someone else who should — assuming he’d want to. Someone who knew the world of books, rare ones in particular, better than anyone he knew, and who also possessed the necessary lethal skill set that might be needed if things turned ugly.
A quick call to Copenhagen was on the cards.
3
The room was, all things considered, better than expected. A large, windowless space, bare and unfurnished except for a couple of bare mattresses on the floor. Plain concrete block walls, painted white. Neon ceiling lights that buzzed slightly. Not cold, but not warm either. A bit damp, and that was pretty much it. Not exactly a suite at the Ritz, but at least it didn’t have blood or anything vile staining the mattresses or walls.
Berry and Khoury had no idea where they were. They’d had their phones taken away as soon as the Galaxy had driven off, then they’d had black hoods pulled over their heads. The ride had been uneventful. Not less than half an hour, not more than an hour, most of it in traffic. Nothing spoken that they could build on. Just a silent unease coursing through the two of them, coupled with total bafflement about what the hell was going on.
Once at their destination, they’d been hustled out of the car, marched inside some kind of structure, ushered down some stairs, and locked in that room.
“It’s got to be some kind of joke, right? We’re being punked,” Berry said.
“I don’t know, Steve. This feels very real to me.”
“That’s the whole point, isn’t it? No point punking someone if you’re not going to do it right.”
He was pacing around the room, deep in thought, while Khoury was sitting on the mattress, his back to the wall.
“I bet you it’s Lee Child,” he added. “Lee or Jim Rollins. They’re behind this, I know it. We talked about what we could do to make the first UK ThrillerFest something special. I bet you this is it.” His eyes squinted as they scoured the upper edges of the walls. “They must have hidden cameras all over this place.”
Thrillerfest was the premier event for thriller novelists. Hundreds of writers from all over the world had come to participate in panels, interviews, and discussions. And a bit of mischief among the attendees was not uncommon.
“You think that’s it?” Khoury asked.
“I’m telling you. It’s right out of Lee’s playbook. The man’s sick. Every one of the Reacher books is testimony to that. Between him and Jim, it’s just the kind of thing they’d come up with.”
“Okay, if that’s the case,” Khoury said, “I hope they’ve got some decent catering set up, cause I didn’t have lunch.”
Just then, the lock rattled as a key worked its tumblers, then the door creaked open.
Two men walked in.
They were the two men who’d brought them there: the driver, and the guy with the gun. The driver was still in his suit, the gunman still in the same shabby jeans and cheap leather jacket. They both had olive skin, black, greasy hair and hadn’t shaved for a while. More of note was that they both had automatics tucked under their belts.
Berry winked at Khoury.
“Here we go,” he said, smiling. “Showtime.”
Khoury mimicked a fearful shiver and smiled back.
Then a third man walked in. He had the same broad ethnic mix, but looked a bit older than the first two, somewhere in his forties. He also had more presence than the others. He also looked more serious in his grey suit, charcoal semi-shiny shirt, black laced shoes and no tie. He wasn’t smiling. Not that the other two were, but his expression was loaded with portent.
The driver shut the door behind him as the new goon stepped further into the room, then stopped.
Berry took the lead and stepped towards him, playing the part. “Okay, I assume I’m supposed to say something like, I don’t know who the hell you are or what you think you’re doing, but if you don’t want to get fast-tracked to Guantanamo, I suggest you let us go right now and we all forget this ever happened.”
The man just stood there, studying Berry. Then he panned across to take Khoury in, scrutinizing him in silence before turning back to Berry.
“Alternatively,” Khoury added, “we don’t mind sticking around a bit longer, but we’d both love it if you could get Deliveroo to bike us over some food. Maybe some burgers and fries from GBK? Blue cheese for me, medium.” He turned to Berry. “You want a shake with yours? They do a killer Oreo one.”
The man didn’t react. He just kept staring at them in silence. If his face had any expression on it, it was merely a hint of disdain.
Finally, he spoke.
“I don’t think you’re taking this seriously enough,” he said.
Khoury couldn’t quite place his accent, but the man had definitely spent a long time in the UK.
Without taking his eyes off them, the man reached behind his back and pulled out a handgun. With one fluid move, he chambered a round, then he aimed the gun straight at Berry’s head. He held the gun there for a few seconds, then his arm swiveled across to line up on Khoury’s face.