The first camera had been cleared, but Henning’s second attempt provided what he wanted. The long shot showed the taxi pulling up outside the building. Even at that distance, he recognized Winch as the man stepped out of the taxi, paid the driver, turned and went in through the main door. Henning ran the action back until he had a full shot of him, then used the zoom facility to bring the image closer. This time there was no doubt in Henning’s mind; the man on his monitor screen was Lewis Winch. Before he logged out, Henning saved the image and stored it on his own computer.
He leaned back in his chair and stared at the face of the man he had just watched enter the office building of a suspect individual.
Looking over the top of his monitor, Henning was able to see Winch in his own office.
So what now?
Did he go across and confront the man?
Or take his findings to his superiors?
Henning knew he had to proceed carefully. Confronting Winch might backfire on him. The man would undoubtedly deny any wrongdoing, might even come up with a logical explanation.
Henning dismissed that thought immediately. There was no logical explanation that would clear up the fact that Winch had been seen entering Prem’s building.
Something was nagging away at the back of Henning’s mind, demanding an answer. He allowed it to take form.
If Winch was a mole, why would he risk a daylight visit to the office of a suspected terrorist?
There was no sense in risking exposure.
Henning recalled the way Winch had reacted to the TV coverage of the Pakistani bombing report. Perhaps seeing the results of information he may have passed along had unnerved him. Maybe this was the first time he had been witness to what his traitorous dealings had done. A touch of conscience, a realization that what he was involved in was far from a harmless game? Perhaps time had caught up and Winch realized he had become part of what was not a game but a brutal reality. Seeing death and human suffering, Winch may have felt the need to confront his paymasters. It was no big leap to move to the inevitable conclusion that his colleague was selling information for cash. Henning didn’t view him as idealistic. There was no visible altruistic reason why Winch would be passing along sensitive information without receiving some kind of reward.
Henning brought himself back to the present. He played with the details he had, using his desk pad to list them, then stared at the penciled notations.
Lewis Winch—supposedly on Henning’s side of the fence, though emerging facts were suggesting otherwise.
Samman Prem—a suspect who had received a personal visit from Winch a couple weeks back.
Jack Coyle’s face-to-face with Prem, which had been followed by a violent attack on Coyle and his team.
Henning doodled with his pencil, still unsure of the full intent of his gathered information. When he glanced at his watch he saw it was late. He threw the pencil down and stood up, clicking off his computer. He tore the sheet of paper from his pad and slid it into the office shredder, grabbed his coat and headed out. The department was empty except for the evening team.
Winch had left much earlier.
In the elevator Henning leaned against the side of the car, glad to leave the office behind. The image of a tender steak and a foamy pint of beer crossed his mind. He was still thinking about food as he climbed into his car and drove out of the basement garage. Light rain had wet the road, and multicolored reflections of street and store lights spread across the tarmac. There was heavy rush-hour traffic and it took Henning forty-five minutes to negotiate the distance to his home.
Reaching his destination, he turned in at the archway that fronted the residential mews where he lived. He came to a stop a few yards from his front door, cut the engine, climbed out and locked his car.
And that was when he heard someone call his name.
CHAPTER FIVE
Greg Henning paused as he searched in his pocket for his house key. Stalling by pretending he couldn’t find it, he slid his right hand inside his coat, located the butt of his handgun and released the breakaway strap. His already alerted senses ratcheted up a notch when he heard his name being spoken again.
He knew now he hadn’t been mistaken.
Someone was standing in the deep shadow at the end of the cul-de-sac. Under Henning’s coat his hand closed around the butt of his 9 mm Glock. He took out his key and inserted it into the lock.
Henning turned the key. Felt the lock give. He pushed against the door and it swung inward. At the same time he pulled his Glock, angling it across his body as he made a swift turn.
He caught a fragmented glimpse of the figure closing in fast. He heard the subdued snap of a suppressed shot and felt a hard blow just below his left shoulder. The impact tipped him off balance. He hit the edge of the door frame, stumbling partway inside. Henning struggled to stay upright as he triggered a shot from the Glock. The report sounded extremely loud in the quiet surroundings.
The other shooter’s weapon fired again, twice. Henning gasped in shock as the slugs struck home. He fired again himself, pulling the trigger as many time as he could. He saw the shooter stop in midstride, and knew he’d scored some kind of hit. The man turned aside, pulling away, and as he passed through the light thrown from the wall lamp above the door Henning saw his face in profile. It was only for a fleeting second but long enough for him to recognize the man.
It was Lewis Winch.
Henning went down in a heavy sprawl, blood pulsing from the bullet wounds in his chest. He didn’t really register hitting the ground, just saw the strange angle of the open door looming above him. The night sky was sprinkled with stars. There was a rush of pain, then a comforting numbness that spread with alarming speed. He picked up sounds far off.
Unconnected.
Henning fumbled his cell from his coat, peering at the screen as he pressed keys for a text message. The effort cost him, pain making him gasp, fingers feeling thick and clumsy. When he located the number for Jack Coyle, he sent a text.
He felt the phone slip from his hand. He sensed people around him, bending over him, anxious voices. Henning couldn’t make sense of any of it. He hoped his text had got through. That was the last thing he remembered.
MCCARTER TOOK OUT his cell, checking the incoming call. It was from Stony Man. He answered and heard Barbara Price’s voice.
“Text message rerouted via the cover number,” she said. “From your cop buddy in London. Henning. He’s in trouble. Something about being shot and knowing who the mole is.”
“I’m on it, Barb.”
“Merry England isn’t sounding too merry.”
“You don’t know the half.”
“Progress?”
“We’re picking up scraps here and there. Names you guys supplied are tying up, but nothing too definite yet. Just feed us anything you find.” McCarter paused. “Heard from the others yet?”
“Only
