“Executive Outcomes…never heard of them.”
“I did some checking. They went out of business after the failed coup. The owner was a guy named James Salt, former SAS officer, decorated soldier, all that. Salt started another business soon afterward called GRAIL.”
“Slow down, Alex. I’m not getting all of this.”
“G–R–A–I–L. Global Response, Analysis, Intelligence, and Logistics. They don’t call themselves a ‘private military company’ anymore. These days they go by ‘security consultants,’ and they trawl for contracts providing protection and security services in Iraq and Afghanistan, that kind of thing. Their website lists their address in London. I want to fly over and meet with them.”
“When? In a few days?”
“Today. I’ll need a jet.” McVeigh said nothing. Silence was not the response Alex wanted. “It’s our chance to break this thing wide open,” she continued. “If GRAIL recruited him, we can find out on whose behalf.”
“Those are some big ifs. Client confidentiality is a cornerstone of that business. I doubt they’d say a word without a court order.”
“We can go in with our friends at Five,” said Alex, referring to MI5, the British domestic security service and sister agency of the FBI. “Have a heart-to-heart. I don’t think any firm would want to be identified as being a backer of a shoot and scoot on U.S. soil.”
“If that’s what we’re looking at.”
“Even if it’s not, the least we’re talking is international weapons smuggling and multiple homicide.”
“Have Bill call our legate at the embassy over there. He can pursue the matter.”
“I think I can make this happen more quickly.”
“It’s not your decision. I’m not laying on a jet for you to go on a wild-goose chase when we have a network in place that can get us the answers we need.”
Alex had rehearsed her arguments in advance. She had initiated the surveillance on Windermere Street. It was her legwork that had led to the discovery of Lambert. She had experience working with Scotland Yard and MI5. By the tone of McVeigh’s voice, she knew that none would work.
“I’ll convey our concerns that this needs to happen fast,” McVeigh went on. “But from here on out, talk to Bill. I know what you’re feeling. You think that what happened at Windermere is your fault and that it’s up to you to make things right. But I respect the chain of command more. This is Bill’s show. End of story. Are we clear?”
Alex didn’t answer. McVeigh repeated her question angrily.
“Yes,” said Alex. “We’re clear.”
“Goodbye.”
Alex hung up. She called Bill Barnes, and in the interests of honesty and future working relations relayed her conversation with McVeigh. Barnes said much too politely that he’d make the call to their man at the London embassy and promised to keep Alex in the loop. “The second anything happens, I’m on the horn to you. You have my word.”
Alex was underwhelmed by his sincerity. She entered the kitchen and made herself a pot of coffee. She knew in advance how Barnes’s request would play out. First the legate in London would call his opposite at MI5. A meeting would be scheduled later that afternoon at the earliest, but more probably for Wednesday. MI5 likely would have some connections at GRAIL. A call would be made. A luncheon would be arranged. All very formal. Very by the book. Very British. Thursday would roll around, and then…
Alex slammed her mug on the counter, spilling coffee everywhere.
Thursday was too late.
45
Team Two landed at Waterloo International Airport on the outskirts of the twin cities of Kitchener-Waterloo, 100 miles east of Toronto, at 8:05 a.m. local time. Kitchener-Waterloo, or KW, as it was more commonly called, was known as a beacon of the Canadian high-tech industry. The cities boasted two universities renowned for their electrical engineering and information technology programs and were home to several multinational corporations, including a world leader in the development and manufacture of smartphones and a smaller but highly respected developer of microchips.
The seven men and women who deplaned walked solemnly across the tarmac and into the customs and immigrations hall. No other planes were due in until noon, and a single officer of the Royal Canadian Immigration Services manned the arrivals booth. The officer smiled and welcomed the visiting Portuguese executives to his country. He assumed they had come to visit their Canadian colleagues at one software enterprise or another. None of the arrivals said anything more than “Good morning” or “Hello.” If they appeared too tan and too fit for men and women who made their living banging out software code for hours on end and subsisting on a diet of Red Bull and Skittles, the official did not mention a word. Nor did he remark upon the absence of baggage. It was hardly strange for professionals in the IT industry to make day trips to company headquarters. Besides, he was preoccupied with another matter: a glitch in the airport security surveillance systems.