Shadow Tag Page 3

  The sandwiches were for Americans. And the chatter had mentioned targeting some “American specialists.” Added to the fact that the man had lit up both agents’ internal goondars, this suddenly looked promising.

  Then the man turned, and his gaze lasered onto Reilly, then Malone—and something effervesced in his own eyes. Just for a second, two at most.

  Then he bolted out of the restaurant.

  “Go, go, go,” Reilly said, as he and Malone catapulted out of their seats and charged after him.

  7

  Khoury was slumped on the damaged mattress, his back against the wall. His fingers twirled around bits of cotton that the lead goon’s gunshots had kicked up. “You think anyone’s looking for us?”

  “I don’t know,” Berry replied. He was laid out similarly, on the opposite wall. “Elizabeth is in southern France with a couple of her girl friends. What about Suellen?”

  “She’s on a canal barge with her dad in the middle of nowhere.”

  “So they might not notice we’re gone for another day or two?”

  “It’s possible.”

  Berry nodded, to himself. This was looking bleak. “You know we can’t do this.”

  “Of course, we can’t. But we have to figure a way out of this. That’s the brilliant plot we need to come up with.”

  “And it needs to be something that involves us being part of the master plan. That way, they don’t kill us off after we give it to them.”

  “Not an easy job.”

  “No choice. In the meantime, we have to give them something to buy ourselves some time.”

  “The guy didn’t know about Dr. Evil or about Nelson DeMille’s books,” Khoury said, an idea blooming. “He doesn’t seem too well versed in popular culture. We can use that. Why don’t we just give him something that’s been done before.”

  “Dangerous. They might catch us—or they might actually go out and do it.”

  “If they catch us, we can just claim we never read it or saw it. And as for them going and doing it—what are the odds of these morons actually pulling off something that big?”

  “They just might,” Berry said. “Remember Debt of Honor? Tom Clancy had a pissed off Japanese Air Lines pilot crash his jumbo jet into the Capitol building during a special joint session of Congress killing the President and everyone else, and that was seven years before 9/11.”

  “You think Bin Laden read Clancy?”

  “Maybe. He was a jet-setting Saudi millionaire before he turned into an asshole.”

  “Okay, let’s get back to our asshole,” Khoury said. “What bone can we throw him to buy some time?”

  “He wants big. Epic. And no bombs or viruses.”

  “Something from a Bond movie?”

  “Risky. Too popular.”

  “Maybe you’re right. If he hasn’t seen them, one of his goons probably has.”

  “Okay, so let me ask you this,” Berry asked, “what’s the best plot you ever read? Or saw? What’s the one you wish you’d come up with?”

  “In terms of a brilliant plan, I’ve got to go with the first Die Hard—”

  “Genius—”

  “Totally. But our guy is no Hans Gruber. And there’s another problem. Like a lot of these stories, it’s about personal gain, not destruction. The fireworks, like Goldfinger’s nuke, are just a sideshow to the real motive: money.”

  “This guy didn’t give us much to work with.”

  They both mulled over the question.

  “Okay,” Berry offered. “What about the second Die Hard? Bringing down airliners by hacking into air traffic control.”

  “Nasty. But scarily doable, don’t you think?”

  “Nah, come on. We both know there are all kinds of firewalls built into these things. It’s virtually impossible to pull off—if you’ll pardon the pun.”

  “But what if it wasn’t?”

  Berry thought about it for a moment, then nodded. “Too risky, you’re right.”

  “Yeah, but the hacking thing might work. In fact, it’s perfect. No explosives. Nothing basic that could kill lots of people. And it’ll be too sophisticated for them to be able to control every aspect of it.”

  “Meaning we’ll have plenty of opportunities to shut it down if it ever got that far.”

  “Exactly. Have you been watching this new TV series, Mr. Robot?”

  Berry shook his head.

  “It’s very cool.” Khoury considered it briefly, then smiled. “Yeah, I think this might work.”

  8

  The man only had a few seconds’ head start, but he was fast. He already had a fifty yard lead by the time Reilly and Malone burst out of the restaurant.

  “You gonna tell me what the hell that was all about?” Malone asked, panting.

  “Later,” Reilly shouted back. “Need to grab him first.”

  The man spun around for a quick look, gauged how far back they were, then cut across the wide sidewalk and onto the road, oblivious to the cars coming in his direction. He zigzagged through them and made it to the opposite side, where cars and buses were heading south towards Hyde Park.

  Reilly and Malone tried to follow, but they were interrupted by a wave of cars that screeched as they swerved to avoid them while blaring their horns.

  The two agents were dodging the traffic when they saw a red Routemaster bus, one of the new models, drive past on the opposite roadway, obscuring their target momentarily before the man reappeared behind it, only now he was sprinting even faster, fast enough to leap onto the open platform at the rear of the bus just as it accelerated away.

  “Crap,” Reilly shouted. “He’s getting away.”

  He looked around in a panic and spotted possible salvation: a trio of tourists pedaling peacefully down the road on Santander bikes, ones provided across the city as part of London’s bike-sharing scheme.

  He didn’t hesitate.

  He rushed up to the lead bike, grabbed its rider and pulled him to a sudden halt.

  “Sorry, I’m going to need this,” he blurted as he pulled the rider off his seat. Seconds later, he was pedaling furiously after the bus, with Malone in his wake on a second bike.

  The bikes were no match for the bus, not when there was a long stretch before the traffic lights at Marble Arch. They could see their target standing on the platform at the back of the bus, watching them through its angled rear window.

  They lost more ground as the bus neared the intersection, where the lights were red. A few cars were stopped there, waiting.

  “If the lights go green, we’re screwed,” Malone yelled.

  They went green.

  The cars drove off, far enough ahead so that the bus didn’t even have to slow down. Instead, it just motored on, veering left around Marble Arch before heading down Park Lane.

  “Shit,” Reilly shouted.

  He pedaled more furiously, as did Malone. The two agents were still a good twenty yards away from the lights when they went from green to amber. By the time they reached them, the lights were red, and cars were already moving into the intersection from the right.

  “Keep going,” Reilly hollered.

  He kept going, cutting into the intersection inches ahead of the lead car to his right. The car screeched to a stop, causing the one behind to plow into it. Malone was a few feet behind Reilly and just managed to avoid the scrape. The two agents kept pedaling and banked right to head down Park Lane, oblivious to the mess they’d left behind.

  Then they got lucky.

  The traffic ahead was heavy, with cars and buses blocking the way long before the red light that was a couple of hundred yards down the road.

  Reilly saw the Routemaster grind to a halt. The target’s head swung left and right as he considered his next move, then he leapt off the bus and ran.

  Reilly and Malone kept going. Other cars and buses coming from Oxford Street had filtered in ahead of them before stopping too. They had to slow down before threading their way through the stopped traffic, but at least
, their quarry was now on foot.

  “We’re going to lose him,” Malone shouted as he and Reilly maneuvered between the stopped cars. They could see their target as he ran across the wide, planted median and cut through the traffic coming up the opposite carriageway before making it to the other side and running into Hyde Park.

  “Damn it,” Reilly hissed as he dumped his bike and sprinted ahead.

  Malone did the same.

  It took them longer to get across the road, with its four lanes of cars to dodge. By the time they made it into the park, the man was over a hundred yards ahead of them.

  Reilly looked around without pausing. There was nothing for him to requisition—no bikes, not even a skateboard.

  They kept running, chasing him down the Parade Ground and past Reformer’s Tree, heading south. They weren’t catching up on him.

  “Would have been easier without those damn shawarmas weighing me down,” Reilly yelled to his partner.

  “Forget the shawarmas. It’s the garlic that’s burning me up,” Malone quipped. “And I don’t even like garlic.”

  They followed him around the Look Out Educational Centre and down towards the Serpentine, which was spread out at the bottom of the hill like a huge, black mirror. Dozens of small pedal boats carrying tourists and families idled peacefully on the water, mingling with the resident swans and ducks.

  All of which presented their target with a problem. He’d have to go around the lake, either left or right. When he did, Reilly and Malone could triangulate in his direction, cutting the distance between them.

  The man kept going straight.

  “We’ll gain ground on him now,” Reilly blurted.

  Only the target didn’t turn right or left. Instead, he kept going straight towards the lake until he reached the boathouse, where he barged through the waiting crowd, leapt onto an empty pedal boat, and set off across the surface. By the time Reilly and Malone reached the shore, he was a good thirty yards away from the bank.

  “Come on,” Reilly yelled as he charged through the crowd and grabbed a pedal boat that had just come in.

  Malone jumped onto it alongside him.

  They started pedaling.

  Up ahead, their target was now halfway across.

  “You’ve got to be kidding me,” Malone said as he pedaled furiously. “I can swim faster than this.”

  “You wanna go for it?” Reilly asked. “Be my guest.”

  Malone glanced at the water around them. It was freezing, and he was fully dressed. By the time he shook his clothes off, the man would be on the opposite shore.

  It wasn’t a particularly inviting prospect.

  “Maybe another time,” Malone said. “Keep spinning.”

  Minutes later, their target rammed his pedal boat onto the bank, jumped off, and sprinted away.

  The agents did the same.

  They crossed Rotten Row and were all heading down towards the Edinburgh Gate and the gleaming glass towers of One Hyde Park.

  “We need a bike, a cop, or something,” Reilly said between labored breaths.

  “How about horses?” Malone asked.

  “As long as they don’t have guys with swords on them, I’m happy,” Reilly quipped, panting heavily.

  “If he gets to the big department stores in Knightsbridge, we’ll definitely lose him.”

  The target reached South Carriage Drive and rushed across it, easily avoiding the sparse traffic heading up the single lane.

  Reilly saw him disappear behind a white van that was parked by the Pan Statue. He and Malone didn’t slow down. They crossed the road and rounded the van—only the target was gone.

  They stopped running and for a split second, Reilly didn’t get it. Then he turned to face the side the of the van and saw the target inside.

  He wasn’t alone.

  Another man was in there with him.

  They were both pointing guns at the two agents.

  “Get in, now,” the new guy barked as he beckoned them with his gun.

  Reilly looked at Malone. They were both out of breath and exhausted. Putting up a fight, in their present condition, was simply not an option.

  Malone nodded grudgingly.

  And with that, they both boarded the van.

  9

  “So you have something already?”

  The man who asked to be called Abul Mowt stood by the door, his face alive with expectation. “That was fast,” he told the two authors. “You guys are really good.” He turned and gave his two goons a couple of slow, smug nods that said, See, that’s why I’m the grand poobah here. He faced his prisoners again. “Tell me.”

  “Actually,” Khoury said, “it’s something I’ve been working on for a book.”

  “It’s good,” Berry added. “More than good. You’ll see.”

  “I’m listening,” their captor said.

  “Okay. So it involves hacking.”

  Khoury waited, watching the reaction on his captor’s face.

  A couple of cracks appeared across Abul Mowt’s forehead as he frowned with curiosity. “You mean, like hacking into a nuclear power plant to cause a meltdown?”

  “No, no, please,” the writer said. “That’s old school. Been done to death. Plus they’ve been onto that one since before 9/11, before Y2K even. Too many firewalls. You’d never get in.”

  “Where you can get in, though, is the banks,” Berry put in.

  “The banks?” Abul Mowt looked displeased, his tone rising. “I’m not interested in stealing money. I want pain.”

  “Hang on. We’re going to give you pain,” Khoury said.

  “We’re not talking about stealing money,” Berry added. “We’re talking about wiping it out. All records of it.”

  Abul Mowt seemed confused. “You want to wipe it out? You can’t wipe out cash.”

  “No,” Khoury explained, “We don’t mean get rid of it. We mean wipe out all records of it. Everything. Everyone’s bank records, savings, deposits. Credit card debt, bank loans, mortgages. All records—wiped out. In one go.”

  He glanced at Berry, then they both watched their captor, studying the reaction percolate across his face.

  The man seemed lost in a deep, brow-furrowing mull. He was obviously not impressed. After a moment, he asked, “What kind of pain is that?”

  “Are you kidding me?” Khoury shot back. “You’re talking chaos on an apocalyptic level. An economic meltdown. Forget the Great Depression. You’d send America right back to the days of the Wild West. Or worse. It’ll be like in The Road.”

  “Or Mad Max,” Berry added.

  “Or Waterworld, but without the water.”

  “Same thing, really.”

  “True.”

  “Enough,” the man barked. “Look, I want to do something big. I want noise and spectacle, and I want people to die.”

  “Yes, but this is so much better,” Khoury countered. “More sophisticated. More subtle.”

  “Death by a thousand cuts,” Berry added. “Metaphorically speaking.”

  Khoury slid him a glance, like, Easy on the vocab.

  Berry gave him a discreet grin back.

  “But your country already had a meltdown,” Abul Mowt said. “A few years ago. Your banks, your car manufacturers, they were all bust. Your government just bailed everyone out and everything went back to normal. This won’t be any different.”

  “No,” Berry said. “It’ll be completely different. I’m telling you, this will be the biggest shock to hit the country—ever.”

  “And we’ll tell you how to do it,” Khoury said. “Not just tell you. Assist you. Because you will need help. You’ll need hackers. Serious players. This won’t be easy. No brilliant master plan ever is. But we know where to find them.”

  “And how to talk to them,” Berry added. “We have access.”

  Abul Mowt didn’t seem convinced. In fact, he looked downright dejected.

  “What?” Khoury asked.

  “I don’t know,” the man sai
d. “It’s just not what I imagined. It’s not … big.”

  “It’ll be huge,” Khoury insisted.

  “No, I mean big,” the man repeated. “We do this … what will it look like on the news? What will people see on TV? What’s the horrible image they’ll always remember? Blank screens at ATMs across the country? People sitting at their laptops and moaning about their bank statements?”

  “Look, you kidnapped us because you think we’re good at what we do. Okay, this is a terrific plot, I’m telling you. This is New York Times top five bestselling stuff, easy.”

  Berry nodded. “No question.”

  Their captor was clearly struggling with it. “I don’t see it. It’s just not … dramatic. It’s not sexy.”

  Khoury glanced at Berry, who spread his hands out slightly and shrugged with defeat.

  Then the man seemed to reach a conclusion. “No. It’s not what I’m looking for. All this hacking stuff … it’s just numbers and letters on a screen. It’s not real. And it doesn’t last. It’s quickly forgotten.” He shook his head slowly, his tone low with disappointment. “I did an online chemistry course, I took a high speed driving course, I spent hours on my computer doing simulator flying lessons for planes and helicopters, all to prepare for this … and you want to use hackers?”

  “You wanted something different,” Berry offered.

  He shook his head and sighed. “Is that all you’ve got?”

  He studied the two authors.

  They had nothing to add.

  “Fine,” he said, clearly dismayed. “I was hoping you’d come up with something special, but … fine. We’ll keep it simple. A bomb. Nuclear, dirty, I don’t care.”

  His phone started ringing.

  He pulled the unit out, spoke a few quick words in Arabic, then killed the call.

  “I’ve got to go. New guests to attend to.”

  His expression darkened, and he jabbed the air with a peremptory finger.

  “Find me something great to blow up, and a foolproof way to do it. And do it soon. My patience isn’t limitless.”

  10

  Reilly and Malone were now in a locked, windowless room.

  There were no light fittings inside, at least none that they could make out in the semi-darkness, but some faint light was coming in from under the door, enough to allow them to see what their surroundings were like. Not that there was much to see: bare walls, a couple of old mattresses on the floor, and the door. There was also a palpable dampness to the air which was consistent with them being in an underground basement.