“You’re not really expecting an answer, right?” He pulled out his lock pick kit and had the exterior door opened in four seconds. They stepped inside and climbed the steps.
“How do we know which is their flat?”
“I saw a light come on in the room fronting the parking lot on the fourth floor. We should be able to figure it out based on that.”
They reached the last landing, Vail’s legs feeling more like lead than flesh and bones. She stifled a yawn but a low groan escaped her throat.
“Wake up and get ready,” Uzi whispered as they headed down the dimly lit hall. “That’s the flat right there.” He nodded toward door a dozen feet away.
They walked up to it and Vail pressed her ear against the metal. She shook her head no.
Still, they exercised caution. They had their weapons in hand now, untraceable handguns provided by Knox — the Glock L131A1, a British version similar to the models they used in the Bureau — and, most importantly, not found in the United States.
None of them carried American identification; they were traveling on Canadian passports — a favorite trick of Mossad.
Uzi did his thing with the lock and Vail quietly opened the door, moving slowly with the barrel of her pistol leading the way.
The place was dark. Her eyes were adjusted to the low light so she was able to get a decent idea of the flat’s layout. Had there been someone sitting still in the corner, however, she never would have seen him.
They silently closed the door behind them. Splitting up, they cleared the rooms and reconvened a moment later in the kitchen. The flat was sparse, a fully furnished rental by the looks of it, with two or three men occupying the residence.
“What are we looking for?” Vail asked in hushed voice. There was no one there, but it was the middle of the night and they did not know how well sound traveled between the units.
“Anything and everything. But if you see a computer, let me know.”
“Desktop in the bedroom at the end of the hall.”
“Show me.”
Vail led him to it, and he reholstered his weapon. “You’re on point. Someone comes in that door—”
“I’ll be sure to tell him how atrocious the furniture is, that the place needs a woman’s touch.”
“Stay alert and don’t nod off. We have no idea if anyone else lives here and is on his way home from the local pub this very minute.”
Shit. Good point.
Uzi woke the computer and the logon screen asked for the password. “Crap. This is gonna take a little longer than I’d hoped.”
37
DeSantos was riding shotgun, leaning forward, peering into the dreary darkness. It had stopped raining but the streets were shiny and their tires made unwanted whooshing noise as they drove.
“Oh Jesus,” DeSantos said. “A traffic circle?”
“Bloody useless if you ask me. It’s a tiny intersection. What’s the point? More work than just a simple four-way stop sign.”
The vehicle turned, avoiding the roundabout. “Stay with him,” DeSantos said. “It’s your lucky day. Left turns in the UK don’t go through the stupid circle.” He glanced at Fahad. “Did you say ‘bloody’?”
“Trying to get into the vernacular,” Fahad said. “If you think like the locals, better chance your cover stays intact.”
“You’re schooling me in undercover work?”
Fahad picked up speed a bit and turned as directed, following the car onto Wat Tyler Road. “I don’t like this, Hector. It’s not well lit, but it’s the middle of the night and there are no cars out. Except theirs. And ours.”
“Just stay with them. If they make us, we’ll deal with it.”
DeSantos fired up his phone’s GPS and started following along on the screen, using his left hand as a shield to keep the light from illuminating their interior. “Coming up on Shooters Hill Road.” He looked up just in time to see the vehicle ahead of them accelerate and hang a sharp right.
“Time to deal with it. They made us.”
“I can see that, Mo. Stay with them. And put our goddamn lights on. No point in trying to do a high speed pursuit without being able to see where we’re going.”
Fahad did as suggested and said, “They’re in a Fiat. We should be able to make up some ground.”
As predicted, they closed the gap. The perps swung left onto Hyde Vale, a curving residential street with tall brick apartment buildings on the left and a wooded, hilly landscape to their right.
The Fiat hit a speed bump well in excess of the safe rate of travel for the road and they lost control, skidding on the slick asphalt and slamming into a blue panel van on the right before bouncing off it and careening into a station wagon.
“Whoa! Slow down, slow down,” DeSantos yelled. A man jumped out of the back door of the Fiat and took off on foot up the hill into the blind of trees. The sedan then sped off, down Hyde Vale.
“Shit,” Fahad said as he brought the sedan to a stop. “I’ll take the guy, you follow the car.”
Fahad got out and DeSantos slid behind the wheel, shoved the shift into first and went in pursuit of the Fiat. In the rearview mirror, he saw Fahad sprint after his man before disappearing into the pitch darkness of the trees.
As they sped down the curving road, the area turned more residential, the buildings mostly single brick-and-stone homes set back off Hyde Vale with lawns and landscaping out front.
DeSantos drove hard and caught up to the Fiat — which had a flat left rear tire.
He rolled down the window, then reached into his jacket and pulled out his Glock. One advantage of driving in the UK was that with the steering wheel on the opposite side of the car, his right hand was free to shoot.
He leaned out, lined up the tritium sights, and squeezed the trigger. One shot at a time to minimize noise and attention. After firing three rounds, he realized he was succeeding in nothing but generating calls to the Met — something they definitely did not want.
The driver of the Fiat was a persistent little twat because he kept going, turning right onto Royal Hill and swerving through the business district — book shops, pubs, apartments, and more pubs — as a light or two snapped on in response to the ruckus the sedan was making as its backside scraped along the pavement.
DeSantos was trying to make out the layout of the road ahead, hoping to find a stretch that would be wide enough for him to come up alongside the Fiat and force it against the curb.
As he passed Burney Street to his right, Royal Hill opened up into a two lane road. But before DeSantos could accelerate, the Fiat hung a right onto a main drag, in what looked like a commercial district. A strip mall — or London’s equivalent — was ahead and he passed a storefront with bold orange and blue signage that read, “ISIS Greenwich Education.”
DeSantos laughed — this was probably not a good time to be in business with a company named “ISIS” anything.
The moment of levity vanished as DeSantos passed an HSBC bank branch and decided it was now or never. He had no idea where this joker was headed, and he did not want to be led into an ambush.
He accelerated and veered left to come around, but the Fiat countered by swerving into the center of the road.
DeSantos reached into his jacket again and pulled out the Glock. “Enough.” There were few, if any, homes in this area so the risk of a witness or collateral damage was minimal.
With the third round he hit his target — the Fiat’s right rear tire — and the car slapped down fully against the pavement, sparks emanating from the metal bumper like firecrackers exploding against a dark night sky.