Shadow Tag (2 page)

3

The room was, all things considered, better than expected. A large, windowless space, bare and unfurnished except for a couple of bare mattresses on the floor. Plain concrete block walls, painted white. Neon ceiling lights that buzzed slightly. Not cold, but not warm either. A bit damp, and that was pretty much it. Not exactly a suite at the Ritz, but at least it didn’t have blood or anything vile staining the mattresses or walls.

Berry and Khoury had no idea where they were. They’d had their phones taken away as soon as the Galaxy had driven off, then they’d had black hoods pulled over their heads. The ride had been uneventful. Not less than half an hour, not more than an hour, most of it in traffic. Nothing spoken that they could build on. Just a silent unease coursing through the two of them, coupled with total bafflement about what the hell was going on.

Once at their destination, they’d been hustled out of the car, marched inside some kind of structure, ushered down some stairs, and locked in that room.

“It’s got to be some kind of joke, right? We’re being punked,” Berry said.

“I don’t know, Steve. This feels very real to me.”

“That’s the whole point, isn’t it? No point punking someone if you’re not going to do it right.”

He was pacing around the room, deep in thought, while Khoury was sitting on the mattress, his back to the wall.

“I bet you it’s Lee Child,” he added. “Lee or Jim Rollins. They’re behind this, I know it. We talked about what we could do to make the first UK ThrillerFest something special. I bet you this is it.” His eyes squinted as they scoured the upper edges of the walls. “They must have hidden cameras all over this place.”

Thrillerfest was the premier event for thriller novelists. Hundreds of writers from all over the world had come to participate in panels, interviews, and discussions. And a bit of mischief among the attendees was not uncommon.

“You think that’s it?” Khoury asked.

“I’m telling you. It’s right out of Lee’s playbook. The man’s sick. Every one of the Reacher books is testimony to that. Between him and Jim, it’s just the kind of thing they’d come up with.”

“Okay, if that’s the case,” Khoury said, “I hope they’ve got some decent catering set up, cause I didn’t have lunch.”

Just then, the lock rattled as a key worked its tumblers, then the door creaked open.

Two men walked in.

They were the two men who’d brought them there: the driver, and the guy with the gun. The driver was still in his suit, the gunman still in the same shabby jeans and cheap leather jacket. They both had olive skin, black, greasy hair and hadn’t shaved for a while. More of note was that they both had automatics tucked under their belts.

Berry winked at Khoury.

“Here we go,” he said, smiling. “Showtime.”

Khoury mimicked a fearful shiver and smiled back.

Then a third man walked in. He had the same broad ethnic mix, but looked a bit older than the first two, somewhere in his forties. He also had more presence than the others. He also looked more serious in his grey suit, charcoal semi-shiny shirt, black laced shoes and no tie. He wasn’t smiling. Not that the other two were, but his expression was loaded with portent.

The driver shut the door behind him as the new goon stepped further into the room, then stopped.

Berry took the lead and stepped towards him, playing the part. “Okay, I assume I’m supposed to say something like, I don’t know who the hell you are or what you think you’re doing, but if you don’t want to get fast-tracked to Guantanamo, I suggest you let us go right now and we all forget this ever happened.”

The man just stood there, studying Berry. Then he panned across to take Khoury in, scrutinizing him in silence before turning back to Berry.

“Alternatively,” Khoury added, “we don’t mind sticking around a bit longer, but we’d both love it if you could get Deliveroo to bike us over some food. Maybe some burgers and fries from GBK? Blue cheese for me, medium.” He turned to Berry. “You want a shake with yours? They do a killer Oreo one.”

The man didn’t react. He just kept staring at them in silence. If his face had any expression on it, it was merely a hint of disdain.

Finally, he spoke.

“I don’t think you’re taking this seriously enough,” he said.

Khoury couldn’t quite place his accent, but the man had definitely spent a long time in the UK.

Without taking his eyes off them, the man reached behind his back and pulled out a handgun. With one fluid move, he chambered a round, then he aimed the gun straight at Berry’s head. He held the gun there for a few seconds, then his arm swiveled across to line up on Khoury’s face.

The two writers didn’t move.

Then the gunman flicked his gun slightly away and pulled the trigger—once, twice, three times.

The walls shook with the echoes of the detonations as the mattress Khoury was sitting on exploded, bits of springs, foam and cotton flying into the air.

Khoury was on his feet in a flash, staring at Berry, who was equally shaken. The gunman lowered his gun, studied the two men, then nodded.

“Now that you know I’m serious … how about we get down to business?”

4

Reilly gave Cotton Malone an acknowledging nod as he spotted the agent-turned-bookseller emerge from the customs area at London’s Heathrow airport.

He hadn’t waited long. Reilly’s flight from JFK had landed just half an hour before Malone’s short hop from Copenhagen, where he’d lived since handing in his creds and leaving the Justice Department over a decade ago. It was just enough time for a cup of coffee, a croissant and a quick trawl through e-mails and intel updates before they were reunited and driven into London in a car the embassy had sent for them.

“Templars, huh?” Malone asked.

“I thought that might pique your interest.”

“I’m a bit rusty on the subject,” Malone chortled. “It’s been a while.”

“Ten years. For us both.”

Malone stared out the window for a moment as the car barreled down the M4 towards the city. Cloud cover the color of slate squatted overhead, threatening to unleash a torrent at any moment, but for now, the rain was holding off. In the distance ahead, a swathe of pink was livening up the horizon.

“Weird, wasn’t it?” Malone asked.

“What?”

“Both of us getting sucked into two totally unrelated Templar situations within a few weeks of each other?”

“And both having to do with ancient writings related to the origin of the faith.”

“Seriously, what are the odds?”

Reilly let out a small chuckle. “You couldn’t make it up if you tried.”

“You had another run-in with their legacy a few years ago, right?”

Reilly grimaced, remembering the events in Rome and in Turkey that followed Tess’s kidnapping at the hands of a particularly savage Iranian agent a few years after his first misadventure. “Yeah, lucky me. And there I was thinking there’s no way I could possibly get dragged into another Templar plot.”

“And yet, here we are.”

“Yep,” Reilly nodded. “Thanks for doing this.”

“Anytime, buddy. So where are we with this anyway? Anything new since we spoke?”

“No. You saw the transcripts.” He handed Malone the printouts of the relevant chatter. “We have no idea what they’re planning. But these guys are up to something, today, somewhere here in London.”

Malone went over the transcript, his eyes pausing at something Reilly had already mentioned to him in his call to action. “‘The books?’ You think they might be after another old stash of gospels?”

“Maybe.”

Malone rolled his eyes. “I thought Constantine had them all burned back in the 4th century.”

“His minions clearly didn’t do a great job with that. I don’t think we’re ever going to hear the last of them.”

“Great,” Malone groaned. “Okay, so where do we start?

“A Lebanese restaurant on Edgware Road,” Reilly said. He pulled out his smartphone and showed Malone an image stored on it. “The three phones GCHQ got the hits off are burner phones, they aren’t registered to anyone. But by tracking their cell movements over the last week, since the SIM cards went live, the eggheads came up with something.”

Malone studied the map on the screen. It was a city map of London and had three lines of different colors snaking around the city. He pointed at where the lines intersected. “This is the place?”

“Exactly,” Reilly said. “All three have been there at some point in the last week. Not at the same time. But they’ve all been there.”

“Which doesn’t mean they’ll be going there again. Unless …”

Reilly smiled. “Exactly. You’ve been out there. You know how addictive a great shawarma wrap is.”

“And not easy to find.”

“I’m betting these guys get hungry again. And when they do, we’ll make sure it’s their last supper.”

Malone gave him a dubious look, pained by the pun.

“I know, sorry,” Reilly concurred. “Anyway, we should be there in about fifteen minutes. Are you carrying?”

“Can’t. Not officially.”

“Here you go.” Reilly handed him a Glock 17 handgun, along with an extra magazine that housed seventeen nine-millimeter rounds. “I signed it out in my name. Try not to make too many holes with it.”

Malone checked it, then tucked it in under his belt. “No promises.”

5

“You’re probably wondering why we brought you here.”

“The question did pop up,” Khoury said.

Their captor ignored the remark. “It has to do with your work. You see, we need you to come up with a new idea. A new plot. Something … epic.”

Khoury and Berry looked at each other with evident confusion.

Khoury asked, “You’re, what—a rival publisher?”

“It’s not for a book.”

“A TV show then, or,” Khoury’s eyes lit up, “a movie?”

“Either way, you really need to go through our agents,” Berry offered. “That’s the way it’s usually done.”

“Yeah, I mean, look, we’re flattered, we appreciate your putting up this whole song and dance to impress us, but, seriously—”

The man twirled his gun playfully before letting it settle with its barrel lined up on the author’s face.

Khoury lost his grin. “Maybe I should let you tell us some more.”

“It’s not for a movie or a television show. It’s for us to do. In real life.” He paused, clearly wanting to watch the confusion on his prisoners’ faces morph into fear.

“‘To do?’” Berry asked. “You mean—”

“I mean I want you to come up with a great plot, something really bad that we can do to cause a lot of death and suffering.” His tone took on a dark, messianic fervor. “Something spectacular, something that hasn’t been done before. Something that will bring America to its knees and shake the whole world. Something that will never be forgotten.”

Berry and Khoury were speechless.

The man seemed to be enjoying the effect of his words on them.

Berry asked, “You want us to plan something for you?”

“Exactly.”

Berry considered his reply for a moment, then calmly added, “Why us?”

“Because we keep getting caught. Every time we try something, every plan my brothers out there come up has failed. Since 9/11, every time one of our groups has tried to attack America, it’s ended in disaster.” His eyes narrowed. “We need you to come up with something foolproof. Something unexpected, but that will work. Because you’ll have thought of everything that can go wrong and planned around it. In this story, you’ll make the bad guys win.”

“That’s a twist, for sure, but … why us?” Khoury asked.

“You’re writers,” the man said. “You do this every day.”

“Yeah, but I mean, why us, why me and Steve? The kind of thing you’re talking about, terrorist-counter-terrorist stuff—it’s not really what we do. You need someone like, I don’t know, Brad Thor. Or Kyle Mills. They’d be your best bet.”

Berry added, “Or Terry Hayes. Have you read
I Am Pilgrim
? He’d be perfect.”

“Or maybe someone like Howard Gordon. He did
24
. And
Homeland
. What you’re talking about is right up his alley.”

“No,” the man barked angrily. “No dirty bombs, no suitcase nukes, no viruses. I want something original. Something … unique.” His eyes tightened, along with his jaw muscles. “Something that will make me even bigger than Bin Laden.”

Khoury thought for a second, then said, “Have you considered Dan Brown?”

“Or Lee Child,” Berry suggested. “He’s really twisted, and he’s in town. The stories I could tell you.”

The man’s face broke into a narrow, sadistic smile as he shook his head slowly. “Sorry, my friends. You’re it.”

“Look, this is nuts,” Berry protested. “You can’t seriously expect us to come up with a way for you to kill people.”

“Oh, I do expect you to, believe me,” the man countered. “Right now, it’s only the two of you. But it wouldn’t be hard for us to grab your families. If you need more … inspiration.”

Berry looked over to Khoury, whose expression now mirrored his own growing sense of doom.

Khoury asked, “This is insane. Whose brilliant idea was this anyway? Yours?”

The man smiled. “Actually, your government thought of it first.”

Both authors’ jaws dropped. “What?”

“I was reading up about Bin Laden, trying to inspire myself into greatness like his, and I found out that just after 9/11, your government brought together a bunch of top producers and writers from Hollywood and asked them to brainstorm how someone might try to attack America. And it got me thinking that I should do the same thing.”

“Brainstorming ways to save people’s lives over a weekend in some nice Malibu beach house is a bit different from … this,” Khoury protested.

The man gave them a sheepish shrug. “Sorry. Best I can do.” Then he clapped his hand, hard. “Okay. Enough wasting time. You have your assignment.”

He snapped his fingers.

The goon in the leather jacket reached into an inside pocket and pulled out a couple of small black notebooks and two pens. He tossed them onto the mattress closest to Berry.

“Let me know when you have something,” the lead goon said.

He turned to go when Berry blurted, “Wait, hang on a second.”

The man turned.

Berry asked, “You seriously expect us to come up with a brilliant plan for you, just like that?”

“Your lives and those of the ones you love most depend on it.”

“How do we even know you’ll let us go if we do this,” Khoury asked.

“I have no use for you once it’s done,” the man said. “And letting you go will only help fuel my legend. Besides, it’s not all bad. Think about it. After this, you’ll become global celebrities. Anything you write will sell a zillion copies.”

“We’ll be the most despised people on the planet,” Khoury objected.

Their captor wasn’t moved. “I’ve always read that any publicity is good publicity, no?”

Khoury exhaled and looked over to Berry. They seemed equally exasperated, outraged, despondent. But then Berry gave Khoury the tiniest of nods, firing up a kernel of resolve inside him.

“Get to work,” the man said.

He turned to go, and again, one of the authors interrupted his exit.

“Wait,” Khoury said. “We need more. To work with.”

“What do you mean?”

“Any decent plot starts with the antagonist.”

The man seemed confused.

“The bad guy,” Khoury explained. “These stories are only as good as their bad guy.”

The man said, “Fine. That’s me.”

“So we need to know about you.”

The man laughed, then wagged a finger at him. “Clever. Trying to get some information out of me?”

“No, I’m serious,” Khoury said. “It’s all about character motivation. It has to be solid. So we need to know, why are you doing this?”

“Where does this lust for blood come from?” Berry added. “Why are you angry at America? Was it something in your past? Maybe you blame us for something that happened to you or your family? Someone you cared for?”

The man thought for a moment, then shrugged. “No.”

The writers seemed thrown by his answer.

“Okay,” Khoury said, “you said you wanted to be bigger than Bin Laden. Where does that come from? Were you bullied at school? Or maybe at home? Did anything happen that changed you, that turned you into, if you don’t mind my saying it, a raging psychopath?”

The man considered the question, then shook his head. “No.”

The writers exchanged a perplexed look.

Berry asked, “So why are you doing this?”

“It’s more fun than driving an Uber.” He grinned, then fired them a look that said they were done and headed for the door.

“Wait,” Berry said.

The man exhaled loudly, dropped his shoulders, then turned around grudgingly. “Now what?”

“We need a name,” Berry said. “Something to call you.”

Khoury added, “Ideally, something with a strong ring to it.”

The man nodded, then proudly proclaimed, “My friends call me
El Assad
. The Lion.”

Khoury glanced at Berry, then shook his head.

“What?” the man asked.

“Can’t use it,” Berry said. “Nelson DeMille already used it. Twice.”

“Then there’s the Syrian president. He’s really taken the shine off that name.”

“True.”

The man frowned.

“What about Dr. Evil?” Khoury asked sheepishly.

“I’m not a doctor,” the man said.

Khoury gave Berry a discreet grin. “Worth a shot.”

“Call me
Abul Mowt
,” the man proposed, his face darkening with the words.

Khoury’s face sank. Which Berry noticed.

“What?” Berry asked.

“It means ‘father of death,’” Khoury said.

Berry looked over to their captor. “Not bad,” he said. “
That
, we can work with.”

“So get to work,” the man said somberly.

“And about the food …?” Khoury asked.

The man’s tone rose with irritation. “I’ll get you some damn food. Anything else?”

“It’d be good to have an internet connection,” Berry said. “You know, for research.”

The man glared at him, half-amused. “Nice try. Get me something, soon. You’re not leaving here until you do.”

Then he walked out, his fingers snapping his minions to follow suit, leaving the two authors locked in their cell.