He came upon a complex of large, regal, limestone-columned buildings — the Trinity Laban Conservatoire and the Old Royal Naval College.
Passing the line of trees, he glanced at the river to his left. In the cloud-obscured moonlight, he saw the RIB, its outboard engine still running, heading toward the shore.
He hopped over the wrought iron fence and crossed the strip of grass and slipped between the benches that were normally populated with people watching the maritime traffic on the Thames.
DeSantos climbed another railing and landed in the coarse sand of the river’s edge. As he drew his Glock, he realized that the Zodiac had caught on something because it was stuck about a dozen feet away, its engine still running. More disturbingly, he did not see anyone in it.
How can that be? He saw them get in and pull away from the dock.
DeSantos looked around: no one was in the vicinity. He removed his cell phone and set it down beside the pistol on the beach. He patted down his pants to make sure he did not have anything else that would be damaged by the water, then drew his Boker Recurve knife and waded into the cold Thames.
After his last experience in the river, he had learned that the temperature was around sixty-five — not dangerous but certainly uncomfortable in the winter. Of greater concern was the water quality — severe bacterial infections like leptospirosis were common, and dangerous. He was taking a significant risk by wading in, but as he so often had told himself over the years when he found himself in do-or-die situations, he had done worse things in his career.
As he waded toward the Zodiac, he realized it was not a RIB but an IBS, also known as “inflatable boat — small,” which sported a rigid rollup deck. Both were military grade vessels used by Special Forces operators, not undertrained terrorist suicide bombers. They were dealing with a different breed here: dangerous, well funded mercenaries who had a sense of what they were doing.
By the time he reached the Zodiac, he was hip deep in the filthy water.
He carefully peered inside — and saw a single body laid out in the floor of the boat. The man was not moving and he had no weapon in his hands. DeSantos flipped the knife closed and clipped it to his shirt, then pulled himself into the inflatable. He cut the engine, which he noticed was a 55-horsepower outboard, and glanced around: no sign of where the others might have gone. They had not left anything of use behind.
But he had to deal with the body — fast, before law enforcement responded. The Metropolitan Police had a marine division with stations strategically located along the Thames. Where the closest one was, he had no idea.
Was it better that they found the dead tango? Would Buck then take Knox’s warning more seriously? Or was it worse because DeSantos’s forensics were all over the crime scene, thus telling Buck he’s in London and severely handicapping their ability to carry out their mission?
As he parsed the scenarios of what would happen if they found the corpse, he became aware of the ticking clock in his head.
They were on UK soil to take care of business — and at this point, involvement from Scotland Yard or MI5 could hamper their ability to do their job. No, this body had to be disposed of … or at least the discovery delayed as long as possible.
There was no pulse but there was a rather gruesome head wound. He patted down the man, removed his billfold and a mobile, then shoved the former into his own pocket and used the camera to take photos of the tango’s face. One thing was certain: he was not Yaseen or Aziz.
After wiping off the phone’s screen, he pressed the deceased’s fingers against the glass. He was not sure they could lift a clear latent off it, but it was the best he could do under the circumstances. He huffed on the surface and was able to see a print. Whether it was good enough to run through a database for comparison remained to be seen.
He looked around at the swiftly moving but smooth Thames water, wondering what happened to the other men that had to have been in the Zodiac.
Did they bail when he had started shooting? They had to be in the water. Dead? Or did they escape to the shore on the other side of the river?
Given all the gunshots, he was running low on time and high on risk. DeSantos put the mobile in his shirt pocket, then lowered himself back into the cold water. He felt around the boat’s exterior and found the source of entanglement. He removed the Boker and sliced away the fibrous mesh that had snagged the bow, freeing the Zodiac. He used the discarded strips of netting to secure the man’s wrists and ankles to the aluminum deck’s tie down hooks.
DeSantos had used these IBSs on a number of missions, so he was intimately familiar with what kept them afloat — and what made them sink. Using short, quick strokes he stabbed the inflatable’s neoprene fabric in multiple places, making sure to hit each of the air chambers. Combined with the weight of the motor, it would put the boat, and the corpse, below the surface.
That done, he started up the outboard. The strong smell of diesel irritated his nose and he brought his forearm up to fight back a sneeze.
The roar of the engine in the quiet morning hours was like a jackhammer on a country road: people tended to take notice. He set the throttle at a low speed and watched the damaged Zodiac head back down the Thames. If he was lucky, it would sail a decent distance before it went under — and go deep enough not to be discovered when river traffic started in two or three hours.
The four of them should be gone from the area by then, and if they were successful in avoiding the surveillance cameras it would take time to sort out who was involved in this morning’s activities.
DeSantos waded back toward the shore. His body shivering from the cold, his legs feeling like they weighed twenty pounds apiece, he headed toward the place where he had left his phone and Glock.
But before he reached them, he saw movement out of the corner of his right eye. He felt a sharp pain in his head as something fast and hard struck him broadside.
39
Uzi studied the screen. “Do you see a thumb drive anywhere? Or an external hard drive?”
Vail searched the bedroom, where the offenders had set up a makeshift office. “I’ve got my COFFE device, but that’s only got like a gig of space on it.”
“It’ll have to do.”
Vail pulled out the drive and handed it over. “You should run the program too.”
“Roger that.”
The COFFE was a program developed by Microsoft to aid law enforcement cyber units in the capture of temporary, cached files that disappear when a computer is powered off. The captured data often yield traces that a criminal does not realize get left behind when they open documents, visit websites, and transact business.
She pulled out her phone and tried calling DeSantos, but it went to voicemail. Fahad was next — but he did not pick up, either.
“They’re not answering,” Vail said.
“Just busy chasing bad guys,” Uzi said as he copied files onto the USB drive. “I’m sure they’re fine.”
DeSantos went down hard and tasted the sandy silt at the river’s edge. A blow to his ribs hurt like hell and he recoiled instinctively — but knew he needed to get up — now, while he still could.
He rolled away from the attacker, his intercostal muscles in spasm and dammit, he probably had a fractured rib.
For now, his sole concern was disabling the assailant who meant to kill him.
Despite the darkness — he could only make out the vague form of a large man in dark clothes in front of him — he was able to hear just fine.
And the sound of a round being chambered got DeSantos’s attention.