Read Online A Loyal Spy by Simon Conway - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Simon Conway
Tags: thriller
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reason Nor hadn’t done it in the last two years was because he was keeping it up his sleeve, ready to produce it with a flourish for maximum, catastrophic effect.
Some day Nor would talk.
The fallen towers
September 2001
The message was written in the layer of white ash on the hood of an abandoned car on Broadway: PUNISH. It wasn’t clear whether the person who had used a finger to scrawl the message was referring to what had happened or to some future act of retribution. Standing on the pavement beside the car, Jonah watched another convoy of Humvees, dump trucks, bulldozers and backhoes trundle south through the parted sawhorse barriers.
‘
A whirlwind is coming
,’ Nor had told him, two months before in Sierra Leone. ‘
When it has passed nothing will ever be the same …
’ He’d been right. You could tell by the look on people’s faces that something terrible had happened. And that many Americans were thinking that this was the worst thing that had ever happened – the world had turned on its head in a day.
‘We’ve spent five years trying to get people to listen. But nobody took us seriously. They were oblivious. It was too exotic a threat. Too primitive …’
Jonah glanced across at Mikulski, who was staring at the pillar of ash spiralling upwards, hundreds of feet over Manhattan and the Hudson. It was the first time that Mikulski had spoken since Jonah had met him at the barricade on the corner of Varrick and Houston. Mikulski had produced his Treasury Department ID and soldiers dressed in flak jackets and gas masks had waved them through. They had walked together down the empty, ash-covered pavements into the Financial District.
Mikulski looked as if he had hardly slept for several days. He had a steely expression on his face that suggested deep-rooted anger.
‘I said to people: you don’t understand. Random slaughter is a way of life out there, from Algeria to Afghanistan. Bombs, earthquakes, mass starvation – whole regions of the world strewn with failing states. They just didn’t get it. People thought that we were immune, that somehow our ideals and beliefs would shield us.’
Mikulski was right, Jonah thought; in the world that he knew this sort of thing happened every day. Hatred, not love, was all around. Eventually, inevitably, it had found its way to America.
‘Where were you?’ Jonah asked.
‘When the first plane hit? I was walking down West Broadway. I heard the roar of the engines. I looked up and it struck the North Tower.’ He glanced across at Jonah. ‘I was still standing there with my mouth open when the second plane hit.’
Mikulski’s office had been in the US Customs House in World Trade Center 6, the eight-storey building that was destroyed when the North Tower collapsed on it. They had been due to meet there on the afternoon of the 11th. Mikulski was on loan to the US Treasury from the FBI’s Foreign Intelligence office. His particular speciality was tracking terrorist financial links.
Mikulski returned the question. ‘Where were you?’
‘On a plane,’ Jonah replied, ‘on my way here.’
It was already clear that 9/11 was the fixed point around which they would orientate themselves for the foreseeable future. In the immediate aftermath of the attack, Jonah’s 747 had been diverted to an air force base at Gander in Newfoundland. It had joined thirty other passenger jets that were parked on a runway built for cold-war-era nuclear bombers in expectation of a very different kind of Armageddon. The small, dilapidated town adjacent to the runway had struggled to accommodate several thousand unexpected guests, and by the time Jonah and his fellow passengers had disembarked from their plane, the only remaining place to sleep was the benches of a Pentecostal church. He had spent five nights in the church.
‘What will happen now?’ Jonah asked.
Mikulski unfolded his newspaper and held it up for Jonah to see. On the cover was a picture of President George
Some day Nor would talk.
The fallen towers
September 2001
The message was written in the layer of white ash on the hood of an abandoned car on Broadway: PUNISH. It wasn’t clear whether the person who had used a finger to scrawl the message was referring to what had happened or to some future act of retribution. Standing on the pavement beside the car, Jonah watched another convoy of Humvees, dump trucks, bulldozers and backhoes trundle south through the parted sawhorse barriers.
‘
A whirlwind is coming
,’ Nor had told him, two months before in Sierra Leone. ‘
When it has passed nothing will ever be the same …
’ He’d been right. You could tell by the look on people’s faces that something terrible had happened. And that many Americans were thinking that this was the worst thing that had ever happened – the world had turned on its head in a day.
‘We’ve spent five years trying to get people to listen. But nobody took us seriously. They were oblivious. It was too exotic a threat. Too primitive …’
Jonah glanced across at Mikulski, who was staring at the pillar of ash spiralling upwards, hundreds of feet over Manhattan and the Hudson. It was the first time that Mikulski had spoken since Jonah had met him at the barricade on the corner of Varrick and Houston. Mikulski had produced his Treasury Department ID and soldiers dressed in flak jackets and gas masks had waved them through. They had walked together down the empty, ash-covered pavements into the Financial District.
Mikulski looked as if he had hardly slept for several days. He had a steely expression on his face that suggested deep-rooted anger.
‘I said to people: you don’t understand. Random slaughter is a way of life out there, from Algeria to Afghanistan. Bombs, earthquakes, mass starvation – whole regions of the world strewn with failing states. They just didn’t get it. People thought that we were immune, that somehow our ideals and beliefs would shield us.’
Mikulski was right, Jonah thought; in the world that he knew this sort of thing happened every day. Hatred, not love, was all around. Eventually, inevitably, it had found its way to America.
‘Where were you?’ Jonah asked.
‘When the first plane hit? I was walking down West Broadway. I heard the roar of the engines. I looked up and it struck the North Tower.’ He glanced across at Jonah. ‘I was still standing there with my mouth open when the second plane hit.’
Mikulski’s office had been in the US Customs House in World Trade Center 6, the eight-storey building that was destroyed when the North Tower collapsed on it. They had been due to meet there on the afternoon of the 11th. Mikulski was on loan to the US Treasury from the FBI’s Foreign Intelligence office. His particular speciality was tracking terrorist financial links.
Mikulski returned the question. ‘Where were you?’
‘On a plane,’ Jonah replied, ‘on my way here.’
It was already clear that 9/11 was the fixed point around which they would orientate themselves for the foreseeable future. In the immediate aftermath of the attack, Jonah’s 747 had been diverted to an air force base at Gander in Newfoundland. It had joined thirty other passenger jets that were parked on a runway built for cold-war-era nuclear bombers in expectation of a very different kind of Armageddon. The small, dilapidated town adjacent to the runway had struggled to accommodate several thousand unexpected guests, and by the time Jonah and his fellow passengers had disembarked from their plane, the only remaining place to sleep was the benches of a Pentecostal church. He had spent five nights in the church.
‘What will happen now?’ Jonah asked.
Mikulski unfolded his newspaper and held it up for Jonah to see. On the cover was a picture of President George
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