“And the two-part reply,” Uzi said. “Don’t mistake our @president’s weakness as a weakness of #Americans. US is as strong as its people and we are bound and determined to find you, make you pay. #Americathebeautiful.’”
“Here’s another,” DeSantos added: “‘We’re going to track you down and take you out, you POS. #askBinLaden.’” As he shoved the phone into his pocket, he nodded at Fahad. “You got a problem with this?”
“Should I?”
“It’s your own people who are launching these attacks. Our job is to take them down.”
“My people are not terrorists. Al Humat, Hamas, Islamic Jihad … they’re killers disguised as religious crusaders. Truth is, they’re a cancer that’s made it impossible for my people to get their fair shake. So no, I’ve got no problem. Otherwise I wouldn’t be here, would I?”
Vail nodded. “Can’t say I blame the Americans who tweeted those threats. They’re angry. I feel the same way.”
“Difference is,” Fahad said, “the four of us are in a position to do something about it.”
Uzi pushed himself up off the makeshift seat. “So let’s go do something about it.”
They were driven to the base perimeter and given the keys to an unmarked sedan that could not be traced back to anyone — including the United States government.
With Vail driving, Fahad opened his jacket and pulled out four small oblong cases. “I brought us each a gift. Courtesy of the CIA.”
DeSantos opened his and held up a pair of eyeglasses. “You trying to tell me something?”
“For defeating the ubiquitous CCTV cameras in and around London.”
“Nice thought,” Uzi said. “But glasses don’t work. The facial recognition software basically ignores them.”
“These aren’t regular eyeglasses. Granted, they’re experimental — but the concept is that the lenses contain built-in one-way prisms that fool the cameras’ biometric algorithms. They make the distance between the eyes appear larger, or smaller, than they really are. The technology is pretty simple, really, and is based on existing lens refraction optical tech that’s been around for decades. Only instead of correcting eye muscle coordination from the inside out, it works on the cameras in the reverse, from the outside in.”
“But it’s experimental,” Vail said. “Meaning we’re guinea pigs.”
“Pretty much.”
“Great. Glad we’ve got that out of the way.” She took her glasses and slid them onto her face. “How do I look?”
“Very sexy,” DeSantos said. “Good frames on you. I think you should keep them. Robby’ll like ’em. Speaking of which, did you tell him where you were going?”
Vail looked at DeSantos in the rearview mirror. “You know the answer to that question.”
DeSantos grinned. “Indeed I do.”
She had told him she was going away for a few days but could not say where she was headed — just that she would be going dark and would be in touch if possible. He knew the deal and accepted it, though he was clearly not happy about it.
“So what’s the plan?” Vail asked. “I assume our orders were in that satchel Knox handed you.”
“NSA captured the cell numbers of both Aziz and Yaseen. Wasn’t easy, but we’re talking about the NSA. They’re very good. We’ll get to see just how good they are because when either of them gets a call, NSA will triangulate and get us a location. If the yahoos don’t get a call, NSA will send out signals to ping the phones and get us a twenty. We’ll then go there and try to find the assholes before they leave.”
It was 1:00 AM when they reached the outskirts of London.
Vail pushed the glasses up her nose, suddenly conscious of the potential for security cameras — both police and private — everywhere and anywhere.
Uzi sat up and stretched, then looked out the side window to get a bearing on where they were. “Let’s find a dark residential street. Without CCTV feeds.”
“First,” DeSantos said, “we’ve got another car to pick up. Divide up our assets. In case a couple of us get caught, we won’t jeopardize the entire mission.”
“Kind of like putting all your eggs in the same sedan?” Vail asked.
“I don’t think that’s the saying. But that’s the concept.”
Vail drove to the location of the waiting vehicle, left by a CIA asset, and dropped off DeSantos and Fahad before continuing on, looking for a location that met Uzi’s requirements.
Twenty minutes later, three blocks from DeSantos’s car, they pulled to the curb in a poorly lit neighborhood that did not seem to have any visible cameras. They removed their seat belts and stretched out … until a minute later, when Uzi’s phone vibrated.
“Start the car,” he said as he manipulated the phone to get the address. He read it off to Vail as he plugged it into his phone’s GPS. She pulled away from the curb, taking care not to burn the tires.
“Where we headed and how far?”
“It’s a bar,” he said. “One of the oldest in London. I’ve eaten there a couple times over the years. The Lamb & Flag in Covent Garden. About ten minutes. Turn right up ahead.”
They arrived nine minutes later and parked a block away; DeSantos and Fahad followed suit, approaching from a different direction.
Vail and Uzi headed toward the pub together, holding hands. Behaving like a couple going for a drink after a show was a reasonable cover and looked natural.
Fahad had no history in the country so he was at less risk than the others. Regardless, being seen in public — and potentially on camera — was a gamble for all of them.
Vail and Uzi headed down the narrow, cobblestone Rose Street that led to the front entrance to the pub. The area was relatively quiet, with only the low rumble of chatter from a number of patrons standing outside the bar, drinking at the ledges designed for overflow customers — a popular feature of many London drinking establishments.
As they neared the building, Vail saw a sandblasted circular Lamb & Flag logo in the top glass panel of the door as well as a couple of signs that caught her eye: a laminated no smoking placard and the more disturbing red posting: “These premises are protected by CCTV.”
CCTV? In a bar? No wonder we were screwed last time we were in London.
Shortly after lifting off in the C-17, DeSantos had distributed photos of their two wanted men to review — and then commit to memory — before he destroyed the pictures. They had a fairly good sense of what Yaseen and Aziz looked like. The question was, were they still there? Or did one of them merely make a call outside on the corner before getting in a cab?
Vail reseated the glasses on her face. She felt naked — like walking through an airport full body scanner — with no true way of covering up. There was nothing she could do but hope that MI5 and the Met did not retain their biometric data. She did not know how extensive Knox’s effort was in getting Aden Buck to purge their system, but she hoped it was substantial — and successful. If not, she, Uzi, and DeSantos were in for a rough time.
They sat down at the bar. The interior was charming, with wide plank wood floors and handcrafted chairs that were worn and nicked from decades of use. A shelf above the counter suspended by polished brass columns was filled with clean beer mugs, something Vail had not seen before. It was a cool effect.
Vail ordered a Butcombe Bitter and Uzi a Fuller’s Wild River. They took their glasses to a side booth to get a better angle of the area. An order of fish and chips for Vail and a sausage in French bread sandwich for Uzi arrived ten minutes later, and they quickly dug in, not knowing when they were going to see their targets — or be called away to another location.
As Vail chewed her second bite, her phone buzzed. She rooted it out and grabbed a peek. It was DeSantos telling her that they had a good view of the upstairs bar; they had cleared the restroom and neither man was present. She set the handset aside and took another nibble of her fish. “Nothing on the second floor.”