‘Owain is here,’ says the consul. ‘I’ll put you on speakerphone.’
The ambassador sits in his desk chair. ‘Gareth.’
Madoc comes straight to the point. ‘Khalid Korshidi has just met with Ali bin al-Shibh.’
‘Bin al-Shibh in America?’ Owain instantly pictures the man tipped to lead al-Qaeda one day. ‘You’re sure about this?’
‘He mentioned the CIA black site that he was held at en route to Guantanamo. The voice and facial match we’ve run came back with one hundred per cent confirmation.’
‘A creature like this doesn’t crawl out from under the rocks unless there’s a major target.’
‘Three targets,’ says Lance. ‘Hence the code word Trinity. He’s running Yousef Mousavi and Nabil in the US and no doubt someone else, someplace else.’
‘Any idea where?’
‘No. He only mentioned the US, but he confirmed dates.’
Owain hopes he’s wrong, ‘Tomorrow?’
‘Yes.’
‘Timings?’
‘No. We didn’t get that lucky.’
‘Any sense of whether they are fixed for the same day, same hour, or consecutive days?’
‘Afraid not.’
‘Damn.’ He tries to look beyond his frustration. ‘What’s Korshidi’s role?’
‘He’s a bigger player than we thought. Part of the smart new regime that al-Zawahiri constructed post-bin Laden. Seems he’s handling all the publicity because right now he’s unfurling banners and is preparing to shoot a video message with al-Shibh.’
‘Can we intercept the upload?’
‘Better than that. We have eyes and ears in the room — we’ll be able to see it being recorded.’
Owain gives Dalton a look that shows how impressed he is. ‘We’re going to have to share this intel with the Americans. I suspect Mardrid’s money is behind all this. As soon as you have the tape and some more solid information I’ll contact Ron Briars at the NIA and give him the heads-up.’
‘Understood.’ Madoc focuses on the video feed fizzing into life on a monitor at his desk. ‘Looks like we’re in “go mode” here. I’ll get back to you shortly.’
The line drops.
Owain kills the speakerphone and turns to Dalton. ‘Three separate attacks, all within the next twenty-four hours. What do you think?’
‘Unusual but not impossible. Did you see the matrix of VIP movements that the Watch Team put together for you?’
‘I did.’ The ambassador pulls it up on his computer screen. ‘I spent much of the early hours of this morning looking at it and narrowing it down.’
The consul gives his opinion. ‘The most obvious hit seems to be the new Pope. The pontiff has long been a moving target for all manner of groups and individuals, but with no ultimate success.’
Gwyn remembers Paul VI almost being stabbed by a Bolivian artist, John Paul II being shot in St Peter’s Square and Benedict, the last Pope, being attacked during Mass on Christmas Eve. ‘I see your point, George, but you know as well as I do that papal security is so tight that tomorrow when the Holy Father visits Wales he will undoubtedly be the most protected man on the planet.’
‘Maybe they’ll go for the old Pope and the new one?’
‘That’s a terrifying thought.’ Owain pictures the security inside the Vatican. ‘Benedict is well protected in retirement by the Swiss Guard, but I shall talk to them and flag the possibility.’
Dalton’s thoughts have moved on. ‘What about the US president? He’s always a target.’
Owain remembers the matrix. ‘He is in New York tomorrow at a fundraising concert for those affected by floods and hurricanes. Give me a third target.’
‘God’s banker,’ says Dalton. ‘Marco Ponti. The newly appointed CEO of the Vatican Bank will be holding his first board meeting with a committee of cardinals in Rome. Compared to the Popes and the president, he’s a soft target, but high-profile enough to be on a hit list.’
Owain pulls a face. ‘Why kill the Vatican banker and two Popes? The statement that all Christians are evil isn’t enhanced by shooting a banker. Nor, come to think of it, does the US president fit into a true religious trilogy.’
He’s about to re-examine the Watch Team’s list when the study door opens and his wife walks in.
Jennifer sees he is worried and is sorry that she has to add to it. ‘The policewoman — she’s taking another call from the kidnappers.’
131
Mitzi leans over a desk, pen in hand, notepad just below it. ‘I’m listening.’
The voice on the other end of the phone is the one she’s heard before. Male. Deep in tone. Electronically slowed down and distorted. ‘Do you have the files?’
There’s no hesitation in her answer. ‘Yes.’
‘Good. Be in Borough High Street, Southwark by seven. Come alone. And be in no doubt: we will know if anyone is with you.’
Owain and his wife enter the room as she scribbles down the instruction. ‘I need to speak to my girls.’
There’s the sound of the phone being put down. Movement away from the receiver.
‘Mom, I’m all right.’
The sweet pain of hearing Jade’s voice sucks the air from Mitzi’s lungs.
‘They haven’t hurt me. I’m all right, Mom.’
‘Baby, it’s all going to be okay.’ She feels tears sting her eyes. ‘Honey—’
There’s a click and the kidnapper is back on the line. ‘Be there and have your phone on, or it will be the last time you’ll hear her.’
‘Amber.’ Mitzi shouts the name out. ‘I talk to Amber, or there’s no deal.’
A distorted laugh rolls down the line. ‘You don’t say what happens.’
Mitzi digs deep, finds the courage she’s looking for and cuts the kidnapper off.
She feels herself shake.
An antique clock ticks twice in the heavy silence. Mitzi realizes she’s holding her breath and lets out a long sigh.
The phone rings.
She answers in a split-second. ‘Fallon.’
A young girl’s scream can be heard. It’s long and piercing. The cry isn’t of someone frightened. It’s of pain. Mitzi’s eyes tear up as the scream becomes muffled. It’s followed by the sound of someone being dragged away. Then, the noise of a chair being knocked over.
‘M — om,’ Amber’s voice fills the line. It’s broken, weak, barely audible. ‘They’ve c — ut me — Mommy!’
The phone goes dead.
Mitzi feels the world sway. Her stomach turns. She grabs the waste paper basket beside the desk and throws up.
Jennifer rushes to her side. Owain pours a glass of water for Mitzi and gives it to his wife. He stands back and waits until the American has composed herself, then he pulls a chair up close. ‘Are you okay?’
Mitzi takes a tissue from Jennifer. ‘I’m sorry for the mess.’
‘No reason to apologize. We have to talk about what to do now, how to respond to them.’
‘I know.’ She wipes her eyes and nose.
‘I presume you intend to give up the memory stick. Do you have it with you, or is it somewhere else?’
‘It’s with me. Very much with me.’
‘What do you mean “very much”?’
‘It was small enough for me to do what drug mules do. I swallowed it. They want the stick, they’re going to have to take me as well.’
132
Ali bin al-Shibh bears more than a passing resemblance to the late Osama bin Mohammed bin Awad bin Laden, his hero. He’s every inch as tall and equally thin. His facial features are so similar that there is speculation that the thirty-five-year-old is one of the terrorist’s twenty-plus children.