Contents
Also by Stephen Leather
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
Chapter 71
Chapter 72
Chapter 73
Chapter 74
Chapter 75
Chapter 76
Chapter 77
Chapter 78
Chapter 79
Chapter 80
Chapter 81
Chapter 82
Also by Stephen Leather
Pay Off
The Fireman
Hungry Ghost
The Chinaman
The Vets
The Long Shot
The Birthday Girl
The Double Tap
The Solitary Man
The Tunnel Rats
The Bombmaker
The Stretch
Tango One
The Eyewitness
First Response
Takedown
The Shout
Spider Shepherd thrillers
Hard Landing
Soft Target
Cold Kill
Hot Blood
Dead Men
Live Fire
Rough Justice
Fair Game
False Friends
True Colours
White Lies
Black Ops
Dark Forces
Light Touch
Jack Nightingale supernatural thrillers
Nightfall
Midnight
Nightmare
Nightshade
Lastnight
If you’d like to find out more about these and future titles, visit www.stephenleather.com.
www.hodder.co.uk
First published in Great Britain in 2018 by Hodder & Stoughton
An Hachette UK company
Copyright © Stephen Leather 2018
The right of Stephen Leather to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead is purely coincidental.
A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library
ISBN 978 1 473 60416 2
Hodder & Stoughton Ltd
Carmelite House
50 Victoria Embankment
London EC4Y 0DZ
www.hodder.co.uk
For Skye
Chapter 1
Ten Years Ago, New York
T he boy was only nine years old but he was a seasoned traveller and as soon as he was in his first-class seat he picked up the in-flight magazine to see what movies would be showing. ‘Seen it, seen it, seen it,’ he muttered to himself, but loud enough for his mother to hear.
‘Would you like a drink?’ asked a stewardess with dyed blond hair and a toothpaste commercial smile. ‘I have water and orange juice.’
‘Is it freshly squeezed?’ he asked.
The smile tightened a fraction. ‘I’m sure it was before it went into the carton,’ said the stewardess.
‘Do you have Coke?’
‘I have Pepsi.’
‘I don’t like Pepsi,’ said the boy. He pouted and folded his arms.
The boy’s mother smiled at the stewardess. ‘He’ll be fine with water,’ she said.
‘He’s probably had all the sugar he needs already,’ muttered the stewardess, placing a glass of water next to the boy. ‘I’ll be back with a play pack for him. Would you care for champagne?’
‘Water for me, too,’ said the boy’s mother. She opened her purse and took out a pack of aspirin, popped a tablet into her mouth and washed it down with her glass of water.
‘Do you have a headache?’ asked the boy.
‘It helps my circulation while we’re flying,’ she said.
‘Shouldn’t I have one?’
‘You’re nine. You don’t need it.’
The boy put down the magazine. ‘I wish Dad was with us.’
‘He’s busy, honey. He’ll join us in Paris next week.’
‘But I want to see him in London.’
‘Your father’s a busy man, honey. He has a lot to do in Washington. You know that. Now fasten your seat belt.’
The boy smiled sarcastically and lifted his magazine to show that he already had his belt on. Then he twisted around to look at the two men in dark suits who were sitting at the back of the cabin. One of them waved. He was the nice one. His name was Tom and he said he had a son who was the same age as he was. The boy waved back.
The engines kicked into life. ‘Why do we always have to fly?’ asked the boy.
The boy’s mother frowned. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Flying’s boring. There’s nothing to see. Why can’t we go on the train?’
‘We’re going to London, honey. We have to fly. You can’t go to London from New York on a train. But we can get a train from London to Paris.’
‘We could go on a boat to London. Boats are fun.’
The woman laughed. ‘Honey, it would take for ever. This way we’ll be in London in seven hours.’
‘But flying is boring.’
‘There are some children who never get to fly first class their whole lives.’
‘You can watch a movie. Or play on your Nintendo DS.’
The stewardesses moved through the cabin collecting glasses and making sure that
seat belts were fastened and tray tables were up. The plane reversed away from the terminal and headed down the taxiway. Ten minutes later they were airborne. The boy leaned across to the window and looked out. He saw water far below, and boats so small that they seemed like toys. He saw a ferry and three yachts sailing in a line and a huge ship that was loaded with containers. In the distance were the skyscrapers of Manhattan. The boy tried to find the one that King Kong had climbed but there were too many. Then the boy saw something small streaking through the sky. It looked like a rocket, with a plume of smoke behind it. He could see small fins on the back, where the smoke was. The boy frowned. He’d been at a space shuttle launch once with his dad but this wasn’t anything like that. The shuttle went straight up into the sky but this rocket wasn’t going straight up, it was curving through the air, heading towards the plane.
‘Mum, look at this,’ he said.
‘Look at what, honey?’ said his mother, her face buried in a magazine.
‘There, outside the plane.’
His mother sighed and put down the magazine. ‘Honey, I’m reading.’
The boy turned back to the window. The rocket was moving faster now. And it was a lot closer. He opened his mouth to tell his mother but the rocket seemed to accelerate and then it slammed into the wing and erupted in a ball of flame. The plane lurched to the left and then began to spin. The boy screamed. He turned to look at his mother and she was screaming too. Everybody was screaming. Even the two men in dark suits at the back of the cabin were screaming.
The plane was spinning faster, pushing the boy against the fuselage. He tried to reach for his mother but she was too far away. There was a ripping sound and then the back of the cabin broke off and there was a wind so strong that it tore at the boy’s hair and he saw the two men in dark suits spin out into the sky, still strapped into their seats. The stewardess with the blond hair was flattened against the ceiling, screaming in terror, then the wind whipped her away and she was gone. Those passengers who were still conscious were screaming at the tops of their voices but the sound was lost in the roar of the slipstream. Then everything went black.
Chapter 2
Ten Years Ago, New York
F rom where they were standing, the three men could see the burning wreckage of the jet streaking across the darkening sky. One of the men was holding a digital video camera, and he was muttering to himself as he tracked the main fuselage as it spiralled down towards the sea.
‘ Allahu Akbar, Allahu Akbar,’ shouted the one named Hamid. He was from Dubai in the United Arab Emirates.
‘ Allahu Akbar,’ echoed Saeed, the man standing to his left. He was holding the Stinger missile launcher unit on his shoulder as he stared up at the carnage in the sky. A black and white checked scarf was wrapped around the lower part of his face. Saeed was an Iraqi, though he had entered the United States with a French passport that showed his place of birth as Algeria.
The third man, Rashid, also had his face covered with a scarf, and he was wearing wraparound sunglasses. ‘This is what happens to the infidel dogs who kill our Muslim brothers around the world!’ he shouted. He had the dark skin and glossy black hair of a Pakistani but he spoke with the flat vowels of a north of England accent.
The man with the video camera turned the lens on him.
Rashid clenched his fist and punched the air. ‘We are bringing the war to your country, where it belongs!’ he shouted. ‘What we have done today we will do again and again until we bring your country to its knees. Allahu Akbar ! Allahu Akbar !’
Hamid finished filming. He clicked the camera shut. ‘Put the launcher in the truck,’ he said. ‘And let’s get out of here. Hakeem will be waiting and I want to see this on the Internet.’
The final pieces of the plane hit the water and the remaining flames flickered out. The three men climbed into their black SUV. Hamid got into the back with his camera. Saeed put the launcher on the back seat, slammed the door and got behind the wheel. Rashid took the passenger seat. ‘Come on, let’s go,’ he said. ‘We need to get away from here. They’ll set up cordons as soon as they realise what’s happened.’
Saeed started the engine and hit the accelerator. They were on a narrow track that ran by a small industrial park, a dozen or so warehouses with empty car parks. There were no street lights but Saeed kept the headlights off until they joined the main road.
There wasn’t much traffic around and he kept to just below the speed limit. ‘Did you see the way it fell apart when the missile hit?’ said Saeed. He drummed his hands on the steering wheel. ‘It must have been in a hundred pieces. More.’
‘Keep your eyes on the road,’ said Rashid. ‘And keep your speed down.’
‘You worry too much,’ said Saeed.
Hamid opened the video camera and pressed the play button. He grinned as he watched the screen. ‘I should be in Hollywood,’ he said. ‘The focus is perfect. And the way I follow the missile, Spielberg couldn’t have done better.’
‘Let me see, let me see,’ said Saeed.
‘Keep your eyes on the road!’ Rashid shouted.
Saeed twisted around in his seat. ‘Show me,’ he said.
Hamid held out the video camera.
Rashid’s eyes widened in horror as he saw the traffic lights ahead turn red. ‘Saeed!’ he screamed.
The SUV roared through the red light. A truck coming at them from the left sounded its horn and Hamid threw himself across the back seat. Its lights burst through the side windows. ‘Sorry, sorry, sorry!’ shouted Saeed, wrenching the wheel to the right and stamping on the accelerator. The truck missed them by inches, its horn still blaring.
‘Fucking hell!’ shouted Rashid. ‘What the fuck are you doing?’
‘I’m sorry,’ said Saeed, applying the brakes.
‘We could have fucking died!’
‘Well we didn’t, Allah be praised.’
‘Keep your eyes on the fucking road.’
‘I will, I will.’
Rashid sat back in his seat and looked at his watch. The plan was to drive to a shopping mall and transfer to another vehicle. They would torch the SUV to destroy any forensics, and then drive west. There was a good chance that all the airports would be closed in the wake of the attack but that wasn’t a problem; they weren’t going anywhere. They would hole up in a motel and wait until the hue and cry had died down.
Chapter 3
Ten Years Ago, New York
‘N ow they’re saying maybe it was struck by lightning,’ said Ricky Sanchez. He was watching CNN on his mobile phone, propped up against a ceramic mug containing a dozen or so ballpoint pens, most of which he had chewed on. The screen was showing two coastguard vessels on the ocean as a headline ran across the bottom: MORE THAN 300 FEARED DEAD AS PLANE CRASHES INTO ATLANTIC. Sanchez was in his early forties and so wide that he had trouble getting in and out of his chair. There was a small, framed photograph of his pretty wife and four young sons on the table in front of the bank of CCTV monitors covering the shopping mall above them. Sanchez was cracking peanut shells and washing the nuts down with a Dr Pepper.
‘It’s too early to tell,’ said his colleague. Dean Martin was ten years younger than Sanchez, and about half his weight. Both men were wearing dark blue uniforms, though Martin had hung his jacket over the back of his chair.
‘You think the A-Rabs did it?’ asked Sanchez, reaching into the bag of peanuts.
Martin shrugged. ‘Too early to tell,’ he repeated.
‘Fucking A-Rabs. What is it with them blowing themselves up all the time?’ He cracked a shell and popped the nuts in his mouth.
‘Could have been a missile,’ said Martin.
‘A missile? Like a rocket? Where would the A-Rabs get a rocket from?’
‘Surface-to-air missiles are easy to buy these days,’ said Martin. ‘Plenty of arms dealers out there who’ll sell anything to anybody.’
‘You’re shitting me? And they could shoot down a plane?’
‘Sure. They
call them man-portable air-defense systems. MANPADS. Lots of companies make them. The missiles can be up to six feet long and engage targets up to four miles away. That means a plane above twenty thousand feet is pretty much safe, but they’re obviously vulnerable at take-off and landing.’
Sanchez looked over at him. ‘How come you know so much about shit like that?’
Martin shrugged. ‘I watch a lot of Discovery Channel.’ He stood up and picked up his jacket. ‘I’ll do a walk-around before I head off,’ he said. His shift had finished ten minutes earlier but he had wanted to watch the news reports. Two more men were due to work the graveyard shift with Sanchez but one had phoned in to say that he would be half an hour late and the other had gone straight to the men’s room with a newspaper.
‘You mean a run-around,’ said Sanchez. He weighed close to four hundred pounds, and spent most of his shift sitting in his high-backed chair watching the bank of monitors that took feeds from the fifty or so CCTV cameras around the mall. All the shops and restaurants had closed for the night but they were still supposed to do a walk-around every hour. Sanchez rarely did and wasn’t bothered whether or not his colleagues did either.
‘See you tomorrow,’ said Martin, fastening his jacket and checking his baton and handcuffs. They weren’t allowed firearms, which was fair enough because the mall was in a nice suburban area and the only problems they had to deal with were the occasional misbehaving schoolchild and the odd shoplifter.
The security office was in the basement, adjacent to the underground car park, and Martin took the stairs to the ground floor. The elevators and escalators had all been switched off and with no muzak playing, Martin’s footsteps echoed as he walked through the deserted mall. He took off his belt and placed it on a bench by the fish pool along with his holdall. He removed his jacket, then jogged up one of the escalators and did a quick run around the upper floor. It was close to half a mile all the way around and took him just under three minutes. Once he’d done his circuit he dropped and did twenty-five press-ups, fifty sit-ups, and then ran down the escalator and repeated the session on the lower level. He was breathing heavily but not sweating by the time he’d finished.
He put his jacket back on, refastened his belt and carried his holdall along to the side entrance. He had to swipe his keycard through a reader to open the door that led to the main car park at the rear of the mall. He had left his car in the employees’ car park, the furthest away from the main building.