“Took you long enough.”
Zachery said, “Are you inside? If so, get outside and call me back.”
“Give me a minute.” Savich punched off, ran down the stairs and onto the street. He ran south and stopped two blocks from the National Mall, probably the safest place to talk, considering all the joggers and tourists. It would confuse the signals if anyone had already figured them out.
He found a quiet bench and called back the previous number.
Zachery sounded almost cheerful. “Glad you anticipated we’d need to have a chat this morning. Made our lives much easier. You’re outside, on the off chance the communications breach includes an audio component?”
“Yes, even though Nicholas thinks it’s a stretch, but who knows?”
Zachery said, “Anything’s possible, but burners, outside? We should be okay. The offices, not so much, and email, certainly not.”
“Are you going to send Covert Eyes to London?”
“Drummond already has Mike, Ben, and Adam, more than enough boots on the ground, I think, especially if we don’t want them to know we know we’re onto them. Whoever them is.”
Savich said, “Hopefully, he’ll know more after a meeting at the Home Office this morning with the head of Radulov, Roman Ardelean himself. They’ll be checking MATRIX together. Let’s speak again at ten a.m. Drummond’s meeting should be done by then, so he’ll have some new information for us.”
“Copy that. Gray and Lia are going to start running diagnostics here, see what we can find. If anything. Hopefully this is a false alarm on our end and it’s only the Brits who are compromised.”
“I’ll begin a sweep on my end as well. I trust there’s serious discussion at the White House about the wisdom of the president traveling to England at the end of the week, given the assassination of the vice chancellor of Germany.”
“You know he’ll dismiss it, claim he won’t be cowed by terrorists.”
Savich sighed. “You’re probably right. We’ll speak again at ten.” Savich punched off, went back to the office, and opened MAX. He didn’t know exactly what to look for, so he plugged in every parameter he could think of so MAX could search through all the communication systems for the Bureau and pick out anomalies.
An internal warning banner came across MAX’s screen.
“Are you right, Nicholas?” Savich switched to the BBC website just in time to see the panicked face of the anchor wrapping the segment. He turned up the volume.
“We will certainly have more on this shocking attack soon, but for those just joining us, the BBC is reporting that Defense Secretary Sir Terry Alexander has been pronounced dead at the scene.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
The Ministry of Defence (MoD or MOD) is the British government department responsible for implementing the defence policy set by Her Majesty’s government and is the headquarters of the British Armed Forces.
—Wikipedia
MI5 Headquarters, Home Office
Thames House
12 Millbank
Westminster, London
Ian filled them in as they rushed back to the Home Office. “Sir Terry Alexander was heading into an early lunch at Marianne in Notting Hill. The car dropped him off, and according to witnesses, he stopped to take a call, then stumbled, went down on the curb.”
Nicholas asked, “Was there a drone?”
“We don’t know. My God, sir, three in three days. We were told by the associate he was meeting Alexander for lunch, then Alexander was leaving for Paris.”
“I think Mike and I should head to Notting Hill, see the scene firsthand. It has to be a drone, and we have to find someone who saw it.”
Harry nodded. “All right. I’ll reschedule Ardelean. I’ll call ahead, let them know to expect you, so you won’t have a problem getting past the police blockade. Adam can continue searching the servers.”
Nicholas tossed out an arm, and a taxi stopped with a screech. He and Mike bundled into the back seat, and Nicholas said, “Take us to Marianne, in Notting Hill.”
“Won’t be able to do it, sir, the area’s been cordoned off. Some sort of attack.”
Nicholas said, “We’re coppers, they’ll let us through, trust me. And while you’re at it, could I trouble you for your mobile?”
The driver gave Nicholas a quick stare, then tossed his phone over the seat. Nicholas dialed Penderley’s mobile. No answer. Nicholas left a brief message, saying they were headed his way.
The driver had them there in twenty minutes flat. He was forced to drop them at the corner of Shrewsbury and Westbourne Park Road, as close as he could get. Mike passed over several pounds, and they were running down the street. They saw the flashing lights a block away. “There. Let’s go.”
Media vans were parked along the way, their satellite dishes turned toward the sky, and Mike could see at least fifteen officers in black uniforms wearing black baseball caps with a black-and-white checkerboard pattern around the brim and fluorescent lime-yellow reflective vests. POLICE was stamped on the back of the vests, and long truncheons lay at their sides.
There were a few heavily armed officers as well, with ear defenders on, heads turning, looking for threats.
Several silver Metropolitan Police BMWs blocked the road, their blue and lime-yellow paint screaming a warning. Mike saw a K9 officer leading a large German shepherd along the street, letting the dog sniff chairs and postboxes and car wheels, looking for explosives. White-and-red POLICE LINE crime-scene tape was stretched across the side streets, keeping people from entering the area.
Mike and Nicholas showed their credentials at the roadblock that gave onto Chepstow Road. The officer said, “Superintendent Penderley told me you were coming, Agents.” He pointed. “He’s down there, on the right side of the road. Penderley said specifically you are to avoid the media, no interviews, no chatter, nothing even off the record.”
Nicholas said, “Understood,” and wrote their names on the list of people attending the scene. They both ducked under the tape and headed down the street. They found Penderley standing under an awning talking with a woman Nicholas vaguely recognized from his time at New Scotland Yard.
Penderley was wearing a bulletproof flak jacket over a white button-down shirt and gray slacks and was gesturing around the scene. He was obviously the top brass. He spied them and called them over, shook both their hands, and introduced them to the woman by his side. “Drummond, Caine, meet DI Clare Griffith, she’s one of our best and brightest, and she’s running this scene. I have to get back to Scotland Yard and start the damage control. We’re going to have every eye in the free world on us within the hour, so figure out what the bloody hell’s happening, would you? Oh, yes, and we checked the other two crime scenes, and nothing like a needle was found, though there was plenty of metal trash. It’s all been taken into evidence.”
“Thank you for trying, sir. Good to see you.”
“You, too, Drummond”—and after a nod to Mike, he added to Nicholas, “I thought I asked you to get it sorted.” And he was gone.
DI Griffith looked sharp, tall, black hair twisted up in a roll at the back of her head. She was wearing a blue suit with a bulletproof vest under her blouse. She looked once at Nicholas, looked again, something Mike was used to from nearly every woman who spotted him. To her credit, Griffith got her cop brain turned back on and said, her voice official, “Agent Drummond, I was actually in uniform when you were Penderley’s go-to. You’re a hard act to follow, but I’ll get there.” She looked him up and down, all cop now, shook her head. “Imagine, you left us to become the first Brit in the American FBI.”
Nicholas smiled, said immediately, “Can you tell us exactly what’s happened?”