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A man entered with a file folder and handed it to her. “Architect, this was transmitted from Edinburgh Airport five minutes ago. Our facial recognition software caught it.”
Felicity opened the folder and stared at a copy of a Syrian passport. The young woman in the photograph might well have been Jasmine Shazaz.
“She came in on a Syrian Air Force Dassault corporate jet from Damascus, also carrying two diplomats, duly registered with the Foreign Office. She walked away from the airplane before customs arrived, then went through immigration with no problems. She was carried on the airplane’s manifest as a cultural assistant in the Syrian Embassy in London.”
“So she did travel,” Felicity said, using a magnifying glass on the passport photograph. “Tell our technical section, good job with the recognition software. Where did she go from there?”
“We thought perhaps the railway station, and we covered Glasgow and King’s Cross, but nothing. Then we checked flight plans and found a small twin had departed Edinburgh ten minutes after she cleared customs, filed for London City Airport. It landed there an hour ago, dropped a female passenger, then took off again, filed for Edinburgh. As soon as it cleared London airspace the pilot canceled his flight plan. He could have landed anywhere.”
“Don’t bother searching for the airplane,” Felicity said. “It will be a charter, and the pilot will be of no use to us.”
“As you wish, Architect.”
“So she’s back in London,” Felicity said. “I think we can expect havoc again soon.” She handed him the copy of the passport. “Have this couriered to Tom Riley at the U.S. Embassy, for transmission to Holly Barker at the Agency’s New York facility. Actually, depending on how good their interception program is, she may already have it.”
The man took the folder and left.
—
Holly arrived late at the New York office, still sleepy and a little sore from the previous night’s recreational activity. There was a folder on her desk, and she opened it. There were two copies of the same passport, one intercepted, the other forwarded from MI-6. Holly looked at the photograph, then phoned Felicity Devonshire.
“Good afternoon, Holly.”
At first Holly thought that was a needle, then she remembered the time difference. “Good afternoon, Felicity. Thank you for forwarding the passport to me. Is this a photograph of Jasmine Shazaz?”
“We believe so,” Felicity replied. “She entered the UK at Edinburgh this morning on a diplomatic flight from Syria, carrying that Syrian passport.”
“Was it
a good document?”
“We don’t have the original, but probably. A blank passport could have been provided by Syrian intelligence to anybody they trusted with it. I expect it’s been shredded by now.”
“Any news on where she might be?”
“Almost certainly in London.”
“And what are the chances of picking her up?”
“It seems likely that she won’t be walking the streets much, so I should say the chances are poor. We will probably hear from her next when something explodes, and what with our surveillance camera network in the city, we may have an opportunity then. We do have more news on the bomb at the Porsche agency.”
“Please tell me.”
“A fashionably dressed young woman entered the showroom carrying a large Hermès carrier bag, one of the bright orange ones, you know?”
“I know.”
“She looked at a couple of cars on the showroom floor, and when the salesman left her for a moment, we believe she placed the carrier bag in the boot of a model 911 4S, then left the showroom. At any rate, she was gone by the time the man finished his call. The bomb went off about twenty minutes later as the foreign secretary’s car drove by, almost certainly controlled by a cell phone from a parked car within sight of the showroom. The salesman was lucky—he had left the showroom floor to use the toilet.”
“What measures are you taking to find her?”
“We’re doing an all-hands-on-deck sweep, which means that every person associated with our service, MI-5, the Metropolitan Police, or the Foreign Office will be carrying the passport photograph, with instructions on what to do if she is spotted. Those persons who are armed are authorized to employ deadly force, if in their personal judgment it becomes necessary. Do your people have any need to speak with her? If she survives, we will be happy to turn her over.”
“No,” Holly said.
“I understand,” Felicity replied. “We do wish to speak with her, albeit as briefly as possible, but after that we would not wish her to be available to visitors or other prisoners.”
Or to anyone else, Holly thought. She thanked Felicity, hung up, and called Kate Lee.
