Chapter Ten

Henry

"How's she doing?" The door to the Situation Room swung open and flooded the room with the first aching glimpse of daylight. Russell strode inside. He stuffed his phone back into his trouser pocket and then stood with hands on hips facing the main screen. His brow furrowed. "What happened to the footage?"

Black and grey static fuzzed across the screen at the end of the room. Henry swivelled back and forth in his chair, his coffee cup clutched to his chest. "She's sleeping." And when Russell's frown deepened, he clarified, "On her stomach."

"Right…" Russell paused, and then he pointed at the screen, his voice low. "You know that's bad for your neck."

Henry snorted. "I'm sure she'll appreciate your concern, Russell." He took a swig of coffee, lukewarm and tasteless against his furred tongue, and then set the cup down on the table. The caffeine buzzed through him, a jitter beneath his pulse.

"Where are we with the fake execution?" Conrad asked.

"All set," Russell said, "just need the go-ahead."

Conrad paused. He leant back in his chair and rubbed at his mouth. Then he looked up at Russell and nodded. "Do it."

The door flung open. "Sir." Director Doherty marched in. "We have a problem." His eyes were more white than anything else, and a sheen of sweat glistened on his brow.

Time dragged as the seconds lumbered their way through the wasteland of that pause. Henry felt as though he were flying a fighter jet, soaring up, up, up, above the clouds, only for the engine to stutter and splutter and choke out—hush—then just waiting for that drop.

Doherty's throat bobbed. "Khan's dead."

The room plunged into silence. Everyone turned to Doherty; lips parted, pens fell, fingers stilled over laptops. Russell's eyes bugged, and he said in a strangled voice, "What do you mean 'he's dead'?"

"I had a call from the prison," Doherty said. He rubbed at his brow, as if trying to smooth out the creases. "Khan was leaving his cell for his hour recreation when he collapsed. Paramedics attended to him at the scene, but he died within minutes."

"People don't just collapse." Russell's tone shot up, and if he didn't calm down, he might be the next one to collapse.

"They believe it was a massive pulmonary embolism, partly caused by his inactivity, but a direct consequence of his cancer." Doherty's gaze flitted between Russell and Conrad, glossing past Henry. "Apparently it can cause a hypercoaguable state."

With his fists clenched either side of his head, Russell spun round and paced towards the wall. "REDACTED." The expletive jolted the room. He took a deep breath, one hand splayed across his chest, and then sighed it out. He sank down into his seat and murmured, "Pardon my French, sir." Then he looked along the table, towards the awaiting faces. "So that's that idea thoroughly defenestrated. Options, people?"

"With Khan dead, their demand is redundant," Ellen Hill said. She glanced around their colleagues. "Couldn't this be a way to make them back down?"

Henry shook his head. "If they feel backed into a corner, it'll just make them more volatile." Rapid change. Confined space. Boom. He rested his elbows against the desk, fingers steepled against his lips. "If the whole point of this was to enable Khan to deliver his message and become a martyr, there's a real risk that they might decide to deliver that message for him."

"Sir," Russell said, "we need to tell Bess, and we need to get them out of there. Fast."

A sigh hummed through Elizabeth's microphone and the image on the screen shifted to a view of the office ceiling. The sound tugged at Henry's heart. How many times had he woken up early just to catch that same sound and the flutter of her eyelids as she stirred from her sleep? Good morning, beautiful. / Mmmhh. Good morning, handsome.

Elizabeth

RING-RING. RING-RING. RING-RING. Elizabeth sat up on the couch and eased her legs over the side. She raked her fingers through her hair and peered blearily across the office. The curtains were still drawn, shading the room, but glimpses of daylight skulked through the gaps. Groans echoed up from the floor as Matt, Jay and Blake stirred, and the three of them winced when the lights flickered on overhead.

Omar and Hamza blocked the doorway. Omar scowled at Elizabeth and waved his gun towards the phone. "Answer it."

Elizabeth tugged on her heels. Legs tight, she stumbled slightly as she rose up from the couch. She leant back against the desk and lifted the handset to the side opposite from her earpiece. "Hello?"

"Bess." Russell dragged out her name and imbued it with a leaden sigh.

The pit of her stomach swirled. Oh God. What had happened?

"Khan died last night, a pulmonary embolism, a complication of his cancer."

Elizabeth pinched the bridge of her nose. REDACTED, REDACTED, REDACTED.

"We have the CCTV footage of his collapse. We're going to upload it to the system, and they can have access in exchange for a hostage."

Then in her other ear came Director Doherty's voice. "Cyber have embedded a piece of code within the file. Once the file's been opened, we should have access to the building systems. We'll have to storm the building, unless you can talk them down."

"Okay," Elizabeth said, "I understand." Three guns, four hostages. What were the chances of any of them making it out alive?

She set the phone down with a clunk. Her gaze rested on it a while before she turned to her staff. And from their grim expressions, they knew. She motioned for them to sit on the couch, and then she eased away from the edge of the desk and placed herself between them and the gunmen.

"What did they say?" Omar's eyes narrowed on her, pinpoints of black. His fingers twitched against his gun, curling and uncurling.

Elizabeth cleared her throat. Her gaze dipped as she shook her head to herself. "Ahmed Khan died last night. Medics say it was a pulmonary embolism, a direct result of his cancer."

Omar and Hamza's eyes widened; their whites caught the glare of the artificial lights. Then they frowned at her, and their expressions blackened. A heavy pause followed, like the lull before the moment of impact. Then—

"You're lying," Omar said. He waved his hand at her. "This is one of your tricks. Think you can tell us he's dead and we'll just let you go." He took a stride towards the couch and lifted his gun. "Well, it's time to stop playing your games." He pointed the gun at Blake.

Elizabeth jumped in front of the gun, shielding Blake. Her pulse raced. She held her hands up, palms exposed. "I promise you, I'm telling you the truth."

Omar snarled. "Your promises mean nothing to me." And his gaze bore through her.

"Then let me give you proof," Elizabeth said. "There's CCTV footage from the prison. It'll be uploaded to the network, and we'll be granted access as soon as a hostage has been released."

"How about we just shoot one of you instead?" Hamza said, and he turned his gun on Matt.

"Let's just think about that a second," Elizabeth said. She smoothed out the catch in her voice. "What do you think will happen if the teams outside hear a gunshot?" She looked between the two brothers. "We're all safe in here, no one's been hurt, you have the building under your control." She took a step closer to Omar until the muzzle of the gun brushed against her chest. "Let me get this proof for you."

Omar and Hamza shared a look. They lowered their guns a fraction, though not enough to remove Elizabeth or Matt from their targets. Then Omar shouted in Arabic, "Akeem, come in here."

Akeem scurried through, carrying the laptop in both arms, his own gun resting atop the keys. He set the laptop down on Elizabeth's desk, the screen facing out towards the room, and then placed the gun to the side. As he did so, the silver sandpiper fell from the trinket box. It chimed as it hit the edge of the desk then bounced across the floor.

"Have they uploaded a video?" Omar said.

Akeem hunched over the laptop, wiped his brow with the back of his sleeve and then tapped away at the keys, his fingers fluttering like a pianist sweeping out arpeggios. He stopped and turned to his cousins. "There's a file here, but it needs an authentication code."

"And I can get you access," Elizabeth said, "as soon as a hostage has been released." She looked to Akeem. "Jay's a father too. He has a little girl—Chloe." Akeem's jaw clenched, but his eyes softened. It's all about the kids. "Let Jay go home to his daughter, and we can figure out a way for you to get home to Bella."

Akeem's gaze wavered, and he bit down on the inside of his cheek. One hand found his hip, whilst the other dabbed his forehead with the cuff of his shirt. He looked to his cousins. "We don't need all four of them—she's the only one that we really need." He tilted his head towards the couch. "We should let one of them go."

Omar pressed his lips together, and his nostrils flared. "What? Just because she says so?" He nudged his gun at Elizabeth, and the muzzle grazed her blouse. "This is all because you started talking to her, telling her about Bella—"

Akeem's hand dropped from his forehead. "Because we want access to the file. And she's right—if you shoot one of them, they'll storm the building." He stalked past Elizabeth and his cousins, and headed towards the corner of the room. He turned the television on.

The news footage from outside the State Department played across the screen. The crowd of reporters gathered beyond the cordons had thickened, and photographers and cameramen jostled for positions at the front, whilst swarms of SWAT teams congregated around the armoured trucks.

Akeem stabbed one finger at the heavily-armed men. "They'll fight their way in and they'll kill us. Then Ahmed's message will never be heard, and we'll be silenced too."

Omar studied the screen, and the longer he stared at the men in their black uniforms, bullet proof vests and firearms, the more his jaw tightened. He spun to the couch and made a gesture summoning them to stand up. "Just one."

"Jay," Elizabeth said, and she too motioned for him to stand.

"Hands up," Omar said, and as Jay did so, he urged him towards the door. He called over his shoulder. "Activate the elevator." Then he shepherded Jay out into the main hall.

And as Akeem returned to his laptop, Elizabeth's breath trembled out through her lips. She retreated to the couch and flopped down onto the cushion between Matt and Blake. Adrenaline drained from her veins. At least Chloe would still have her father.

With his dark eyes still on the three of them, Hamza knelt down and picked up the silver sandpiper. He tossed it in the air, the metal glinting in the light, and caught it again. Matt leant back against the cushions and twisted towards Blake. "What's the difference between a snipe and sandpiper anyway?"

Elizabeth's pulse quickened, and she said in a low hiss, "Can we please stop talking about the stupid bird?" God, why did she ever bring that thing to the office? Then again, why did a group of armed men—these men in particular—have to barge their way in?

"I have access to the video," Akeem said, just as Omar strode back into the room. The three of them huddled around the laptop. Hamza placed the sandpiper back on the desk as they peered at the screen. Grainy CCTV footage appeared, and they leant in closer.

Matt nudged Elizabeth. He raised his eyebrows, eyes widening, and he nodded towards the door. But Elizabeth shook her head. If only it were that simple. Cyber needed to gain control of the elevators first, until then they were trapped.

Omar stepped back from the desk. A heavy frown crumpled his brow. He glared down at Elizabeth, and something dark swirled in the depths of his eyes, like mires of pitch gyring beneath the asphalt. "You did this."

Elizabeth froze. Her mouth opened. "What?"

Omar stabbed his finger at her. "You and your CIA. You killed him so that he wouldn't have the chance to speak, so that the world would never hear his words."

"Wait—" Matt held his hands up and gave an awkward laugh. "—that's crazy."

"Matt," Elizabeth said, her tone warning him, begging him to shut the hell up. She edged forward in her seat, ready to stand up, but Omar pointed his gun at her, and she stopped. "The CIA didn't kill him. He was very sick. As I said, he had a blood clot on his lungs, a direct result of his cancer." She motioned to the screen. "You've just seen. Paramedics tried to help him—"

"Or maybe it's all an act," Hamza said. He waved his gun around. "You have him killed and then play us this video, thinking that then we'll just back down."

"I understand that you're hurting—"

"You understand? You understand?" Omar shouted, and spittle flew across the room. "How can you understand what we've been through? The hatred, the alienation…He was a great man, and you reduced him to this—" He thrust his finger at the screen. "Do you have any idea what happened to us once he was arrested?"

Elizabeth's heart pounded against her ribs. The thud, thud, thud filled her ears. "Tell me. Help me to understand. Tell me how I can help you."

"I want to know who did this," Omar said.

"I already told you. It was a pulmonary—"

"No." Omar's hand slashed through the air. "You were CIA. So tell me. Who had him arrested? Who ruined our lives?"

Elizabeth shook her head. "I don't know."

"Well, find out."

"I can't," Elizabeth said.

Omar turned to Akeem, and he gestured towards the laptop. "Hack back against the source of that file. Find the agent responsible, and we'll kill him instead."

Elizabeth's heart dropped. "Killing the agent won't bring your father back and it won't give you your lives back." She fought to keep her tone level. "Look, you haven't harmed anyone, and so long as that's the case, we can resolve this. Let us go, and I'll ensure that you walk away from here with your freedom."

"Freedom? What freedom?" Omar shouted at her. His face contorted with rage, so much hatred and pain. "The freedom to be persecuted for our beliefs? The freedom to be demonised for our heritage? The freedom never to belong, because we weren't quite American enough?" His voice lowered to a growl. "Well, we found where we belong, and it's doing Allah's work. We'll kill your precious agent and our message will be heard."

Henry

"Uh oh," Oliver Shaw said. He tapped furiously at his laptop.

"What is it?" Russell leant forward in his seat and braced himself with one hand against the desk.

"They're hacking back." The reflection of the screen blazed in Oliver's eyes as he pounded the keys. Beads of sweat gathered on his upper lip. He ducked his head to the side, fingers still moving as he wiped his mouth against the shoulder of his shirt, eyes straining to keep his gaze on the screen. "They've accessed Khan's file."

Henry's chest tightened. His gaze swept down the table towards Ephraim Ware. "I thought you said the file was clean?" Sanitised or clean? Sanitised or clean?

"It is," Ephraim said. "No agents are listed in Khan's file."

Oliver stooped closer. "They're searching through the records for operation QuickStitch."

Russell leapt up from his chair. "Find the agent." He strode across the room and peered over Oliver's shoulder. "We need to get them into protective custody—now."

"I'm looking," Oliver said.

"Well, look faster."

Conrad rose to his feet, his expression grave. "We can't protect the agent."

"Why the hell not?" Russell twisted round to face Conrad.

Oliver paused. He glanced over his shoulder at Russell. "They're just listed as 'Sandpiper'."

And at the same time, Conrad said, "Because it's Bess."

The room stopped. Henry's heart stopped. There had never been such a perfect silence. Sandpiper. Oh that? Dalton gave it to me. / Looks like a snipe. / I think you'll find it's a sandpiper. / What's the difference between a snipe and a sandpiper anyway? / Can we please stop talking about the stupid bird? They had told her it was clean—she had asked if it needed sanitising, and they had told her it was clean. Henry's stomach twisted tighter and tighter. We'll kill your precious agent and our message will be heard. Sandpiper, Bess, Elizabeth.

"We need to get her out of there—now." Russell jabbed his finger at the screen, and the room lurched back into life.

"I have control of the systems," Ronnie Baker said.

"There's no time to send in a team," Conrad said, "just create a distraction." He leant forward over the desk. His finger trembled as he pressed the button on the microphone. "Bess, run."