Stone - 25 - Collateral Damage

pressed a button, and the door closed.
    “First transfer in three minutes,” the driver said, and the cab drove away at a normal pace.
    —
    As Jasmine’s taxi made its first turn, Jasmine looked out the rear window and saw another black taxi enter the street. A few blocks later, her cab turned into a mews, rounded a corner, and stopped. A gray Ford sedan waited, its engine running. She got out of the cab and into the rear seat of the sedan, tossing her luggage in ahead of her.
    “Get down,” the driver said, then he drove out of the mews, made a turn, then more turns. Finally, she transferred to a Volkswagen Beetle driven by her contact.
    “What happened?” he asked.
    “Do you have anyone in the street yet?”
    “A shopkeeper across the street a few doors down. What happened?”
    “When I came home from my meeting, a woman I didn’t know was leaving the building. She allowed the door to close to slow me down, then she introduced herself as Sarah and said that she and her husband had just moved into the building. Finally, she opened the door for me, and I went inside. Half an hour passed before it hit me: I saw a corner of a plastic ID card clipped to the collar of her blouse, under her jacket. Looked like a government ID, and she was too interested in me. That’s when I called you.”
    —
    Mason got out of the taxi with a female estate agent carrying a clipboard. They walked up the stairs of a house with a “Flat to Let” sign out front. Inside they walked up a flight and the woman took out a bunch of keys, found the correct one, and opened the door.
    “I think you’ll like the place,” she said. “It’s spacious, and the light is good.”
    Mason flashed a plastic ID at her. “Please sit down and be quiet. I’ll only keep you a few minutes.”
    She looked surprised, but she sat down.
    Mason pressed a speed dial number on his cell phone as he peeked through one side of the sheer curtains. “We got lucky,” he said. “We’re directly across the street, one floor up. The curtains are drawn in the flat. Is the team in place out back yet? Good. Now bring in the SWAT team van, and block both ends of the street. Call me when everything is in place.” He ended the connection, then turned to the estate agent.
    “Is there a rear exit from this house?” he asked.
    “Yes, it opens into a mews.”
    “Please leave at once by that exit, and walk quickly to the street behind and find a taxi. This is a matter of national security, and you are not to mention it to anyone. Do you understand?”
    “I suppose so,” she said.
    His telephone rang. “Mason. Right. Go.” He turned to the woman, who had gotten to her feet. “Too late. Please sit down again. This will be over shortly, then you can leave.”
    The woman sat down, and Mason watched through the curtains as a white van pulled up downstairs.
    —
    “Ring your shopkeeper,” Jasmine said to her contact.
    He did so and listened. His face changed, and he hung up. “They’re in your street,” he said to Jasmine. “A SWAT team is getting out of a van.”
    Jasmine dug a cell phone out of her tote bag and began to dial a number.
    The assault squad ran up the steps of the house, six men in black uniforms with helmets, heavy armor vests, face protection, and automatic weapons. The front door was locked; a team member carrying a heavy horizontal sledge swung it at the lock, and the door came open. The six men crowded into the hallway.
    “Flat door unlocked,” one man said, trying the knob. The team flooded into the flat, weapons raised, shouting.
    Jasmine pressed the last number.
    As Mason watched from across the street, the front of the building blew out. He flung himself into the corner behind him as the window blew in, filling the room with glass and debris.
    The estate agent began to rise from her seat, then she was struck by something heavy and sat down again. When Mason looked at her, most of her head was gone.
    He pressed a speed dial number. “Major explosion at subject house. Many dead or wounded. Full immediate response!”
    From down the street he heard the Klaxons of backup vehicles coming.

Holly finished the last of her to-do list and looked at the clock: later than she thought, and she was hungry. She packed her briefcase and shut it, then reached for the phone to call Stone. It rang.
    “Holly Barker.”
    “It’s Felicity Devonshire,” she said, and she sounded weary and dejected.
    “It’s very late there,” Holly