Reid had to have contacted his superiors by now. How long does it take to issue an emergency evacuation order?
Vail realized that the Met or MI5 needed to verify both anonymous tips — their legitimate evacuation warning to escape osmium tetroxide inhalation and thus save lives; and the ruse, designed to lure the workers to their deaths.
Vail became aware of a man seated two tables to her right. He had a newspaper open and he was holding it up, but he was not reading it — a ploy for staring straight ahead.
At the building.
He could have been admiring the architecture, just as Vail had done a moment ago, but his body language looked different. She glanced in his direction, noticing that he had looked at his watch repeatedly in the space of a minute.
Just then an intermittent buzzer emanated from inside the building. And then Vail’s cell vibrated. She looked over at the man. His neck stiffened and he sat forward, his eyes darting left and right, taking in the situation as he pulled out his phone.
Vail lifted her Samsung and read:
fire alarm going off. bad feeling.
looking for snipers. you got anything
She tapped back to Uzi:
strange buzzer going off.
eyes on potential suspect
DeSantos:
look sharp. whatevers going down
it will be now
It was clear the tangos’s anonymous call did not have its desired effect — a forced evacuation of MI5’s Thames House — so Yaseen, Aziz, and company switched to a contingency plan to get the people out in the open.
Someone setting off the fire alarm meant an insider. At MI5’s headquarters? Shit, if they’ve got a mole in the British Security Service, why can’t we have one in the FBI? Or the CIA?
As that thought caused a cramp in her stomach, sirens in the distance pulled Vail’s focus back to the Home Office. People were starting to file out of the building, some running. But this buzzer was not a fire alarm. Maybe it signaled the workforce to evacuate quickly due to an imminent and dangerous incident as part of a crisis management plan. Many large buildings, corporations, and government agencies drew up such procedures in the wake of 9/11.
She texted Uzi, DeSantos, and Fahad and described the suspect — a man in his forties of possible Middle Eastern descent. Hard to tell, since she did not want to let her gaze linger too long.
Seconds later, the man rose from his seat, folded the newspaper, and left it on the table alongside the coffee he barely tasted. Either he’s MI5—one of Reid’s colleagues who was alerted to the threat and doing what she was doing — or he was a threat, an accomplice to what was going down.
Stay or follow?
Vail waited a moment, occasionally glancing to her right to keep tabs on him. She rose and went over to his table and rifled through the newspaper: nothing written on it, no coded messages on a note buried within. A Caffè Nero receipt. Paid cash. His coffee cup had the name “Ryan” on the side.
So, Ryan, what are you up to?
She started down the street. He had a thirty yard lead on her, a safe distance that protected her from being spotted.
He turned right almost immediately, into what looked like an alley. Vail passed the Romney House apartment building and hesitated, concerned about pursuing him down a narrow lane where there would likely be only the two of them. But she did not know what lay beyond. He could disappear into a building and that would be that.
No choice. Follow him.
Vail hung a right onto what was at best a pedestrian way, with entrances to the apartment buildings that lined both sides. A street sign indicated it was Bennett’s Yard. She didn’t know who Bennett was and she was not sure about calling it a yard, but it was modern, the brick new and the mortar perfectly pointed.
Ryan was making his way down the path at a good clip, but it kicked left a bit and he disappeared from view for a second. Vail texted the group:
headed down bennetts yard, away from
home office. suspect in view. name
might be ryan. doesnt look irish
She thought of pulling her Glock — or her Tanto — but remembered she was an illegal alien in England and did not want to get flagged on a surveillance camera with a weapon. It was the fastest way to get surrounded by CO19, the Met’s “gun squad,” a scaled-down version of SWAT that circulated the city looking for trouble. She also hoped to avoid the tactical Trojan trucks that deployed a team of armed officers as well as the three-person police units that patrolled in speedy BMW sedans, always at the ready and never far away from trouble.
Ryan passed the building’s parking garage on the left and emerged on Tufton, another residential road with apartments on both sides. He hung a right and then a quick left onto Dean Trench Street.
He suddenly glanced over his shoulder and saw Vail, made eye contact, and then took off on a run.
Shit, shit, shit.
Vail followed, no longer concerned about preserving her cover.
Fortunately, she was a little faster than Ryan because she was closing the gap.
They emerged on a circular street — ironically called Smith’s Square — featuring a large majestic building directly ahead, which looked like a church with a columned bell tower.
Text from Fahad:
shots fired uzi was right sniper somewhere
Followed immediately by another message, from DeSantos:
karen status re your suspect
She glanced down and read the display, but couldn’t reply. A fleeting thought flashed through her mind: had they evacuated the building in time? If it was a gas released into the ventilation system, with a delayed onset of symptoms, it would be impossible to gauge the fallout until later. The employees would be walking dead — without knowing it.
Ryan, or whatever his name was, was onsite to monitor the osmium tetroxide’s release. Instead, what he witnessed was the building’s evacuation — which might have meant the attack was ineffective … or perhaps he knew it came too late.
I should’ve taken him when I had the chance, when he was just sitting there. What’s done is done. Focus on the here and now.
But focusing was not something that would have helped her. Because as she emerged on Smith’s Square, a pipe swung out toward her face from behind the edge of the building.
42
Vail ducked at the last second and avoided the blow.
She followed with a backhanded chop to Ryan’s throat. He stumbled sideways toward a pay bicycle rack and fell, both hands gripping the front of his neck. It would do no good, of course, but it was a reflex.
Vail pulled a flexcuff from her pocket and strapped it around Ryan’s wrists. She pulled them tight, then yanked him onto his back to face her. Her jacket got stuck on the handle of the Glock, and she quickly freed the coat, pulling it around and zipping it, covering the weapon.
“So, Ryan, you and I are gonna have a little chat. I’m Xena the Warrior Princess. Who are you?”
He shook his head, trying to regain his voice. “None of your business,” he said, clearly finding it.
“It is my business. Because I think you and your buddies just released osmium tetroxide gas inside the Home Office.”
His eyes narrowed: a look of genuine surprise. And he clearly knew what the toxin was. “Who are you?”
“I told you. But the question was, ‘Who are you?’”
He did not respond.
“Is Ryan your real name?”
He snorted. “About as real as Xena.”