Abuse of Power - Michael Savage [61]
“The weapon isn’t necessary, Mr. Hatfield.” His accent, not surprisingly, was decidedly British. “All we want to do is talk.”
“All I want is to stay alive,” Jack said. “And answers to a few questions. I figure I’ve got a better chance at both if I’m heavily armed.”
“Spoken like a true American.”
“Thanks,” Jack replied.
He hadn’t meant it as a compliment and Jack’s proud response caused him to start visibly, as if he weren’t so sure the “American” wouldn’t pull the trigger.
“So?” Jack said. “How about those answers?”
“I’m not quite certain what it is you think is going on here, but whatever it is you’re mistaken,” the man said.
“Is that why you’re following me?”
“We mean you no harm.”
Jack stifled a laugh. “I know of at least two dead people who would disagree.”
“You think that has something to do with us?”
“Not ‘think,’” Jack said.
“And who might these people be?”
Jack sighed. “Don’t waste my time, all right? I know you’re MI6 or special ops, and I know you were at Jamal Thomas’s house yesterday. So why don’t we cut through the bull. You can start by telling your name.”
“Adam Swain,” he said.
Jack had no idea if the name was real—somehow he doubted it—but it would do for now.
“And you’re right,” Swain continued. “We are MI6.”
“Okay, Adam. Now what’s so important to the Home Office that you had to execute a fifteen-year-old kid?”
Swain’s eyebrows went up. “Execute? Hardly. We’re not in the child-killing business. From what I’ve been told, the poor little bastard died of an overdose.”
“Helped along by you.”
Swain smiled. “You watch too many television shows, Mr. Hatfield. All we did was talk to the boy. Nothing more. Just as we’re talking to you. If you want to blame anyone for his death, blame that frightful mother of his and that filthy sty she raised him in. It’s a wonder he survived this long.”
“He had a busted arm and a limited radius,” Jack said.
“He was also in a lot of pain,” Swain replied. “Maybe his mother wanted to ease it. Or maybe she just didn’t want to deal with it.”
Partly true, but Swain’s condescension rankled Jack. “What about Bob Copeland? Do we blame that on his mother?”
“I have no idea who you’re talking about.”
“I told you not to waste my time.”
“And I don’t intend to,” Swain said. “But I don’t know anyone named Copeland.”
“You don’t watch the news?”
“BBC America, and this Mr. Copeland didn’t turn up there.”
Also possible, Jack had to admit.
“I’m not a big fan of fiction, Mr. Hatfield. But I did catch that press conference two days ago, and I heard the questions you asked. If you’re as good at what you do as I’ve been told you are, then you’ve undoubtedly discovered our friend Abdal al-Fida by now.”
Jack was surprised. He had been holding al-Fida as one of his trump cards and hadn’t expected Swain to bring him up.
Swain must have seen this in his expression because he smiled again, saying, “Yes, that’s right. I have no problem admitting—off the record, of course—that Mr. al-Fida was driving that Land Rover. And I have no problem telling you that we fed a cover story to the FBI and the local police. But we had good reason for that. al-Fida is not what you seem to believe he is.”
“And what would that be?”
“A terrorist.”
Jack couldn’t stifle the laugh this time. “So he was driving around in a car full of C4 just for the hell of it?”
Swain was silent for a moment. Then he said, “What I’m about to tell you is highly classified.”
“I’m sure it is.”
“Which means I have to be able to trust you, Mr. Hatfield. I need assurances that you’ll keep it to yourself.”
Jack considered his options and how little information he actually had. This Swain could be lying, of course. But if he wasn’t—
“All right,” Jack told him. “You have my promise.”
“Nothing gets written, aired, or anonymously blogged. Your word.”
“Cross my heart,” Jack said.
Swain studied him for what must have been at least thirty seconds, as