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“He’s been a back-channel contact for several of our operations,” Welby said. “He’s well connected in the international black arms space. Even today.”
Jack nodded. Siddiqi had defected after Syria’s complete fracture—and only after the price on his head skyrocketed. He’d realized every one of the thousands of factions in Syria had a $100,000,000 reason to turn on him, and he’d decided to get out while the getting was good, paying a human smuggler to take him across the Mediterranean to Italy, where he defected and surrendered to the British embassy. The Brits placed him under house arrest, and a joint team of MI6 and CIA officers debriefed him for five years.
Blake was still wide eyed, leaning against the far wall. “Why do you want to talk to him?”
“If this is some kind of engineered pathogen, Siddiqi will know. He knew all the biological weapons on the marketplace. He knows what countries are capable of producing biological weapons and how sophisticated they could be. He can look at a virus sample and tell you what lab it came from. He’s the Einstein of biological warfare.”
“Sounds like a great guy,” Blake breathed.
“I want him to look at the symptoms and the pathology reports and tell us what he thinks.”
“Why don’t you like him?” Pete asked Ethan. Ethan’s frown had turned into a full scowl, his face dark with quiet rage. “I mean, aside from the obvious,” Pete added quickly.
“He likes blonds,” Ethan spat.
Siddiqi had studied in the UK as a medical student, and that was where he’d discovered his fondness for young blonds. Back home in Syria, and across the Middle East, his customers had turned a blind eye to his ways. He was allowed to indulge his appetites and was even given prisoners from the civil wars. Now, once a month, MI6 paid for an escort to visit Siddiqi at his home.
The first time Jack had contacted him, Siddiqi flirted outrageously over the phone. He’d demanded an in-person meeting withthe world’s most famous blond, as he’d put it.Or at least, the only famous blond I care about.
Ethan hadn’t been pleased.
Blake looked away. Pete snorted, hiding his face as he smothered his laugh. Welby crossed his arms and glared at Jack.
“I’ll call our contact at MI6. We’ll fly to London tomorrow.”
Ethan sighed. “Jack...”
“I’ll make it up to you, love.”
* * *
London
England
London in Julywas balmy and brisk. Warm in the sunlight, crisp and cool in the shade. Locals fanned themselves, wilting in a “heat” that had Ethan and Jack donning sport coats. DC summers were hot and sticky, the swampy humidity crawling into their lungs and choking their throats. London, by contrast, was almost chilly.
Welby drove, weaving and twisting through the tangled and jammed streets of West London, heading for West Brompton, south of Earl’s Court, an upper-crust neighborhood where Siddiqi settled after receiving asylum. Before fleeing Syria, he’d secreted his cash in dozens of international bank accounts around the globe. Now he lived the high life of London’s elite even while locked inside his home in one of the poshest neighborhoods—instead of rotting in a jail cell and awaiting trial in the International Criminal Court.
Ethan sat glumly in the front seat, glowering at the road. His mood had plunged with every mile they’d flown over the Atlantic, and he’d spent hours bitching and grumbling about Siddiqi, the flight, and Jack seeking out the Syrian’s advice.
Jack had bailed on him and switched with Blake while Ethan napped.
Ethan woke up with his head pillowed on Blake’s shoulder as Blake watched an in-flight movie. Three rows back, Jack and Pete had been locked in fierce competition to see who could catch the most peanut M&M’S in their mouths as Welby read the newspaper and ignored them both.
His fury was as quiet as snow but squeezed all the air out of the cabin for the rest of the flight.
“It’s a twenty-minute talk,” Jack had said as Welby finished with the car rental. Pete and Blake waited behind them, keeping a subtle watch. “Your jealousy is cute but unhelpful.”
“I’m not jealous,” he’d grumbled. “Siddiqi is not a threat.”
“That’s right. He’s not.” Jack kissed his cheek before climbing into the back of the SUV. “Relax.”
He just didn’t like Siddiqi—and with good reason. The man was a war criminal, by any definition, and it was only his value to Western intelligence that kept him out of jail. But shouldn’t assholes like Siddiqi be punished no matter what? Ethan kept up a litany of Siddiqi’s sins, a mental checklist of reasons why he was pissed off and snapping.
It was Welby who hit the nail on the head for him. Idling at a traffic light while Jack, Pete, and Blake ran through the plan for their meeting with Siddiqi in the back, Welby said, “It’s Madigan. Siddiqi, like Arfaoui and Kissami, helped him. He gave him personnel and weapons.” Welby looked sideways, holding his gaze. “I know you’ve been prioritizing our operations based on who was most responsible for helping Madigan. You want to take them all out, wipe Madigan and everything he touched off the planet. But you can’t touch Siddiqi, and it’s killing you.”
He’d stared at Welby as the light changed, as Welby shifted into gear and drove ahead on the A315.
