Firefight (3 page)

'Who's there?' he called.

Silence.

'I know you're there,' he said. It was probably just some
wino, hanging around the churchyard with a bottle because
he knew the police were more likely to be concentrating
on the down-and-outs in the city centre. But Will didn't
like the idea of people loitering by his family's grave. If no
one else was going to move them on, he would.

'You might as well come out,' he insisted. 'Don't make
me come and get you.'

Still nothing.

He sized up the hedgerow. It was too high to vault, but
there was a gap just a few metres along. If he ran there he
would be able to catch his peeping Tom before he had a
chance to run away. He made as if to leave, then turned
and sprinted through the hedge, fully prepared to make
chase.

The man behind the hedge, however, didn't run. And he
wasn't a wino, either. He wore a suit, was well turned out
and he stared at Will with an expressionless gaze.

'What the -?'Will started to say, before striding towards
the man. He suddenly felt overcome by an irrational anger.

How dare this bastard spy on him, now of all times? How
dare he intrude on his moment of grief? The man just looked
back, his eyebrow arched in a superior manner, and all Will's
anger and frustrations seemed to bubble to the surface.
Something about the aura of arrogance that emanated from
this guy made him seethe. He launched himself at him.

The man didn't move. He didn't need to, because before
Will could get his hands on him, he heard a click.

It came from behind and it made him freeze. He recognised
it, of course - the sound of a safety catch being flicked
off - and almost instinctively he raised his hands, before
turning slowly around to see another man, also suited, and
clutching what looked at a brief glance to be a 9mm Glock.
'Get on the floor, Jackson,' he said harshly. 'You know the
routine. Do it, now.'

Will's lip curled, but slowly he put his hands behind his
head, fell to his knees, then lay prostrate on the ground.
The dewy grass was wet against his cheek. 'What the hell's
going on?' he growled.

'You'll find out soon enough,' the man with the gun
replied.

As he spoke, he walked past Will towards his colleague.
Will didn't hesitate - his arm lashed out and grabbed the
man's feet, pulling him to the ground. In an instant, Will
was on him. He punched him sharply in the pit of his
stomach, then grabbed his gun hand and knocked it against
a sharp piece of flinty stone that was lying on the grass.
The man shouted in pain, then released the gun. Will grabbed
it and jumped to his feet, keeping the weapon pointed
directly at the head of his assailant.

'Right,' he said tersely. 'We'll try again. What's going on?'

The two suited men glanced nervously at each other, but
they didn't reply.

'
I said: what's going on?
'Will shouted.

'It's all right, Will,' a voice said from behind him. It was
calm, well-spoken. Will spun round to see a third man
standing about ten metres away. He wore a heavy, black,
woollen overcoat and a pair of square spectacles with clear
frames. His hair was dark and lustrous, though he was clearly
older than his lack of grey hair suggested. He was smiling.
'It's all right,' he repeated. 'They're with me.'

Will found that his breathing was heavy and trembling.
He pointed his handgun at the new arrival.

'Really? And who the fuck,' he asked, spitting the words
out, 'are you?'

The man in the overcoat ignored Will's question.

'I'm delighted to see that your skills haven't completely
deserted you,' he commented. 'It costs Her Majesty's government
a lot of money to train up our special forces. It would
be a desperate shame if all that money and effort went out
of the window the moment they go back to civvy street.'

Will kept his gun trained on the man, who did not seem
unduly worried. Instead, he looked over at his colleague
lying on the floor. 'You can get up now,' he said.

'Stay on the fucking ground! 'Will barked. 'You get up
when I say so and not before.' He strode towards the figure
in the overcoat, his arm stretched out until the gun was
firmly against the man's forehead. 'I'm going to ask you
one more time,' he whispered. 'Who are you?'

The man remained perfectly still. 'Lowther Pankhurst,' he
replied. '
Sir
Lowther Pankhurst if you want to be strictly
accurate. You can just call me Sir.'

'In case you hadn't noticed, 'Will replied, his voice shaking
with anger, 'I've got a gun to your head. I'll call you anything
I like.'

Pankhurst sighed. 'You really don't know who I am, do
you, Will?'

'Should I?'

'Two years ago I believe my name would have been passingly
familiar to you, yes. I'm the Director General of MI5.
Offhand, I'm not entirely sure how many laws you're
breaking holding that gun to my head, but I imagine it's
enough to keep you behind bars for the rest of your life.
I think now would be a good time to put it down, don't
you?'

Will looked him in the eye and Pankhurst stared back
confidently. He showed no signs that he was lying, but Will
didn't move. 'I don't believe you,' he said. 'What would the
head of Five be doing here with a couple of inept spooks?'

'Inept?' Pankhurst replied, surprise in his voice. 'Oh, they're
not inept. They're good, actually. Just not as good as you. 'He
sniffed. 'Even if you
have
been drinking.' He raised his voice.
'Would you be so good as to show Mr Jackson some identification?'
he called in the direction of the two suited men.

They approached, each holding an ID card of some
description. Will barely looked at them. 'OK, fine, pleased
to meet you,' he said sarcastically as he lowered the gun.
'Now what the hell do you want?'

Pankhurst made a display of brushing down the lapels of
his coat with his fingertips. 'In answer to your previous
question,' he said, without looking at Will, 'I'm here in
person as a matter of courtesy.'

Will scoffed. 'What are you talking about? Bill and Ben
over there just put a gun to me. I'm afraid your idea of
courtesy and mine are a bit different.'

'The alternative,' Pankhurst replied with a smile, 'was to
send a team in to get you in the middle of the night and
bring you back to London under duress. I think that would
really have set us off on the wrong foot, don't you?'

'What are you talking about?'

Pankhurst looked at the two spooks and gestured at them
to move out of earshot. 'Shall we walk, Will?' he suggested.
Without waiting for an answer, he headed back into the
graveyard. Will followed.

'I've read your file,' Pankhurst said. 'You've been through
a lot. You have my sympathy.'

'I don't want your sympathy,' he replied.

'No. I don't imagine you do. But you have it nevertheless.
Nobody should have to go through what you've been
through.'

Will clenched his jaw as they continued to walk among
the graves. 'You didn't come all the way down here to tell
me how sorry you are.'

'No,' Pankhurst said flatly. 'I didn't. I came down here to
ask for your help.'

Will's eyes flickered sideways towards him. Pankhurst was
looking straight ahead. Cool. Emotionless.

'Sorry, mate. 'Will was damned if he was going to call
this guy 'sir'.'I've done my bit for queen and country. You're
barking up the wrong tree.'

They walked on in silence.

'The thing about working for queen and country,'

Pankhurst said quietly, 'is that it's
we
who decide when
you've finished. Not officially, of course, but we have our
methods.'

Will stopped. 'Are you threatening me?'

Pankhurst turned to look at him and smiled. 'Of course
not, Will. I wouldn't do that to a colleague. I'm just making
you aware of certain practicalities.' His face became serious.
'We really do need your help, Will. And not just us. The
lives of thousands of people might just rely on you making
the right decision. You're right, I could have sent anyone
down here to talk to you and no doubt you would have
sent them packing. This is more important than that, so I
wanted to come and speak to you in person.'

'Why me? 'Will asked. 'What the hell can I do? I've been
out of the game for two years now.'

Pankhurst's nose twitched. 'You work out or go running
almost every day,' he noted. 'You drink heavily a couple of
times a week. Not much different from being at Credenhill,
I'd say.'

Will's eyes narrowed.

'Oh, we've been keeping an eye on you, Will. And actually
there are certain reasons why you're ideal for what we
have in mind. It's complicated and I can't explain here. I'd
like to invite you to come back up with me to London. Now.'

Will looked around. The spooks were following at a
discreet distance and a few members of the public had
started to wander around the graveyard.

'It doesn't sound to me like I have much choice,' he
remarked.

Pankhurst's smile grew broader. 'No,' he replied, conversationally.

'You don't.'

*

Will's request to head home and pick up a few things was
denied and once the gun had been politely but firmly removed
from him by one of the spooks, he was escorted to the
waiting car. Its windows were blacked out and its interior
plush, but Will felt uncomfortable as he sat in the back next
to Pankhurst, while the spooks sat up front. Barely a word
was exchanged as they sped up the motorway towards London.

As they travelled, Will gazed through the darkened window
at the scenery speeding by. He had not left Hereford for
two years - he felt as if there were an invisible bond tying
him to that lonely gravestone, as though moving too far
from it was a betrayal of sorts. Driving towards London,
the place where they had died, seemed wrong. Funny, he
thought to himself, how he could spend half his life in
theatres of war in the most godforsaken parts of the world,
yet a simple trip to London could put him on edge.

Then he looked around him. The director of MI5 was
sitting next to him; two spooks were up front. He had to
remind himself that actually, this was anything but a simple
trip to London. What could they possibly want with him?
All he knew how to do was fight and there must be a
hundred other people - highly trained and still in service
- who could do that as well as him. No matter how hard
he thought about it, he simply couldn't work out Pankhurst's
game plan.

It took two hours to get to the outskirts of London, and
another hour to struggle through the traffic to Thames
House, MI5's headquarters on Millbank. Once they arrived,
Pankhurst escorted Will to an office at the top of a building
in an out of the way corner. An efficient-looking secretary
was waiting outside the office to greet them and she gave
Will what he thought was a slightly disapproving look.
Probably used to men in suits, he thought to himself.

'Coffee?' Pankhurst asked.

'Yeah,' Will replied. 'Black.'

Pankhurst nodded at the secretary who walked briskly
away to fetch the drink. When she returned, Pankhurst
addressed her. 'Let Mr Priestley know we're ready for him,
would you?' he asked, before ushering Will into the office.

It was comfortable inside - all oak panels and deep carpet.
A window looked out over the Thames. Pankhurst took his
place behind a large desk on which sat a black PC and
indicated that Will should take a seat in a comfortable
armchair opposite.

'So are you going to tell me what this is all about?' Will
asked.

'Presently,' Pankhurst said, calmly. 'We have to wait for
one more.'

Will found that he was digging his nails into the palm
of his hand. A couple of hours ago, he thought to himself,
I was puking my guts out. He still hadn't quite shaken off
his queasiness and suddenly he wanted more than anything
to be back home. As soon as he'd listened to what these
people had to say, he'd tell them to piss off, then get the
hell back to Hereford.

His thoughts were interrupted by a knock on the door.

'Come!' Pankhurst called.

The door opened and the secretary appeared. 'Mr
Priestley,' she announced before stepping aside to let another
man in.

Pankhurst stood up; Will stayed where he was. 'Donald
Priestley, Will Jackson,' the director introduced them. Will
looked up to see a silver-haired man who must have been
comfortably in his sixties. He had smiling, appealing eyes
and tanned skin and did not seem at all put out that Will
had declined to stand up to greet him.

'Call me Don,' he said warmly in an American accent,
stretching his hand out so that he could shake it. 'I've heard
a lot about you, Will.'

Will's eyes flickered over to Pankhurst, who looked on
with an unreadable expression in his face. 'I wish I could
say the same about you,' he replied, reluctantly shaking the
older man's hand.

'Mr Priestley is with the CIA,' Pankhurst informed him.
'He's their highest-ranking representative in London.'

'I'm very pleased for him,' Will replied. 'Now, do either
of you want to tell me what this is all about?' He slurped
dramatically from his coffee, eyeing them both over the rim
of his cup.

Pankhurst cleared his throat, then walked back behind
his desk and opened a drawer. He pulled out a file from
which he took a colour A4 photographic print. He handed
it to Priestley, who in turn gave it to Will. It was a picture
of a prefabricated warehouse - or at least the remains of a
warehouse. Half of one side seemed to have been destroyed,
either by a collision or some sort of explosion. The scene
looked vaguely familiar.

'Isn't this -?'

'Royal Mail warehouse,' Pankhurst supplied. 'You probably
saw it on the news. There was an explosion there about
six months ago. Caused by a substance called TATP, though
you probably know more about that than I do.'

Will nodded. 'Triacetone triperoxide,' he said, automatically.
'Cheap, easy to get hold of. Dangerous, though. It's
highly unstable - put a foot wrong and you'll blow your
way back to Allah.' His brow furrowed as the image of the
churchyard appeared in his mind's eye. 'Or whoever.'

'Terrorist cells are using it more and more,' Pankhurst
agreed. 'It's easy to keep tabs on people buying huge quantities
of fertiliser for bomb-making, but this stuff you don't
need so much of, so they can stay under the radar. Crude,
but effective. You can see for yourself.'

Will looked back at the photo. 'How many dead?' he
asked curtly.

Pankhurst and Priestley glanced at each other. 'None,' the
MI5 man said. 'The explosion was carried out at midnight
when the place was deserted.'

He handed Will another picture. This one was of a burnedout
estate car smashed into the side of a building. 'Glasgow
airport,' he said. 'Couple of years ago. No doubt you heard
about it. I could show you more if you like.' He waved the
sheaf of pictures at him. 'But it's all much of a muchness.'

Will handed the two photos back to the director. 'You
didn't just invite me here to look through your photo
album,' he noted. Priestley smiled at this waspish comment.
From elsewhere in the file, Pankhurst pulled out a third
photograph and gave it to Will.

It was a black-and-white image of a Middle Eastern man.
He wore a close-cropped beard and his hair was shoulderlength.
He gazed unsmilingly out of the photograph, his
brown eyes giving nothing away. It was a calm picture of
a calm man. This was no grainy surveillance photo; it was
a close-up, taken against a white wall. He knew that his
picture was being taken.

Will looked up enquiringly. 'Who's this?' he asked Pankhurst.

Again the two older men glanced at each other. 'I'm sure
I don't need to remind you, Will,' Pankhurst said after a
briefly awkward moment,'that you have signed the Official
Secrets Act.'

Will laughed scornfully. 'And who do you think
I'm
likely
to leak official secrets to?' he asked. 'The shit-kickers in my
local?'

His sarcasm did not seem to penetrate Pankhurst. 'Just so
as we're clear,' he said. 'This man's name is Faisal Ahmed.
He was born in Afghanistan in 1969.'

Will nodded. 'And you think he's behind these bombings?'

Pankhurst smiled, but without humour. 'Oh,' he said. 'We
know he's behind the bombings. That's not our biggest
problem.'

There was a silence as Will waited for Pankhurst to elaborate,
but it was Priestley who spoke next.

'Our problem, Will,' he drawled, 'is that he used to work
for us.'