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Jeremy turns to me from the left front seat while from his right Winnie brings us back into traffic.Hearing athumpand abuzzfrom the van’s roof, I tilt my head back.
“Not a flying car seat like 007, but our mini-Spitfire drone can give us close-in tracking and video surveillance when we close in on a target. Felicity?”
“Hah!” she cries out, clapping her hands in triumph. “The bastard’s in the Club Aspire lounge…Terminal Three. Thank you, Mini-Spit!”
I call out, “Heathrow? A lounge? Pretty goddamn public, don’t you think?”
Traffic starts to clog up and Jeremy says, “Arrogance is one of Rashad’s many faults. Felicity, call SO18 at Heathrow. Tell them we’re rolling in hot and to meet us at the first-floor departure area for Terminal Three.”
I unsnap the seat belt and harness and lean toward Jeremy’s seat. “Do you have a plan, or are we going in guns blazing?”
“We’re going in with guns,” he says, “but no blazing—not at the start.” Behind me I hear Felicity talking calmly and strongly to someone at Heathrow, using a lot of code phrases and number sequences. “We’re meeting up with the specialist aviation unit for the Metropolitan Police.”
Winnie moves a couple of switches and the familiar high-low of a British police siren erupts. From the reflection off nearby cars and trucks, I can see the van has hidden flashing blue lights in the front grille and above the windshield. Jeremy reaches under the dashboard and retrieves a communications device with an earpiece and a lapel mic; he clips the latter to his jacket.
Felicity calls out, “A squad is waiting for you, Jer, right at the first-floor entrance. Inspector Collins is lead.”
“Great.”
Winnie says, “Here we go,” and he squeezes between a large lumbering bus and a white delivery truck, their horns blaring, and pulls right to the curb.
Jeremy says, “Amy, you—”
“I’m coming along,” I say. “No way I’m staying here.”
He and Winnie get out, and as I’m climbing over the seats Felicity turns and says, “Get the bastard.”
I just nod, because there’s not much else to say—and because I now see that Felicity has no legs; her black trousers are pinned back just above the place where her knees would be.
Outside the air is thick with diesel and the sounds of near traffic and the heavy roar of jet engines. We go through sliding-glass doors and meet up with four heavily armed men dressed in black fatigues and combat boots. Each carries my old friend, the Heckler & Koch MP5, and wears a ball cap with black-and-white checks. One steps forward and says, “Collins.”
And Jeremy says, “Windsor.”
“What do you have?” he asks.
“A terr holed up in the Club Aspire lounge.”
He nods, face set and hard. “Right. That’s near Gate Nine. Off we go.”
My pistol is in both hands. Jeremy and Collins are leading the way, Winnie is beside me; from under his jacket he pulls out a cut-down Israeli-made Uzi 9mm submachine gun.
Then Jeremy holds up a clenched fist, whispers, “Halt,” and we all stop. There are flashes of light as some brave tourists take photos of us.
I turn my head.
I don’t need the attention.
Jeremy drops his hand. “He’s moved! We have a bearded Saudi national, about six feet tall, in the loo right next to Burberry’s.”
A young man in jeans and a black jacket emerges from the bathroom, dragging a suitcase. Collins and another armed Met officer grab him.
“You!” Collins says. “How many more are in there?”
The man’s eyes widen right up. “Shit, mate, I just went in there to piss. I wasn’t keeping count.”
He gets pushed away. Two more male passengers come out.
Neither of them is Saudi or bearded.
