“Didn’t think so. What is it?”
“If you know it’s not my real name, you know I’m not gonna tell you shit. To use an American idiom.”
His speech was clear, his English neutraclass="underline" not multicultural London English. In fact, not a British accent at all. Not practiced. Natural.
A siren groaned in the near distance: it was only a couple of blocks away. Crap. Please don’t come near here.
Two bobbies appeared ahead, along the traffic circle, wearing their traditional navy top hats with the prominent silver badge. The scene must have looked odd, with a woman hassling a handcuffed man — and Vail not looking the part of a British police officer.
“What’s the problem here?” one of the cops asked.
Normally she would laugh and tell them to go away, since the bobbies famously were not armed. What could they do, yell at her? Scold her? Ask her nicely to stand down?
“She’s yampy,” Ryan yelled — with a perfect British accent. “And she’s got a gun!”
The bobbies pulled side arms — which looked like X-26 Tasers.
Oh, shit. When did they start carrying those?
As if that was not a bad enough development, a white BMW sedan with orange and blue striping screeched around the corner to her right, a block away.
CO19, the armed response vehicle that Reid called in. Lovely. That plan certainly backfired.
Ryan seemed to grasp its significance. But Vail was at a loss of what to do. If the unit stopped, she would not be going up against a Taser. They’d be locked and loaded. With lead projectiles.
And then the worst case scenario presented itself: the BMW pulled to a stop and three men jumped out.
Vail pulled Ryan upright and stood slightly behind him. “Stop right there!”
The CO19 officers did as instructed. But they also had Glock17 pistols pointed at her.
“Help me,” Ryan said again. “She tied me up, she’s demanding money. I’m just a software developer for the Home Office, border division.”
Fuck. What do I do? I can’t tell them my name or why I’m here or why I have this guy in cuffs. Or that it was actually my idea to call in CO19.
Or why I’m carrying a gun and a lethal knife. Shit, shit, shit.
“Back away from your hostage,” one of the Kevlar-vested CO19 officers said, his weapon trained squarely on Vail, a black tactical helmet obscuring part of his face.
How the hell did this happen? “I’m the good guy,” she wanted to shout.
That was only partially true. She was on foreign soil on an unsanctioned mission, with a rap sheet in the UK that included the murder of a government official. If they figured that part out, her finch was cooked.
Hector … Uzi … where are you when I need you?
The cops were still a half block away, a long line of blue bike rentals between her and Ryan and the officers.
“Uh, this man is a terrorist,” she stammered. “He just launched an attack on the Home Office. Osmium tetroxide. Check it out, you’ll see I’m telling you the truth.”
“And how would you know that?” one of the officers asked.
If I told you that, buddy, I’d have to kill you. Crap, I’m starting to think like Hector. “Check with MI5,” she said. “Agent Clive Reid.”
One of the bobbies cocked his head, then looked at his partner.
Oh, shit. I just blew Reid’s cover. My god, can this get any worse?
Reid was an MI5 agent embedded with Scotland Yard — that is, until now.
Vail started sweating. Her face was slick, her underarms hemorrhaging perspiration.
“I’m Officer Manning,” the lead CO19 man said. “What’s your name?”
Xena the Warrior Princess. “You can call me Al.”
“Al,” Manning repeated.
Thank god he didn’t get the Paul Simon reference.
“Are you armed, Al?”
Only with wit and wisdom. But, apparently, sometimes not both.
“Answer me, Al. Weapons? And I’m not talking about diamonds on the bottoms of your shoes.”
Ooops, guess he did get it.
“One more time. Are you armed?”
Well, there’s my Glock. And my Tanto. “You’re focusing on the wrong problem. This man here’s a liar and a terrorist.” Will diversion work?
“We’ll sort it out, no worries, Al.” Manning took a step toward her.
“That’s far enough.”
She immediately realized that was a stupid statement. She had no weapon trained on them — or her “hostage.” Why shouldn’t they advance on her?
Vail could not continue holding them off. Stalling was not going to work with these highly trained officers. And they were clearly more concerned with her than with Ryan. She would be asked to provide identification any moment now, and then they would approach and pat her down, and, well, that would not be a good thing.
“This man is a terrorist with al Humat. He’s responsible for the attacks in the US and just now on the Home Office and Thames House.”
“And how do yeh know that?” Manning asked, his tone firmer, angrier. “Who are yeh?”
This is the point where I turn and run. What happens to Ryan, or whatever the hell his name is, is no longer my main concern. She would do no one any good by getting arrested in the UK. Now associated in some capacity with terrorism, she would be handled differently and interrogated more vigorously. They would eventually discover her true identity, despite the covert nature of the op.
So Vail did the only thing she could. She spun and took off, back the way she had come, pulling out her Samsung as she went.
Behind her: Yelling. Running footsteps. Cursing.
She pushed the countermeasure glasses up on her sweaty nose and waited for the call to connect. C’mon, Hector, answer the damn—
“Being pursued by CO19, get the car, meet me in front of Caffè Ne—”
“But you’ve got the keys.”
Are you kidding me? “Hotwire the car, call Uzi. Do something. If they catch me—” She realized DeSantos had clicked off.
Vail ran back into Bennett’s Yard and saw the parking garage she had passed earlier. She unwound her muffler as she approached and tossed it to her right, just past the entrance. If they followed her into the alley, they’d see her article of clothing and — hopefully — think she had turned in.
Because the alley was hooked, they would not get a clear view of her, so at least one or more of them would have to pursue the scarf lead in case she had a vehicle inside and was attempting to escape by car.
Vail ran through the curved lane, emerging on Marsham. Metropolitan Police cars lined the curb space in front of the Home Office and bobbies were milling about the entrances. Fire trucks and ambulances were onsite as well, blocking portions of the narrow road.
The commotion would only help her. Regardless, she did not have much time before the officers who continued pursuit down Bennett would be upon her.
She turned and headed back toward Caffè Nero, looking for a recessed doorway — or some other crevice where she could hide.
As she approached the coffee shop, Uzi came speeding up to the curb ahead of her, at the far corner — Romney Street — going against the one-way traffic.
Vail sprinted toward the vehicle and he popped open the door as she heard, “Stop!” along with several footsteps behind her. She jumped into the passenger seat, slamming the top of her head against the window frame. She grabbed the armrest as Uzi hung a hard left and burned rubber, leaving the pursuing officers behind.